The Ironic Irony of Icons Inexplicably Taking Their Leave Almost Simultaneously...

Has Anyone But Me Noticed That In Less Than a Month’s Time, Several Icons Have Taken Their Final Bow?


Maybe I’m living too long on this planet, although I seriously doubt it. Maybe all we baby-boomers are just beginning to realize our own mortality. Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that during the month of April alone so many of the faces, personalities, talents and teachers who I came to know in childhood and who would remain so alive inside my conscience have suddenly vacated this building we call Life.

Although it’s never been my intent to turn my blog into an obituary column, there are some things, some people and some exits that I can not simply ignore. Such is the power, the presence, the influence and effect these figures have played in my life, and often times, in many of our lives.


First there was Gil Noble, who passed at age 80.



Chances are, if you’re not from the NYC area, or haven’t lived here in the last 40 years, you may have never heard of him. Should that be the case, I’ll feel sad for you, because Gil Noble was The Truth.


More than just a journalist, Gil Noble embodied a one man master class in Black History and thus, in a Larger Sense, American History. He was all those things we’d ever want a teacher to be: Inspired and inspiring. Articulate and attractive. Sturdy and serious. He possessed a sharp wit, and a spirit full of gravitas. Whether the subject of the day dealt with the metaphysics of Jazz or with Negro-leagues in baseball, basketball or sports history in general, Gil would lay it all down in a way we could understand and empathize. He brought you to the forefront. No need to imagine, because Gil Noble had a way of taking you there. No matter if his show was based upon community-related issues or political races, educational matters or vital lessons our schools and classrooms never taught us, he was known to truly tell it LIKE IT IS. And he enlightened us just as much as he instructed us.

It’s too bad that his program was only shown throughout the tri-state (New York, New Jersey and Connecticut) area, because if it had been nationally syndicated, his reach would have been at least as extensive, and his effect just as seismic as that of Mike Wallace. Gil‘s iconic show, “Like It Is,” would appear every Sunday at noon to feed us knowledge, give us a sense of strength, pride and purpose, or to simply remind us that, no matter our personal struggles, we were not alone. “Like It Is” premiered at a time of cultural awakening. Its debut, back in 1968, coincided with the height of the Black Awareness/Black Power movement. Its marathon run ended just last year, after Mr. Noble suffered a debilitating stroke. That's well over 40 years of journalistic excellence! This is a television landmark equally and every bit impressive as 60 Minutes or Meet The Press. Gil Noble was a maverick. His exposés on slavery in the American south, African relief efforts, and drug addiction in the inner city were disturbing and yet necessary viewing. His documentaries on the lives of Dr. Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and Nelson Mandela are now legendary. His extensive interviews with Adam Clayton Powell, Fannie Lou Hamer, Sarah Vaughn, Sammy Davis, Jr. and Lena Horne are all now classics. The archives from those years are many and so rich with essential historical content that Mr. Noble wanted them maintained and made available for future generations. Having been a student of his, I truly hope his final wish is granted.


Thank you, Gil Noble, for having the courage and the conviction to tell our stories. Thank you for shedding a light upon so many of our unsung heroes. Thank you for the years of lessons and for the grace and wisdom in which you presented them. And most of all: THANK YOU FOR LOVING US SO MUCH!

Peace out, Gil Noble. Because of you, my sense of history is a bit sharper and my nature has been all the more inquisitive.

* * * * *


And speaking of sharp and inquisitive, this month, the world of journalism also lost Mike Wallace…




This cat was Epic. He too was one of those stoic figures that seemed to always be around, and he almost made us believe that he would always be, regardless of that grand equalizer called Time.

His career was as varied and long as it was long-ranging and prolific, and through the decades his reputation would become harder and more dogmatic. 60 Minutes gave us the essential Mike Wallace. He was or could be a bit of a journalistic bully. He was tough, tenacious, and, if you were guilty or hiding something from him, even terrifying in his approach. But you knew one thing for certain: Mike Wallace was going to get to the truth of the story, or unmask a liar, or tear down some high-minded celeb in his own inimitable Perry Mason-style of interviewing. He was blunt, and at times he was merciless. He could embarrass, belittle or bedazzle. The man was a beast at probing, investigating, biting down and not ceasing until he drew blood or something tangible that resembled the truth.


He lived a long life, and passed at 93. He was definitely one of a kind. He didn’t suffer fools gladly. People like him, who command our attention, always leave behind such lasting impressions.

