straylight09

[straylight09]

Moloka’i.

A name I’ve heard all my life. There’s something about Moloka’i. Something mythical, iconic or Tolkian in its meaning. Images of Avalon, Shangi La, or Arcadia flood my mind.

Now I sit at a bar. Moloka’i spread out before me in the distance. Amazing and forbidding it rises out the ocean and mist. I am enamored with its majesty. While Maui is beautiful, Moloka’i is beyond. A distant world of pilgrimage and worship.

Now, a mere thirteen miles away, I feel I could swim there and find on its shores the lady of the lake.

[straylight09]

I Remember May 17, 1974 (SLA Shootout)

I grew up in a different time. A time before van pools, cell phones, and play dates. The term for me then was a latchkey kid. Meaning, that I walked to and from school and was unsupervised until my parents got home from work.

Officially, upon arriving home, I was supposed to do homework and study. Unofficially, I turned on the tv and semi focused on homework until it got close to the time my mom would come home.

So it was, on May 17th 1974, when I arrived home at about 3:30. I likely got a drink and a snack, settled down behind the coffee table with my school work and turned on the television. On a Friday afternoon in ‘74, my options would have been limited, to reruns of Gilligan’s Island, the Banana Splits or Bugs Bunny, but on that Friday in 1974, all the channels presented, without preamble or permission, the shootout between the Los Angeles Police Department and a leftist terrorist group called the Symbionese Liberation Army.

Let me say, that Los Angeles, back in the day, had a staggering number of broadcast channels; 7 VHS and at least 5 or 6 UHF. Beyond the major affiliates, NBC (4), CBS (2), and ABC (7), there were local channels, KCOP (13), KTLA (5), KHJ (9), and KTTV (11). To give you a perspective, I lived a couple of years in Wisconsin, where only one channel, NBC, had a clear signal. On a good day you could get CBS in from La Crosse, some 80 miles away. For a kid raised on TV, it was like a prison sentence.

Also, it was the early 70s, was when local TV news came into its own. The innovation is portable cameras allowed for Mobile news crews to canvassed LA, and news choppers to roam the skies.

Interesting side note, Gary Francis Powers, the U2 pilot that the Russians shot down in the early 60s. He died in ‘77 while flying a news chopper for LA’s NBC affiliate.

But, on that afternoon in ‘May ‘74, when I turned on my TV, I found to my dismay that the Local News teams had taken over the airwaves. Every channel was showing different images of the same event. I know this seems commonplace now, when channels will break from their regular programming for a random police pursuit, or a hot bit of celebrity gossip. And yes, to be fair, breaking news was not new. The assassinations of JFK and others had impacted viewers in real time. But back in ‘74 live on-scene video coverage of events as they were unfolding was relatively new territory for both news crews and for we the viewing audience.

For one thing, all the channels jumped to cover the event. The only other option was to switch off the TV. Also, the rules of engagement for live TV coverage was in its infancy. Today’s live broadcasts are time delayed and crews are trained to switch to wide shots and ready to cut away to avoid transmitting horrific scenes to an unprepared audience.

We want to see, but don’t be gross.

In the golden age of television we had already witnessed Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald. But that was presented in fuzzy black and white. Over time the resolution improved. In ‘95 a man in San Diego stole a National Guard tank. He went on a rampage crushing cars before being shot by police, all captured live on-air.

I can’t back this up with any fact, but it’s my belief that the death of Daniel Jones in April of ‘98 was the tipping point for live broadcasts. Jones had been diagnosed with HIV. Upset with his treatment, or lack there of, by his health organization, he stopped his pick-up truck on the transition ramp between the 110 and 105 freeways, again in Los Angeles. To get attention he wanted, he began waving a shotgun at cars as the passed. The police were called and shutdown freeway and, while a squadron of TV choppers circled overhead, the Police tried to reason with Daniel. Sometime near 4PM, after setting his truck a blaze and with news cameras zoomed in tight close up, Daniel suddenly shoved the shotgun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

The public’s reaction to the images splashed across their screens was immediate and intense. The real concern being that it had been broadcast in the late afternoon, during peak of Children’s viewing. The latchkey kids were traumatized.

It was also late afternoon back in ‘74. While I too, watched unsupervised. As every available channel had their cameras focused on a small house in south LA. Over the next few hours, I watched spellbound as the Los Angeles Police department laid siege. Flipping through the channels I watched from multiple angles as the LAPD fired somewhere near 5000 rounds and dozens of tear gas canisters into that small building. While the people barricaded inside responded with improvised grenades and 4000 rounds of their own.

