Status Update 10/02/07

Fall is upon the asphalt jungle once again. I have come out from my shoe box to observe the changing seasons. One could hardly tell fall is here with temperatures hovering around ninety. Some trees have shed their leaves or become slightly discolored, but hat could be attributed to the weather.

After a summer of flooding rains and record-breaking heat, I welcome the fall. Months of trekking through the canyons of concrete, glass, and steel has made me almost giddy at the first sign of any cool breeze.Right now, it's my day off from my job at Planet K, and this has given me the perfect opportunity to reflect and ponder on things.

After two years here in the jungle, I have had somewhat of an epihpany. You could call it a moment of clarity, something that's rare in the frenetic pace of life in the big city. I realize that I am not so much happy as I am content. My goals after college were to find a job, get out on my own, and eventually find a mate. In the immortal words of Meatloaf, two out of three ain't bad

While these goals were broad, it was the first time I'd really figured out what the hell I wanted in life. I found a job working at what my friend called the Great Green Titanic - er - Gulf Greyhound Park. After almost two years of not having a job, I was willing to take anything, even if it was temporary. Although the job fell through eventually, it gave me that spark that I needed.

If I could run a VTR, a switcher, a sattelite receiver, and an effects generator all at once, I could do damn near anything. When my friend called me a couple of months later with the prospect of a job selling sunglasses in Houston, I seriously looked into it. Once I landed that job, I moved on to goal number two - finding a place to live

Finding a place to live in Houston was the proverbial daunting task. Number one, I had to find something that would fit in my budget. Number two, it had to be centrally located to be close to adequate public transporation. Probably the biggest deciding factor was that it was in an area that didn't flood. Hvaing grown up on the swampy Gulf Coast, I had lost too many of my personal effects to many a flood.

Once I found the ideal place, I quickly settled back into city life. Finding a mate was the farthest thing from my mind. I was too busy trying to juggle bills, rent, and work.Instead, what I found were two very good friends who anchored me. Now that one has moved, and I've grown apart from the other, I feel more centered.

The odd thing is that I'm happy just making friends with people. I realize this more as I get out and see people for who they really are. Maybe when I'm not looking I'll find that person. In the mean time, I'm looking to the long term.

After two years here, I have resolved to finding a better job, getting a bigger place, and - yes - as much as it pains me to say this - a car. Having a car will only make it easier for me to get the better job. So for now I'll sitting here waiting for fall to arrive while I soak up some sun.

Survival of the Fattest

Spring time is upon the jungle once again. The weather has gone from one extreme to the other in the past month. With the right skills and equipment, a person can survive in the asphalt jungle. Yes, I said survival skills.

Shopping is no longer for fun and games in the asphalt jungle. It is now a survival skill, and in my case, survival of the fattest. Hunting down bargains becomes crucial when trying to pay the bills. No longer am I that little kid screaming mommy I want. Instead, I’m that person you see in the aisle reading the price tag trying to figure out the best bargain. Hunting down bargains is not as easy as it sounds.

The grocery store I grew up going to was great for bargains early on, but prices eventually climbed so high I’ve chosen not to shop there anymore. Instead, I comb through the mark-down bins, and browse dollar stores. Not all dollar stores are like those that I used to see with cramped aisles of baskets full of junk imported from China. Many stock cleaning supplies, canned goods, and in some cases, refrigerated items. Bargains abound, but beware because some items may not be packaged in the United States, and not all stores stay on top of their cold stuffs. Also, some products may be cheaper at another store.

Cooking used to be something I did when my parents didn’t want to go out to eat, or simply didn’t feel like making something to eat. Today that skill is the one thing that keeps me from going out for fast food every night. Cooking skills do not come easily. It can take months, sometimes years to develop them. For the novice, I recommend starting out with something as easy as boiling water, and working up from there.

Boiling water can be useful for cooking Ramen, among other things. I’ve advanced far beyond this, but I know I still have more to learn. Really, the equipment necessary for cooking is basic. All anyone really needs is a 9-inch frying pan, a sauce pan, and a telephone. It’s also probably a wise idea to have a fire extinguisher and the phone number of the closest pizza place on hand in case cooking just doesn’t work out.

For me, learning how to use the bus system in Houston has become key to my survival. If it were not for my vast knowledge of the alphabet soup of bus route numbers, I would probably never leave my house. This has been helpful in hunting down many of the bargains I’ve come across. Using the bus system has become more and more of a science, and I’ve found there are some helpful tools for trekking across the jungle.

First of all, a backpack is not just for carrying books and supplies to class. It becomes a very important survival tool. In order to survive a day of urban trekking, there’s several things that you need to fill this backpack with. Because of the subtropical climate of the asphalt jungle, an umbrella and a poncho or light jacket are good to have handy. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been caught in downpours, and I’ve been glad to have an umbrella to reach for.

I sometimes carry snack foods, water, and sports drinks with me. While eating and drinking are not allowed on city buses, there aren’t any rules against doing so at the bus stop. Sports drinks may be sugary, but they come in handy on long hot days out in the jungle. A good water bottle with an air-tight lid is really handy because it can be refilled at any water fountain, and it cuts down on the cost of buying bottled water.

Recently, I started putting shopping bags in my backpack so I can carry my purchases home. There’s times I’ve come across things in the stores that I wish I could carry home with me, but had no way of doing so. This is where having a cell phone comes in handy. It can be used to call and find out bus routes and schedules when on the go. The phone can also be used to call a cab or close friend who can tote you home in case you find something really good. Luckily I haven’t had to resort to this yet.