* * * * * *

Leaving a lasting impression… that’s something any self-respecting vampire might do, right?

Well, we can no longer ask that question of Jonathan Frid…





Okay. I admit it. I was a huge fan of this supernatural stuff. From the moment I first tuned in, “Dark Shadows” had me hooked. Each week day, I’d dash home from school like a li'l madman just to watch this gothic phenom unfold. There was nothing else on TV quite like it. It featured ghosts and vampires, witches, warlocks and werewolves. Oh my! It was… or could be very, verrrrry, vurrrrrr scurry. When you’re too young to recognize tongue-in-cheek references or too naïve to spot grand camp when it’s played out before your eyes, you can just sit back and let this ghoulish world enchant and enrapture you in its utter wickedness. Jonathan Frid projected a kind of edgy hypnotic presence full of grace and subtle danger. As the vampire, Barnabas Collins, his mesmerizing portrayal could leave you spellbound. He was dramatic, menancing, at times sympathetic, and yet just creepy enough to keep you fascinated and have you anxiously tuning in for the next day’s feast of blood, drama and mayhem.

Jonathan Frid was immortal. Or so his character would lead us to believe. No one had ever successfully driven a stake through the heart of Barnabas Collins, and so he was doomed to live forever. Ironically, the actor who played him died, on Friday the 13th, at the age of 87.


Johnny Depp who takes over the role of Barnabas Collins…


… in Tim Burton’s upcoming film based on the Dark Shadows series said it best:

“Jonathan Frid was the reason I used to run home from school to watch ‘Dark Shadows,’” Depp said in a statement. “When I had the honor to finally meet him, as he so generously passed the torch of Barnabas to me, he was as elegant and magical as I had always imagined.



My deepest condolences to his family and friends. The world has lost a true original.”

Peace-out BC! Maybe we’ll see you again… in the less-creepy after-life.

* * * * *



Finally, there’s Dick Clark…




I can’t honestly remember a time when I didn’t know of Dick Clark’s existence. Can you? He was the man, the dude, the grand poobah of the popular music scene. Some referred to him as "The World's Oldest Teenager" but he was more like America's Number One DJ. He was there all throughout our kidhood, teen years, young adulthood and beyond. We all knew him. American Bandstand bridged both the generational gap, and, more importantly, it help to smooth the lines of this country’s racial divide. Dick Clark knew instinctively that music was something that united us and he showed us that we’d more in common than the sum of our differences. On Saturdays afternoons, whether black, white, brown, yellow or red, we invited him into our homes. Along with his eternally young exterior, he brought new music into our living-rooms, playrooms and bedrooms. He came equipped w/ a stack of albums under his arms. And he was never short on variety: whether it was rock and roll, r& b, soul, folk, pop, disco, new wave, punk, and dance music. He introduced us to so many future icons and legends that along the way he became one himself.

If this had been his only claim to fame, that alone would have been enough. But he also entertained by bringing in game shows “The 10,000 Pyramid” which later became the “$25,000 Pyramid.” He made us chuckle with Bloopers and Practical Jokes. He gave us another forum in which to reward and celebrate our musical icons with the American Music Awards… and then he would help us all to bring in the dawning of another year with Dick Clark New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.”


Now he’s gone. And New Year’s Eve in Times Square will never be quite the same.

He lived to be 82 years old. I think he did the most with his time here. He was very successful, wealthy, well-liked, and yes, iconic. We’ll not see his like again.

And so, we bid goodbye to these men; figures, prototypes, icons who stood tall and loomed large through the passage of time… at least so, in my mind.


Each of them, in their own distinctive way, helped to engage us, entertain, define or educate us in ways that ensure they will never be forgotten.


One Love.

Inside This Friday Night's Hotness

I’ve danced till dawn
And parts beyond where
Neon streets cease
To paint anyone pink
Or blue or pretty anymore.

I’ve paid my dues to the gods
And the laws of Friday nights.
I’ve danced myself, hot, loud
And flawed under the lights,
Now, once again, I come…
Stumbling, staggering
Back to you. I come
Seeking shelter, seeking
Warmth, seeking refuge
From this damned
Sauna of a world
Which shoots race movies upon
My skin.

Tell me you GET it! Tell me
You do understand this
Need in me to
Sometimes win! Tell me
You hold the keys to
The heart of me… and
That you know my secrets
When I’m lost and vulnerable
And on the verge of
Weeping...



Show me there’s
Someone
Inside this
Insanity
Who still gives
A damn about
What happens to me!

