My Room in the Early 1980's

Found this in my drafts from ten years ago. This is my room, circa 1984.

Marching in Manhattan

Yesterday I participated in the Women's March in New York City.

It was amazing.

Conservative estimates put the crowd at 400,000 people. Organizers say it was closer to 600,000. Regardless, it felt like a million. It probably wasn't, but when you're packed in the streets with several hundred thousand people, you feel like the number of fellow citizens around you is immense.

I marched to support the women in my life, and countless friends and family members who feel threatened by the turn that the government is taking. The language of oppression and disenfranchisement, the threat to equality that is espoused by "leaders" who want to make the country great again when their definition of "great" and my definition of "great" are split by vast chasm of meaning.

When you're walking in the canyons of Manhattan and surrounded by fellow marchers, and you hear a distant roar, and can feel it approaching, rolling up to you in a wave of sound, you know that your one voice, when combined with others, can create an incredible noise.

I have posted several photos below that I took. I wish I had had more battery so I could take dozens more.

Voter Revolting (An Early Reminiscence)

One of my first jobs out of college was a short-lived gig with an operation called Voter Revolt. This must have been in late 1989 or 1990.

Our target was the ridiculously corrupt auto insurance industry in California. 

It was a grass roots movement of which I would have surely remembered more had I not quit after a week.

A quick web search returns results from Wikipedia which refreshes my memory and gives this anecdote some context:

In 1987, Harvey Rosenfield began to write a ballot box proposal and formed a campaign to sponsor it called Voter Revolt. The proposal turned into insurance reform Proposition 103 and promised voters a minimum 20% rollback in rates for property, auto and other kinds of insurance. It also required insurance companies to follow the state's consumer protection and civil rights laws. Voter Revolt operated on a $2.9 million budget, a fraction of the insurance industry's $63 million lobbying and advertising effort. The insurance industry, fearing they would not be able to defeat Proposition 103, launched three competing initiative measures in an attempt to confuse voters.

To bring attention to his cause, Rosenfield used grassroots publicity stunts like having guards accompany him while he delivered the signatures that put Proposition 103 on the ballot. As well, he attempted to deliver truckloads of cow manure to the headquarters Farmers Insurance of Los Angeles. Rosenfield often referred to insurance companies as "outlaws" during the campaign. These stunts, many 18-hour days, canvassers knocking on 1 million doors, and the high profile endorsement of his mentor, Ralph Nader, helped Voter Revolt pass the initiative in November 1988. The win was seen as a huge blow to the insurance industry. After Proposition 103 passed, Rosenfield told the Wall Street Journal that he gotten inquiries from public interest groups "in at least 30 other states expressing interest in launching Proposition 103-style initiatives."

Since then, Rosenfield, and his colleagues at Consumer Watchdog defended Proposition 103 from insurance industry attacks and ensured the proposition's implementation. In 2008, the Consumer Federation for America estimated that Proposition 103 had saved consumers over $63 billion since 1988.^[2][3] That organization updated its estimate in 2013, concluding that Proposition 103 had saved California motorists over $100 billion, an average annual savings of $345 per household, $8,625 per family. Using insurance industry data, CFA found that "between 1989 and 2010, auto insurance premiums actually dropped by 0.3%, while they rose 43.3% nationally during that period. California was the only state in the nation where prices dropped over the 22 year period."

Rosenfield opposed Proposition 17, a $16 million attempt by Mercury Insurance Group to repeal a key provision of Proposition 103 in 2010; it was defeated. The company spent another $17 million on a very similar initiative in 2012; it too was defeated. In 2012, an initiative to control health insurance costs similarly to Prop 103 received over 800,000 signatures and earned a place on the 2014 ballot.^"

  

A big part of the fundraising effort was canvassing door to door.

I recall the one night I went out with the lead canvasser. It was a chilly southern California evening. It was dark early and the tension was palpable. We were anxious because we were in a community far to the east of Pasadena-Arcadia-Monrovia, I believe it was Glendora. The consensus at the time was that the area tended to be more conservative and the going would be rough. We were soliciting contributions to the campaign.

Knocking on doors and ringing doorbells in an unfamiliar area is stressful enough. But no one likes people disturbing them at home asking for money.  I don't recall either of us succeeding and the guy I was with was a seasoned canvasser. 

