AWESTRUCK/DUMBFOUNDED

Awestruck, as defined by Webster's 11 New College Dictionary: a. an emotion of mixed reverence, dread, and wonder. b. Fearful veneration or respect. Dumbfounded, as defined by the above mentioned Dictionary:to confound with amazement or astonishment. I use the two words interchangeably because I'm not quite sure which of the two definitions fit into my experience of being awestruck or dumbfounded. Maybe, you my readers, can recall being awestruck or dumbfounded by something or someone; possibly, you have had a moment when you left someone dumbfounded or awestruck?

I can recall at least three times where I've left people awestruck/dumbfounded. And a time where one group left an opposing group awestruck/dumbfounded. I'll deal with this one last.

(1)

I trusted this friend with ($400.00 (not that much). But I was quite inebriated,
in a bad part of town, and night didn't have to compete with the lack of working street
lights. M (since I wanted to go home instead of spending the night on his couch, convinced me to leave my money with him and pick it up the next day. I arrived home without incident, did not fall down, but did manage to hold up a few walls.

M usually didn't get up until noon so I waited until one to head to his place. As I knocked on his door, the manager informed me that M had left town. Without a hint of alarm, I exclaimed, "Yeah, he said he was leaving, but I thought it was next week, did he say where he was going?" The manager said, "San Diego."

I had no intention of going to San Diego and search M out. My logic told me that he would be sneaking back to LA to see one or two of the women he was sweet on and that I our paths would cross; he'd have some convincing story to relate or a portion of my money. Otherwise,it wasn't that serious of a matter. Life goes on until its end. All things happen for a reason - cause and effect. I pushed the incident from my mind, only to peripherally think about it when encountering one of M's girl friends (also friends of mine). About eight months had passed since M had absconded with my money and, by design, I decided to take that trip via Greyhound to San Diego, armed with the knowledge that M's pay day had happened or was on the horizon.

San Diego didn't offer much culturally, but I had fun the two days, bar-hopping. As I was entering the Greyhound station to return to LA, I heard someone yelling out my name: "Hey, Dr. Mongo!" To my surprise, it was M. And before I could return the greeting, he said, "I'm on my way to LA, to visit J and give you some money." And, again, before I could respond he pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit and handed it to me. Scribbled on the envelope was PROPERTY OF DR. MONGO. He demanded, "Open it."
I counted eight one hundred dollar bills. In retrospect I think I was somewhat awestruck/ dumbfounded or both? Our trip to LA was memorable.

(2)

A year or two later with a little disposable cash on hand, I bought my two-way ticket to Las Vegas. It wasn't about winning or losing. It was about having fun on the slot machine at my favorite club - El Cortez. And visiting with friends.

But, of course, before leaving LA, I had to buy a few drinks, enabling me to sleep until my arrival in Vegas. As I approached the departure and arrival area, I took note of the four kids playing cards, passing the time away until their bus arrived. I forget what they were playing, but I posed them a question: "Would you guys like to see a card trick you'll never see repeated." In my inebriation, it was a challenge; to their curiosity it was welcomed. I begged them to continue whatever game they were playing, but they, all four concurring, insisted I do the trick. Of the four, I asked, "have you ever seen me before or do you know me?" After getting their no answers, I asked, "Whose cards are these?" The blond guy (I'd guess in his late teens or early twenty)said they belonged to him and volunteered that the plastic deck belonged to his father. Then with a touch of mystery, I said, I want you all to shuffle the deck and pass it on to the next person to shuffle until you've all scuffled the deck twice." I turned my back to them as they carried out the instructions. "Okay," said one of the two girls,"It's done!" I faced them, and the blond guy held the deck in his left hand. I said, "Pick a card from anywhere in the deck and without looking at it put it in your pocket." The guy complied. "And that card in your pocket, I said, is the Ace of Spades."

The guy took the card from his pocket and displayed it to the others before showing it to me. Sure enough, it was the Ace of Spades. The four kids were amazed. So was I, but I didn't allow my expression to show surprise.