You see, your face,
Your presence is
My solitude’s serum…
Cure me!
Feed me your
Enduring sustenance!
Come… take my hand and
Dialogue with me! Engage
Me in soft talk,
And romantic soliloquy…
Drown me in
Wet kisses… and
Cradle me in heartbeats!

Step to me with
Understanding arms
And empathetic eyes
Come inside these sheets and
Take this precarious
Ride with me!

Come… lets set our tongues
Free to paint
Goose-bump stories
Across these pages of our skin
Come… and let us make brand
New Happy Endings…
All poetry and movement and
Big toe quiverings!



When this world leaves me
Distressed and downhearted
Roll call all the beauteous things you see…
Blow passionate solos upon
This instrument of me...
Let each breath perform
Love’s slyest song...
Let each gesture reflect
Love’s slow-in-between-the-
Thighs-dance... and let us
Hum a mellow waltz to Love’s
Black-lighted trance…

Let us taste
Love’s salt upon our lips…
Feel Love’s glow and its
Healing effect… Let us
Know Love’s primal pulse-beat…
Let us engage in Love’s
Succulent symmetry…and
Then let us
Unleash Love’s most
Perfect SCREAM!




Yes! Inside this
Friday night’s hotness
Do what you must to
Puff my ego erect
And leave me shining
And radiant inside
Some pool of sweat and DNA
Which defines me and
Reminds me vaguely of
Some travesty
Some trickery
Some voodoo
Hoodoo witchcraft
Sorcery... some fools
And Romantics still
Believe to be


Love.




One.



© 2012 by L.M.Ross moaningmanblues All Rights Reserved

A Brief Freedom

For My Friend B.B.

1970-2012


Death is inevitable here, my friend. As sure as rape and theft and overcrowded subways, death, for some of us, is just a station stop away. If we’re lucky… if we’re Blessed, Life slows down a piece... and grants us a sweet reprieve. It is released inside this freedom of poetry.

My Highest, Most Greatest Good is a dueling dream. It is fueled by the urgent SCREAM heard from others expectations of me, versus, this unquenchable hunger, this insatiable thirst of my undying ambition. Quite simply: I am a slave to this shit.

In the frosted fields between the sheets of my sleep, I am haunted by this duality. It is always hiding, like a shy ghost, inside of my deepest self. Life, for me, has been this journey through streets of Sadness and Euphoria, with a brief but necessary escape inside the plains of poetry.

And I’ve known some poets... Real Poets... such Beautiful, Living, Breathing Poets; scribes so much Higher and Greater than me.

And after living their heroic little lives, they’ve died their invisible deaths.

This weekend someone else’s earthly suffering came to an end. This weekend, another poet friend of mine expired.


Today, once again, Life for me has become this brief excursion into the freedom of poetry.

I am reminded of how some vile thing or some monstrous entity always comes along to kill this poetry in us.

Death, it just keeps chasing us, stalking us, walking beside, and then, running after us.

Death by winter... in a cold-shouldered America. Death by failure’s sharp and jagged needle. Death by trigger-fingered cop. Death by a city’s speeding stopwatch. Death by some incorrect, mistaken identity. Death by some ignorant-assed vigilante. Death by merciless abject poverty. Death by a lonely man’s disease. Death by some obscene and unnatural cause will come for us, just as it came for him…

And we will grieve.

As blackly beautiful and brilliant as he was, his life should have never been cut so damned brief! I get it, though. I do. Between us there are few differences. We are bittersweet slaves to an Art, a Mistress, and to a World of thieves that will ultimately betray us! I get it!

Life, for me, is this brief and tragic hesitation. I fill in the gaps and gaping holes with broken prose and poetry.

His life was terse, composed of heavy heart and crying verse. His life, it should have been a song. Instead it proved to be... a broken stanza... an aborted passage.

Yo! Would someone please throw him a jazz funeral, damn it!





And send him home most righteously! Let those dark cherubic-faced men blow their horns through the streets for him!

Celebrate him! His life! His gift! Speak poems, say odes, sing hymns to his spirit! And then, being that we are such carelessly foolish humans, we’ll forget just what made his soul so rich and special, so unique, and beautiful.


It happens all the time. I’ve seen this shit happen to my own father; the way people just forget the Shine from his Star. I’ve come to expect nothing more, nothing less than this, for it is his plight, and my plight, and perhaps all of our plights.


