A Beautiful Holiday Weekend In Los Angeles

About a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine had talked me into going to the Bay area to watch Stephen Bishop perform at the Intramuros, South San Francisco, in a benefit concert. She had wanted to see the concert so bad. I had been preoccupied in Los Angeles. She wants to play a role in the concert for worthy causes. For the concert, and about our friendship, we are a study of compare and contrast.

She's into old-school -- the Norman Whitfield/Barrett Strong and Kenneth Gamble/Leon Huff composition-era. I'm into all vibes, a musicologist. She's a hardcore liberal; garrulous. I'm reserved, a somehow liberal conservative; a centrist. She's a fashion freak. I'm careless, fashionwise. She reads fiction and believes in the Zodiac signs. I'm the non-fiction reader kinda guy and have no faith in astrology. She's Libra. I'm Virgo. She cooks good. I'm a mixologist. She has shoulder length curly hair. I'm ishi nkwocha, shaved bald. She's Tonga, a Pacific Islander. I'm Igbo, an African. She's straight. I'm straight. She loves outdoors, and I do, too. She wears contact lenses. I wear prescription glasses; and both coasts are clear.

To make up for ditching Bishop's concert at the Intramuros, she brought up a set of rules on her own terms and whatever she said was going to be the rules. I said "Okay!" She got her way and ordered me around the house. That was cool!

Her set of rules was specifically for the Memorial Day weekend and that whenever it's all over I could take back my manly stuff and go ahead with my own set of rules she'd not have problems complying with. The rules were set as follows: There would be no driving and Friday which commences the holiday weekend would be set for eating out, perhaps a little bit of home cooking and checking out the movies. I knew it was going to be a hell of a fun since summer was just breezing around the corner.

School is over for some -- my daughter is back and it's going to be a long, beautiful summer, especially her tales of academia and life in the dorm. The weather's quite nice. Lots of sunshine. The beaches are full to capacity. Bikinis. Hot pants. Those fine, dark sunglasses. Beautiful faces sipping cocktails in the sun.

The volleyball tournaments: Hermosa Beach. Redondo Beach. Venice Beach. Rockweller Beach. Santa Monica Beach. The mark of summer.

The eateries and the random popped up in-house restaurants. The real deal and summer jams. Ceccone's on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood. Jane's House on Hollywood Blvd. The Standard in Downtown Los Angeles. The Mint on Pico Blvd. in West Los Angeles. Club Tatou on Boylston Street in Los Angeles. O'Brien's Irish Pub and Restaurant on Main Street in Santa Monica. The Amazon Hut Brazilian Juice Bar on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica.

The new arrivals on the bookshelves. "Rinnavation: Getting Your Best Life Ever," by Lisa Rinna on life's amazing journey. "Bad Mother: A Chronicle Of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, And Occasional Moments Of Grace," by Ayelet Waldman.

At the movies as the summer hits pops up in June. "Public Enemies," directed by Michael Mann and starring Johnny Depp as John Dillinger, the notorious Depression-era bank robber, and Christian Bale as Melvin Purvis, the fedral agent who tailed Dillinger. "The Taking Of Pelham 123," starring Academy Award winner Denzel Washington as Walter Mathau, of a New York transit dispatcher and directed by Tony Scott. Here, John Travolta stars as leader of the gang. James Gandofini appears as Mayor of New York whom Travolta must fear. "Funny People," directed by Judd Apatow and starring Adam Sandler, Leslie Mann and Seth Regan. The film is all comedy but Sandler's role as a dying middle-aged man might turn movie goers off.

"Taking Woodstock," directed by Ang Lee based on a true story of Elliot Tiber, an employee at a motel in the Castkills who inadvertantly made Woodstock happen. "Inglorious Bastards," -- another World War 2 story of Nazi occupied France written and directed by Quentin Terantino. The movie features Brad Pitt as the leader of the Jewish-American soldiers dispatched to perform targeted acts of retribution on German troops occupying France. "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen," which opens in all theaters June 24. Michael Bay directed, starring Shia LeBeouf as Sam who becomes enmeshed in a battle between two extraterrestial clans "when he buys his first car and it turns out to be an alien robot in disguise." And, of course, there's Eddie Murphy's "Imagine That."