Despite the lack of success, I remember him being optimistic. "When you get a contribution, it's a great feeling," I recall him telling me. He added a quip that still brings a smile to my face: "And when you get a big contribution [pause for effect], I call it a doorgasm."

I quit the next day.

Day 13 and a Little Personal History

Less than 12 hours from yesterday's ride, I was not only out and about, but rode a little more. 7.18 miles, to be exact. I'm tired, but I feel good. There's something energizing about riding at dawn and seeing the first light illuminating Manhattan:


And here's today's 4.1 mile picture:


And now for a little digression.

Last Friday, I shared with my Weight Watchers meeting what I was doing on the bike and my leader, Maggie, gave me nine "Bravo" stickers to honor the first nine days of the current journey. I've placed them on the bike for some additional inspiration.


I got the bike for my birthday in 2002, a gift from my Mom, and I started doing longer rides that fall, including the New York Century Bike Tour (I did the 35-mile route) and the Tour de Bronx. I remember people being skeptical that I could do the ride. At the time I remember being puzzled as to why.

Of course, in hindsight, this was why:


That's the best/worst "before" picture I have. In July 2003, I recall going out for a morning bike ride, dropping the kids off at their summer camp program, and heading to the subway.

I stopped and grabbed a bite for the train. I was hungry from my ride and I wanted to try this new thing they called a "McGriddle" at McDonald's (460 calories, 21 grams of fat). So much for that exercise.

That night, Melanie brought home a Weight Watchers scale, because she had ended one meeting series and needed to take it to another location. Melanie became an employee of the company after losing 65 pounds.

I stepped on the scale, expecting to see a hefty 220. I wasn't sure when I last had weighed myself, probably the doctor's office.

I couldn't believe the number that popped up. 235.6 pounds.

Impossible.

I told Melanie that the scale must be broken. She stepped on and said "Nope, it's working fine."

I started Weight Watchers on line that night, started going to meetings in August, and by March of 2004, was at my new goal weight of 179 pounds.

Of course, the journey was a bit more difficult than that, and it continues to be.

I'm currently hovering about five pounds over my goal weight after sliding back to about 200 over the winter.

The bicycle has always been a key to my weight loss success, and I am looking forward to being back at that magical 179.

Personal History Quiz: Why Do I Look So Angry?

Why does this child look so upset?

A) The Detroit Tigers had high hopes of a stellar season, and were falling significantly below those expectations, playing sub-.500 ball.

B) The Prince Valiant hairstyle

C) Those crazy 1973 kiddie rock star pants.

D) The recent resignation of President Nixon.

E) All of the Above


The Answer: As tempting as "All of the Above" may be, this photo from August 1973 captured me in a foul mood for an unknown reason. But if I had to guess, it had to be the pants. The '73 Tigers finished 3rd in the American League East, so it wasn't that terrible a year.

I wore that hairstyle for another eleven years, which effectively spared me from dating in high school.

I didn't give a fig about Nixon. Although I still remember the day he resigned, and my father telling me as we watched the news coverage ending, "Remember this day, Billy, it is a day that will go down in history". Or something similar to that.

So, let's go with the pants.

Sy Brenner Celebrates 85 Years

Over the weekend, Sy Brenner, a WWII vet, former P.O.W., and genuine hero, celebrated his 85th birthday with family and friends in San Diego.

Family members were asked to contribute a memory, a snippet of words, an anecdote for the occasion.

Dear Old Dad (aka The Ancient One, Blessed Be He) was in attendance and recounted the event here. My contribution was not going to be Billyblog'ged, but the Ancient One prompted me in his post, so I shall share. It's a personal, prosey poem, and most likely means most to those who know and love Sy Brenner, as a friend, husband, father, and grandfather (or, in this case, as a zaidi). The poem follows the photo, taken in January 11, 2007, in San Diego, with Sy and Resa, his wife of 58 years (and my bubbi, as well).

“Instant Zaidi” for Sy Brenner, on his 85^th birthday

Instant Zaidi: just add water
(Or get your dad to marry a zaidi's daughter).

When I met you, you were
Already family.
Step-uncle-in-law.
(I think. It was complicated)
When Donna married Leon,
you were promoted to Zaidi.

I became the first grandchild
at the age of 13.
You missed the cute baby phase,
the terrible twos
and all those other fun cute
adorable years.

I was a step-grandson but you
never treated me like anything
but a "full-blooded" family member.