My Highest Good is a dueling dream. It is fueled by the urgent scream of divergent expectations of me. It remains this unquenched, insatiable thirst of undying ambition. In the frosted fields of my sleep, I am haunted by this duality.

Life, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.

Life, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.

LIFE, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.


I wish you golden days and lyrical nights of radiant riffs and open mics and Gabriel blowing Cool Jazz on his horn... and from the neon-lit clouds on the hipper side of Heaven, I wish you Thunderous fingersnaps.


That's it. That's all.

Au revoir, Bonne nuit, Mon Ami.


One.

Endangered At 17: Poem For Trayvon Martin

I remember being 17, living on Lays
Potato chips, chili dogs and Wonder bread…
Would never be caught dead
Or seen without
My Swedish knits and
Chuck Taylors… with Stevie
Wonder blasting Superstition
In my head. I remember

Playing Spades, and scratching myself in
“Nasty” places, full of raging
Hormones, adrenaline and
Silent fear. I remember how it feels

To live in Black skin. Being told
By my mother, I was “beautiful.”
Being told by teachers, I was “Artistic”
And yes even “Gifted…” but
Never once told I was invincible. I remember this
As surely as I recall walking
Home from the movies, at night, and

Being stopped by local cops
Because I fit the descript
Of some hot-
Wired black boy who might just
Explode… who
Was up to some no good,
Criminally-minded shit,
When it was neither my behavior,
My nature,
Nor my actions but
The color of my skin which
Dictated this.

I remember feeling diminished, and
Embittered, enraged,
And endangered for the first time
At age 17... when I should have felt
Young and wild and free
And full of possibilities… Like you,

Trayvon… Angelic-faced manchild
Of a brown-skin hue. Almost
Brand new in the world,
Caught up inside that swirl of
Confusion... and yet
Another senseless
Victim to the paranoia of
Another racist fool.




Did you fit that tragic
Descript too, Trayvon?
Hoodie-clad and armed with
Skittles and iced tea? How dangerous!



How deadly
You must be. How deadly!
How..? Deadly?

How dead.








One.





© 2012 by L.M.Ross moaningmanblues All Rights Reserved

A “Hero” Ain’t Just a Sandwich

Question: Has anything or anyone ever brought you down to your knees (and NOT in a good way!)? I mean has anything or anyone ever left you completely and utterly broken?


*ponder*


The other evening I spent some time breaking bread in the company of an old friend, or I should say, a former friend. We’d parted ways two decades ago when he’d began his extended and tripped-out odyssey into the world of heroin…





… and I’d suffered far too long from chronic bouts of compassion overload.


Drugs are so damned pervasive, insidious, and so powerful that the addict very soon ends up indulging in junkie behaviors: junking people... junking friends, family and relationships... junking truth and beauty and any expression of love... trading them in for the trip, that temporary euphoria of the all-mighty high.


To paraphrase the late Rick James whose bout was mainly with cocaine, one could just substitute the substance by stating: 'That heroin is a helluva drug!'


After so much personal tragedy, including a harrowing house fire which claimed the life of a beloved family member, his life then took a turn, and did a complete 180. And now things are diff. He’d made the decision to get clean... once and for all. It wasn't an easy thing to do. Some people either fail miserably, or they die trying.

But homeboy possessed the will of a panther and the heart of a lion. After several stints in rehab, at long last, he’s recently been released, having kicked a 20 year skag habit.

I applaud him.


I was and remain very proud of him; proud that he didn’t allow the drugs to defeat and completely destroy him. I realize that when some thing or some force takes over your life for such a long period of time, it, in affect, owns you. You become ITS slave. Sadly far too many of us never get those freedom papers back, so we never truly own our lives again.

But this cat somehow reached down deep, rose up, found the strength within to call out his demons and is currently living clean and sober, one day at a time.


While speaking with him, and experiencing this brand new clarity in his eyes, I was suddenly reminded that even when the world turns a cold and unfeeling shoulder to us, as long as we don’t give up on our selves, we remain these promising, do-or-die works in progress. Life will hande the rest. Life can perform a hat-trick and produce its own miracle on us… and that no matter what goes on in our lives, we must continue, like sharks at sea, to just keep it moving. This may sound deceptively easy, almost too simplistic... but there are some things, some issues, some everyday crisis situations that can derail, deconstruct and cripple us if we are not careful or strong in faith.

I must repeat the initial question:

Has anything or anyone ever brought you down to your knees(and NOT in a good way!)? I mean, has anything or anyone ever left you completely and utterly broken?