Comfortable shoes are also necessary for survival. In the past, I always touted Dr Martens because they were comfortable, and good for long-distance jungle trekking. They’re also hot as hell after a few miles in the heat. I’ve discovered that Converse All Stars are good during the hot summer months because they are cool, lightweight, and comfortable. Any shoe will work, but I’ve found these two brands hold up exceptionally well in all conditions. An added bonus is that they generally tend not to lose their shape with wear, unlike most shoes.

It is my hope that in sharing this information with you, you too can survive in the asphalt jungle. In the years so that I’ve been on my own, I’ve found these skills come in handy time and again. I’ve saved myself a lot of money by applying what I’ve learned from living here in the asphalt jungle. Hopefully, now you can too.

Untitled

I

Little boy blond,
Where did I go wrong?
Was it when I tried to out you?
because I knew all about you?
Was it when
I tried to be your friend?

Little boy blond
Now you’re gone
- out of my life
And my only mistake –
Was I didn’t know you better.

II
Boy in the big blue Jeep,
you promised me
You’d sweep me off my feet
You promised:
Walks on the beach,
Candle light dinners,
and evenings at the movies.

But it never happened
you never showed
And I wondered –
Was that really your picture
or was it just you afraid to show yourself?

Like a fool,
I fell for your lies.
I waited and watched,
but you never showed
I hoped
that we could make some magic
but it never happened
Instead,
I resolved to give you up
and move on.

III
Now I’m caught
in the spider’s web
He has weaved me
into his web
And choked me
into submission

I loved him,
but now we have made peace
We live in symbiotic harmony
I have left him alone,
and he has left me alone

IV
Some day,
He will come
When I least expect him
Still, I look for him
Because I know he is out there

He Waits

He Waits

Two chairs
rest idly on the shore of the bay
One sits empty,
while in the other, he waits

The sun shines brightly
and it reminds him
of her radiant smile
He feels the heat
and it reminds him
of her temper
He looks at her empty chair
- and he waits

She will be back,
she tells him
She’s gone inside.
Maybe for her smokes
- and he waits

He drifts off to sleep
The summer breeze reminds him
of her warm breath on his neck
She comes to him in his dream
I will see you again some day,
she promises
He awakes to her empty chair
- and he waits

The stars are out when he awakes.
- and he smiles
She is up there somewhere
smiling down on him
She is the brightest star
in the sky that night
He knows
she is smiling down on him
He looks again
Her chair is still empty
- and he waits.

Endangered Habitat

Another summer has almost passed here in the asphalt jungle. Much has happened since my last post. I have been mired in work, among other things. Once again, my company has transferred me to another store. I am no longer in a mall kiosk but an actual store with doors and windows. After two months, I am still adjusting. I almost miss the annoying assholes asking me where everything is, if they’re not asking me for a discount. Well, there is much to tell.

I have observed and experienced much. For starters, I have seen the dark underbelly of Rice Village, an outdoor upscale shopping area in Houston’s Inner Loop. Last month, I was awakened out of a dead sleep by a ringing phone. It was my boss asking me to explain to her if I had locked the door. That was the last question I wanted to answer at 6am. So, I trudged down to the store only to find Houston’s Finest awaiting my arrival.

No, I had not left the door unlocked. Instead, a band of marauding thieves used landscaping boulders to break into my store and stole us blind. I was a bit surprised to say the least, but then again, this is somehow expected to happen in an upscale area. Less than a month later, once again, there was another robbery, but at a boutique two doors down. A sales girl was beaten and kicked to the ground for confronting a shoplifter about a stolen shirt. Once again, I felt my habitat was threatened, and it made me wonder if this was really the best environment for me to work in.

I longed for the safety of a shopping mall, where security guards roamed endlessly. My plan is to stick it out until something better comes along, and hopefully, that will be sooner rather than later. Even my home habitat is being threatened. My grandmother recently informed me that the City of Texas City proposed a zoning ordinance in my old neighborhood. No longer would refinery workers be allowed to settle close to their jobs. Instead, the city plans to rezone the neighborhood from residential to light industrial.

Imminent domain giveth and taketh away. My parents can live in their house as long as they want, but if they decide to move, the house cannot be sold as residential. Instead, it would have to be sold as industrial. What’s really screwed up about the whole deal is that only those who are for the proposal are allowed to comment publicly. However, if my family has objections to the proposal, they have to express their views in a letter. I’m sorry, but if that was me, I’d be the most outspoken one at the meeting.

I ask this question. Where are my parents, grandmother, and dozens of my neighbors supposed to live if the city decides they want their houses for light industrial? It isn’t as if they can just pull up stakes and move elsewhere. The cost of living has gone up since my family settled there more than 30 years ago. What’s worse is fair market value is a ridiculous low-ball offer.

It’s too bad fair market value doesn’t include sentimental value. There’s a lot of that tied up in both my grandma’s house and my parents’ house. I learned to bake in my grandma’s kitchen. My parents’ house was the starting point for many of my sisters’ dates. There was the perfunctory screening process followed by curfew setting before my sisters went on their dates. I remember spending my 13^th birthday swimming in my parents’ front yard after Hurricane Chantal blew threw the area.

Even the neighborhood has its own memories. I remember walks with my grandfather in search of cans and scrap to sell for cash. Somewhere around the corner is where I first kissed a girl whom I had a crush on in high school. Down the road is the church where I learned Bible stories, Up the street is the school where my sisters attended middle school. No value can be placed on the emotional investment in a home, in a neighborhood.