Your kindness makes me smile.
Your jokes reminded me of
my Florida grandfather.
But I could talk about baseball
with you.
I loved coming to your house,
Hanging out, watching baseball on a big TV,

throwing a soggy tennis ball
with Mickey, listening to your stories.

Time passed, other grandchildren
entered the world. I still felt that bond,
I was the first one to call you Zaidi;
you were the first one to let me.

I never met my namesake,
Instant Zaidi, you were a worthy replacement.

I wasn't a Dodger fan when we met, Instant Zaidi,
I was a Tigers fan.
For a Padres fan, I'm sure that made me
a bit more lovable. (And you still liked
me after the '84 World Series).

As I grew into a full-fledged teenager,
you were still my Zaidi, although
trying to explain to kids in Hawaii
what a bubbi and zaidi were
proved challenging.

Coming to college in Southern California
meant I saw you even more.
So much so that I don't really remember
any Passovers from 1986 to 1997
when I wasn't at a seder with you. Thanksgivings too.

Melanie remembers
her first Thanksgiving
in the Brenner home.
A Thanksgiving food fight.
No, that’s not the right word,
Food skirmish,

Ronnie covering your head
With whipped cream
Then holding Sadie the dog up
So she could lick it off.
We rolled in the aisles.

I always remember laughter
whenever we came to visit.

Ten years ago we headed East,
And I took away
Your first great grandchildren.

To Jolee and Shayna
You have always been Zaidi
(so you were instant Zaidi
the moment they were born).

When last I saw you and Bubbi just back in January,
I was in town for some unpleasant work:
a surprise closing of an office.
But Seth drove down, picked me up
And we drove out to see you,
Popped in and surprised you.

That twinkle in your eyes
When you saw us and smiled,
canceled out the earlier events of the day.
Instantly.

We stayed and chatted for a bit
Before heading back to L.A.
I still can’t get over
How happy you were to see us:
How wonderful I felt
Knowing that the detour to see you
Was well worth the trip.
Your smile and embrace
transporting me North,
and remaining with me
on the flight home to New York.

You started off as an Instant Zaidi,
But you became just Zaidi,
Have epitomized zaidi-ness
for thirty-six years
and now you are Always Zaidi,
will always be Zaidi,
today, tomrrow
and forever.

Dating Advice No One Gave Me: Leave the Death Metal off the Résumé

Blogfan Benjie will most likely appreciate this more than anyone, but here goes anyway.

The first and foremost thrash metal band Slayer changed my life. Actually, I have always classified Slayer as "black" metal, due to their Satanic approach to metal. They are also classified as "death metal".

Oh, I can see I'm going to be proud of this post!

Let me first begin by saying this was dredged from the recesses of my mind by a post over at the music blog Jefitoblog,


who will occasionally drop a dissertation called "The Complete Idiot's Guide to (insert band name here)". These posts are among my faves of his, which help secure his spot on my sidebar as a top music blog.

I often listen/download some of the sample tracks he hosts, songs I may have never heard, or realized existed, as was the case with his guide to ZZ Top.

This week, he surprised me, as well as many of his readers, with a lengthy analysis of the band Slayer. Before one scoffs, Slayer just won the Grammy for Best Metal Performance, and are considered as one of the cornerstones of American Heavy Metal. (See guitarist Kerry King discussing the Grammy win here).

Let us rewind to the early 1980s. I was a pimply little dork who started digging metal with the purchase of Mötley Crüe's Too Fast for Love, the Scorpions' Blackout, Judas Priest's Screaming for Vengeance.

Metallica, Iron Maiden, and Anthrax soon followed.

I hung out with my pal Chris at his dad's metal record store "The Cavern" which was behind a Jack in the Box kitty-corner to the Blaisdell Arena in Honolulu.

We were exposed to all sorts of metal there. I still remember being in the Cavern when someone handed me Megadeth's Killing is My Business ... And Business is Good! and said "This is the hottest shit since sliced bread." It was the first time I ever heard that expression, and I will always associate it with the sound of Dave Mustaine's guitar.

Chris, liked the harder, darker stuff. He loved Slayer and insisted that the speed of their guitar work was unparallelled. I tried to get into Slayer, and could tolerate them on a basic level, but once I tried to grasp their lyrics, I hit a wall. I was a slightly bigger fan of the band Venom,
Slayer's just-as-satanic but less serious (at least to me) and less successful counterparts.