These, and too many others we talked about. So as it happened, she's the one calling the shots. She wanted some African dish, and I was like, o yeah, again? She did not know what was running through my mind about her quest for African food. She's the one calling the shots, remember? I had to oblige since this great country of ours is a nation of rules, fact why it's organized.

For some reason, she figured I was not comfortable with the African restaurant kind of stuff she's been persistent asking for. We have all the time in the world to eat ofe olugbo, bitter leaf soup (dunno why it's my favorite) coupled with the okporoko, stockfish, eju, snail, dried fish and anu ewu, goat meat, as long as her weekend rules were upheld and respected.

However, on Friday, May 22, she decided we should go whole grain, vegetables and stuff like that. One spot was not too far from our location. We walked down about six blocks to this restaurant on the Westside. It was kind of regular and approximately a nice way to begin the long weekend. The restaurant, recently remodelled had a gracious and attentive service. We ordered some seafoods that was served with chunks of salmon, perfectly cooked shrimp with lotta veggies and other health-related fiber stuff. She loves wholesome sweetners such as honey, maple syrup, sorhum, sucanet and stevia.

A good looking evening, we hopped on the bus to the Archlight Cinema in Hollywood to see Ron Howard's "Angels & demons," starring Tom Hanks which to me should be Howard's last in that category. The movie's full of surprises.

On Saturday, May 23, the rules did not change. No driving, remember? After cleaning up and doing the normal around house work, we concluded it's Metro Line time. We arrived at the Wilshire/Vermont Blue Line Station and hopped on the train. Checking out from the Hollywood/Highland Station, we took the steps and bumped on tourists from all walks of life who took pictures of stars and the accomplished on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Walking further down where Hollywood Blvd. meets Vine Street, and on the south of Hollywood laid the plaque of Apollo 13 -- Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin Jr. and Michael Collins -- the first American astronauts to visit the moon.

On the north sits the landmark Capitol Records Tower known to have either recorded or marketed from the 50s to date, Frank Sinatra, Nat king Cole, Duran Duran, Richard Marx, David Bowie, The Beatles, The Beastie Boys, Kenny Rogers, Yellow Card, George Clinton, Selena Quintalline, Poison, The Band, Ice Cube, Radiohead, Tina Turner, Billy Holliday, Miles Davis, Grand Funk Railroad, Pink Floyd, Peter Tosh, Steve Miller Band, Maze, Dave Koz, Freddie Jackson, Snoop Dogg, Grace Jones, Kim Carnes, Queen, Eddie Harris and many others.

In continuation of our excursion, we went underground and hopped back on the train to the North Hollywood Station. A girl sitting next to us was reading a book on Andrew Jackson, an indication President Barack Obama's "The New Dawn" is doing stuff for the "era of the common man" and Jacksonian democracy to have replicated in the age of internet. While the train was about to station, I called my friend, Pascal, that we were on our way to his apartment. We popped up at the 5400 block of fair Avenue at the luxury NoHo (North Hollywood) Commons Apartments. We had arrived on time to watch the Los Angeles Lakers play the Dencer Nuggets in Game 3 of the Western Conference Finals. Three other guys and two gorgeous ladies were also visiting my friend, Pascal, and it seemed very much the guys were having a heart attack due to the uncertainties that had clouded Lakers' game during the series.

Our Lakers had pulled this one out to silence the cynics. Even Derek Fisher who had been written off, delivered and helped our Lakers pull a 103-97 victory over the Nuggets. Immediately after the game, we drove in two set of cars to The Echo on Sunset Blvd. in Hollywood. It's our kind of place. Time is telling. The place had a full bar, a dance floor and more than electric. It's a joint where the 70s and 80s pure funk would blow your mind. It was a blast and by the time it was over, we all realized Hollywood was a city of its own.