Toxic people, anxiety, frustration, and worry can easily seize, then bogart the mind and this affects our every action. We may find ourselves seeking false gods, turning the bottle up, sticking needles in our arms, snorting, smoking, acting out violently, smashing skins indiscriminately, doing whatever we can to appease and pacify this silent ache within us. Only Our Creator knows what we have endured, what we can endure, or are enduring and what can bring us to that point of no return. Some of us have been through and somehow survived abuses, addictions, illness, infidelities, divorces, sudden deaths, and known by heart the atrocities and acts of inhumanity shown by our fellow man. Many of us have ventured through or are currently going through the darkened tunnels of our own mistakes, troubles, misfortunes, and personal catastrophes. Some of us are living beneath the weight of lies, secrets and things we've never told others about the skidmarks and scars that have marred our lives, and some of these things have left us with the inability to communicate with anyone. But change is a real thing, an action, a verb. It is an entity that we can always embrace. That's our option.


When we parted, I embraced him tightly, and found myself telling him that he was now “my hero.”



Yes. I know. It sounded corny as hell, but I truly MEANT it.

Strange how we never know which people in this life will actually inspire us.

No matter what comes our way, no matter how deep or beastly that old rabid dig called Trouble might be, it will only defeat us, or get the best of us, or kill us, if WE allow it to destroy.


Just because something is broken within us doesn’t mean it can never be cured, fixed or readjusted. Sometimes all it requires is a change in perception, and in attitude. Sometimes what it requires is to surrender it; to give it all to a Higher Power

And always remember this:

"Life moves on, whether we act as cowards or heroes..." -Anonymous



That’s it. That’s all.


Snatch JOY!



One.

Say Goodbye To Hollywood, To Luiggi… And The Gang At P & D’s Pizzeria

Has this ever happened to you?


It’s a late afternoon that's swiftly turning into evening. You’ve been sticking to your diet like a champ in training, but damn it, the time for fun has come and you deserve a special treat! You’re in the mood for your favorite food. You begin to crave this food so much you can actually TASTE it on your tongue. You know its flavor by heart. It’s so mad-crazy-stoopid delicious, you’re actually salivating. It's sooo damned good, even your senses trip and begin hallucinating. This becomes your one and only preoccupation.



You just can’t WAIT to sink your teefus into this delectable meal. It’s… it’s even mo betta than great sloppy sex... on dough!




This object of desire could be most anything edible and mad luscious. In my case, it happens to be that once–a-month slice of mouth-watering NY-style pizza served up so spicy-hot with that tasty killa combo. Yes, that combo! It has become so familiar to the senses and to the people working within the establishment that it has earned its own shorthand nickname: “Pizza/ MOP.” M.O.P = Meatballs, Onions & Peppers. Oh my!





Luiggi knows how to do it up most righteously. It’s long ago become akin to witnessing fine performance art just to watch him flipping the dough and then making a spectacle of olive oil, tomato sauce, mozzarella, parmesan and shredded feta cheeses. There’s so much love in this cat’s work. There’s a sense of pride in knowing that he’s creating these edible masterpieces for the masses, sometimes cranking out about a hundred of them a day.


This place, this joint, this spot, this boite has become such a usual and perhaps even vital part of your world, your sphere, your lifestyle and your steelo, that you begin to think of it as your own personal Cheers. Yes, everybody there KNOWS your name. Sometimes, they even shout it out in unison when you enter.

"LINNNNNNNNNNNNNN!"

And afterwards, the more somber, buttoned-up waitress addresses you as "Leonardo."


This is love, right? It’s like your second-home. This is your Valhalla and your Mecca. It’s your sweet spot and your ambrosia!



The atmosphere is friendly and clean, but not too ornate or fancy. It suits you. It invites you inside to partake in a variety of Italian cuisine and culinary delights. You like it here. You can kick back and exhale here. Ahhh yes...


So you turn that familiar corner, hungry, beyond hungry… just so damned anxious to taste that nirvana on your tongue... And then... you notice how the place looks somehow different and strange and unusually darker. Hmmm… you wonder: Are they going for a newer, dimmer ambiance? Then you attempt to open the door, this entrance to your second home, expecting to be hit by the smells of all those delicious aromas wafting up your nostrils, and that patter of friendly banter caressing your ears, and the employees there to call out your name like they tend to do, which both embarrasses and welcomes you… ONLY... the door never opens... those aromas never arrive... and the banter never materializes.

That damn door is LOCKED!


WTF?

