On my soapbox

Despite my daughter's continued warnings and unnecessary guidance, I am as woke as any man of 65 years can be. Yes there are still some edges that need to be buffed out, but I'm a work in progress.

It should also be noted that I don't mind being called woke. It's not the insult many Red Hats seem to think it is. It simply means I am empathetic and have enough human decency in me to be able to recognize what life must be life in shoes other than my own size 11, triple E. 

That's right, I have fat feet.

With that preface out of the way, I'm going to say I'm not a fan of the encampments. They are all over Los Angeles. And don't seem to be subsiding. They're an eyesore. They're the scene of many fires. And I wouldn't go stepping near one, lest I get some post-digested bean burrito on the soles of my shoes. 

I'm also not a fan of being painted as some kind of heartless monster because I'd like to see the encampments gone. I understand the people who live like this need help. That they have fallen on hard times. And that the state needs to provide a safety net. 

The disconnect, for me, is that our leaders have failed miserably to solve this problem. 

With the outbreak of Covid in 2020, the Chinese government built fully functional hospitals in 10 days. In the US it takes ten days to get an ordinance proofread and put on the ballot. Followed by months of discussion. Years of circling back. And followed again by a new administration doing its best to undo the work of the previous administration.

I know democracy can be messy but the inaction (on so many fronts) is simply exasperating. It makes the machinations of an ad agency -- internal or external -- feel like a well-oiled performance engine.

As of late, and because I've been doing more bike riding along the beach, I've noticed there are more and more of these encampments popping up on the sand. 

How and why this is happening is particularly vexxing. 

If I may digress.

In 1979, my first summer in Southern California, I found myself heading up to Zuma Beach for a Saturday of surreptitious drinking and weed smoking with my friend Jim (RIP) and my new colleague from the Good Earth restaurant, Pete. 

Neither of us had cars, as we were living hand-to-mouth and had been known to steal food from our employers. Pete's girlfriend, a nurse at a local ER did have a car, and reluctantly agreed to lend it to us for the day. Long story mercifully shortened, by the end of the day, Pete had managed to lose the keys to the car. 

We scurried to the nearest payphone (1979, remember) and Pete's girlfriend, already not happy with the sad company he was keeping, told him, in not so many words, to pound sand. And so we did. Literally. 

We shivered under wet towels, gritted our teeth and spent a miserable night with the Pacific just 20 yards from our frost-bitten toes.

We were awakened the next morning by bulldozers grooming the beach and Ventura County Sheriffs who angrily rousted us and divvied out substantial tickets for sleeping overnight.

I understand the apples and oranges comparison here. I also understand that our beaches are precious. And  decidedly public. Moreover, just as wealthy folks in Malibu cannot privatize and claim oceanfront property as their own, neither should the unhoused.

This, along with sexualized M&M's, are problems that desperately need solving. 

Now.