Brenton Butler

Consider me a little late to the discussion, but for those of you who’ve never heard the name Brenton Butler, go to your netflix queue and add Murder on a Sunday Morning .  It’s an Academy Award winning documentary filmed in 2000 about the plight of a young man and his family fighting for his life after being wrongly accused of murder.

The thing that kept going through my mind was “this would never have happened to me”.  I am white.  I don’t care what kind of trouble we get into, white people will never face the kind of blatant discrimination that this family had to endure.  And in 2008 in this country–a country that African Americans can claim and have helped build with their blood, sweat, and tears–that’s still unbelievable to me.

In one way, not to turn this to a political post, but electing Barack Obama–a black man, to the highest office in the land, is perhaps a small step we can all take to give African Americans back some of the power we’ve taken over the generations.  Oh, and also elect him because he’s brilliant.  And he’s the best choice.  He’s not perfect.  He’s a politician–which will set him up for unimaginable scrutiny.  But this is not about Mr. Obama.  This is about Mr. Butler.

The film–the story, is heartbreaking–watching Brent and his parents suffer through 6 months in jail while they fight against the sheriffs who fabricated story after story in order to frame someone, any skinny, black man–and Brent happened to be the one to walk past a police car that day.

These men are still law enforcement officials in Florida.  Another crime in itself.

This movie haunted my dreams after I saw it.  Enough so that I looked up what happened to Brenton Butler.  The family settled out of court for a measly $775,000.  Again, black family.  A white family would have gotten 10 million.  Brenton is now at Fordham.  And he plays basketball.  And he wins.  Perhaps things will now turn around that’s a metaphor for this young man and his family.  And I hope, Brenton, where ever you are happy!  (AND studying law!  And I hope you and your family have found some peace and moved on.  You all deserve it.

July 12th,2008:Thanks Lori, from Jacksonville.  For setting me straight.  The Brenton Butler at Fordham is not the Brenton Butler who is the subject of the movie.

1 more day!

 

 

1…1 more day!

 

President Obama? Many White Supremacists are Celebrating | Hatewatch | Southern Poverty Law Center

President Obama? Many White Supremacists are Celebrating | Hatewatch | Southern Poverty Law Center

God help us all.  Where do these whack-jobs come from?

2

                                          2……2 more days!

Beautiful

Hey Moe!

MS Walk

Women in Fedoras

I know nothing about fashion. So I really have no business commenting. But what’s with women and fedoras? This one, in particular, was so bad they couldn’t find a real head to wear it.

I blame Sarah Jessica Parker.

 

Now, the people who really know, like my wife’s friends at Charlotte Tarantola would disagree wholeheartedly. And that’s ok. This is strictly a personal thing.

Granted, some women can pull it off. No doubt there are hundreds of photos of women in fedoras that work and are the epitome of fashion.

Again, what the hell do I know?  Nothing!

I had a bad experience once and was at a nice Holiday party and one of the main guests had an abhorrent white pants-suit and it was accompanied by an equally scary white pimp hat.  Her husband loved it and thought she was the coolest thing there.  And that’s his job.  Wonderful.  But he tried to get everyone else to agree how cool she looked.  And I was embarrased for her.  Poor thing.

I suppose this is at the forefront of my consciousness because in all the clips of the new Sex and the City movie that are out there are at least 2 shots of SJP in a fedora.  And I am instantly whisked away to that same holiday party.  And I feel shame.  I feel icky.  I am repulsed.

I suppose it could be jeaslously. I can’t wear hats. It’s the ears. I would love to wear hats. Fedoras, even. What? A double standard? Well, yes. Let men have their fedoras. You don’t see men wearing, um…wearing….bonnets!

Well. Except those who play dress up.

Lots of people wear fedoras well. Diddy. Frank Sinatra. Jimmy Stewart. Bogie. My grandfather had a phenomenal hat head. I have many of his hats. But I won’t give them to my wife!

My wife is one of those women who can wear a hat and wear it well. She’s got a few very cool lids that belonged to her grandmother–who was a bootlegger’s wife and a cabaret singer. You get the idea.

But if she ever buys a fedora–fair warning–I will not come home.
 

Where’s Summer B?

Last night I opened the door to let out the dog our daughter (she likes to pee outside).  And a cold wind blasted me in the face.  I believe the temp hovered around 50 degrees.  There is a down comforter on our bed still.  And my wife slept with the heated matress pad on on her side (those things rock)….

WTF?  Does the weather know it’s mid JUNE? 