On Sunday, May 25, she had asked if I would be going to church. She's a practicing Catholic while I was born a Catholic. A difference. But I had shown her my new religious affiliation. The anonymously written book "I AM GOD: Here's My Message." I told her I would be ordering an additional copy as that might change her thinking on how religion has caused all the world's troubles. She prepared breakfast and we ate.

With that in place, we both agreed it's time to relax our driving restrictions and check out Hollywood proper; where Santa Monica Blvd. meets Western Avenue on the sidewalks women of easy virtue and prostitutes hang out. On the corner of Santa Monica Blvd. and Wilcox, Dragonfly, the sensational pot-smoking and reggae jams on Thursday nights. Amoeba Music, for all your record albums in any music category, facing the CNN building on Cahuenga and Sunset. The same sex ridden hangouts in West Hollywood on Sunset and Roxbury. After touring Hollywood for a minute coupled with sightseeing we took off for another round at the movies. We saw "Terminator Salvation" at the Mann Theaters in Hollywood. Kind of strange, though, the movie, to me, wasn't anything spectacular. A sequel to the three respective "Terminator" movies. I could not read her feelings about the movie.

On Monday, May 25, the awaited Memorial Day, arrived, eventually. We had been up early. There was the 2009 Los Angeles Marathon which I had never been part of, but have gone to see it, anyway. On this particular day and since all roads had been blocked, we chanced parking around Miracle Mile on the Wilshire Corridor. We had treked about 11 blocks and had stationed on the corner of La Brea Avenue and 3rd Street in Hancock Park. The marathon stretched from da hood through the "Black Township" of the Crenshaw thoroughfare all the way to Hancock Park and finishing up in Koreatown.

We had been almost exhausted and it's time for the last jam to end the holiday weekend. The jam: 23rd Annual UCLA Jazz Reggae Festival on the playgrounds of the campus' Intramural Field in Westwood, California. The previous night, Day 1 of the festival, which we missed as a result of other engagements had Erykah Badu, People Under the Stairs, Leela James and De La Soul take center stage. Day 2 had been slated to run between 12 P.M. until 7 P.M. It went later than that and, as usual, too much of a jam. The line up: Mavado, a.k.a "The Gully God" who performed live for the first time in LA, took the show to another level with his new band. He was equal to the occasion. Other casts in the reggae jam and finale were Michael Montano, Assassin, The Dirty Heads and Morgan Heritage.

Like Woodstock of the hippie-era and a replicated Coachella event in Indio, I had been exhausted from the excursions and partying hard the preceding days, and had laid flat on the field while the ragamuffin vibes transmitted through my head. The stomping UCLA campers and the voices of roots reggae did go through my head, and it was all good.

PHOTOS clockwise from bottom left: (2009 Los Angeles Marathon courtesy of Ian Sephton; MTA Tap Machine; Metro Rail Line; Metro Bus Line 770, Leela James takes center stage and performs "let's Do It Again," courtesy of Singers Room; and the 2009 UCLA Jazz Reggae Festival banner courtesy of The Deli Magazine.)

Ehirim Files Classic: "The Cultural Order"

CULTURE: Ohafis/Bende War Dance. Image: Steemit         

By Ambrose Ehirim

No question, Los Angeles has emerged as a cultural model for cities all around the globe. Take a ride on Crenshaw Boulevard to Leimert Park and you will find out it has become synonymous with the African American cultural community. Hancock Park and La Brea Avenue is an identity of the Synagogues and Jewish cultural and arts centers. East Los Angeles identifies with the Chicano cultural and labor union communities. On Venice Boulevard toward Venice Beach, the samba-playing Brazilians entertain in their usual colorful and flamboyant manner. Where can I identify my own cultural order?

On April 10, 2003, I checked my messages arriving home from the stressful and bumper-to-bumper bottleneck Los Angeles streets and freeways traffic with calls from loved ones, my brother, my niece, my church pastor, my daughter's teacher, Dr. Edmund Ugorji, telemarketers, my childhood buddy Eugene Onyeji, my classmate at college Ardis Hamilton who was at All Progressive Grand Alliance (APGA) launching as my guest, my good friend and renowned journalist Austen Oghuma, community leaders meeting, Los Angeles African American Political Forum and many others too numerous to mention.

