Just when I think this is all there is to my life, I am sent a special moment. One that lifts me up, makes me feel youthful and full of possibilities.
New Orleans is approximately one and half hours from Gulfport, MS where I attended my family reunion this summer. One of the planned highlights of the event was a side trip to NOLA. Eight years ago, the family reunion was in Gulfport, MS and the same event was planned. I didn't make the trip with other family members because I was tired and thought a visit to New Orleans was too much to fit into my schedule. Through the years I have wanted to kick myself for not taking advantage of the opportunity to see this unique city before Katrina wreaked her havoc.
Now I sat excitely perched on the car seat on my way to post-Katrina New Orleans. I didn't know what to expect. But hadn't the media promised me that Bourbon Street had experienced a revival?
Cruising along the road bordering the shoreline of the Gulf of Mexico, we see BP workers sitting under a white tent clad in green neon vests. One hundred feet further down, a couple frolicks on the same beach.
Next we pass the former site of the White Cap restaurant where our family enjoyed a delightful and tasty meal eight years ago. There is nothing on the site now and I cannot erase the memory of our happy faces as we enjoyed family comraderie and gazed out the rear window onto the lanquid lapping waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Today, the restaurant has re-located further inland.
Up ahead are the fishing vesssels. Mostly white, they lie dormant, jumbled haphazardly together. Their proud livelihood has been cruelly snatched from them. No one is going fishing or booking charter tours in the oil-tainted waters.
Traveling inland, trees flanking the highway have a battered appearance. Though they have continued to blossom year after year, the foilage pattern is unique. Some of the trunks are splintered and leaves only grow at the top. Other trees are completely barren and will never bloom again.
The New Orleans skyline looms ahead. From the highway it is not remarkable and is reminiscent of most American cities. The real damage doesn't become evident until we reach the inner city. I wonder. Could this be St. Bernard Parish? After all these years, some of the houses are still terribly scarred with disfigured structures. Grass grows on rooftops with missing shingles. Blown out windows and damaged siding add to the despair.
The stark horror of the media images return. Frightened people on rooftops holding signs begging to be rescued. People wading through diseased waters frantically clutching the few possessions they have been able to save. The dead bodies lying unattended by the roadside. And who can ever forget the inhuman over-crowded chaos of the Superdome?
Then Bam!!! We are in the French Quarter. Row upon row of neatly painted facades boasting black coach lamps, white bordered windows and intricately designed black wrought-iron balconies. Horse drawn carriages resembling something out of the Cinderella fairy tale clip-clop up and down the streets. They are filled with tourists eager to explore the French Quarter.
Finally we are on Bourbon Street. What it lacks in width is made up in excitement. There are shops, bars, music, restaurants, street dancers and real life characters: a man completely covered in silver body paint, a confederate soldier, a pirate, a bird man and woman and a leprechaun to name a few.
After filling my belly with catfish and gumbo, I come out the restaurant. It is now dark and Bourbon Street is at the height of her vibrancy. I am inspired to dance. My male cousin has just completed his dance which included a couple swings around the street lamp pole in front of us. Beads rain down from above.
I do the dance my granddaughter had just taught me last night at the family reunion Mardi Gras banquet and dance. It is called "The Flex." I bend and twist, flexing my upper arm muscles. When I am done, I look up expectantly at the balcony. Sure enough, a necklace of shiny gold beads falls from above. Excitedly, I scoop them up.
Now I can't wait until the real Mardi Gras observance. By then I'll have enough nerve to dance for beads in the true Mardi Gras tradition.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
DEADLINE MURDER CHAPTER ONE (PART THREE)
After parking his car in the players' lot, he walked into the stadium and once again marveled at the modern architecture of the 500-million dollar facility, the same way he had done at every home game since the team had moved in the fall. At first, he was skeptical. But their new home had been good to them. For the first time in 50 years, the Lions were only one game away from the Super Bowl. Turning left, he went down the stairs, speaking to one of the grounds crew as he passed. He hadn't seen Damon come into the stadium yet, but told him that several members of the team were already in the locker room.
The exercise room was eerily quiet. He had expected to see Damon doing some easy strength training. Or maybe even lying on the massage table pondering the weight of the world. Soon this area would be filled with voices full of courage, hope and laughter, not to mention raunchy name-calling and horseplay. Some of the guys would be getting rubdowns, taped up for the game or taking 20-minute snoozes.
It was apparent Damon wasn't around. He needed to find his friend soon, so he could enter this afternoon's game with a positive outlook. Flipping a football in the air, Jeff mulled over his next move. He'd take a quick snooze. They'd talk as soon as his buddy arrived. To relax himself, he needed pleasant thoughts. As he lay on a massage table with a light blanket over him. he thought of the first time he saw Maria.
I
The exercise room was eerily quiet. He had expected to see Damon doing some easy strength training. Or maybe even lying on the massage table pondering the weight of the world. Soon this area would be filled with voices full of courage, hope and laughter, not to mention raunchy name-calling and horseplay. Some of the guys would be getting rubdowns, taped up for the game or taking 20-minute snoozes.