( 3)

The cold storm gripping the Midwest found me fleeing from Ohio, destination - sunny California. Greyhound was the least expensive way to travel, and it was a rough and tough ride travelling through Indiana and Illinois because weather conditions were as bad as what I called myself escaping from. Due to the snow storm in Indiana, the bus was delayed four hours until the highway became passable. The same held true in Illinois.
After arriving in Los Angeles, I hooked up with my brother, Moise who allowed me to unpack and closet three suits, two khaki coats, one suede and a leather coat I wouldn't be needing due to such great weather. I would be wearing my dashikis and caftans, combat boots, and carrying my favorite staff. At the time my brother was lived in the epicenter of Skid Row. The chain of hotels and restaurants in the area were owned and run by Koreans. The DPSS (Department of Pulic Social Services) issued vouchers to the owners to provide housing for homeless or indigent individuals. In order to supplement income on a daily basis, owners charged visitors one or two dollars to visit a resident - no in and out. So most rooms were used as shooting galaries and other illegal activities; one could pay the one or two dollars and stay in the hotel for days.

The renter would leave and do everything needed to be done: buy drugs, food, weapons, etc. The police were allowed to enter the premises at will, to bust crack dealers, prostitutes, parole violators and/or suspected or wanted criminals.
Directly across the street from the Harold Hotel was the original, HardRock Cafe.
After my first days rest from the cramped bus ride, I decided to search out night life of Skid Row.

I donned a lightweight caftan, my polished combat boots, and of course, I had my staff. As I walked along Main street between 5th and 6th, Someone yelled out"Hey Moses."Knowing the reference was directed at me, I replied, "My name's not Moses." In five seconds or less I was surrounded by four police, demanding my name, identification and questioning 'the stick' I was carrying. I complied, emphasing that the 'stick' was a staff. One officer insisted I show California ID instead of my American passport, failing to understand the import of an American passport. After ten to twelve minutes they allowed me to continue on with my business, one officer saying, "Take care Dr. Mongo."

The people paying the dollar to visit my brother were hustlers, chess hustlers, out to hone their skills, looking for a good game and, possibly a sucker, from which to win a few dollars. My brother didn't associate with anyone in the Harold so he remained something of an enigma to the other residence.

To be contiued in my upcoming book. Within every story is another story!!!

Kenzi's Sculptures

One of my very best friend, Kenzi Shiokava, a renown sculptor, had the habit of giving me gifts. And if I needed money for any reason, he was there for me. I don't recall the genesis of our relationship, now some twenty plus years, but our friendship remains as strong as ever. Every August 28th, I call Kenzi to sing the happy birthday song to him. I catch him off guard. Kenzi was Marlon Brando's personal landscaper and gardener for many years. Most of Kenzi's signature works are sculptures made from telephone poles and railroad ties. Some of his scuptures can be viewed at kenzishiokava.com. A very spiritual person, Kenzi attends most jazz festivals where he can be seen dancing, eyes shut, body swaying back and forth, hands clinched and unclinched to the rhythm of the muscians.

Boxing Betty

I met WT long before he became known as Boxing Betty. I use his initials in the event he is still alive. In conversation with a friend a week or so ago, the topic of prisoners being released from Califorria prisons, to be housed in over-crowded county jails, releasing other inmate considered non violent, first timers, second timers, etc..

But, I digress. I thought I'd google Boxing Betty, and there it was, at least one in the top ten list had what I had searched. Boxing Betty has become an inductee into the annals of urban legend. WT was not raped in a Reformatory or State penitentiary. It happened way before those stints. As common in urban legend, things that aren't true creep into facts. Being a good friend of WT - Boxing Betty, I want to debunk some of the exaggerated and untruths posted on the site The Myth of Prison Rape, written by Mark S. Fleisher and Jessie L Keienert. Neither I nor my brother CM ever addressed WT as Boxing Betty CM taught WT how to fight and not be afraid of being hit in the face, but to envision what you wanted the other person's face to look like after a fight. A lesson well learned.

The time and place was the mid 50's in Lancaster, Ohio, Franklin county at an industrial-military community known as BIS - Boys Industrial School. The community consisted of thirteen cottages (segregated by race and age).Most cottages were named after different Ohio counties/rivers: Auglaize, Cuyahoga, Highland, Hocking, Miami, Muskingum, and The Patterson. The Highland cottage housed the youngest white offenders - ages 7 to 11; the Herrick cottage housed the youngest black offenders - ages 7 to twelve. The age ceiling was eighteen. The institution was established in 1857, initially named the Ohio Reform School to house juvenile criminals.