As much as I say I hated growing up in Texas City, there’s always good memories that outweigh the bad ones. The zoning ordinance was something that I should have seen coming, but never expected. I hope that the city does the right thing and takes into consideration that they are breaking up a large family of friends and neighbors. People who grew up together, who have shared so many memories together.

The Texas City Disaster – what really happened

The Texas City disaster occurred at 9:12 am April 16, 1947 when the SS Grandcamp, loaded down with munitions, sisal twine, jute, and ammonium nitrate exploded after a fire on board went out of control. In spite of firefighters' efforts to douse the fire, and the crew's attempts to contain the fire in the hold using steam and tarps, the ship exploded. In the blink of an eye, nearly the entire volunteer fire department, Grandcamp crew, bystanders, local residents, and employees at near by refineries were either killed or critically injured.

Businesses, residences, and schools were destroyed by the initial impact. In the wake of the explosion, a barge filled with hydrochloric acid washed on shore with a tidal wave of oily salt water. What was the shaft of the ship went skipping across the rail yard, ripping up rails as it went along. Its anchor was imbedded two feet into the ground almost a half mile away. There was panic in the streets as a wave of fear washed over the city that the enemy had attacked.

Bodies covered in sludge were loaded onto flatbed trucks and carried to John Sealy hospital in Galveston. Black or white, it did not matter. They would be sorted when their bodies were washed. A local garage was set up as a makeshift morgue where bodies were embalmed. The nearby Texas City High School gymnasium was used to store the bodies so that family members could be identified. There is the story of a woman who playfully colored her husband's toenails the night before identified his body by the color of his toes. The death toll grew so quickly that the backs of traffic tickets had to be used as toe tags.

As calm was slowly restored the city, there was fear of another explosion. The SS Highflyer and SS Wilson B Keane were on fire in the port as a result of flaming debris and their anchors were tangled with each other. The Highflyer cargo included ammonium nitrate, and the Keane was loaded down with flour and lumber. Attempts to untangle the two failed and both were towed out to sea. Around 1:17am, they were being towed, the Highflyer exploded. Businesses whose had been replaced after the initial blast shattered once again. For nearly two days, tank farms and refineries continued to burn.

On the morning of April 19, 1947, a community-wide memorial service was held for the dead. The remains of 63 unidentified victims were buried in a cemetery on the edge of the city. A marble angel stands guard over them today and each of the remains is marked with a small pink granite stone and a number engraved on each one. The final death toll is unknown, but estimates are that at least 576 people died, nearly 3000 were injured, and the cost of damage to residences and businesses was in the millions of dollars.

A sketch of a sailor’s tattoo was posted in the New York Times months later, and a reader was able to identify the person that way. Windows in Galveston shattered, buildings in Bay Town swayed, and in Denver, Colorado, the blast registered on a seismograph. People as far away as El Campo heard the blast as well.

Nearly ten years after the explosion, Elizabeth Dalehite's suit against the government was settled for more than a half million dollars. It took an act of Congress to get another half million or so for the rest of the victims' families.

Today, Texas City is a town of more than 40,000 people with oil refining as its top business. On Loop 197 stands the propellor of the SS Highflyer and a plaque commemorating the disaster. At the entrance to the Texas City Dike sits the anchor of the SS Grandcamp and a historical marker. On Loop 197 and 25th Street is the memorial park erected nearly fifty years after the disaster. For years it was just a simple reflecting pool with a marble angel standing over it. Today, it is surrounded by a circular walking path, pavilions, and memorials to the other victims of the blast.

On a personal note, this disaster touched the lives of many of my family members. My grandmother's brother worked in a doughnut shop. At the time of the blast, he was about to drop doughnuts into the fryer when his boss stopped him. The explosion rocked the shop, sending glass into the fryers and scalding him. It was said that nearly a cup of glass was removed from his back.

My great grandmother's sister had just finished having her house set back on its piers after the 1943 hurricane. In the blast, the house was once again knocked off its piers. Her daughter was a student at Texas City High School and was able to tell the authorities who was dead and who was still alive.

My grandfather was driving a truck at Union Carbide that was toppled by the blast. In Galveston, my where my grandmother lived, she said that ambulances had to tear up the esplanade to get to the hospital. Her sister hopped on a flatbed truck and went to man the switchboards, where operators were on strike at the time.

As a result of the disaster, mutual aid was implemented. Now, if there is a fire at any of the refineries, each of their fire departments will respond. It was first used May 30, 1978 during a fire at Texas City Refining. My parents to this day still talk about this accident. Their recollection of that fire is as clear as the recollection of many Texas City Disaster survivors. My family still talks about the mushroom cloud, the explosion, how the it rained debris from the fire, that barrels of oil were sent shooting into the air like rockets. I did my research and there were seven fatalities. The explosion was a result of two 55,000 gallon tanks that exploded as the result of a flash fire in a storage unit.

040806

Here of late there’s been talk of what the US should do with the influx of illegal immigrants. Yes, Congress came to an agreement on who stays and who goes. However, it’s like putting a Band Aid on a gaping wound. Will we ever fix the immigration problem? Probably not any time soon, but think of it this way. The immigration in this country stretches back for hundreds of years.

Why the first documented illegal immigrants to North America starting in the 1500s with the discovery of Mexico. Just think that if the Aztecs had immigration laws, they could have told the Spanish they weren’t welcome there. Of course, this might have done them any good as the Conquistadores were prepared to take the New World by force if necessary.