It was apparent Damon wasn't around. He needed to find his friend soon, so he could enter this afternoon's game with a positive outlook. Flipping a football in the air, Jeff mulled over his next move. He'd take a quick snooze. They'd talk as soon as his buddy arrived. To relax himself, he needed pleasant thoughts. As he lay on a massage table with a light blanket over him. he thought of the first time he saw Maria.
I
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Greening of Detroit
It was a simple act. It was a magnificent act. To paraphrase Charles Dickens from his novel "A Tale of Two Cities," 'It was the worse of times, it was the best of times.'
My daughter and I had come to Detroit's Pallister Park this early May morning to plant a commemorative tree for my stepmother. Rain was expected, but the forecast hadn't deterred the crowd of smiling eager volunteers.
I was quite surprised. Fresh from reading the morning headlines of what had been a particularly violent and depressing week. Three children killed for reasons that would never make any sense. It was enough to make you want to numb your mind, cutting off your emotions. And the national media and late-night talk show hosts continued to paint a dire image of the city or making it the butt of their tasteless jokes.
The city is like a punch drunk fighter staggering around the ring. Assailed on all sides by violence, poverty and corrupt members of city government. Like a boxer, Detroit is continually knocked down again and again. But our city is a fighter. One day the blows will be fewer and far between and Detroit will gain strength and stand tall.
But here we were standing in Pallister Park and slowly my senses began to awaken again. I was aware of the urban green space touched with morning dew. I raised my eyes and looked over the trees to the incredibly beautiful Fisher Building. Surely this park with its backdrop of tall buildings is Detroit's miniature version of New York's Central Park. Then I study the other people gathered in the park. The faces were young, old and representative of many races.
A member of The Greening of Detroit began speaking and gave a brief history of the organization that has planted over 60,000 trees, removed and cleaned debris from almost 1,400 vacant lots and has established 800 family community and school gardens providing approximately 130 tons of food. The organization was honored by the Detroit Free Press as one of the recipients of its Michigan Green Leaders Award.
Then the speaker reminded us of why we were there today. To plant a tree in memory of our loved ones or to celebrate a special event. A forester gave us step-by-step directions as she and her assistant actually planted a tree. I looked on with interest, twinged with trepidation. Could I possibly plant a tree? The most industrious thing I had ever planted were Geraniums in flower pots which adorn the front of my house. But basically I am willing to try most anything if I sense a modicum of success.
Finally we are actually ready to plant our tree. My daughter and I collect gardening gloves and shovels supplied by "The Greening of Detroit." We have noticed the people who are seasoned volunteers have bought their own.
It is soon discovered that there is a set number of trees to be planted so we must partner with someone. After looking around, we chose the couple we had briefly spoken to earlier that morning when we parked behind them. They are a young couple who volunteer regularly for Detroit tree plantings through an organization of their Birmingham, MI church.
We began digging the hole and their young daughter delights in saving the worms we have unearthed. She shows the many specimens to me before depositing them on the ground beside the hole. I am also delighted. The hole in progress not only reveals worms. There are chunks of bricks from the foundations of the homes that once occupied this urban green space. As the work continues, we are glad we have chosen this seasoned male volunteer. There are immovable chunks of stone which have to be broken up with a pick axe.
Finally the hole is dug and we measure it to ensure the proportions are correct. This is done by using the shovel handle. Now the Sweetgum tree is lowered into the hole. The burlap around its roots is unfurled and we began to pack dirt around the roots to achieve the proper upright position.
I imagine my stepmother in her time-worn black straw gardening hat assisting us. "More to the left," she instructs. "OK. Now just a little more to the right. There. That's perfect."
It has started to rain as we refill the hole with dirt and worms. We stand back and admire our work. I feel fresh air and raindrops cleansing my body. This was a healing experience for me. Planting a tree that will live long after me.
Did I do one small act to help heal the City of Detroit?
Did I do one small act to help heal the eco-system of this planet?
My daughter and I had come to Detroit's Pallister Park this early May morning to plant a commemorative tree for my stepmother. Rain was expected, but the forecast hadn't deterred the crowd of smiling eager volunteers.
I was quite surprised. Fresh from reading the morning headlines of what had been a particularly violent and depressing week. Three children killed for reasons that would never make any sense. It was enough to make you want to numb your mind, cutting off your emotions. And the national media and late-night talk show hosts continued to paint a dire image of the city or making it the butt of their tasteless jokes.
The city is like a punch drunk fighter staggering around the ring. Assailed on all sides by violence, poverty and corrupt members of city government. Like a boxer, Detroit is continually knocked down again and again. But our city is a fighter. One day the blows will be fewer and far between and Detroit will gain strength and stand tall.
But here we were standing in Pallister Park and slowly my senses began to awaken again. I was aware of the urban green space touched with morning dew. I raised my eyes and looked over the trees to the incredibly beautiful Fisher Building. Surely this park with its backdrop of tall buildings is Detroit's miniature version of New York's Central Park. Then I study the other people gathered in the park. The faces were young, old and representative of many races.
A member of The Greening of Detroit began speaking and gave a brief history of the organization that has planted over 60,000 trees, removed and cleaned debris from almost 1,400 vacant lots and has established 800 family community and school gardens providing approximately 130 tons of food. The organization was honored by the Detroit Free Press as one of the recipients of its Michigan Green Leaders Award.