At some point, some two plus hours in to the battle, the house caught fire. I remember thinking now, surely, the people inside would surrender. The reporters said as much. My cadre of journalists were in agreement. But instead, we unflinchingly watched as six members of the Symbionese Liberation Army perished in the flames.

Last May 17th, 2024, was the 50th anniversary of that shootout. From time to time, whenever a channel I’m watching cuts to “Breaking News” I think of that afternoon in ‘74. The bouncing images, the plumes of smoke and dancing tendrils of flame that poured from the windows of that small house. The reporters and their random descriptions, perspectives and conjectures. Clearly indicating they had no more idea what was going to happen next than I did.

I think about how innocent I was and maybe how naive the news crews were, having so little experience as to presenting and curating that unplanned exhibition of violence. We drank from the visual fire hose without any semblance of restraint. Like combatants dealing with the fog of war we took friendly fire from our very own trusted TV.

Today, when I see a stand off or a barricaded suspect I’m aware of the nuances. Today’s news crews are now seasoned professionals. The slow cautious move in to close up and the sudden shift to wide shots. The quick panning away of the camera or abrupt cuts back to the studio. We’ve all grown up since then. Our media, at least from a technique and procedural standpoint, have greatly matured.

I, unfortunately, still have the images in my mind of the burning house and the knowledge there were people inside. Strangely, I still know nothing about the SLA, other than they kidnapped Patty Hearst, the newspaper heiress. I don’t know anything about their ideology. I could not tell you what they fought and died for all those years ago.

That is to say, I know more about how and why I was able to watch them die, than what fleeting ideals they died for.

Though, I guess I’m applying some noble purpose to their actions. Maybe they were just misguided bad people. Otherwise, I might know more. I mean, when I think of Hearst, I think of Citizen Kane. Still, a part of me wants to believe that what I witnessed had some meaning or purpose.

I’m left with one question. Did they knew they were on live TV? Did they know about the portable video cameras and the tele-choppers in the skies above them, capturing their last moments? Could they conceive of their massive audience, many children like myself, watching with a glass of Kool-aid and a PB&J as they burned to death?

Had the SLA shootout happened today, would it be different? In as much as they would be aware of the cameras and their audience? It’s been said, on 9/11 the second plane hit the South Tower sometime after the North Tower to allow time for news cameras to be set to capture the impact.

We may never know about 9/11, but I highly doubt media was a consideration back on that day in ‘74, but as I said on the outset, it was a different time.

[straylight09]

I've Fallen...

On my ship, the ‘Rocinante’

Wheeling through the galaxies...

Spinning, whirling,

Still descending

Like a spiral sea,

Unending

-Cygnus X-1: Book One: The Voyage.  From the album ‘A Farewell to Kings’ by Rush.   

Early Monday morning, August 15th, while riding my bike in Manhattan Beach, near Ardmore and 19th, I crashed.  I have no memory of the crash, but I was wearing my Kask helmet, which may have saved my life, and the impact triggered the fall alert on my Apple Watch, which called 911. That also may have saved my life.

My face took the brunt of the impact, fractured eye socket, broken nose and worst of all, my soft pallet was shattered and hung down into my mouth.  The rest of me seemed to have escaped injury.  No other broken bones.  While sleepy, when I awoke I felt alert and aware of my surroundings. 

On Tuesday 8/16, I had extensive facial surgery and while I will have a long recovery, I’m not in any danger.  The doctors were very clear that I was on a No Chewing diet.  I was not to attempt to chew anything.  This conversation took place about 20 minutes after the nurse brought me a serving me rice, chicken and bread, (none of which I actually ate.)  With that they released me from the hospital on Wednesday afternoon 8/17.

From Thursday to Monday the numbness and swelling eased a bit. Yogurt, applesauce, and soup became my only food choices.  I slept a lot.  I was able to determine that other than my face, there’s really not a scratch anywhere else on me.  My knees, elbows, hands, and legs are amazingly unblemished.  The rubber from my bike bib, the shorts being left on me for something like 30+ hours, did cut into my leg, but that’s it.  In my mind this borders on the possibility of a supernatural intervention wherein my face was allowed to impact what ever surface it did impact, but the rest of my body was gently lain upon the road like King Arthur being set upon fine linens as he’s ushered off to Avalon.  I’ve yet to see my bike, so who knows what protected me.  