It’s closed, yo. Closed? No. NOOOOOOOOOOOO! Can't be. This is madness! Aiiight now… stop playin’ y’ all! I’m serious! Hey, its Lin, yo! Open up!

Only no one ever comes to the door, and no one is there to greet you.

This place, your second home; that dome of heavenly aromas is gone. Is no more.... is Poof! Is... ghost! Is... Out. Of. Business!


Pipe in that Esther Rolle as Florida Evans patented 1, 2, 3, 4 times with feeling:


"Damn! DAMN! DaMMMMN! Day-YUM!"

No one told you. No one warned you. No one ever gave any clue that this day was coming.

You feel all at once: ravenous and foolish. This feeling soon morphs into chronic states of disbelief, disappointment and then... betrayal. This suddenly shifts into curiosity, grief, anger and something like a death within your immediate family.


How could this possibly happen? Where the HELL will you get your pasta fix, now?

More importantly: What will happen to the workers, the cooks, the waiters and waitresses? What will become of the ambitious bartender who wanted to be an actor, and had once appeared in a bit role on an episode of Law and Order, and who never failed to mention it once you indulged in conversation that lasted longer than a minute or two? What would become of these beautiful people with their humble plans and their dreams, their ambitions and their families?


Yes, the hunger pangs are physical and pressing, but it’s the Bigger Picture that is haunting and much more overwhelming.

This economy is a beast that gobbles up the dreams of little people in one fell swoop.

This economy is a bitch that gnaws at the arms and legs and the vital parts of this collective body we call America.

This economy is taking the (fast) food from my mouth, and squashing the souls of those who once served it up with a smile.

Yes. They’ve turned off all the ovens, shut off the lights, and bolted the door shut to my favorite pizzeria.

Never again will I imbibe in the utter lusciousness of a 'MOP' slice.

*sigh*

Never again will I hear my name shouted in some slightly Italian accent as I enter that small piece of urban paradise.


This isht hurts so much… and not just within that gnawing empty space inside of my belly.


Nah. It's so much BIGGER than that!


This time... it’s gotten personal!



"Damn! DAMN! DaMMMMN! Day-YUM!"


One.

for a friend who is seriously considering suicide...

Dear G:


Really?


I mean... seriously?


I’ve just finished reading your words. Now this crazy tear sits inside of me. It lingers here... blurring my vision... but I refuse to cry. Now this same tear is threatening to form a gray cloud over my right eye until it mimics some emotional cataract. Always hate it when that happens.

Your thinking is obviously misguided and splintered, and yet your words were clear. Your intentions sounded so decisive and methodical, as if you were standing at this last chance terminal, finalizing your flight plan.

G, trust me... final is a very, very long time, my friend.


I am so sorry that the trip you’d planned and all those arrangements you’d made didn’t pan out the way you’d imagined… especially after you’d hoped and written and prayed that it would. I am truly, deeply, seriously sorry that this person you profess to love, ignored your pleas, refused to even see you, or answer your emails or respond to your texts or take a single one of your desperate calls. I am sorry that you’ve allowed someone else the power to make you feel so meek and small and so damned unnecessary. I am sorry that your efforts were all for naught.

I could say that this is THEIR loss. But I fear that, being in the place you are, you won’t really process this reality or even hear me, now.

G… please know this: When it’s real, when it’s actual, alive and thriving and factual, Love is a Verb; an all-consuming verb. It doesn't play cruel games, ignore or abuse you, or kick you in your gut. Love doesn’t ridicule or crush your spirit. It doesn't hurt or fuck you in some deeply wounding way.


Love is supposed to support you, hold you…. and LIFT you up!



Love is supposed to produce a feeling in its hosts “so High…" your “shoes are scraping the sky”… remember?

But Love, The Real Deal Stuff, doesn’t truly exist if it isn’t reciprocated. Yes, that’s a rough and mad tough pill to swallow, my friend. Yes, it may hurt like all hell, but I swear, it’s true. So what you thought was Love, was, in fact, a joyful memory, a past-life experience, an illusion, or some beautiful dream you’ve retained in your heart.


It doesn’t mean you are not worthy of Love, because you most definitely are worthy. Please know, you ARE worthy of REAL LOVE! This episode simply means that *this thing* this experience, this one-sided emotionally fanatic thing you’ve somehow miscomputed and mislabeled as “love” was not destined to bloom, or flourish or endure for the entirety of your journey.


But... guess what? This Too Shall Pass.