Home

Is where I’d rather be today.

(does that qualify as a post?)  I’m sleepy.

StumbleUpon Demo – Color Wars 2008 » Youngme / Nowme

StumbleUpon Demo – Color Wars 2008 » Youngme / Nowme

Love this site!

What a contrast

Weekend Update

As most people did this weekend if you live in the PNW, we stayed in on Sunday and chilled. Hiding out from the rain. And cleaned. And that’s it!

Saturday we walked 8 miles! So we were a little productive.

Oh, and we saw Indiana Jones 4. Good 1st hour, bad 2nd hour.

From my cold dead hands

I will never understand this American obsession to carry a gun everywhere you go…and out where everyone can see it.

Shipyard Blues

My home was always warm and full of food.  We never wanted for anything because of the Shipyard.  My Dad worked there his whole life.  It was hard dirty work.  Nothing fun. 

There is a song that sticks with me to this day that he had a record of called “Shipyard Blues”

Goes like this:

“They got a shipbuilding firm out in old VA

The greatest in the world so I heard em say

Sittin in a town called Newport News.

And I’m one of many who report every day

Working like a dog tryin to earn my pay

I got them low down dirty, good for nothing

Shipyard Blues

 

Come every morning bout 7 o’clock

Mama sent me to that job that I got

And my boss man he sees that I’m there too.

And I think that he thinks that I’m a fool

For keeping this job the way I do

I got them low down dirty, good for nothing

Shipyard Blues.

 

Now here comes another one off on the way

She’ll be in dry-dock for 2 or 3 days

And I’ll be there sweatin and sing the blues

Workin all day in these dirty old clothes

Waitin til 4 when the whistle blows

I got them low down dirty, good for nothin Shipyard blues.

 

 

Now it ain’t like I don’t like to work

But it’s my pride that’s beginning to hurt

And I don’t whatever I will do.

A white collar worked  just passed me by

But he didn’t see me cuz his head was too high

I got them low down dirty, good for nothing

Shipyard Blues. 

119 Powhatan Parkway. No, wait, 117 Powhatan Parkway

There it was:  #119.  A Four-Square style house with a wrap around porch on the front.  We loved it.  We oogled it and crept past the back yard through the alley to spy it from every angle.

And save for the very expensive price tag–thought, some day we could live in it.  And then it sold.  Right out from under us! 

We continued to drive down that street on the way home to 40 Greenbrier.  We loved the large sycamore trees lining the sidewalks.  We loved the median strip seperating the traffic coming up or down the street.  The round-abouts.  The small bridge that went over the creek.  The large Oaks where the flocks of herrons lived.

We were in love with this charming neighborhood running along the Chesapeake Bay.  The Wythe neighborhood.  It was charming.  It was our place.

Flash forward a year or so.  We had both taken new jobs at the agency.  Life was, again, exciting and moving fast. 

 

Going Mobile or Going Postal

Dear San Diego:

Please send help.  The Seattle area, in general is in dire straits.  I fear for us all.  If summer holds off any longer I sense a mass exodus coming.  Seattle becoming a vast wasteland as people leave their cars stacked 20 deep at SeaTac and board planes for points south.

It’s 40freaking8.  48 right now and raining.  And it’s June.  Something is horribly wrong.

We are either going mobile or postal.  I hope for the former!

Bring us some sun.

Anxious in Seattle.

 

40 Greenbrier

In an earlier post I talked about how my latest house is finally the home I feel at home in.  I want to go back and look at my earlier houses and what they meant.

I had lived in dorms, and later, in an apartment and then a condo with my girlfriend.  But at least 3 years had passed since she and I had broken up.  I had moved back home to my parents house temporarily because I couldn’t afford to live on my own.

Late in my 27th year I met my wife.  We were married 5 months after our first date.  (Wow!  And it’s been 11 years!)

Our first house was in a neighborhood we loved in Hampton, Virginia right along the Chesapeake Bay. 

I had grown up in part of Hampton (until about age 7) when we moved to the next nearest town called Newport News.  I was born in Newport News at Riverside Hospital.  And as anyone who knows Tidewater, Virginia, the cities tend to blend into one long sprawl–stretching from Richmond all the way down to Virginia Beach.

While we were engaged we began looking for a house.  I don’t remember if we knew we could not afford to buy a house (most likely) or if there were just none available.  But I remember driving up and down Chesapeake Ave looking for places for rent.

