Enter the Dragon's Jim Kelly Dead

Monday evening is usually the time that I post some thoughts on work. But before we get to that, a few words about Jim Kelly, the martial artist and actor who appeared in Bruce Lee's Enter the Dragon (1973). Kelly died of cancer on Saturday. I read the LA Times obit online today at work. For me, a Hippie kid entering the fourth grade, the character he portrayed -- Williams -- was the personification of Black Power cool. He was fast and strong; -- of the street, but smart and suave; with his afro and his Onitsuka Tigers, he stole the show.

The idea I have is that the Watergate-era was a high point for the country. The high-stakes battle waged at top levels of government -- basically because of the Vietnam War -- left the people free of the usual endo-colonization for several years. A lot of what was going on in the 1960s -- the anti-war protests, the repudiation of consumer culture -- achieved mainstream validation with Nixon's political immolation during Watergate. Ever since, the wheels have been grinding away trying to dig us back to pre-Nixonian, pre-Johnsonian terra firma.

The two parties have done almost everything imaginable to get us back there. Clinton helped a lot. So did George W. Bush and 9/11. And Obama has been a faithful servant to the cause. But now there's a ray of Watergate-like sunshine for the endo-colonized citizenry. Edward Snowden's revelations are creating havoc. It's too early to say if this is another Pentagon Papers. (I got giddy over Occupy only to be disappointed.) Things could either get a lot worse or somewhat better. But right now things look promising. Obama has been exposed as a charlatan. His presidency is mortally wounded; his base is fractured because of this. And even if the Republicans are as reactionary and as menacing as ever, people will be free to battle them without placing their hopes, money and energy in a chimera.

At work today the A/C was out on the second floor, which is the floor where all the business offices are. The temperature was fine on the first floor, which is where the file room and other storage rooms and the large meeting hall and the industrial kitchen are located. The thermostats located everywhere on the second floor all read in the mid-80s°F. Almost all of my coworkers couldn't take it. They had to relocate to the first floor and pretend to work from there.

The message? Don't let yourself get overweight. Exercise. Subject your body to some physical stress and strain regularly. Get your heart rate elevated. Take the stairs. Walk or run. Don't let yourself get soft. Work will be much easier.

The musical immersion over the weekend was the Grateful Dead. Hours and hours of the Grateful Dead on Sunday. I was wiped up from running for over an hour in 77% humidity on Saturday and then waking at 4:30 AM on Sunday to do two loads of laundry. After laundry I laced up the shoes and went for another run, but I had to abort it after ten minutes. I was flat-out empty. I came home, showered and started listening to the Dead. I had the volume at a level that was audible but not too loud.

The Colt 45 Chronicle #7

The letter below, the seventh installment from a folder retrieved from storage during the Seahawks' playoff elimination in Atlanta, represents a change in tone from the previous six. Gone is the drunken pathos; in its place is a witty schoolboy showing off for his professor-employer. I am alerting Jerry Karabel that I am including him as a character reference on my curriculum vitae. The last six months I was at Berkeley Professor Karabel employed me to track down citations for his soon-to-be published book (co-authored with Steven Brint) on the history of community colleges in the United States, The Diverted Dream: Community Colleges and the Promise of Educational Opportunity in America, 1900-1985.

The name of the Berkeley Sociologist stayed with me for many years in the form of a mix tape I titled "Karabel." It was popular with my buddies. It had a lot of Time Fades Away Neil Young and Self Portrait Bob Dylan along with the obligatory SST Records bands. Jerry was a good guy to work for, very easygoing.

Autumn 1988 

Dear Jerry, 

Now I know why you immigrated West. Having been in New York for almost three weeks, I've had plenty of time to enumerate my grievances against ye ol' Apple: too many aggressive people ("aggressive" is really too mild; they're downright violent). Which reminds me of something I wanted to tell you. Did you know that your old home turf is now the most dangerous place in New York? Brooklyn has become crack-drug-battle-murder heaven. Our first few days in Manhattan were punctuated by front page newspaper accounts and bar chatter about various shotgun slayings and cop killings going on just across the bridge. -- Brooklyn, the new, more frightening Harlem; the new, more frightening Bronx; too hot, too humid, no fruit, high beer prices, shitty grocery stores, no place to exercise, absolutely no place to park. But these are all complaints from a career Californian, one who has grown too soft supping beneath the mango tree. Every day away from Berkeley though the heart strings resonate a litle less, while New York starts looking a little better. You can't beat the clubs here, or the amazing multiplicity of cheap indigenous take-out joints, or the museums, or the job opportunities. Which is one of the reasons why I'm writing, in addition to getting you our address, just in case you should need to get in touch with me about the unfinished bibliographic gratuities of your book (my memory still being pretty sharp on the whole affair), I would be very pleased if you would allow me to list your as one of my personal references. (Since the normal procedure governing resume construction dictates that most recent employment comes first, your name will crown my all-important "work experience" section.) The worst that would be demanded of you in this capacity would be to answer a phone call looking into my work habits. I hope this is okay. Oh, and if you should want to reach me, that address is: 

60 Haven #22A
New York City, NY 10032 

I had planned on stopping by before we left, but the chaos and distress of those last days in B., as I'm sure you can imagine, were immense. I was running around trying to get my dad's old VW bus up to snuff for the cross country cruise. This turned out to be a task of epic proportions, both physically and fiscally. But after many trips up and down I-80, to and fro mechanics and junk yards, the "Argo" was finally ready to sail July 30. At which point Ashley and I loaded down the vessel and embarked for Reno, where we were married that evening. Along the way, we favored the single-lane scenic highways to the interstates, camping out as best we could with our cat and a nice little three-man tent. I was preoccupied with worry in relation to the car, always taking survey of knocks and rattles, poking my head under and inside of it at every chance. But outside of one trauma with the front end in Dinosaur, CO, the old bus handled as if it were a blessed creation of Athena herself. 

I'll keep in touch, tell you how the career is going (Ashley is already working away with the rest of the physicians-to-be). -- You were a fun and exciting person to work with Jerry, and one who is on that side of my brain which cogitates only Olympian thoughts about the Berkeley academy. Give Kristin my regards and tell her to think of me -- a Peet-less java junkie -- when she tosses back that first mug of the morning. 

Your assistant,