However, if the Spanish had been turned away, there wouldn’t be any Mexicans to work low-paying, low-skilled jobs. There would be no one to clean your house, cook your dinner, or cut your grass. Hell, I wouldn’t be sitting here late at night typing this blog if that were the case. My ancestors were colonists who were here before the US pushed the border to the Rio Grande. So if any of you bastards wanna tell me to go back to Mexico, I’ll tell you to go back to Europe.

About a hundred years after the Spanish landed, a group of Puritans skipped the island of England and sought out religious freedom. They landed on the east coast of the United States and gave us the foundation for this country. However, if the Native Americans had stopped them and told them to go back, there’s no telling what punishment the Puritans would have faced had they been forced back to England.

So, if it were not for the first wave of illegal immigrants, none of us would be here. And for the continuing wave of immigrants who enter the country illegally every day, this country could not sustain itself. Cheap foreign labor helps keep the cost of living low. If Americans could do the work many illegals are doing for what they’re getting paid, then things might be different.

The biggest issue with immigration is not the immigrants, but the people who need them. In order to keep a low overhead, produce growers and home builders rely on inexpensive foreign workers as a source of their labor. On the flip side, if Americans did the same job, they would naturally be expected to get paid higher wages plus benefits. If this were to happen, home builders and produce growers would be in the same predicament that the nation’s auto makers are in today.

What’s more, many business owners who contribute to candidate campaigns expect to get something in return. For many years, laws on the books clearly state that if an undocumented worker is caught working illegally in the United States, they can be deported, and the business owner would face some legal troubles of their own. The thing is, many politicians have turned a blind eye to the law so that their contributors, not their constituents, are placated.

The nation’s forefathers had the foresight to see a little bit into the future, and set down the foundation for our laws today. The one thing they didn’t take into consideration is the influx of immigrants. Yes, I understand that Achmed or Mohammed could sneak across the border undetected, but they may have already done so, and we never noticed. And the reason for that is because the people at the top fell asleep on the job.

Now, we’re faced with a dilemma. Send everyone back who’s here illegally, or let them stay. Unfortunately, Congress has allowed those who’ve been here longer to stay, and it’s unfair to those who’re here legally. While I don’t think we should necessarily ship them back across the border, the problem should have been addressed sooner. The only reason anyone noticed the immigration problem is because a group of zealous Muslims mercilessly attacked us on our home terrain.

Think of it this way. What if the US were a third-world country with little or no economy? What would we do? Most likely, we’d do just like our ancestors and seek out a better life in some far off country. The United States would be the land of opportunity that it is today if it had not been for illegal immigrants. Eastern Texas would have never been settled if it hadn’t been for white settlers sneaking across the border to escape their problems in the US.

So, the next time you vent your frustrations about immigration, think of this. You would not be here if someone back in your family tree had not immigrated somewhere illegally.

Elegy

Below is my tribue to the tragedy of the BP refinery disaster on MArch 23, 2005. I was hesitant to post this, but I felt that this would round out my musings and rantings about the incident.

15 Souls

I

What is the sound
of 15 souls being taken?
Is it the sonic boom?
- God’s voice calling them home.
Is it the ensuing rush of air?
- Their collective breaths
leaving their bodies at once
Or maybe that white plume
atop the mushroom cloud
is 15 souls being lifted to Heaven?

II

Safety was a 4-letter word
in a 5 star company.
Profits, losses, and earnings
spoke louder,
so they meant more
but safety spoke volumes
in violations, fines, and accidents
It would take
15 more souls
to make a point.

III

My sense of place,
My sense of home
was shattered
on a mild March afternoon
But nothing compared
to those lives shattered
and splintered by tragedy.

IV

I can never go home again.
The memories are too painful
Those images
are forever burned into my mind
Of watching another fire burn,
Of waiting to know –
what went wrong
Of wondering. . .
. . . will this vicious cycle ever end?

V
What is the sound
of 15 souls being taken?
Is it the sound helicopters
airlifting broken bodies?
Or is it the anguished cries
of loved ones
waiting for good or bad news?
Or is it the cry of a child
who senses the separation
from someone they love?

End of An Era

It is nearly spring in the asphalt jungle, and there’s much to tell. I have been transferred to a new shopping mall, and I have been kept busy by sick co-workers and a busy holiday season. Many things have happened since my last observation. I watched as bus loads upon bus loads of weary storm victims rolled into Houston until the city could take no more. Then, almost a month later, I watched on TV as panicked locals packed up everything but the kitchen sink and rolled north to avoid yet another monster storm. What ensued was mass confusion and gridlock that would rival that of La at rush hour.

I have observed bus drivers go from calm and collected to enraged drivers the instant someone gets in the way. I have ridden train cars where people were packed in like cattle just to get a glimpse of the Thanksgiving day parade downtown. There have been days where I’ve watched bus drivers nearly run over other motorists in an attempt to make their scheduled stops on time. Ah yes, another typical day in the asphalt jungle. The only thing more interesting than the bus ride is the wait. Just the other morning, I had a homeless man throw cold coffee in my face because I asked him to stop pestering motorists. Next time I’ll just let him get run over or arrested.

Some days even the walk to and the stop can have its own highlights. Apparently motorists in Houston think I can read minds and guess which way they’re going to turn. They don’t know that I was out sick the day we covered mind reading in my Jedi training class. On these walks, I’ve noticed the constantly changing weather. Before long, the spring rainy season will be here.