Finally, we saw it.  A cute brick Cape Cod on a quiet street.  We called the landlord (who it turned out, lived next door) and asked to see it.  Once we saw the wood floors and the “Teresa” doors.  (rounded at the top and short enough that my 5’2″ wife could stand in the doorway…ok it was a closet) we were sold.  Well, that and the 1950s pink and green tile in the bathroom.  And the red and white galley kitchen.  We were in love–with each other and this charming house.

Life was like spring.  Everything was new.  Everything was exciting. 

We still look back on that house as some of the happiest times of our marriage.  I did feel very at home at 40 Greenbrier.  But, it was not our house.  We loved our landlord, Steve.  He was great.  but we still had to ask permission to do anything.  We put in flower beds running up our walkway.  I remember planting Habanero peppers in the front bed.  We painted some of the inside white walls.  We were particularly enamoured of our choice of deep red and tan in the dining room. 

Our landlord wanted to sell the house to us once we told him we were looking for a place to buy.  But he wanted too much for it (we thought).  I think he was asking about $85,000. 

We made friendships and met neighbors in that house that have stayed with us all these years, even though we now live 3,000 miles away.

Elsa officially became my dog too and we adopted her brother, Alexander in that house.  That was the first house Alex ever jumper the fence at.  He went missing overnight, only to turn up sad and dejected looking the next day at the SPCA.

It was a wonderful and sweet time in our lives.

 

Leaving Home

A few weeks back, before the theme for June had been announced, I had this strong memory come back to me (almost a deja vu).  It was a memory of the time when I finally realized I no longer belonged in my parents house–in the home I had grown up in. 

I was a freshman in college.   Exams were almost done but I had not moved back home for the summer yet.  There was a sense of relief, wonder and excitement at the first year wrapping up.  The pressure was off because I had finished my toughest exams and the last one must have been a paper or something–because I was not sweating it and had relaxed.

It was a beautiful sunny, blue sky.  The air was crisp and slightly warm and sweet.  It was early May in Virginia.  Which can be hot or the idyllic spring.  This was indeed, idyllic.

I arrived home mid-day.   My parents were still at work.  My sister must have been at school and my brother had long since moved out and (I believe) was married.

As I went through the house, nothing had physically changed.  But everything was different.  And the feeling was palpable.  I had a distinct feeling of joy and loss at the same time.  I remember this so vividly because that day-that memory, has stayed with me.  It’s one of the way-points along my life that I remember to this day.

As I walked back out of the house, on to my next destination, heard Thomas Wolfe’s words:  “You can’t go home again”.  It was true for me at that moment.

A place of ones own

I am almost 40 years old.  I have had 4 houses in my life.  This latest one, which my wife and I have owned for a little over a year, finally feels like home.  This house has a peace about it that the others did not.

I don’t know exactly what to attribute this to, except to say this:  I am someone who’s constantly striving for something else.  I am rarely ever satisfied.  It’s a lovely unique combination of dna that makes me a perfectionist (in some ways), a little OCD (at times), and very driven! 

So perhaps each house left me longing to push through to that next phase of my life.  Now I am at a phase that I like.  And so too, the house fits?  I don’t know.  Its a chicken and egg thing.  Not sure if I am getting more content and so the house begins to fit or if the house brings contentment.

Good questions for the next post!  See you tomorrow.

Analyze this:

I will be involved in the NOBLOPOMO for June (if you don’t know what that is, go here: http://nablopomo.ning.com/  It’s a great way to jump start your posting. 

The theme is HOME.  So here’s my home post.  Recounting a dream.

This morning I dreamt that my wife and I and 1-2 other people, whom I cannot now remember, were in a house on the ocean in some unknown place.  It was, at once, a vacation, and then again a work thing–because lots of Ad people were there.  And Tsunamis were striking.  But people were hanging around and continuing with their meetings and vacations.

Large waves hit our house several times but we stay inside.  And the house remained standing. 

For some reason, (I don’t know, to save our lives, perhaps) we left the house.  And even though we were walking through this meeting space I needed to get back to the house because we left our dog, Alex, in the house.  *First of all this would never happen.  And second, Alex is now dead.

As I returned to the location of the house, it had been knocked off its foundation and was laying on its side in the surf being washed around. 

As I ran toward the house looking for Alex, he came washing past me in the surf.  Body surfing, in a way, but had a board laying over top part of him–as if he were debris in the storm.  I heard him moaning and I rushed through the water to try to get to him.  At least I knew, in my dream, that he was OK.  And then I woke up.

Anyone who analyzes dreams could find this one quite strange!  But that’s my home post for day 1.