The Ohio courts had a wide latitude in sentencing youth offenders, some children finding themselves sent away for merely being incorrigible. I was one of them.
WT, Boxing Betty, after the two week orientation in the Cuyahoga Cottage was assigned to the
Herrick. An eight or nine year old, WT, a very handsome kid became the focus of sexual vultures of the cottage. Through intimidation and threats, WT gave in to his tormentors. He became a sex rag, passed back and forth between four to five individuals. As I mentioned earlier, my younger brother, CM was teaching WT boxing techniques and a form of finger wrestling. WT was released before my brother, but they kept in contact through correspondence.

WT's next encounter with the law landed him in the Ohio State Reformatory (OSR), located in Mansfield, Ohio, and had the distinction of having the world's largest steel cell block at six tiers high. WT was bigger and no longer cared about his pretty looks and was confident with his abilities to defend himself, and gain good solid weight. Would he see any of his tormentors from the past? He did, two of them on the same cell block. He had plans for them - one or both at a time.
To be continued in my upcoming book. Within every story is another story!!!

Who was Mr. Murdock?

If my memory serves me correctly - his full name was Henry Murdock He was the manager
desk clerk and housekeeper at the now defunct Digby hotel once bordering Little Tokyo in Los Angeles, California. We, tenants, addressed him as Mr. Murdock. He comes to mind because he was an unforgettable character. One would think he never changed clothes because he wore the same attire every day: a black suit, white shirt, black tie and spit-shinned shoes. It wasn't until I saw the movie The Fly that made me realize that Mr. Murdock had at least ten suits, all the same and many white dress shirts. He had the second largest room at the hotel. Though paid well, his side hustle was to rent out the larger room to a gentleman who would bring in a different woman, sometimes twice a week. Mr. Murdock was a five foot four portly individual with a bald head; a man of few words. He was seriously friendly, but reserved. His sense of humor was manifested in his laconic quips or retorts, accompanied by a quick wiry smile and a glint in his eyes. The Digby was a three story building, the second and third floors consisting of living units, community bathrooms and showers; the first floor, a lobby and office where business was conducted: receiving and sorting mail into the mail boxes, collecting rent and checking in new tenants. The owner would come once a month, sometimes twice.
The Digby was owned by a black family. They were able to make the purchase due to the internment of the Japanese during the Second World War.
Mr. Murdock's assistant, I don't remember his name, was rarely around except for nights when he'd arrived from some other job or the racetrack. Otherwise, Mr. Murdock handled all the functions at the hotel. He was charged with changing linen in the rooms, keeping the showers and bathrooms clean, sweeping, mopping the lobby area and keeping all windows free of smudges. He had the habit of talking to himself. Rumors circulated that he was once a mortician in Cleveland, Ohio at the House of Wills, a prestigious funeral home. When asked, he would merely smile and mumble something indistinguishable. Mr. Murdock, as far as I know ate once a day, and that was at the Atomic Cafe, a block away, on first and Alameda streets, a punk venue where artists frequented after leaving the infamous Al's bar in the arts district. Atomic Nancy, once a member of the music group, Nirvana was the gracious host; the jukebox had a varied mix of oldies, jazz, blues and Japanese classics. Usually, opening during early day, the Atomic Cafe depended on its after hours business. However, Mr. Murdock would buy whatever and bring it back to the hotel. Now, the rest of the story: Under the guise of renovation, the owner of the Digby decided to get rid of as many of his tenants as possible to make rooms available
for visitors expected to need housing during the upcoming 1984 Olympic games. The hotel, mainly, depended on the Department of Public and Social Services vouchers to keep his units filled. The first order of the owner was to let the DPSS know that rooms were no longer available.

To be continued in my upcoming book. Within every story is another story!!!

Little Tokyo

The following is a chapter from the book, What ever happened, written by Tim Reynolds, a good friend of mine:

When I had finished peeing and shaken off and tucked away and zipped up and was leaving the Ginbasha mensroom this Japanese tourist gentleman fiercely commanded Washu handzo! I told Dori, the bartender at Eigiku, a joke where you're an alien and seize and pump his hand cordially and interminably while you run on about how you're looking forward to a pleasant visit on this planet and how similar everything here is to where you come from except for the mode of sexual congress, your species has its sexual organs in its hand. He tore his hand away and plunged it in dishwater, he was kind of distraught all evening.