I played back the calls. I returned and missed some of them. Among them, the call from Dr. Ugorji of which I left a message. He returned back my call and spoke of my incommunicado, and among other things, delightedly invited me to his house for dinner, the next day. I honored his invitation and told him I would pop up at 7:30 PM, the scheduled day. After my conversations with Dr. Ugorji, I called Oghuma whose fascinating political debate takes us into the night. Debates on why Biafranigeria shouldn't break up, and debates on why I insist Biafranigeria has no business being a "one united nation." And, too, debates on why Olusegun Obasanjo should keep keeping on in leading the nation at its critical era.

However, it was the eve of Mbieri Community Association of Southern California fundraising event and launching of its first almanac that I kept up my word to pay homage to Dr. Ugorji for dinner. On my way, I stopped by Four Seasons Market run by Dozie Ozoemena to check the week's fliers-fundraising events, wake-keeping, launching, naming ceremonies, baby showers, cultural dances, graduations, weddings and the latest in local politics before my final destination of the said evening. At Four Seasons, the fliers and political junkies hung around. It was usual and typical of my expectations as the Zik ekwuo aru ahia mgbede gatherers were at work doing their thing, saying what they don't know and what they do know sometimes, the kind of "tabloid press" you see at the newsstands, and the kind of trash talks you encounter at barbershops..

It was really nothing new to see the loquacious ahia mgbede gatherers, evening market gossipers in their same old ways talking big and rubbing shoulders of what's new in town. Talks like "Nna, inugwo?" Asi na Jerry gburu ozu, oloputara brand new zero-mileage Hummer H2" (Man, have you heard it? It is said Jerry launched a brand new zero-mileage Hummer H2) was the cultural order. One even asked me "what are you driving now, Hummer?" I was not moved knowing the way ndi be anyi, our people operates which is worrisome for the fact that our values and popular culture is being wiped out ever since the "Push Factor" began, the political, economic and socio-cultural conditions that made us flee our native lands in search for a better life.

Nevertheless, in order not to spoil my evening and looking forward to a sound political and intellectual discourse with Dr. Ugorji, I took off to keep up with my appointment as initially planned. Dr. Ugorji, a linguist, and medical director of Los Angeles Department of Health Services is another political junkie. He welcomed me and offered me and seat. He asked "what kind of drink" I would like. "Water or soda will be fine, precisely lemon drink if soda," I said to him. Generous, humorous and frank, he admitted I was a rare gem based on my thought-provoking articles and confidence regarding the way I speak. It was a long debate as we talked into the night while his kids went to bed. It was the eve of the ridiculous and embarassing National Assembly elections of Olusegun Obasanjo's dubious administration. And, all in all, it was the usual Friday evening when the otimkpus, the alarmists gather to make some noise in a series of pepper soup joints around Los Angeles.

Somehow, that evening, I allowed Dr. Ugorji to do all the talking while I sipped my soda listening attentively. He spoke at length his disgust with Achike Udenwa's inept and corrupt administration in Imo State and the many wonders found in the Igbos of the Diaspora and their chieftaincy titles. He talked about the schools we left behind and its deteriorating conditions, and why nobody is doing anything about it since the missionaries and ndiocha, the white people left us alone to figure things out. He talked about secession bid for autonomy by every hamlet in Igboland and how it created a big divide in the Igbo nation. He talked about the scramblers and opportunists erecting mansions and "palaces" on dusty alleys with no street numberings. He complained, too, about the pogrom and civil war comparing the Igbos with the Jews which really caught my attention in all that he was saying.