Then the speaker reminded us of why we were there today. To plant a tree in memory of our loved ones or to celebrate a special event. A forester gave us step-by-step directions as she and her assistant actually planted a tree. I looked on with interest, twinged with trepidation. Could I possibly plant a tree? The most industrious thing I had ever planted were Geraniums in flower pots which adorn the front of my house. But basically I am willing to try most anything if I sense a modicum of success.
Finally we are actually ready to plant our tree. My daughter and I collect gardening gloves and shovels supplied by "The Greening of Detroit." We have noticed the people who are seasoned volunteers have bought their own.
It is soon discovered that there is a set number of trees to be planted so we must partner with someone. After looking around, we chose the couple we had briefly spoken to earlier that morning when we parked behind them. They are a young couple who volunteer regularly for Detroit tree plantings through an organization of their Birmingham, MI church.
We began digging the hole and their young daughter delights in saving the worms we have unearthed. She shows the many specimens to me before depositing them on the ground beside the hole. I am also delighted. The hole in progress not only reveals worms. There are chunks of bricks from the foundations of the homes that once occupied this urban green space. As the work continues, we are glad we have chosen this seasoned male volunteer. There are immovable chunks of stone which have to be broken up with a pick axe.
Finally the hole is dug and we measure it to ensure the proportions are correct. This is done by using the shovel handle. Now the Sweetgum tree is lowered into the hole. The burlap around its roots is unfurled and we began to pack dirt around the roots to achieve the proper upright position.
I imagine my stepmother in her time-worn black straw gardening hat assisting us. "More to the left," she instructs. "OK. Now just a little more to the right. There. That's perfect."
It has started to rain as we refill the hole with dirt and worms. We stand back and admire our work. I feel fresh air and raindrops cleansing my body. This was a healing experience for me. Planting a tree that will live long after me.
Did I do one small act to help heal the City of Detroit?
Did I do one small act to help heal the eco-system of this planet?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Why I Love Me Some Anderson Cooper
This is my first installment on people I admire. I cannot and would not like to emulate every aspect of their lives. So I hope I am astute and intelligent enough to chose the ones that will help me lead a better life.
Rod Hairston, in his book "Are You Up For The Challenge?" states: "We all have a different cast of roles for our own life, so we need to emulate different people. Figure out everything in your life that you want and the roles you have to play in order to bring those elements into your life."
OK. When you look at Anderson, you are immediately aware of his patrician good looks. The silver hair and the icy blue eyes that can transfix you as they thoughtfully focus. And being from the Vanderbilt lineage, he's practically American royalty, and his globe trotting adventures routinely land him in still yet another country experiencing a fresh crisis.
"What most people are running away from, I am running towards." Surely this is one of Anderson's most remarkable statements.
And yes, I would like an equivalent of Anderson's job. He has a smorgasbord of program content and is equally adept at each one. Whether he is broadcasting from a far-flung country suffering a disaster where he skillfully guides his audience to also experience the suffering of the people involved. Or extolling the pros and cons of the political arena, interviewing a celebrity or covering world news. He also does thought provoking pieces, such as the study of Children's Racial Biases. Something that has been around for years, but rarely has had such a big platform and in-depth look.
The CNN news anchor asks pointed questions and seems fearless as he verbally jousts with his guests.
I am on the outside looking in, but what I want to see is a person who has a job that is never boring and no constraints are placed on his creativity.
While Anderson's demeanor is no-nonsense as he reports serious news, he is a man of many colors. A virtual kaleidoscope. When the situation is appropriate, he can go from staid to downright goofy. Always able to poke fun at himself, he is a true wit and mimic with a great sense of humor, as evidenced from his co-hosting duties on Regis and Kathy and appearances on Jeopardy.(What happened??)
Anderson I believe your journalistic skills are unrivaled. That's why I'm not only posting this locally and globally, but interplanetary as well.
Rod Hairston, in his book "Are You Up For The Challenge?" states: "We all have a different cast of roles for our own life, so we need to emulate different people. Figure out everything in your life that you want and the roles you have to play in order to bring those elements into your life."
OK. When you look at Anderson, you are immediately aware of his patrician good looks. The silver hair and the icy blue eyes that can transfix you as they thoughtfully focus. And being from the Vanderbilt lineage, he's practically American royalty, and his globe trotting adventures routinely land him in still yet another country experiencing a fresh crisis.
"What most people are running away from, I am running towards." Surely this is one of Anderson's most remarkable statements.
And yes, I would like an equivalent of Anderson's job. He has a smorgasbord of program content and is equally adept at each one. Whether he is broadcasting from a far-flung country suffering a disaster where he skillfully guides his audience to also experience the suffering of the people involved. Or extolling the pros and cons of the political arena, interviewing a celebrity or covering world news. He also does thought provoking pieces, such as the study of Children's Racial Biases. Something that has been around for years, but rarely has had such a big platform and in-depth look.
The CNN news anchor asks pointed questions and seems fearless as he verbally jousts with his guests.
I am on the outside looking in, but what I want to see is a person who has a job that is never boring and no constraints are placed on his creativity.