One of the invisible people in the hotel came onto the the back fire escape one evening with a full moon over the San Gabriels, and I said to him a word I'd learned from haiku, mansuki, full moon. He looked at me in stupefaction for a moment and then understood and said sternly MANtsuki. MANtsuki. As though if an animal were to talk it should at least talk right.

A couple of years ago a lady friend of Doctor Mongo's tried to kill me, it was loud and furniture and so on got busted up. Richard the manager said I had to go. I went into the kitchen where he and his wife and daughter were eating and apologized very formally in Japanese in front of them, it gave him face, nothing more was ever said.

Lawrence Robinson

Lawrence Robinson isn't a household name. And he won't be after this blog, but I want to honor him just the same. He also had the moniker, "Square Biz". Lawrence was born in Marshal, Texas, on August 19, 1926, to Hayes Robinson, Sr., and Annie Caroline Bush. He was one of four children. He attended Central High School there. Lawrence's life became joyful after overcoming a great many personal challenges: petty theft, alcoholism and repeated incarceration. He served honorably in the U.S Merchant Marines aboard a ship in the South Pacific in the 1940s. After his honorable discharge in 1945, he began a fifty-year sojourn that included travels to San Francisco, Minnesota, North Carolina, Los Angeles, St Louis and San Diego. During that period, he married Rosaland Scott of Newbern, N.C., in 1980. They traveled across country as crafts merchants.
Following the dissolution of their fiery relationship, he made Las Vegas his permanent home. He began what he referred to as his age of appreciation, spending his last years writing his insights, photographing people and scenery, observing world politics, and listening to his favorite music -jazz. He was most known for his kindness and ability to make people laugh and see the world with a more positive outlook. I met him while he stayed in Los Angeles; introduced him to the Los Angeles-based International Black Writers and Artist group where we performed under the president, Edna Crutchfield at various middle schools and universities. I was overwhelmed by Square Biz's volume and wealth of jazz; needless to say, he was an avid jazz lover; he was a historian and former performing jazz musician and singer and a consummate poet, spoken word banging artist. Needless to say, when thoughts came to him, he would write his thoughts on whatever paper was available, scraps of toilet paper, napkins, casino tickets or scraps of paper picked off the streets. His prized and signature poem, Intelligence is among the collection catalogued in the Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library, Ripley's Believe It or Not, and has been displayed across the country. His final years were spent with his true soul mate, writing partner and biographer, "CoCo", Parker Philpot of Las Vegas, Nv. In closing, I will post Square Biz's signature poem Intelligence, a poem he said no other poet had ever attempted to write; I believe him because I've researched it. His truth/observation is intact.



INTELLIGENCE

The nuance that is seen
from a blank line between
any two lines of eloquence;

be it ever so small,
if it rings true at all,
what else is INTELLIGENCE?

Cerebral seasoning; the power of
reasoning from logical evidence;
correcting confusion, and knowing
illusion; - is not this INTELLIGENCE?

Meandering visions, affecting
decisions, - man's VERY FIRST
LINE OF DEFENSE?

The only REAL TRACTION FOR WISDOM
IN ACTION is also INTELLIGENCE.

Copyright 1972 - Lawrence Robinson

MTHN

I've been asked several times to explain what is meant by listing my occupation as MTHN.
Were I to divulge that information, I would be violating a well-kept secret and practice known to only a few hundred people. The consequences of revealing said occupation would cause me and others of my ilk serious harm and death. Chronologically, I am seventy-one years young; and am becoming younger as I age. No, I haven't discovered the Fountain of Youth. You'll not find The Wandering Jew. Are you asking, "Then, what is the purpose/reason for this blog?" You will know the answer in quick or due time. Before I proceed, let me say that the few hundred people who've achieved the occupational status of MTHN, some deceased or disabled, boast the distinction of having an appellation shared by no one else. Yes, I am the only Mongo Kalahari Taribubu in the world. Twelve plus years was a long time to remain steadfast in a discipline that would offer limited personal freedom, leisure and comfort, but the learning process, along with some disappointments, intermingled with rays of encouragement made it worthwhile; giving the experience deeper meaning to the twinship of agony and ecstasy. Sometimes cushioned people want to leave the couch of expectation and step into unscathed territories, swim with dolphins, soar with eagles and tempt the sun. I was allowed to do just that after my initiation into MTHN. One goal of being an MTHN is to bring about positive change in the world by changing one person's attitude about human emergence, purpose and limited power when it comes to forces far greater than our own. Throughout the centuries, great entities, avatars, braving human flesh and form have visited this world to spread various doctrines (some detrimental to the well-being of the human race). AS A STUDENT, I leave you with this riddle: You, too, can become a disciple of MTHN without twelve years of rigorous, dedicated study by understanding the power embodied in the reverse of MTHN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With me
There is no "I"
No "mine"
There is nothing.
All inner desires
have melted away.
Whatever I do,
I do nothing.
My mind has stopped working,
It has simply melted away,
and with it
dreams and delusions
and dullness.
And for what I have become,
There is no Name,
no "I" no "Mine"
no "Me"