"Igbos have nothing at all in common with the Jews," I would say. "Nothing at all, no comparison and not even close." First, despite quarrelling among themselves, greed, envy and hatred do not exist in the Jewish nation. Their pop-culture dating back from the Biblical days is still intact and viable. They know Adolph Hitler was evil and "never again" would the most blood soaked event in humankind be allowed to take place. A five year old Jewish kid, growing up learns in the Synagogue, day care centers and faiths in the Torah that "to forget is to proclaim Hitler innocent." Ask a Jewish kid who the father of the modern Jewish state is and he or she will be quick to tell you.

In contrast, the Igbos have quickly forgotten the evisceration of a pregnant woman, the widespread bloodletting, the "Asaba male death march and drowning," Benjamin Adekunle's proclamation of shooting at every moving creature in Igboland and other horrible cases of that nature, finding solace having an affair with a people who never acknowledged what they did was evil and must not be entertained. Just like the Diaspora Jewish kid who has learned about the Holocaust and the state of Israel, its migration and persecution over the years, a Diaspora Igbo kid and second generation immigrant to be exact, ask who the Igbos are or who is Francis Akanu Ibiam and you likely would hear "never heard of him." Or speak Igbo to these lost generations and you will hear "I don't get it, man!"

But ask this kid or a number of Igbo Diaspora kids who Lebron James is. One hundred percent of these kids will be quick to tell you without guessing that he is the number one ranked High School basketball sensation from Akron, Ohio. He will be recognized by all. To a point and so disturbing some Igbo intellectuals do not want their kids to speak Igbo in public. What's all these for?

Ugorji was pissed and admitted exhaustion of all options in Igbo renaissance. "Does it mean we are finished?" I would ask.

"Enyi amaghim," --my friend, I don't know, Ugorji would distressingly respond.

Of course, we are finished and being weary of pointing out that we have no "adversaries" and enemies but ourselves, we who have caused every divide within our kith and kin tailored to the desire of our enemies should be blamed for the present state of the Igbos. I left Ugorji's house with the never-ending excruciating pains I have beared all my life looking at the sorry state of the Igbo nation.

My evening was in order and I looked forward to the very big occasion about to take place the next day. Earlier, Ugorji and I discussed about the big event, Mbieri gala night. He offered me a high table for the upcoming event, and knowing the story of the dog named "Jack" I declined and promised to show up as usual, to observe and report.

On Saturday April 12, 2003, many invitations and fliers sat on my study desk, and many occasions of the cultural order were taking place the same day. There was Onicha Igbo Cultural Association fundraising event, Okwahuman Association of Southern California Special Easter Dance, Eko Club California, Nkwerre Association of Southern California, Amaigbo Cultural Association, Mbieri Community Association of Southern California Fundraising and Launching of its first almanac, South High Car Wash Crusade to raise fund for the football team and many other socio-cultural events. I checked my calendar and had marked Mbieri Community gala as my first point of call in all the cultural order.

Traditional outfit wearing doormen, beautiful looking children rehearsing at the back corner for the occasion's special dance, uniformed Mbieri women cheering on the aisle, the hippies roaming around and cocking eyes at one another, the flowing gowners showing their stuff, Veronica serving her delicious dishes and uniformed Mbieri men tending bar, it looked like one of those Brazilian carnivals and Big Easy's Madigras, populated by men and women who had been invited to the "fundraising event and launching of 1st Mbieri almanac."

I popped up late in the evening and was greeted by one of the occasion's organizers Nze Odunze Igbonagwam who had sold to me one of the event's tickets. Before my arrival, I had called Oghuma to meet me at the ballroom of Hollywood Park Casino in Inglewood, California and collect a ticket I reserved for him sold to me by Dr. Ugorji. Oghuma, however, could not make it to the show due to other special engagements elsewhere in the Los Angeles area.

The evening was all showman and local celeb Solomon Egbuhuo's doing. For the last several years, the one and only MC in Igbo cultural events around the Los Angeles area has organized and mceed occasions to help various communities raise funds for worthy causes despite the widespread scandals of keeping funny books. Egbuhuo, a businessman and promoter of local music ensembles loves showbizness and the attention it gives him.