The cold snaps have become more infrequent as they give way to longer and longer heat waves. Winds that blew mainly from the north these last few months have increasingly shifted to the south, signaling that spring is surely on its way. My dad informed me that the mesquites in south Texas already have their blooms, so it will only be a matter of time before spring reaches Houston. These winds scatter leaves and kick up dust, but they also bring with them change.

Houston’s era of self-made men and built fron the ground up companies is fast fading. This is most evident at the Astrodomain complex. The Astrodome, once the Eighth Wonder of the World, is now dwarfed by the much larger Reliant Stadium. The old dome was the vision of Harris County Judge Roy Hoffeinz,. Across from his domed stadium, he opened the Astroworld amusement park.

I remember summers when my cousins from England came to visit, that was at top of their to do list. They were the ones who dragged me onto the roller coasters, usually against my will. I remember the anxiety of waiting to get on the roller coaster followed by the sheer exhilaration and terror of the ride. In recent years, the Texas Medical Center has marched south, propelled by development around the installation of the Harris County Metropolitan Authority’s light rail line.

This has become a symbol of the new Houston as it rises up from the ashes of the economic downturn in the 1980s. In 1984, the real estate industry went bust, and interest rates skyrocketed. Many people abandoned their houses in droves, leading to the decline of many thriving neighborhoods. That was followed by the deregulation of the energy industry in 1986, leading to a bust that left many out of work. Employees were laid off in record numbers.

Now, Houston’s economy is thriving again. Giant metal cranes have nested in the Texas Medical Center as they erect new facilities for the Baylor and UT medical schools. All the development drove up the property value of the Astroworld property to the point that the land it sat on was sold to developers. Recently, I rode the light rail to see what was left, and there was nothing. All the rides had been auctioned off, and the land had been cleared except for a few structures. Soon, the cranes will come and erect a new structure in its place.

Elsewhere the change is more prevalent. Almost daily, old buildings are razed to make way for new developments. Last week, the Page Parks building on Kirby near Westheimer was imploded. In its place will developers have planned a 30-story condominium tower. Further up the road on Kirby near San Felipe stands the high rise where self-made millionaire Kenneth Lay resides. He purchased the pipeline company InterNorth in 1985 and merged it with his own to make Enron.

The company enjoyed a boom in its heyday, but was rocked by scandal in October 2001 when the Securities and Exchange Commission began a probe into Enron’s earnings. What followed as an FBI investigation that led to the collapse of the company two months later. Now, Lay and his successor, Jeff Skilling, stand accused of fraud among a litany of other charges. Each day, witnesses have recounted their heady days with the company, and pointed the finger of blame at the pair.

Enron is an example of leadership that was too effective. The men at the top duped everyone into believing the company was doing well when in fact it wasn’t. One witness likened it to being brainwashed. Communication theorists would call it groupthink. Enron is now just another relic of the old Houston.

In the new Houston, Gilley’s nightclub, immortalized in the movie Urban Cowboy, has been purchased by the Pasadena Independent School District. They plan to one day build a middle school on the site. Many former patrons came and watched as the site was cleared. Fire gutted much of the building years before, and it was only a matter of time before it came down.

In the new Houston, oil giants have merged to make themselves more compettive. Chevron, formerly Gulf Oil merged with the Texaco. Exon, which had its start in Houston as Humble Oil, merged with Mobil. Even Southwestern Bell, one of the baby bells, swallowed up AT&T. Compaq, Houston’s home-grown computer company, is now part of Hewlett Packard, or HP as its commonly known.

Even Foley’s, Houston’s last of the hometown retailers, has been bought out by Macy’s, and will soon bear the retail giant’s name. What started as Foley Brothers Dry Goods on Buffalo Bayou in 1905 grew into Foley’s department store, which now sits on Main between Lamar and Dallas across from what was once Sakowitz, another Houston institution that shuttered in the late 1980s. The Battlestein’s building down the block at Main near Walker is now lofts, and Joske’s was bought out by Dillard’s. While it’s sad to see it go, it’s just another sign of the new Houston.

Houston’s image as a wide open boomtown is slowly fading away. After hosting the Major League Baseball All-Star game, The Super Bowl. The baseball playoffs, the World Series, and the NBA All-Star game, Houston is gaining status as a more world class city. While there may never be an Olympics held here, Houston has proven to the world it can be a gracious host.

My Soul Laid Bare

La Poema de mi Vida

I

My first memory

is watching the refinery burn.

Amoco had blown up

And it wouldn’t be the first time

nor would it be the last.

There were many fires I watched

with the fear of a scared child

or like a wide-eyed pyromaniac.

Between the fires came the floods.

Lurking like a leviathan,

lapping at our livelihood.

Water in the house;

eroding away my sanity.

How I hate the water sometimes.

Water through the roof;

I don’t think

I’ll get over my first hurricane.

Big brother came to stay.

He broke my toys,

then he broke my spirit

before he had to go away.

Mom tried to blow on the wound,

to make it all better,

But it only hurt more.

I would carve my own niche.

Home sick from school,

I would write the words

that would take me away from it all.

High seas adventure

on a stormy sea,

I maneuver it well

in spite of hitting the rocks.

Then puberty hits me blind side.

Every girl looks good,

But they don’t see me.

I am invisible to them.

When I landed one,

it was all a sham.

Girls being cruel to me

for no reason at all.

Another niche was carved for me

when I met the clean side of the blues,

raising my junior high voice in praise.