While Anderson's demeanor is no-nonsense as he reports serious news, he is a man of many colors. A virtual kaleidoscope. When the situation is appropriate, he can go from staid to downright goofy. Always able to poke fun at himself, he is a true wit and mimic with a great sense of humor, as evidenced from his co-hosting duties on Regis and Kathy and appearances on Jeopardy.(What happened??)
Anderson I believe your journalistic skills are unrivaled. That's why I'm not only posting this locally and globally, but interplanetary as well.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Deadline Murder Chapter One (Part Two)
Damon eased himself to a sitting position in the steam room. He planned to stay there for twenty minutes or so, loosen up some, and let the tension drain from his body. Leaning his head back, the intense heat and the sweat pouring out of his body felt good. His troubles drifted away and he began to think about the game. Twenty-five minutes later as he prepared to leave the steam room and step into a lukewarm shower, reality set in. It was time to focus on game strategies. He gathered his towel and gripped the door handle to let himself out. It didn't move. It was locked from the outside.
Half an hour later, Jeff turned the ignition in his black Ford Explorer, eased out of the driveway of his Blooomfield Hills condo and headed south to Ford Field. At the first traffic light, he popped two painkillers into his mouth and channel-surfed on the radio until Barry White's booming romantic bass voice filled the SUV. He was singing that old Billy Joel standby "I Love You Just the Way You are." Proud of his ear-shattering state-of-the-art sound system, he began to sing along to the oldies music that he and Maria loved. Grabbing his Detroit Lions Hawaiian Blue baseball cap, Jeff pulled it low over his dark sunglasses. Soon he approached the first of the tailgaters near Eastern Market, the open-air venue where farmers sold their fresh produce. The market also housed specialty shops selling worldwide meats, foods and delicacies. He always liked to take this route, even though it was a little out of the way.
Braving the chilly air outside their SUV's, the fun-loving fans sat on lawn chairs, cooked meat on their grills and swigged beers. It was the Fourth of July in January as each one tried to outdo the other with their barbeque pits, chairs, tables and decor. As he passed them, he wanted to roll down the Explorer's window and inhale the tantalizing aroma of hot dogs, bratwurst and steak. Smacking his lips, he thought better of it. That's all he needed, to be recognized by some overzealous fans. Vigorously pulling at his arthritic right knee, he tried to rub the pain away. The pills had already reduced the pain to a dull throbbing. If he didn't have additional surgery, next year he'd be a tailgater too, he mused as Ford Field loomed ahead. The constant bumping and grinding of football sometimes elevated the pain to toothache level. And the cold weather was an additional aggravation. While the idea of retirement was scary, it also fulfilled an exciting fantasy. As a professional tailgater, he could follow his favorite teams all around the country. He already was a frequent visitor to the tailgating websites. Hell, maybe he could start one of his own.
"Hey, that's pure fantasy. Right now I'd settle for a few minutes in the steam room," he thought. "But that would have to wait until after the game." Jeff Samuels pulled his Ford Explorer into the players' parking area at Ford Field. It was noon and so cold, he could see his gray breath as he exhaled deeply after turning off the vehicle's heat. He smiled nervously as he looked around for Damon's Jeep Cherokee. It wasn't there. The POCA situation probably wasn't as bad as Damon thought, as he recalled their earlier conversation.
"Man, I just tore out of POCA headquarters. I was running faster than if a 350-pound linesman from the Minnesota Vikings was chasing me into the end zone," Damon had said excitedly just a few hours ago.
"What'd you mean, man?" Jeff had asked, perplexed by Damon's remarks.
"I had promised some of the guys in public relations that I would get them tickets for this afternoon's game. When I entered the office reception area, I overheard voices in the Board's conference room." Then he related the rest of the conversation and how Raymond Shoemaker seemed to be involved in some kind of bogus report to the stockholders, as well as the investment bankers on Wall Street.
"We'll talk about it after the game," Jeff had assured him. "Right now let's concentrate on winning. This is a big game for us."
Half an hour later, Jeff turned the ignition in his black Ford Explorer, eased out of the driveway of his Blooomfield Hills condo and headed south to Ford Field. At the first traffic light, he popped two painkillers into his mouth and channel-surfed on the radio until Barry White's booming romantic bass voice filled the SUV. He was singing that old Billy Joel standby "I Love You Just the Way You are." Proud of his ear-shattering state-of-the-art sound system, he began to sing along to the oldies music that he and Maria loved. Grabbing his Detroit Lions Hawaiian Blue baseball cap, Jeff pulled it low over his dark sunglasses. Soon he approached the first of the tailgaters near Eastern Market, the open-air venue where farmers sold their fresh produce. The market also housed specialty shops selling worldwide meats, foods and delicacies. He always liked to take this route, even though it was a little out of the way.