(Ashtavakra Gita 17:19:20)

To be continued.

The Genesis of Penitentiary Poem

When hearing my signature poem, Penitentiary, most people come to the conclusion that it was written during a time of my incarceration. But not is the case. Initially, the poem was titled, I Am Alcohol. A friend and member of an AA group and the editor of its monthly newsletter asked if I would submit a poem about alcohol. I did. And the poem was a hit with the readers; a few of them shared their comments on the editorial page. An inmate with a subscription to the newsletter ask if it was possible for me to write a poem with the twist on a Penitentiary or prison setting. I complied, and it was well received. On the written page, the poem did not measure up to academic standards, but presented vocally, its power was overwhelming. Or course, with my training in elocution and other literary techniques, Penitentiary was often requested when I attended poetry venues in the mid-sixties. Over the years, to this day, I found different ways to deliver the poem in order to keep its freshness and ensure its universality. Too, it has been recorded several times by different media artists. I have used props such as chairs being kicked over, tables being pounded and rocks broken with sledge hammers. The most memorable recitations, to my regret, was not captured on video or camera as I collared a heckler and took him to the floor as I screamed, I'm in command, and the other time, when in a circle of the round at Al's bar, eyeballed one of the listener and said, Push me Punk and be DOOMED!. The guy took it as a personal affront and said he wanted to punch me out. But I was ready for the confrontation.

Public Transportation

I live in Los Angeles, California where public transportation can be hell: overcrowded buses, dirty floors, especially when someone has spilled sodas, beer or some other liquid that sticks on the soles of ones shoes; smudged windows, inconsiderate drivers and passengers; the smell of baby poop. Some passengers talk on cell phones as if other passengers want to hear what they saying.

But there are times public transportation can be a pleasant experience, especially when the run is hourly through or pass up scaled residential areas such as Malibu, Beverly Hills, Century City or the Pacific Palisades. Of course, there are other pleasant areas outside of the ones I've mentioned. Since I rely on public transportation six to eight times a day, I've become an expert on which are the best and worst buses to take, the kind of passengers I'm likely to encounter, and the best time of day to ride. Sometimes I'm not as mindful of the bus I decide to ride. I'm out to go nowhere in particular.

And without a degree of apprehension I'll board buses I normally would not chance under any circumstances. I watch every passengers who boards: individuals, couples; the aware and clueless, the good, the bad, the ugly, the clean and the unclean, and the few extraterrestrials. But, of course, I jest. I ride to observe - not judge, knowing that even I'm being watched and recorded. I follow the rules posted at the front and sides of the bus: No Smoking, eating and drinking, radio silent, please exit at rear door, priority seating for seniors and disabled, pull cord for next stop. Regardless, people drink and eat, play radios at a disturbing volume And the odor of pizza and other foods, sweat, urine, soiled clothes, bodies overly perfumed, and inundates the unventilated bus. Priority seating for seniors and disabled are occupied by under-age children whose fare's not required and young adults who care less for the elderly person with cane or walker.

People cough without covering mouth, spit on the floor. Some passengers hold a hand over mouth and nose. Sometimes a passenger moves to open several windows. I observe. Seemingly, the front of the bus is packed with people who's clueless that the back is full of room. I wonder who these people are, where are they from? Thank, God, not where I'm from! Sometimes a driver will say, "Please, move to the back of the bus so others can board." Most are unresponsive. They can not hear or refuse to because of earphones plugged in ears, listening to music or busy blabbing on cell phones.