Grandpa went to ride the chariot,

but I had Mahalia’s beautiful music

to sooth my shattered soul.

Then came high school

and a roller coaster of emotions.

I had a notion it would be tough,

but nothing prepared me

for the road ahead

no matter how ready I was.

II

I am a survivor,

But not the disco anthem kind.

I have survived things

That would turn your head inside out.

And I don’t mean floods, fires, or abuse

at the hands of someone I trusted.

I am talkin’ about gang wars, discrimination,

And the deaths of friends and enemies

who left this life too young.

Shit no high schooler should have to live through.

I heard the stories about

how they gunned down boys in cold blood.

‘Cause they looked like someone else.

‘Cause they picked the wrong fight to break up.

‘Cause they couldn’t choose the right side.

Bloods and Crips.

Stupid shit

this killin’ people over colors.

Yeah, that was years ago,

But it stays with you,

grows inside you like a cancer.

After I lost them,

I lost my cool.

Dumbasses tellin’ me,

‘Why you the only white boy in the choir?’

And I say, ‘I’m Hispanic’

And they say, ‘I’m 1/16 Native American.

And I think to myself Yeah right.

I would have run with the Hispanics,

But they’re too clannish,

And I’m too far removed

from their second-generation culture.

So don’t ask me again why we’re not friends.

I’m happy with my choir sisters and brothers.

They take me as I am, warts and all.

After I lost my cool,

I lost my friends.

Acquaintances and bullies alike,

their deaths a shock to me.

Then,

I experienced the death of many friendships;

the revolving door spun too fast and out of control.

How I wished it had rusted shut

before it was too late.

Of course, I’m never alone

when I think about it.

After I lost my friends,

I found myself

a stronger person

because of my trials,

But I live with the pain of yesterday

aleved with doses of therapeutic poetry

Because I’ve already swallowed enough bitter pills.

III

I wanna howl like Ginsberg.

I wanna go tell it on the mountain

and everywhere my story.

I said there wasn’t enough paper

to write down all the shit I’ve been through,

But stories were meant to be told.

When I started this gig,

I was young and scared

Having shit shoved down my throat

and people ridin’ my ass.

Until I grew brave and bold;

Lashing out against

what I couldn’t in high school.

Fighting urges I didn’t understand

being a naïve young man.

All through college I fight WASPS

with a sting as powerful as theirs.

I learned as I was unlearning,

that old things have to be done in new ways.

That the wheels of progress

can’t turn without the grease of change.

As I go along,

I re-invent myself to keep from getting old and rusty.

Then, there are those routines I can’t shake

Because I think I’m getting something

when it’s just a lot of empty feelings.

I am tired of having lost as much as I have loved.

I am fed up with back room bitches

who won’t give a hundred percent.

I am sick of bathroom ads that go nowhere.

I put this all behind me,

But the songs take me back

like little harpies that chase me everywhere.

They torture me with songs

that bring back suppressed memories.

Of relationships as sour

as a fruit that’s been picked before its time.

Now I’m at academia’s doorstep

ready to be unlearned again

for a turn at something different.

A chance to escape

the prison of small-town life.

No unwanted pregnancies for me.

No poor-paying military service.

Not prison time,

for stupid shit I know is wrong.

No funerals attended

by friends I don’t’ remember.

I’m not quittin’

until I rise above that which has held me down.

A clear crisp day in March is forever burned into my memory, and the collective memory of many in Texas City. Everyone will remember what they were doing and where they were when they heard, felt, or saw the explosion. I will always remember standing in my kitchen, clinging to my ailing grandmother as the pressure wave slammed into my parents’ house. Little did I know it at the time that very sound was the sound of 15 souls being taken. No amount of money will bring back those people who were lost, nor will it ease the pain of such a tremendous loss.
Last month, as Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans, the Occupational Safety and Health Administration handed down its judgment to BP. They would have to pay $21.36 million in fines in addition to willful health and safety violations. A majority of the fine is related to egregious willful violations. That is, those things that were preventable, but were never remedied to begin with. The question remains now, can BP change?
The short answer is yes, but how? BP took its first steps toward saving face by moving all non-essential contract employees into a centralized location. No longer will contract workers have to labor in trailers where they are susceptible to the dangers of a pressure wave. Instead, they will now work in a building once occupied by K-Mart. BP has also taken other measures.
In May, shortly after the blast, BP’s Texas City refinery changed managers. Colin Maclean was brought in to turn the facility around in order to make it safer. Maclean was the man behind the turn around at BP’s troubled Grangemouth complex. While his plans look good on paper, it’s hard to say how well they’ll be implemented at the Texas City facility. It’s hard to implement change after things have been done the same way for so long.
The US Chemical Safety Board, the principal investigator, recommended that BP appoint a panel to review its safety procedures in August. The company has responded by appointing the panel. BP hired former secretary of state James Baker to head the panel. Joining him on the panel will be members of both the private and public sector. Hopefully, this help from the outside can solve some of the problems within BP.
The CSB is due to release its initial findings October 27^th. I can only imagine what will be in this report, but the board will not be as lenient as OSHA has been in the past. The full extent of just what went wrong may not be known for a while, but at least they have made progress. The investigation could lead to possible criminal charges against those at BP. Maybe then those who lost loved ones will feel justice really has been served.
As for me, my sense of security has been forever shattered. Never can I go back home again without thinking about that fateful day. Each time I look at the skyline of my hometown, I will always ask myself, when will it happen again? I feel that while BP has taken small steps toward improvement, they have tarnished their image. People will never be able to trust BP again as they have demonstrated once again that the only thing that matters to them is their bottom line. Worker safety has always taken a back seat to company profits, but this tragedy may change that. Only time will tell for sure if it does.