Braving the chilly air outside their SUV's, the fun-loving fans sat on lawn chairs, cooked meat on their grills and swigged beers. It was the Fourth of July in January as each one tried to outdo the other with their barbeque pits, chairs, tables and decor. As he passed them, he wanted to roll down the Explorer's window and inhale the tantalizing aroma of hot dogs, bratwurst and steak. Smacking his lips, he thought better of it. That's all he needed, to be recognized by some overzealous fans. Vigorously pulling at his arthritic right knee, he tried to rub the pain away. The pills had already reduced the pain to a dull throbbing. If he didn't have additional surgery, next year he'd be a tailgater too, he mused as Ford Field loomed ahead. The constant bumping and grinding of football sometimes elevated the pain to toothache level. And the cold weather was an additional aggravation. While the idea of retirement was scary, it also fulfilled an exciting fantasy. As a professional tailgater, he could follow his favorite teams all around the country. He already was a frequent visitor to the tailgating websites. Hell, maybe he could start one of his own.
"Hey, that's pure fantasy. Right now I'd settle for a few minutes in the steam room," he thought. "But that would have to wait until after the game." Jeff Samuels pulled his Ford Explorer into the players' parking area at Ford Field. It was noon and so cold, he could see his gray breath as he exhaled deeply after turning off the vehicle's heat. He smiled nervously as he looked around for Damon's Jeep Cherokee. It wasn't there. The POCA situation probably wasn't as bad as Damon thought, as he recalled their earlier conversation.
"Man, I just tore out of POCA headquarters. I was running faster than if a 350-pound linesman from the Minnesota Vikings was chasing me into the end zone," Damon had said excitedly just a few hours ago.
"What'd you mean, man?" Jeff had asked, perplexed by Damon's remarks.
"I had promised some of the guys in public relations that I would get them tickets for this afternoon's game. When I entered the office reception area, I overheard voices in the Board's conference room." Then he related the rest of the conversation and how Raymond Shoemaker seemed to be involved in some kind of bogus report to the stockholders, as well as the investment bankers on Wall Street.
"We'll talk about it after the game," Jeff had assured him. "Right now let's concentrate on winning. This is a big game for us."
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Deadline Murder - Chapter One (Part One)
"Please answer." Damon Duquesne gripped his cell phone so hard his knuckles seemed to turn white as he turned his silver Jeep Cherokee into the employees' parking area of Ford Field, Detroit's state-of-the-art football stadium. Parking, he tried the number once more. His stomach grumbled again with nervousness.
"Maria, please be there," he begged out loud. No answer. After three more futile attempts to reach her, he had to face the fact that she wasn't available.
The Lions, for the first time in 50 years, were in the division playoffs against the San Francisco 49ers. Kickoff was only six hours away. A win would send them to the Super Bowl in January. Damon Duquesne alias Double Dynamite, the Lions' star wide receiver, felt nothing like his nickname. The caramel color skin of his face had drained to an ashen gray. Once inside the stadium complex, he made his way to the exercise room. Not only did he need to quiet his usual pre-game jitters, he had to decide what to do about the alarming conversation he had overheard earlier that morning by the directors of one of the largest oil companies in the country.
That Sunday morning, he had stopped by his off-season employer, the Planet Oil Corporation of America (POCA), to deliver coveted tickets to that afternoon's game. It felt good to be able to help out his co-workers in the public relations department with some free tickets to the game. Using his photo-identification card, he had quietly gained access to the empty reception area next to the Board of Director's conference room and heard loud irritated voices. He recognized several of them as key executives of the company.
"How much longer do you think you can fool our investors? We are nowhere near discovering an authentic formula for synthetic oil," said the chairman, irritably. "We can't keep the lid on this much longer."
Then there was the sound of an additional chilly voice, which he immediately recognized as belonging to Raymond Shoemaker the CEO. "Let me worry about our stockholders. Our next quarterly report won't reflect anything negative. And who knows, by next year this time, that formula could become a reality. We want our stock to hit a new high this quarter. I'll do everything in my power to make it happen. Now just relax boys!"
Another voice stated flatly with a laugh. "Oh yeah. How about 15 or 20 points worth? That would make our stock options worth a pretty penny." There was general laughter around the table with some more discussions about the stock market.
Then the voices moved down the hall in Damon's direction. Horrified, yet mesmerized by their conversation, Damon hastily left the building thinking, the very thing that had attracted Wall Street, a synthetic oil formula, was nonexistent.
Driving away from the company parking lot, he called his best friend and all-pro Lions' quarterback Jeff Samuels. Shocked, Jeff suggested Damon call Maria Hamilton, their mutual friend and sportswriter for the Detroit Free Press. The three of them could meet on Monday, their day off, and decide what to do. And also think about if they should advise Damon's girlfriend, Liberty Johnson, of this information. She was a lieutenant detective with the Detroit Police Department, Special Investigations Unit. They were pretty sure that corporate fraud was still a local crime, but then again, she could tell them if it was a federal offense rather than a local crime. They'd just have to wait and see. Now they had a game to win and that's all they could think about.
"Maria, please be there," he begged out loud. No answer. After three more futile attempts to reach her, he had to face the fact that she wasn't available.
The Lions, for the first time in 50 years, were in the division playoffs against the San Francisco 49ers. Kickoff was only six hours away. A win would send them to the Super Bowl in January. Damon Duquesne alias Double Dynamite, the Lions' star wide receiver, felt nothing like his nickname. The caramel color skin of his face had drained to an ashen gray. Once inside the stadium complex, he made his way to the exercise room. Not only did he need to quiet his usual pre-game jitters, he had to decide what to do about the alarming conversation he had overheard earlier that morning by the directors of one of the largest oil companies in the country.