I do my best to negotiate pass backpacks, luggage and feet blocking the narrow aisle so as not to offend someone I should be offended by. I notice four, five, six people pulling the cord for the next stop, unaware that the cord has been pulled. Again, I wonder, who are these people? Can they see? Can they read? Can they hear? The bus comes to the stop and a few people exit from the back door as others shove through a throng of people trying to board. Thank God, they're not in cars on the highway or freeway or overland streets. What would happen with such unawareness.

I'm going somewhere, nowhere in particular, just riding, destination unknown, observing the behavior of passengers. I take note of drivers, his or her demeanor, one who's heavy on the horn, brakes, courteous, etc,. When on the bus, if possible, I take a seat by the window, two rows back from the priority seating in order to see if a wheelchair wants to board. I see the women with her seeing-eye dog. She boards. Wow! The driver has to demand two reluctant and indignant-looking passengers to give up their seats.

Boarding a bus is another problem at some bus stops: a person stands, keeping others from boarding, blocking door, while asking the driver questions or getting to the cash box and fumbling for change or a bus pass in a stuffed purse or some unknown pocket. And there are the attempted fare invaders who boards, ignoring the driver or depositing a few pennies in the fare box and proceed to seat themselves. Some drivers ignore the escapade while on occasion others will not move the bus, threaten to call the police, as some passengers scream at the culprit(s) to pay or get off. Sometimes a passenger will volunteer the fare in order to diffuse the stand-off. But, here is a lesson learned: this guy boards a bus, asking passengers for fare so he can go see his mother in the hospital. A sympathetic passenger gives it to him, but instead of depositing it in the fare box, he darts off the bus. Overall, I like public transportation because it's a nice way to joyride.

To be continued in my upcoming book. Within every story is another story!!!

AMERICA'S LEAST WANTED

A few friends suggested that I should start blogging. I'm reluctant do so because writing is not my forte. Too, I have a poor grasp of the English language. My grammar is faulty, punctuation, spelling even worse; and I'm unable to construct more than simple sentences. Poetry is different: I'm able to use language in such a way, albeit, incorrect, and claim poetic license. But, too, I don't consider myself a poet. I fancy being a dramatic enunciator.however, I will try blogging in a few days, but be forewarned, I've placed a two thousand word limit on what I'll write, and I won't do a word count. Instead I'll rely strictly on my instincts. I truly feel that whatever I write will not be important or make a difference by influencing opinion of those who'll read my blogs; will not come away with a charged enlightenment. As the title states this is an attempt to say as few words as possible. Read between the lines recognise who's the least wanted in your life. We're familiar with America's Most Wanted, a popular television program, detailing serious crimes by criminals on the run, wanted for unanswered crimes committed in anger, passion or outright stupidity. AMW spotlights felons and seek justice for those who have been victimized. Justice is a Janus-faced entity:an institutional retribution encoded in self-serving laws of humankind; the other face, a spiritual force of recycled deeds known as Karma. But, back to the point, who is America's least wanted: simply, the homeless ( and to some extent), homeless enablers. Los Angeles, California has been given the designation, Homeless Capital of America. On any given night you'll see homeless people sleeping in doorways, alleys, tents, cars and vans; some with shopping carts, duffel bags and/or backpacks filled with worldly possessions. Individual men, women, children and families without a support system because of billions of dollars shipped throughout the world to pre-empt the childhood of exploited children, and bolster the wealth of tyrants. Homelessness has became a crime in too many American cities, and homeless enablers have become victim of legislative edits enforced by robotized police. Who are the homeless? Why are they America's least wanted? What are the stats? We have the tendency to lump the homeless in one category: We fail to see there are homeless people whose condition is resultant from loosing employment (one paycheck away); veterans, alcoholics or those unable to pay and get treatment for psychological maladies. People labor under the impression that most homeless people are drug addicts, alcoholics, ex-convicts and deviates of some kind. My mind's eye, seeing the Buddha, leaving behind his wealth and status and Christ, feeding five thousand with five loaves of bread and two fish, blows me away. America's least wanted! Shame, shame, shame!

To be continued in my upcoming book. Within every story is another story!!!

This is better expressed in an article written by Jeff Dietrich appearing in the Los Angeles Times, Monday, August 8, 20011, entitled Home sweet shopping cart. Or go to lacatholicworker.org