reflecting on the 20th anniversary of the l.a. riots.
i'll share a story.
we were robbed. up in san pedro/palos verdes.
few days post florence and normandy.
nevertheless,
doors were smashed in.
strawberries half-eaten, strewn carelessly about.
a big turd in the toilet.
and several discarded latex gloves.
some pretty brazen bastards, i remember thinking.
hate.
first time, tangible hate.
-- it was then.
even my wallet, velcro. library card and 20 big ones.
gone.
just like that.
but what really got me -- what really got the blood surging, lie downstairs.
that's where i kept the chicks.
-- no, not the human kind -- those would come later -- much later.
but alas, my chicks, my baby chickens had been kept warm in a cardboard box in a spare bathroom.
rushed downstairs.
nearly tumbling, landing on my knees.
skidded across the hall -- into the bedroom -- round the enterance -- flew into the bathroom.
searching furiously, stricken momemtarily -- the cardboard box was gone.
and then...i looked down.
the chicks,
the little fuzzballs...
we're
alive.
my old man loaded up his old Winchester Model 1894 with slugs and stayed behind.
my mother, sister and i abscounded to safer grounds.
my house robbed;
my wallet stolen;
my chickens alive;
and my old man with his old lever-action cowboy gun.
and that's how i remember the l.a. riots.
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