That Sunday morning, he had stopped by his off-season employer, the Planet Oil Corporation of America (POCA), to deliver coveted tickets to that afternoon's game. It felt good to be able to help out his co-workers in the public relations department with some free tickets to the game. Using his photo-identification card, he had quietly gained access to the empty reception area next to the Board of Director's conference room and heard loud irritated voices. He recognized several of them as key executives of the company.
"How much longer do you think you can fool our investors? We are nowhere near discovering an authentic formula for synthetic oil," said the chairman, irritably. "We can't keep the lid on this much longer."
Then there was the sound of an additional chilly voice, which he immediately recognized as belonging to Raymond Shoemaker the CEO. "Let me worry about our stockholders. Our next quarterly report won't reflect anything negative. And who knows, by next year this time, that formula could become a reality. We want our stock to hit a new high this quarter. I'll do everything in my power to make it happen. Now just relax boys!"
Another voice stated flatly with a laugh. "Oh yeah. How about 15 or 20 points worth? That would make our stock options worth a pretty penny." There was general laughter around the table with some more discussions about the stock market.
Then the voices moved down the hall in Damon's direction. Horrified, yet mesmerized by their conversation, Damon hastily left the building thinking, the very thing that had attracted Wall Street, a synthetic oil formula, was nonexistent.
Driving away from the company parking lot, he called his best friend and all-pro Lions' quarterback Jeff Samuels. Shocked, Jeff suggested Damon call Maria Hamilton, their mutual friend and sportswriter for the Detroit Free Press. The three of them could meet on Monday, their day off, and decide what to do. And also think about if they should advise Damon's girlfriend, Liberty Johnson, of this information. She was a lieutenant detective with the Detroit Police Department, Special Investigations Unit. They were pretty sure that corporate fraud was still a local crime, but then again, she could tell them if it was a federal offense rather than a local crime. They'd just have to wait and see. Now they had a game to win and that's all they could think about.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Deadline Murder-portion of Chapter 41
By 9:30 a.m., a light rain was again falling as Jeff Samuels sat inside Starbucks waiting for Emmett Jones III to appear. As soon as he entered, Jeff motioned him over to the table located discreetly in the back of the coffee shop.
"Hope you haven't been waiting too long?" Emmett stated as he eased himself into a chair.
"Naw, man. I've just been updating myself on the March Madness college basketball tournament," Jeff said, folding the Detroit Free Press and placing it next to him on the table. "Which team looks good to you?"
"North Carolina, all the way, man. But, hey, we're two busy men so I'll come right to the point. Every year POCA has an internal audit and I'm appointed to this special auditing committee handpicked by Raymond Shoemaker. They liberally sprinkle my name around for credibility but the truth is, I never have paid the least bit of attention to the numbers being crunched around me. I was just too damn busy daydreaming about my latest female conquest or on my cell phone setting up a date for the evening. And actually, they counted on this type of lackadaisical behaviour from me this year too."
"So, that's what the meeting was about this morning?" Jeff asked.
"Yes. This was the first meeting. The internal audit begins next week. And we have the same players as last year. Except this time the game plan will be different. I plan to kick some butt and take a few names for reference also."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I think there's some extremely creative financing going on to benefit Raymond Shoemaker, and I plan to expose him."
"How are you planning to do that?" Jeff said, taking a sip of Starbucks House Blend.
"I plan to stay alert and focused and, to be involved in every aspect of the audit. This time I'm going to make copies of any suspicious transactions."
"And you'll share this with me?"
"You, the Detroit Police Department, the F.B.I., and the world. Raymond Shoemaker is going down. If we can't convict him for Damon's death, we will get him for fraud. Oh, and I've just recruited a new ally."
"Who is that?"
"Nannette Shoemaker."
"Whoa," the quarterback stated, almost choking on his coffee at the mention of Raymond's wife's name. Cautiously looking around the room, he leaned his head close to Emmett's. "Man, that's unbelievable. Are you sure she can be trusted? And have you thought about the danger you could be putting her in?"
"Do you want to catch him or not? Don't worry. I can handle Nannette."
"You're sleeping with her, aren't you?"
"No, not yet. But it's on my agenda."
"Hope you haven't been waiting too long?" Emmett stated as he eased himself into a chair.
"Naw, man. I've just been updating myself on the March Madness college basketball tournament," Jeff said, folding the Detroit Free Press and placing it next to him on the table. "Which team looks good to you?"
"North Carolina, all the way, man. But, hey, we're two busy men so I'll come right to the point. Every year POCA has an internal audit and I'm appointed to this special auditing committee handpicked by Raymond Shoemaker. They liberally sprinkle my name around for credibility but the truth is, I never have paid the least bit of attention to the numbers being crunched around me. I was just too damn busy daydreaming about my latest female conquest or on my cell phone setting up a date for the evening. And actually, they counted on this type of lackadaisical behaviour from me this year too."
"So, that's what the meeting was about this morning?" Jeff asked.