Monday August 22nd, my first appointment back to the hospital, and possibly my last.  They pulled the packing from my nose, which is an experience that I truly believe cannot be expressed in words.  (Quaid removing that tracking ball in the original version of Total Recall comes closest.)  They removed the screws that would have been used to wire my mouth shut should the surgery have not gone well, and finally they removed the sutures under my nose and around my eye. I’m allowed to shower, but not swim. (I didn’t ask for details, but I suspect my skull, until fully healed, may not be airtight.) 

And with that I was released to my primary care Physician for follow up. 

Overall I do feel lucky to be alive, the amount of blood on my jersey and bib was disconcerting, but I still have no memory of what actually occurred.  That mystery remains, and because a few have asked, no there were not any cameras, Ring or otherwise, pointing my direction. 

What I do know is that my cadence (peddling) had stopped about 8 seconds before the impact. I was coasting along at about 9 MPH. 

5:40:30AM - I came to a sudden stop based on my cycling GPS info. 

5:42am 911 was called from my Apple Watch.  At some point after the paramedics arrived.  This was about the same time as I became aware of my surroundings.  This means that I could have been unconscious for as long as 10 minutes. 

You have to picture one of those stylized scenes in a movie, where the camera is tracking left, low to the ground, it’s dark and quiet.  As the camera moves, in the background there’s the staccato flashing of my G Keni Smart tail light, three quick beats, a pause and another 3 quick flashes of lurid red.  The green Kask helmet comes into view, a limp 1/2 gloved hand, open to the elements.  The amber silhouette of a wheel appears on the background wall, the light from my Brightside light. Somewhere in the background a distant siren pushes into the quiet.

At any rate the paramedic arrive to find me sitting up with my thumbs in my mouth, trying to push the fractured pieces of the roof of my mouth back into place.  They get me stabilized for transport and ask if they should call anyone. I hand them my phone after pulling up Maria’s number. 

5:59am.  The call to Maria per my Cell Phone records 

6:07am, per my GPS, I was apparently in the ambulance and moving 

From the crash to the Paramedics calling Maria is roughly 19 minutes.  That’s 19 minutes from collision to medically stable all initiated by my Apple Watch.  Though my most profound Kudos go to the Manhattan Beach Fire and Rescue who did get to me quickly. 

Therefore, I am, as they way, “Out of the woods.”   There will be follow up facial and dental work.  I’m told it will take between 6 to 8 weeks for my facial bones to completely heal. Maria hinted (in no uncertain terms) that should I attempt to ride a bike or play hockey before the end of that period she will either leave me or kill me herself.  (Have you seen the videos of her axe throwing?).   There’s a lot of residual swelling, numbness and bruising.  Speaking is a challenge unto itself and just being awake seems exhausting. The “No Chew” diet will continue through the eight weeks of healing and while that seems fine right now, I’m sure I’ll be scouring the internet for best practices on blending a pizza before the end of September.  

Maria, and the girls, are my heroes. There is no amount of thanks and apologies I could ever give them to make up for putting them through this.  I will, of course, try anyway.   My friends and family reached out, mostly via Facebook with good wishes and positive energy.  That has helped keep my spirits up and pushed away those feelings that the universe was picking on me.  Scott has communicated with my work team and I’ve been given some leeway to return to work when I feel able.  

My bike, the 2019 Cannondale Synapse named “Rocinante” was apparently retained by the Manhattan Beach PD, again my thanks to the system and the people.  I should get that back from them soon. Given the limited scope of my injuries, I suspect Rocinante will yield no further insights as to what happened.  I expect the bike to be as mostly untouched as I am, which applying the principle of Occam’s Razor, suggests I simply ran into something.  My Doctors at the hospital said the Paramedics told them I’d clipped a parked car in the dark and gone over my handlebars.  How that results in nothing else being scratched in the slightest, I have not clue, but it does suggest that I was simply caught not paying attention.  Coasting along for 8 or 10 seconds at 9 mph, my head down looking at my phone, I clipped a car in the dark and landed face first on to a very solid surface.  

So to anyone who rides a bike.  Wear a helmet.  It took just 9 miles an hour and a few moments of inattention to nearly kill me.  While I can tell the story, I have to wonder how many couldn’t write how a helmet would have made a difference had they been wearing one. Then there's the Apple Watch, who called 911 in my stead and that too may have saved my life.

I'll be back on my bike eventually...

[straylight09]

I was reminded today of a story I was told while on a guided tour in the city of New Orleans. Our guide, showing us a small statue in Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel, explained the apparently apocryphal story of the statue called Saint Expedite.