Noted deejays Ike and Jasper spinned while the folklore musical group Umunna of Los Angeles did their own thing--the Mike Ejeagha akuko na egwu, folklore kind of stuff. It was electric. It was much, much better than the spraying money in your face and high fives of the notorious Coque Brothers.

Meanwhile, I had taken up a seat in the ballroom and had gone to the menu section to help myself with what the caterer Veronica had prepared for the event. I served myself a concoction from Veronica's menu table--rice, fried plantain, anu ewu (goat meat), moi-moi, fried fish, vegetables, kpof-kpof (call it donut if you like), okporoko, (stockfish) and you name it, I had it all. I sat at a corner with a couple of hometown buddies to do justice to my concoction, my own combination. Dealing with my dish and watching what was going on, Los Angeles area renowned MC Egbuho introduced UmuIgbo USA, uniformed and tantalizingly hot to perform for the evening.

As the second generation immigrants were ushered in to perform what has been rehearsed and choreographed for months, UmuIgbo USA arrived on stage in a standing ovation after the president's opening remarks which preceded Nigeria and America national anthem, making me ponder and questioning about Igbo "national" anthem. Perhaps that was beside the point since all that mattered was Mbieri fundraising and launching of its first almanac. The sensational group walked into the ballroom across the cobbled square, through the hallway, and onto the stage. Turning to the crowd, they bowed and sang. All eyes turned on them cheering and saying a new generation has arrived the shores of America. They were marvelous, up and adequate to the occasion.

Then followed formal opening of the floor by the high table coupled with "processional" entry of Nd'Mbieri in the kind of egwu ure, recalling my memories to the days of egwu umu ada and joyous festivities when culture was still intact. After the procession and dance, Umunna of Los Angeles performed live with breaks between songs. Every attendant shimmied to the beat of the band's original folklore, "making people happy and keeping the crowd dancing." Umunna's music gave me a feel for egwu agba ochie, the real vibe in the heydays of egwu onwa, moonlight plays, folklore and highlife music, and not the ridiculous money campaign, spraying money in your face performed by the ilk of Coque Brothers and the changed Stephen Osita Osadebe.

Then again, the president's speech and "launching, launching, launching," the time for charity and kind gestures, donations and vice versa. While donations and pledges were being made, a whole lot of shaking and hugging was going on, men and women snapped pictures while happy little children ran all over the place. It was a good feel of community. It was the feel of culture made whole and not "even the sum of parts" as Nobel Laureate Wole Soyinka once put it.

I can't describe how much my spirit was lifted. It looked like my boyhood days when we played the hide and seek game during conventions like this, and our parents will be sneaking out to the porch and everywhere looking for us. I left the ballroom totally satisfied that "culture is not parts, it is a whole and an entity."

"Them changes," and as it happened, I suspended my rock classic freaky behavior listening to Peter Frampton, Boston, Rolling Stones, Uriah Heep, The Allman Brothers Band, Thin Lizzy, Eagles, Aerosmith, AC/DC, The Doors, Beatles, David Bowie, Van Halen, David Lee Roth, U2, Rick Springfield, Journey, Rare Earth, Grand Funk, Pat Benatar, Triumph, Bad Company, ZZ Top, Blue Oyster Cult, Foreigner, Rod Stewart, Genesis, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Middle of the Road, Men at Work, Bob Miga's Strangers, John Cougar Mellencamp, Bruce Springsteen, Don Henley, Kim Carnes, Bob Seger and dedicated the month of April and May to the music of Paulson Kalu, Celestine Ukwu, Ali Chukwuma, Prince Nico Mbarga, Ikenga Superstars, Eddie Okonta, Ofo, Ozoemena nwa Nsugbe, Harcourt White, Peacocks, Rex Lawson, the old Osadebe, and Bright Chimezie for "culture is not parts, it is a whole."

On my way home, egwu agba ochie, old school became my new cultural order as I flipped Nkengas in London CD with the masterpiece "Asampete Special" entertaining me all the way. "Culture is not parts, not even the sum of parts, it is an entity." I remembered that!

This article was exclusively published at BNW Magazine in April 2003