"Yes. This was the first meeting. The internal audit begins next week. And we have the same players as last year. Except this time the game plan will be different. I plan to kick some butt and take a few names for reference also."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I think there's some extremely creative financing going on to benefit Raymond Shoemaker, and I plan to expose him."
"How are you planning to do that?" Jeff said, taking a sip of Starbucks House Blend.
"I plan to stay alert and focused and, to be involved in every aspect of the audit. This time I'm going to make copies of any suspicious transactions."
"And you'll share this with me?"
"You, the Detroit Police Department, the F.B.I., and the world. Raymond Shoemaker is going down. If we can't convict him for Damon's death, we will get him for fraud. Oh, and I've just recruited a new ally."
"Who is that?"
"Nannette Shoemaker."
"Whoa," the quarterback stated, almost choking on his coffee at the mention of Raymond's wife's name. Cautiously looking around the room, he leaned his head close to Emmett's. "Man, that's unbelievable. Are you sure she can be trusted? And have you thought about the danger you could be putting her in?"
"Do you want to catch him or not? Don't worry. I can handle Nannette."
"You're sleeping with her, aren't you?"
"No, not yet. But it's on my agenda."
Why I Love Me Some Sweet Sixteen(March Madness)
OK. So here are my picks for the Final Four. Cornell, Kansas, Kentucky and Kansas State.
Well actually these were President Obama's picks, and unlike last year, he wasn't right on the money. Not even close.
The Final Four are Michigan State, Butler, West Virginia and Duke. I don't know much about most of the teams that made the Sweet Sixteen bracket, but I do know two. My homegrown Oakland Grizzlies lost early on to the Pitt Panthers. The Grizzlies must be applauded for their Herculean efforts.
And let's talk about the Michigan State Spartans. This is their second consecutive trip to the Final Four despite collective doubt from basketball seers and debilitating injuries and they have participated in March Madness six times over the last 13 seasons.
Point guard Kalin Lucas tore his Achilles tendon and cannot participate in the final games. He has passed the baton to Korie Lucious.
Instead of adopting a "Woe is me" attitude, Tom Izzo's team is out to prove they have the fortitude and talent to win it all.
The Spartan games have been entertaining nail-biters. Stadiums that hosted the March Madness games were filled with fans transfixed by joy. Their faces held such a radiance, they appeared years younger. And their bodies were so energized it took them on a natural high.
You know what. Just for four quarters, I would like to look years younger and be on a natural high.
GO SPARTANS
Well actually these were President Obama's picks, and unlike last year, he wasn't right on the money. Not even close.
The Final Four are Michigan State, Butler, West Virginia and Duke. I don't know much about most of the teams that made the Sweet Sixteen bracket, but I do know two. My homegrown Oakland Grizzlies lost early on to the Pitt Panthers. The Grizzlies must be applauded for their Herculean efforts.
And let's talk about the Michigan State Spartans. This is their second consecutive trip to the Final Four despite collective doubt from basketball seers and debilitating injuries and they have participated in March Madness six times over the last 13 seasons.
Point guard Kalin Lucas tore his Achilles tendon and cannot participate in the final games. He has passed the baton to Korie Lucious.
Instead of adopting a "Woe is me" attitude, Tom Izzo's team is out to prove they have the fortitude and talent to win it all.
The Spartan games have been entertaining nail-biters. Stadiums that hosted the March Madness games were filled with fans transfixed by joy. Their faces held such a radiance, they appeared years younger. And their bodies were so energized it took them on a natural high.
You know what. Just for four quarters, I would like to look years younger and be on a natural high.
GO SPARTANS
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Synopsis of my novel Deadline Murder
Maria Hamilton feels lucky to have achieved her lifelong dream of becoming a sports reporter for a major big city newspaper. Now, life is even better. Jeff Samuels, the handsome quarterback of the Detroit Lions, has won her heart, after saving her from an extremely embarrassing moment in the team's locker room. Maria doesn't want to be categorized as just another adoring sports fan. While Jeff eagerly pursues her, she sets her own timetable of seduction, hoping to make herself unforgettable. She begins by coyly having him read to her as she relaxes in a perfumed bubble bath. A fascinated Jeff enthusiastically participates, hoping she will eventually invite him to join her in the tub. When Damon Duquesne, Jeff's best friend and team wide-receiver, is murdered the day of the division play-off game against the San Francisco 49ers; the days of fun and games had been left far behind. They were now replaced with genuine displays of love, support and comfort. To solve this unthinkable crime, Maria enlists the help of Liberty Johnson, Damon's Detroit police lieutenant girlfriend and Donato Benitez, vice-president of chemical research at the Planet Oil Corporation of America (POCA), where both athletes were employed in the off-season. Raymond Shoemaker, the corporation's CEO, is desperately trying to "Go Green." He ruthlessly searches for an elusive synthetic oil formula, to capitalize on the nation's gas crisis.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Detroit Lion coach Jim Schwartz nervously paced his Ford Field office waiting for his cell phone to ring. The shrill sound of the ring tone was music to his ears. He immediately sat down, hoping this was his highly anitipated and important call. A call which for all intents and purposes would change his life.