The Plague

A plague has spread across the Asphalt Jungle. Nearly everyone I have run into has this disease. Even I’ve gotten it, but I’ve had it longer, and it isn’t easy to get rid of. Yes, once again baseball fever has spread across the Asphalt Jungle. Houston’s beloved Astros baseball team is in the post-season fray once again. Every year, die-hard Astros fans say, maybe next year. They’ve said it over and over again, but never have they made it.

The beginning of the Astros’ season was less than spectacular No one thought they’d make it this year. Last year’s run ended against St. Louis in a game 7 heartbreaker. This year looked like it would end in yet another disappointment with the Astros’ early exit However, they proved skeptics wrong once again.

Most baseball fans say the season really doesn’t start until after the all star break. See, most teams get comfortable in their first place standings and get lazy after the break. They figure they’ve got it made sitting atop their division. Major League Baseball has made the game more interesting in recent years with the wild card spot. This is for the also-rans. The teams that were good enough to stay in the running throughout the season. For the last two years, the Astros were the wild card winner.

Wild card teams in recent history have made their way as far as the World Series, and have even won. Many hoped that the Astros would be one of those teams last year, but alas, those hopes were dashed. Once again, die-hard fans, myself included, said maybe next year. I watched the scores, caught a game when I could. Even I had my doubts at first, but then things turned around.

The Astros started playing like their old selves again. They even threatened to get within spitting distance of their Central Division rivals the St. Louis Cardinals. The real season began and the Astros looked like they might make it. Then, they goofed and lost crucial games, putting them out of the running for the division title. So began the run for the Wild Card spot.

There were a few bumps along the road, including a near sweep by the Cubs at the end of the season. Once again, the baseball gods smiled upon Houston and they had their ticket punched for another shot at the title. Despite numerous personal setbacks among the team, including the loss of Roger Clemens’ mother, the Astros persevered.

As always, the road to the World Series went through Atlanta. In years past, the Braves sent Houston packing. Year after year, they were eliminated by Atlanta. Last year, Houston saw some chinks in the armor and took advantage of Atlanta. This year was no different, and it was on to St. Louis for a rematch of last year’s championship series. The Astros looked like they would falter once again after another heartbreaking loss in game four.

Then, in game five, they bounced back as if nothing had happened. All the mistakes of the past had been erased in one fell swoop. Those who’d called the Astros a team of destiny my have been right for once. Houston once again made sports history. One of the teams to go the longest without a World Series appearance at 44 years, not to mention the 18-inning nail biter against Atlanta that catapulted them into the NLCS.

So the Astros are once again in a familiar place. Down three games in the best of seven in the World Series. Everyone in Houston “bee-lieves” the Astros can do it; a reference to the Astros’ lineup of what’s become known as the Killer B’s. I “bee-lieve” they will make it, and I’m behind my team all the way win or lose. Hopefully I won’t find myself saying maybe next year at the end of this series.

Return to the Asphalt Jungle

I have returned once again to the Asphalt Jungle. This time, I have come to stay though. It was a blind leap of faith, but I don’t regret it one bit. I have settled into the Montrose, Houston’s gay enclave. An interesting battle is setting up here, and I am looking forward to see how it shapes up. The young upward professional species of the breeder class has increasingly migrated into Houston’s Inner Loop. Once a group that had settled mostly in suburbia, or the furthest reaches of the Houston Metropolitan area, the young upward professional wishes to be closer to the center of everything.

However, this desire to be close to everything comes with its drawbacks. The Montrose had long been a haven for among others, artists, runaway teens, hustlers, prostitutes, drug dealers, and the homeless. The young upward professional, empty nester, and other species of the breeder class have continued their march into the Inner Loop. Increasingly, their tolerance for those who were here before them has grown thin.

As nearby Midtown and Downtown erupt with development, the young upward professionals there have relegated the homeless and other so-called undesirables westward into the Montrose an area that stands as a dam to all that other neighborhoods do not want. To the north is the Heights, to the west is River Oaks/Uptown, and to the south sits the Museum District. Many of these areas do not wish to deal with the problems they have corralled into the Montrose.

City leaders have met with many of the young upward professionals and the so-called NIMBYs, or Not in My Back Yard crowd. I believe that once the NIMBYs and the young upward professionals come to accept that those who were here before them are not budging, maybe peace will come to Montrose. Until such time, these battles could get worse, and threaten to get nasty. Transvestite and transsexual prostitutes are not necessarily welcome in other areas of Houston.

Hustlers are Montrose’s stock in trade. Male prostitutes are rare in many areas of Houston, and this has become their stomping ground. While drugs have always been a problem, I do see the need to clean up the streets of Montrose. However, this may take some time, as it is hard to figure out what kind of refuge there is for the element that Montrose is so notorious for. Moving them to the Sharpstown area of Houston will only make a bad situation worse.

For the better part of 20 years, Sharpstown, once a white middle class neighborhood, has been in steady decline. Property managers promise no deposit or free rent to entice indigent and sometimes gullible apartment seekers to sign leases with their companies. What it has done is breed the kind of crime and social problems Montrose was once known for.

The solution is not in shifting the bad element to yet another neighborhood, but to confront it where it is. Could prostitutes, drug dealers, and runaway teens be reformed to become respectable members of society? The possibility is there, but human nature is hard to gauge. There are many who, once they have been reformed, feel the urge to return to their former lives, and many times do. However, there are the hand full that can be reformed who bring true hope to Montrose and Sharpstown’s problems.