He’d explained that during construction there had been small statues of saints produced in France and shipped to the Chapel. When the statues had arrived the workers had hastily uncrated them and the names of the individual saints had become confused. One of which, they couldn’t find a plate for and looking through the shipping crate they only found the word Expedite. Deciding that was the name they “created” a Saint and the name stuck. At some point people begin to call upon Saint Expedite to hasten prayers and it was never rectified and eventually accepted as truth.

I have since looked it up, and while it seems there really is a Saint Expeditus, venerated by the Catholic Church, April 19th being the day of his feast, his origin is, at best, interesting. While our Guide only told us the New Orleans version of the tale I’ve lifted the entire origin story from Wikipedia.

Many stories circulated about the origin of the cultus of Expeditus. One states that it began when a package marked expedite (meaning 'be ready' or alternately 'loosen') arrived with unidentified relics or statues. The recipients assumed that the statuary or relics belonged to an Expeditus, and so veneration began. Such an account is set in France in 1781. A case containing the relics of a saint, who was formerly buried in the Denfert-Rochereau catacombs of Paris, was delivered at a convent in the city. The senders had written expédit on the case, to ensure fast delivery of the remains. The nuns assumed that "Expédit" was the name of a martyr, and prayed for his intercession. When their prayers were answered, veneration spread rapidly through France and on to other Roman Catholic countries.

Another version of the story takes place in New Orleans, Louisiana, which was strongly influenced by French Catholic culture through the colonial period. This account says that Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel (New Orleans) received a large shipment of statues of various saints, and that one case lacked an identifying label. It was labeled "Expedite" (Expédit in French), so the residents assumed that must be the saint's name. Expédit still figures prominently in Louisiana Creole folklore and is revered through amulets, flowers, candles, and intercessory prayers.

There’s also a weird East African tradition where St Expedite has a folk following. These being focused on getting prayers answered in a timely manner.

Though, to be fair, Wikipedia also states that “Expeditus was included in martyrologies in Italy before 1781. There was a tradition that Expeditus could be called upon to help settle overly long legal cases.” If that’s the case, then the stories of urgently shipped statuary being mislabeled are false.

But there’s also the matter that Expeditus being a proper name, is at least, on the surface, a little suspect. The word expedite in Latin expedire ‘extricate (originally by freeing the feet), put in order’, from ex- ‘out’ + pes, ped- ‘foot’. Who names their child on the basis of freeing feet?

So, which legend to believe?

Was Expeditus was a real person whose name was ripe for fictional exaggeration? I mean a Tour Guide’s job is, after all, to be both informative and entertaining.

Or did the statue of some now forgotten Saint get relegated into a postal pun that was then exaggerated into literally Biblical proportions.

Like anything we take on faith, the validity isn’t what’s important. Our desperate desire to determine fact vs. truth is perhaps just an artifact of the modern age. Should we then accept the malleable way history is left for us to ponder over when given no substantial evidence?

As I said, it’s an odd little tale and one that’s stayed with me over the years. Maybe that’s the point. If it wasn’t for the peculiarities of the St Expedite story, would I, or anyone, know or even care if he existed? I mean, a good story, be it Canonical or Apocryphal, is still worth telling.

[straylight09]

In my travels I come across places to visit simply because I like the name. There Does Not Exist, is a small brewery south of SLO. A place I had to see just for the name.

Kick back, good beer, live music, dog friendly, family atmosphere. A nice little niche in the universe.

[straylight09]

It begins with a rush into cold water. Salmon like, battling with the crowd of swimmers, swerving to and fro, arms flailing. 1.5 kilometers. On to the bike, tucked low, neck craned upward, legs burning, contending with the wind. 40 Kilometers. Finally, legs lurch forward, fighting to adjust from the rhythm of cycling to a runner’s gate. Nothing’s left, only simple determination get the end. 6 kilometers.

So that was my morning...

So much fun!

[straylight09]

So... About that broken hand...

Much Ado About Nothing

Here are the facts:

Last Saturday I did, in fact, fall from my bike.

In that fall I did, in fact, break a bone in my hand.

What occurred in the days afterward is a comedy of errors that, for me, has brought into stark relief my own gullibility and what can come from the cascading effect of a single wrong assumption.

The fall was one that most cyclists are familiar with. I started to fall and was simply unable to unclip my foot quickly enough to catch myself. I landed on my right side, my right hand and knee hitting the pavement. At the time I felt more embarrassed than actually injured. I pulled myself up, remounted my bike and headed home. There was significant pain in my right hand, but I was able to apply enough grip to the handlebars and covered the twenty plus miles back home in some discomfort, but otherwise okay.