I’m also very sorry that the reunion with your estranged father fell through. I am sorry that your dad chose to spend time with the “beloved” brother, instead of you. Sad. This too is HIS loss. If you have been made to feel as if you’re unloved or loveless, then that is deeply unfortunate. But it also happens to be a blatant untruth.



So now… what? You want to punish those people who’ve hurt you, ignored you; who've chosen not to honor you with their love?


The truth is, your demise might sting some, might hurt others, MIGHT cause a few to grieve you, for only a minute or two. And… then what? You’re gone, and their lives will continue to go on.



I fear you haven’t truly THOUGHT this thing through, my friend.


And what about your son, and his family? You want them to suffer, too? Do you really think leaving them a few things, articles and your precious computer will soothe them through your eternal absence?


What about the friends who’ve offered you help and guidance, Light and Laughter and Love through your consistent episodes of pain? Do you want to spit in our faces, too?


What about those times when the sun shines brightly, and a smile comes into your heart and it crosses your face, and for no reason, you experience what can only be described as a Good Moment? Do you want to destroy those Good Moments, too?


What about the Spirit in you, the one who believes in The Creator... what are you really saying to Him? Are you saying that He Made Some Tragic Mistake in Creating you? Life is rough. It isn't for sissies. Are you, by this foolish intention, stating that you’re not worthy of a full and authentic Life, lived with zest and JOY, heartache and pain?


Truthfully, G, regardless of the few Donny Hathaways and Don Cornelius’ of this world, I really don’t believe suicide to be a natural part of our DNA. We have known Real Tests of The Human Condition: centuries of indignities, kidnapping, and slavery, centuries of systemic emasculation, physically, mentally and spiritually, and still most of us somehow survived without the terminal crutch of suicide.

But *heartbreak* and heartbreak alone is enough to do YOU in?


How Deeply and Sadly and Tragically Un-resilient of You!

Your sensitivity sometimes enlightens me... but your weakness only frightens and defeats me.




I would like to Believe that you are so much STRONGER than this, G. You are a Spirit-filled, God-fearing Being. You are, and you have been, a Light and a Beacon of True and Luminous Inspiration. And so, should you choose to selfishly snuff out that light, everything you ever said, everything you ever stood for will forever ring of fraudulence and dishonesty.


Should you snuff out that beautiful Light, you will truly know Hell, and NOT some sacred peacefulness you only imagine that other plane will be.


You need to remember this: What Doesn’t Kill Us… does in effect Make Us Stronger!

You need to know that the Sun sets... but it does indeed rise again.

You need to realize that suicide is a foolish and permanent solution to a temporary problem.

You need to always remember that as long as you are breathing, life can change, do a 180, and you will bear witness that: This Too Shall Pass.

You need to know and to put into daily practice, this, my friend:

ALWAYS BELIEVE that something WONDERFUL is about to Happen. And then, from the jaws of human suffering, reach down deep within... and...

Snatch JOY!


That’s it. That’s all.


I Love You.


Choose Life!



One.


LMR



P.S. Now I’ve all these crazy tears inside my eyes. Yo! Imagine that! Me. Crying over your tragic black ass! Guess I must be one of those people who actually feels that you matter in this world, G.

*Ponder* that, my friend.





One Love.


Lin

Honoring Ophelia Devore: A True Pioneer Who Forever Changed The Perception of Beauty…

Long ago and far away, when I was a shy and skinny student in high school, I recall there was this one girl who stood out far and above the rest. She was beyond fine, in fact, supermodel-pretty... and her skin was the color of good chocolates. She was very tall… almost my height, 6’1, and her style and swag were striking in every way. She had the proud posture of a seasoned Alvin Ailey dancer. She walked differently, spoke differently, even sat, stood and ate her food differently. Hard to say exactly what it was about her that so arrested and then captured the imagination, but she possessed a certain poise, grace and fashion-sense that seemed to be uncommon amongst other young women of her age, and especially at that time.

She was, of course, swiftly hated on, thought to be ‘siditty’ and projected an image or attitude that signaled she believed herself to be better than everyone else.

Well, everyone else was wrong. After finding the gonads to approach her, to speak with her and slowly become her friend, I discovered that all those impressions of her were erroneous, and she was a very cool, real down-to-earth person. The only exception: she had attended Charm School, thank you very much. But NOT just any charm school, mind you. It was some elite, high-faluting place known as The Ophelia Devore School of Charm... darrrhling! The whaaaaa?

