Two years ago I told my mother I was going to join the United States Army. Her reaction perplexed me. I expected her to be concerned that I would be sent strait to Iraq, and the wonderful Interstate system there. But to my surprise she was full of joy, almost ecstatic about the thought of her boy going to war. To put this strangeness in context, she was a nurse during the Vietnam conflict and witnessed the trauma of war and married a disordered and stressed out veteran. She's also a devout Christian who does unto others as she would have them due onto her and turns the unslapped side of her face to her foes. I'm still a little confused that she didn't mind me stating that I wanted to blast radical Muslim brains out.
The day before I was to sign my life away, I was painting en plein air in Los Angeles' China town. After I finished my painting I went into the most popular food establishment and got some grub. I was shocked to find out these Americans ate deep fried chicken feet. I've eaten tongue, I've eaten foie gras, I've even eaten sea urchin but chicken feet bones is way past my tolerance limit. After I finished my plate of rice and mysterious animal parts, I walked the streets looking for starving artist apparel. I found bright blue camo shirts that were ridiculously inexpensive and thought it would be a good idea to "blend" in at orientation. The merchant had an Arab accent so I asked where he was from. It turns out he was from Iraq. I told him I was about to join the Army to see what his reaction would be. At first he got upset and tried to talk me out of it, but the more he talked to me the more his attitude changed. He began to like me and my civil mindedness. When I left he was wishing me well and said the Army needed more people like me in it. Back at the requiting office I got my ASVAB back with a score of 85. I was to come back the next day to take the piss test and get sworn in.
That evening I had a bizarre experience and wrote this:
I have been in Hollywood, working out, going to the recruiter every other day. Today I hiked Mount Runyon. I was almost to the top and picked up a smooth rock and held it in my hand. The first word in my head was, "Projectile". I debated with myself about the first weapons mankind used, "Was it the rock or the stick?" Then I started wondering if the first person that used a rock to fight with, did they throw it, drop it or use it in their hand. Then I started to wonder why I can't stop wondering about things, especially weapons. I guess it's part of having testosterone.At the summit I was out of wind. I was bummed because I hadn't run across any reptiles, for I love chatting with my friends. There was a small bird perched in some shrubs that went tweet tweet. Being polite I tweeted back. I love talking to my friends. They usually don't understand this English thing so I try my best speaking there language. I aaakkkkk at squirrels, meeeoooww at cats, and whistle at birds. But something very strange happened when I started talking with this bird. It jumped to flight and started flying around my head in 30 yard ellipses. I thought it might be a nest issue but there was no nest or little ones to be seen. This was a tiny bird and had short parrot like wings. It made incredible sharp banks at an alarming speed. I guess around 40 miles an hour. Then it started making maneuvers around my head. I'm not exaggerating. This bird was dive bombing my skull, literally coming a foot from my face at 40 miles an hour. I could hear the swoosh which was strange from anything that small and organic. Why was it doing this?
On my way down I stared out and looked at my favorite building in LA. It's the most unique one I've ever been in. I've spent a great deal of time occupying the net with joe. It contains a school for TV actors, an Internet coffee shop and the US military recruiting office. An odd combo for sure. As I was looking at the building staring at the picture of Donald Trump polishing JR's shoes, I noticed a large sign in front. This is what the sign says, "6 - 6 - 06 The signs are all around you". Fuckin' Weird.
I decided not to join, after staring at the camo covered bible on the recruiters desk and the episode of "Over there" playing in the office showed a soldier getting his legs blown off in a Hum V. The bad cop of the good cop bad cop team told me that I was a Zero and everything I've done up to this point in my life was worthless, that cooking was for pussies, that my family would never have any respect for me and my art sucked. That was all I needed to hear, I don't work for idiots.
Two years later I'm back in New Orleans rejoicing in how wonderful it is to be here instead of Baghdad. I bet when most of the American Nationalists think of New Orleans they picture puke and tits on Bourbon street, trash, gansta rap and .45s, corrupt politics, and "Essence / Bam". I knew a guy who sold Emerald Legacies coke (or pepsi, I can't remember which) and he said he wasn't that bad of a cook. But any one who knows what it means to miss New Orleans knows that this is the richest spot on the continent. We've giving birth to dynamic celebrations, great food, great literature, shitty levees, great artists, great music, and we used to have a great public hospital. The Federation has cursed us with a welfare state situation and the ignorance it breeds. The resources the Nation steals, duty free, off our coast cripples the funding of our public schools; and the wetlands, our natural hurricane protection. But in comparison to the other cities I've sampled in the United States, they haven't an ounce of the soul we have. I've decided to supplement my income by joining the New Orleans Police Department. This is a place in time and space that's worth protecting.
When I told my Pennsylvanian mother that I was joining the NOPD she answered with silence. I even sensed a level of anger. Why in Christendom would my mother prefer her only son to fight as a grunt, in a bogus war, in the middle of a desert, rather than protect an American Gem?
From the contagious compulsion to capture the visually stimulating beauty we're drenched in...
...to a family that makes "Snow Balls" an art form. I love New Orleans.