When I left for California in June of 1984, I had my music with me, cassettes and LPs, and I had the address of a girl I had met at a school dance in May. And I think I had her picture too.

Her name was Alicia and she was the daughter of a judge in Hawaii. And she seemed to like me, which, at the age of 16, turning 17, was quite unusual for me.

We exchanged several letters, pictures, that sort of innocent early '80s stuff dorky guys like me thought were the standard things to do. I thought I had a girlfriend and I looked forward to coming home each day from my job scooping ice cream at Thrifty Drug Store, seeing if there was a letter for me, in those barbarian pre-e-mail dark ages.

And I listened to my metal. It undoubtedly drove my father and step-mother crazy. I taught my little sister (age 3) to sing the chorus to Great White's "On Your Knees". And then there was Slayer and Venom. I was conflicted. My letters to Alicia were therapeutic. I rambled about the intricacies of metal, and the difficulty I had reconciling liking the music with my distaste for the lyrics (see Slayer's "Necrophiliac" or listen, if you dare: (mp3) via Jefitoblog). I vented. I spewed angst. I was clueless.

And somewhere, mid-summer, Alicia's letters stopped coming. Memory fails me, and I don't remember any phone conversations. It seems incomprehensible that I wouldn't have had her phone number, and that we wouldn't have spoken occasionally from across the Pacific. I don't recall any of it, if we did.



August rolled around and there were distractions enough. I was in Rancho Palos Verdes, a suburb of L.A., and there were 16 days of excitement as the world converged on the City of Angels for the Summer Olympics. I'll just gloss over the embarrassing crush I had on Mary Lou Retton.



I remember an epiphany as I mulled over the silence drifting east from the Hawaiian Islands. Maybe I shouldn't have expounded on the intricacies of satanic bands like Slayer and Venom to a girl who most likely considered "heavy metal" to be bands like Ratt and Night Ranger.

The story ends abruptly. I returned to Hawai'i with minimal expectations. Yet, I still attempted to reestablish some form of contact with what had once been a very promising candidate for Girlfriend.

Alas, I was a young, clueless lad, with a poetic streak, a passion for metal, and a bad haircut. If Alicia and I spoke upon my return to the Aloha State, the conversation has been filed away in deep memory storage, like the ark of the covenant at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.


I will defer to reader Benjie, who recalled for me a conversation he had with Alicia's mother many years later. Amazingly, despite the fact that Alicia and I had never gone out, really, I had made quite an impression. I believe the consensus was that I was too "intense" for her. An allusion was made to the music. Ben, feel free to add your spin to this sad, pathetic tale.

I can picture in my mind, a young girl of 16 or 17, in what was surely a very nice home, reading the letter in her bedroom. There would be stuffed animals on her bed. My missive makes her frown. She goes to an Episcopalian private school. My candid discussion of Slayer's song lyrics makes her uncomfortable. That night, she goes to her mother and reads her my letter. Maternal advice is dispensed. That is all. Yet the judge remembers me.

As I write this, I am listening to "Kill Again" from Slayer's Hell Awaits.


(Listen: "Kill Again" (mp3) via Jefitoblog)

I remember this track as one of my favorites. Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman's guitars shred phenomenally. There was nothing like this in 1984. It makes early Metallica sound like Easy Listening.



In the music critic Chuck Klosterman's first book Fargo Rock City, he spends a little time discussing Slayer (check this blog post here for the passage I am remembering). He was point on, in my opinion. Despite the 6 Slayer tunes on the BilliPod, I am generally not a fan. A couple years back, I was told point-blank by Shannon, a friend of mine who was raised on metal in Boston, and has seen Slayer live, that it is indisputable that the song "Raining Blood" is one of the greatest metal songs ever. It's #8 on VH1's 40 Greatest Metal Songs. (Listen: "Raining Blood" (mp3) via Jefitoblog)

He is right, I have to agree. It is one of the fastest metal songs around and despite being gruesome, lyrically, to me the lines "Raining blood/from the lacerated sky"are visually amazing.

Listening to those six tracks, I am still impressed by the raw energy of the band's guitars. I recognize their complexity and underlying melodies. I just can't get past the lyrics, although I listen to them with a different perspective now than I had when I was 17.

And say what you will about band longevity, aside from the cliche of multiple drummers, the lead singer and two guitarists, the core of the band, are still together after 26 years of redefining the metal genre.