And thus, this tidbit of information became my initial introduction to the existence of a woman called Ophelia Devore....“The Architect of the Charm and Modeling Business for People of Color.”




You see, long before the dawning of Donyale Luna...




who many fashion historians consider to be the "First Black Supermodel"...






and before there was a Naomi Sims…




or a Pat Cleveland…



...and before the doyens of the rag trade began to revere the names of Beverly Johnson…





Iman…




Naomi Campbell…





Tyra Banks…



Veronica Webb…



Or the ‘exotic’ Alek Wek…



And waaaaay before Jessica White…



her goodlookin' mama or her daddy were even born… more than sixty-five years ago, Ophelia DeVore pioneered the way for Blacks and other minorities in the modeling profession when she founded Grace Del Marco Models.

She was born in 1922. At age fifteen, Ophelia DeVore became a model in New York City, the mecca of the fashion and modeling world, where she started a career in the “Beauty Business.”


In the realm of modern history and of SOUL, pioneer is her role. Long before Black people en-mass had enlisted in the “Black Awareness Revolution” which exploded in the 60’s, Miss DeVore was engaged successfully in persuading big business that sales propaganda and advertising are inadequate without the Black mystique.



In 1946, Ophelia DeVore organized one of America’s first Black owned model agencies, Grace Del Marco, which pioneered in the development, counseling and placement of models of color. It was one of few places where black and brown models could actually find work. The DeVore/Del Marco models became pioneer image-builders in the minority communities. They inspired others, gave them a new faith and motivated them to reach-out and seek higher, bigger and more rewarding goals for themselves.


Miss DeVore offered industry and the public Black models not simply as pretty, beautiful or attractive faces, according to traditional Western standards; she offered models, who, with their utter diversity and wide-ranging skin colors said more than: “I’m Black or a minority person in the ads”– but the inner beauty of these models revealed itself externally, communicating the all-important, most imperrative message that the earth is populated by people of many colors, as within the rainbow. People stood be appreciated as individuals, and when together, they comprised a beautiful floral bouquet.


Miss DeVore’s models learned quite early that external appeal and one's physical attractiveness is a necessary possession to achieve success within the modeling field, but this alone is not enough. The inner beauty should be at least as uniquely lovely as the external... and then and only then, is the individual truly a “Beautiful Person.”


Some of those who benefitted greatly from Miss DeVore’s “success philosophy” would be actress/singer Diahann Carroll, actress Cicely Tyson and actor Richard “Shaft” Roundtree…


Also included among their esteemed alum are: Barbara McNair, WNBC anchorwoman Sue Simmons, news reporters Lynne White and Melba Tolliver, actresses Gail Fisher and Ellen Holly, and beauty authorities Audrey Smaltz and Susan Taylor.
Miss DeVore served as consultant to industry for many years, counseling in all major areas of marketing; new ideas, product testing and development, research, packaging, copy writing, concepts, advertising and distributions relating to the consumers, retailers and the media. She participated in creating new needs and wants, locating and developing new markets, and devising innovative methods of achieving maximum results.





Ophelia DeVore-Mitchell is also the publisher of the 37-year-old thriving Black weekly newspaper, The Columbus Times in Columbus, GA. Her newspaper and printing business are managed on a day-to-day basis by her enterprising daughter, Carol P. Gerdes. These businesses have continually expanded and are completely self-sufficient with all necessary printing and production equipment.


In her lifetime, Ophelia DeVore has received well over 300 awards from various business institutions and civic and community organizations for her valued services and outstanding contributions in creating a better quality of life for all people. Having made her mark, she is still as active today as she was when she created what is known today as the “Black Modeling Business”, with more than 50 years of proven experience as a lecturer, business executive, writer, promoter, and developer. The results of her initial efforts in her chosen field have since become legendary. This woman's continued contribution has been large and storied.

Not one to depend upon sheer luck, or to rest solely on her God-given genetic gifts, Miss DeVore was educated in New York City at Hunter College High School and New York University. While there, she majored in mathematics and minored in languages. Ms. Devore is been indeed, driven, although she never let an industrious career intrude upon her having an equally successful personal life. To that fact, she is the mother of five children, grandmother of nine and the great grandmother of six.




Today, even in her 90s, Ophelia is still very much alive and kicking. She resides in both New York City and Columbus, Georgia when not traveling extensively nationally and internationally.




And so, during this Black History Month, we salute you, Ophelia Devore for helping to forever change the perception of this illusive, most subjective thing we call Beauty.





One.