The voice on the other end had both the cadence of a Baptist preacher and the timbre of a Harvard professor.
"This is Barack Obama."
"Yes." Coach Schwartz tentatively acknowleged.
"I have just signed the NFL Stimulus Bill. It is effective tomorrow."
The Lion Coach's heart beat uncontrollaby. Now the possibilites were endless. The bill he had virtually single-handedly created and lobbied for was now a law. A bill created because of astute foresight and not desparation. The eight lowest ranking teams in the NFL National and American conferences would have a choice of drafting an outstanding Big 10 college athlete. The chosen player would participate in one game only.
Coach Schwartz knew he needed to move quickly to secure the athlete of his dreams. Even though the critics unanimously agreed the Lions lacked defense, he was going with a QB. Feeling a twinge of guilt as he remembered Matthew Stafford's herioc efforts against the Cleveland Browns, he forged ahead. The ultimate goal was to post another win this season. His choice was Terrelle Pryor of the Ohio State Buckeyes, who had a great passing and running game and whose team was going to the Rose Bowl(they won this game earlier this evening.) And Terrelle should feel a sense of loyalty since he had almost had Michigan ties.
"Mr. President, do the college coaches know the NFL Stimuls Bill will be in effect tomorrow?"
"They will know as soon as I end this call. They're next on my list. You're my first call because I'd really like to see the Lions win one more game this season."
Coach Schwartz listened intently for the excitement in Terrelle Pryor's voice as he relayed the astoundingly good news. Pryor would be the first college QB to lead a NFL team to victory.
There was silence on the other end. Was it profound joy or total shock?
"You are aware of the new NFL Stimulus Bill?"
"A.......yeah," the Buckeye QB hedged. "I just didn't think anyone would call so soon."
"I'll bet," the Lion's Coach thought. Pryor was probably holding out for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Not only were they his hometown team, they also had injury prone QB's in Ben Roethlisberger and one of Terrelle's mentors, Charlie Batch. "I have first choice and it's you. It's pretty much a done deal."
On game day, each time the Lion's newly acquired QB caught a glimpse of himself in his new uniform, he was startled. The monotony of the Lion's blue and silver could have the ability to lull him to sleep. In contrast, the red hot color of the Ohio State Buckeyes created a fire in his belly.
Because he was fiercely competitive and recognized he was the initial experiment in the newly legislated NFL Stimulus Bill, he would make both President Obama and Coach Schwartz proud.
On game day, Terrelle Pryor burst from the Ford Field tunnel and never looked back as he helped lead the Detroit Lions to a much needed victory.
This article was written approx. two weeks before the Super Bowl.
The voice on the other end had both the cadence of a Baptist preacher and the timbre of a Harvard professor.
"This is Barack Obama."
"Yes." Coach Schwartz tentatively acknowleged.
"I have just signed the NFL Stimulus Bill. It is effective tomorrow."
The Lion Coach's heart beat uncontrollaby. Now the possibilites were endless. The bill he had virtually single-handedly created and lobbied for was now a law. A bill created because of astute foresight and not desparation. The eight lowest ranking teams in the NFL National and American conferences would have a choice of drafting an outstanding Big 10 college athlete. The chosen player would participate in one game only.
Coach Schwartz knew he needed to move quickly to secure the athlete of his dreams. Even though the critics unanimously agreed the Lions lacked defense, he was going with a QB. Feeling a twinge of guilt as he remembered Matthew Stafford's herioc efforts against the Cleveland Browns, he forged ahead. The ultimate goal was to post another win this season. His choice was Terrelle Pryor of the Ohio State Buckeyes, who had a great passing and running game and whose team was going to the Rose Bowl(they won this game earlier this evening.) And Terrelle should feel a sense of loyalty since he had almost had Michigan ties.
"Mr. President, do the college coaches know the NFL Stimuls Bill will be in effect tomorrow?"
"They will know as soon as I end this call. They're next on my list. You're my first call because I'd really like to see the Lions win one more game this season."
Coach Schwartz listened intently for the excitement in Terrelle Pryor's voice as he relayed the astoundingly good news. Pryor would be the first college QB to lead a NFL team to victory.
There was silence on the other end. Was it profound joy or total shock?
"You are aware of the new NFL Stimulus Bill?"
"A.......yeah," the Buckeye QB hedged. "I just didn't think anyone would call so soon."
"I'll bet," the Lion's Coach thought. Pryor was probably holding out for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Not only were they his hometown team, they also had injury prone QB's in Ben Roethlisberger and one of Terrelle's mentors, Charlie Batch. "I have first choice and it's you. It's pretty much a done deal."
On game day, each time the Lion's newly acquired QB caught a glimpse of himself in his new uniform, he was startled. The monotony of the Lion's blue and silver could have the ability to lull him to sleep. In contrast, the red hot color of the Ohio State Buckeyes created a fire in his belly.
Because he was fiercely competitive and recognized he was the initial experiment in the newly legislated NFL Stimulus Bill, he would make both President Obama and Coach Schwartz proud.
On game day, Terrelle Pryor burst from the Ford Field tunnel and never looked back as he helped lead the Detroit Lions to a much needed victory.
This article was written approx. two weeks before the Super Bowl.
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