If the young upward professionals and the NIMBYs were to put their heads together, Montrose’s problems are solved. However, rather than come up with a solution, they have put the responsibility solely on city leaders. While there are those that will gladly take up the fight, city leaders can only do so much. The solution lies within the community to combat the bad element, but it is hard for a community to come together when it is so sharply divided.

The bad element, the homosexuals, the young upward professional breeders, and the NIMBYs first need to set aside their differences. This is easier said than done unfortunately. I believe the solution lies in letting go of the fear of the unknown. If the NIMBYs and the breeders went to sit down with the homosexuals at their hangouts, this would be a step in the right direction. Opening up a dialogue among the two factions would be a start in the right direction for sure.

In the mean time, it is easy to see where the battle lines have been drawn so far. The NIMBYs and the breeders would prefer to settle into an area and make it their own. I feel that the Montrose should stay as it is now minus a few of the drug dealers and some of the other bad element.

If the area were to change, older married gentlemen would not be able to find prostitutes to keep them company. Runaway teens might end up getting even more lost in the shuffle. Homosexuals would have to find other places to set up their clubs and bars. Without this eclectic mix of people, Montrose would be as bland as the rest of Houston, and I don’t wish to see that happen.

March 31, 2004 Welcome Home

I have returned to my native habitat upon quitting my job. Texas City is a far cry from Houston. No public transportation system, no fancy shopping malls, no nightlife. Nothing. Being back home again, I have a few adjustments to make. One is getting to know the alarm schedule at the nearby refineries. Mondays at noon is the British Petroleum alarm test, Tuesday morning is Dow Chemical, and then Wednesday are the civil defense alarms. There are also certain noises to get used to again.
Ambulance sirens, traffic noises, and storms are mundane city sounds. Here in Texas City, it’s a different animal. Living a little more than a half mile from the refineries, there’s the sound of steam being released that’s so loud, it’s sometimes almost impossible to hear the television. The one that always keeps me on my toes is the rumbling noises. Sometimes, it’s enough to rattle doors and windows, but other times, it’s enough to feel like the house is going to fall in on itself. I usually get some kind of welcome home when I return, and not necessarily from my family.
Most of the times that I have come home, it has flooded. Mother Nature’s little way of saying, this is why you left home in the first place .The first time, it was Tropical Storm Allison. We only got two or three inches compared to the two or three feet some people received. Another time it was a mezzo low that formed over us, and then around Christmas last year, it was a drenching wet cold front. There are other times I’ve come home and there’s been a mishap at one of the refineries.
Most of the time it’s a power outage, causing black smoke to belch forth from the flare stacks. One evening back in March, I was at my computer getting ready to start some revising and editing. To kill some time, I had decided to play solitaire in hopes of loosening up the ol’ gray matter. As I sat there, the British Petroleum refinery began rumbling louder and louder until there was a dull thud like something crashing into the house.
I thought at first it might be the neighbors running their lawn mower into our house, but impossible. There’s no way a little bitty push mower could make that much noise. My mother asked me what that sound was, and my stomach lurched, making me feel queasy all over. I had known exactly what that was. Some ten summers ago, I remembered the same dull thud and seeing that nothing had crashed into the house. That time it was a small explosion and fire at the Amoco refinery.
Rushing to the window, I could see through our trees that yes indeed, there was a fire. Something had gone terribly wrong at British Petroleum. Fire and smoke shot more than a hundred feet in the air. Not panicking right away, I calmly asked my mother to get my niece and nephew out of the house. I decided to stay behind to make sure my house and my neighboring grandmother’s house hadn’t sustained any damage.
Back in 1981, a similar mishap at the same refinery in almost the same location shattered windows and blew open the back door of my parents’ house. This time, we were luckier. No windows were broken, no doors had been blown open. I stood outside taking pictures of the fire. What a spectacle this would be. I could show all my friends and family and relate the story of how I’d lived through yet another one of these accidents.
As I stood there taking pictures, the civil defense alarms crackled to life. Normally, in this kind of situation, it means to go inside and not come out until an all clear alarm has sounded. Like many of my neighbors, I was standing outside watching the fire, not thinking anything of my personal safety. Hydrocarbons, the substance burning, doesn’t have that adverse of an affect on anyone.
As I joined my neighbors to watch the fire across the street from my parents’ house, the fire shot another two hundred feet or so into the air, sending sparks and debris flying. Luckily, nothing landed in our backyard this time. During a fire in 1996, our backyard was littered with foam and little bits of black debris from a tank fire. So, I traipsed back inside to wait and see what would happen next There was a steady stream of traffic in and out of our neighborhood , and there was nothing I or the police could do about it. It wouldn’t be until two hours later that the police would close off roads around the refineries.
I would think that people would have learned from the 1947 SS Grandcamp explosion that running to see a fire can have deadly consequences. Eventually, the fire died down and the traffic thinned to only a few stragglers. The fire didn’t kill or maim anyone. Only minor exposure to the fumes. What was a cataclysmic looking fire turned out to be a flare lighting that went horribly wrong.
Now, as ever before, every time that refinery rumbles, I can only wonder when the next one’s going to be. When will it happen again? I ask myself. By then, it’s already months, sometimes years down the road. When it does happen, I can only stand there helplessly watching another refinery accident and pray that it isn’t as serious as it looks.