I am, thankfully, not like most men. When injured, I will see a doctor. I don’t assume that everything is a minor sprain. I also basically type for a living, thus hand injuries are something I take seriously. After twenty-four hours, my hand hurt enough to warrant, in my untrained opinion, a visit to a professional.

The Urgent Care I went to had somehow managed to get their hands a well used Soviet era x-ray machine. This Chernobyl-esq dinosaur from the last century used massive heavy black film panels and gave me an unnerving sense of antiquation that was only surpassed the lead protective apron they draped across me which featured a 1980s paint splatter print ala Patrick Nagel in his Duran Duran heyday.

After seeing the x-rays, the Urgent Care Doctor, in profound seriousness asked how much I had moved my hand since the fall. As I raised my hand to explain that yes, I had moved it when attempting to determine if I was injured, the Doctor’s eyes went wide. Waving her own hands in distress, She advised me, in no uncertain terms, to STOP moving my hand and fingers. She explained that x-ray shown that the bone in my hand had moved and was separated from the breakpoint. In fact, The movement was so bad, she felt I should should not be given a cast until I saw an orthopedic specialist, and suggested it might require surgery. In another nod to driving home the outdated technology still in use in this place, She provided me with a CD-ROM with the x-ray images (imagine my surprise it wasn’t on a floppy disc.)

The nurse then appeared with a brace for my hand and a hypodermic. The shot she explained was for the pain. However, I immediately declined.

"Yes it hurt," I explained, but the pain was manageable. Both the Doctor and the nurse were visibly surprised by my apparent ability to deal with the pain, and wanted to make sure I didn’t want the shot. I assured them I was fine and with a brace around my wrist and CD in my good hand I headed for home.

The next day I called my GP, explained I’d broken my hand and that the Urgent Care doctor believed I would need a referral to see a specialist as the bone had moved. They were able to get me an appointment for Tuesday afternoon.

My GP was, unsurprisingly, unable to access the images from the antiquated CD-ROM, but agreed from what the Urgent Care doctor had described about the bone having moved seeing a specialist made sense. My GP contacted SMOG (Santa Monica Orthopedic Group, where I’d had my shoulder surgery back in 2011) and she was able to get me an immediate appointment.

The people as SMOG were able to view the images on the CD and after a short wait I was taken to an examination room and met with Dr. Soll who, when he came in, extended his hand to shake mine. I awkwardly put out my left hand which brought an odd bemused smile to his face. He asks me to remove brace and then he starts to examine my hand and wrist.

This led to the following exchange:

Dr: (Squeezing my wrist) Does this hurt?

Me: (Shaking my head) No, not at all.

Dr: How about here? (Pushing on the side of my wrist up to my hand to my pinky)

Me: No, that’s fine.

Dr: (pressing on the back of my hand) Does it hurt here?

Me: (Reacting) Yes, that’s where it hurts.

Dr: Okay. But not here? (Again squeezing my wrist.)

Me: Nope.

Dr: When did you break your wrist?

Me: Saturday.

Dr: No, I mean when did you break your wrist the first time. You’ve injured your wrist before, correct?

Me: (Confused) Not recently, well… oh! I broke my wrist a long time ago, 1987 or 88.

Dr: (Nodding and smiling) That the break they’re seeing on the x-rays.

Me: (mouth dropping open, eyes going wide) Wait? The separated bone…

Dr: Likely a remnant of the break you had back in 88.

Me: So it’s not broken?

Dr: Well, yes, there is a small break on the back of your hand, a sliver of bone has chipped off.

…

He went on to explain that the current break is something they can’t and shouldn’t try to fix. More importantly, I can't do any additional damage, I don’t need a cast, or even the brace. So as long as it’s not hurting me I can go about my business.

So, officially, no cast, no brace and I’m cleared to bike, run, play Hockey, or do any of the other life threatening activities I’m so fond of.

All of this does explain why the Urgent Care Doctor and Nurse were so horrified when I moved my hand, and expected me to be in far more pain than I actually was.

Though, when I think about it, the alternative would have been much worse. If not for the extreme separation of the bone, and the belief I needed to see a specialist, the urgent care people could have put me in a cast. I’d have been unable to ride, play, or worse, type for 6 weeks. I might have never known I’d not broken anything significant in my hand. So, while annoying, it could have been much worse.

So, that's it, nothing more to see here. Move along.