Category Archives: California

LOS ANGELES: Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately at MacArthur Park.

So the sad passing at 63 of Donna Summer sent me scurrying to her version of “MacArthur Park” (youtube version) — with its classic “cake out in the rain” lyric, wondering what that lyric was all about, as I’d spent my life never really considering the question.

I know I’m not alone.

Did not know that Jimmy Webb, the song’s composer, wrote it as a metaphor for a breakup of a relationship — with Susan Ronstadt, cousin of American singing icon Linda Ronstadt. Apparently, the couple used to frequent the park — this coming, I presume, in the days before the park was run by the Columbia Lil Cycos clique of 18th Street.

Moreover, the cake/rain reference is why the song has been deemed the “worst” and the “oddest” ever written. (Waylon Jennings also did a version, so it couldn’t have been that bad.) However, later in the song there’s this pressed pants metaphor for the affair that makes you imagine that Webb must have been pretty overwrought at the breakup, his imagination running into high gear: “We were pressed, in love’s hot, fevered iron like a striped pair of pants.”

Apparently the relationship also inspired Webb’s “By the Time I Get to Phoenix.”

That must have been some love affair!

Webb’s quoted as saying, “I see it as a relatively simple love song with some very sad imagery and about things passing away and never being the same again.”And then in another interview: “Those lyrics were all very real to me; there was nothing psychedelic about it to me. The cake, it was an available object. It was what I saw in the park at the birthday parties. But people have very strong reactions to the song. There’s been a lot of intellectual venom.”

Sammy Cahn called the song a “major piece of work” and compared it to Rhapsody in Blue. It was in the Top Ten twice — once in 1968, with Richard Harris’s version, then a decade later for the late Miss Summer.

Shouldn’t surprise anyone that there’s a blog, Someone Left the Cake out in the Rain.

Or a Pinterest photo collection. Or a Mardi Gras float.

Urban Dictionary says “a cake out in the rain” has come to mean an eccentric person.

So, because I know that by now you want it, here are the lyrics in full to  Jim Webb’s …

MACARTHUR PARK

Spring was never waiting for us till
it ran one step ahead
as we followed in the dance.

Between the parted pages
we were pressed,
in love’s hot, fevered iron
like a striped pair of pants.

Mac Arthur’s Park is melting in the dark
all the sweet green icing flowing down
someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
’cause it took so long to bake it
and I’ll never have that recipe again
Oh, nooo!

I recall the yellow cotton dress
foaming like a wave
on the ground beneath your knees
birds like tender babies in your hands
and the old men playing
Chinese checkers
by the trees

Mac Arthur Park’s is melting in the dark
all the sweet green icing flowing down
someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
’cause it took so long to bake it
and I’ll never have that recipe again
Oh, nooo!

There’ll be another song for me
and I will sing it
there’ll be another dream for me
someone will bring it
I will drink the wine while it is warn
and never let you catch me
looking at the sun, oh yeah
and after all the loves of my life
after all loves in my life
you’ll be the one

I will take my life into my hands
and I will use it
I will win the worship in their eyes
and I will lose it
I will have the things that I desire
and my passion flow
like rivers through the sky
oh and after all the loves in my life
after all the loves in my life
you’ll still be the one
and I’ll ask myself why.

Mac Arthur’s Park is melting in the dark
all the sweet green icing flowing down
someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
’cause it took so long to bake it
and I’ll never have that recipe again
Oh, nooo!

 

 

 

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CALIFORNIA: Immigration “bad guy”

Great story by Hector Becerra in the LAT today about “RJ Brewer,” a bad guy pro wrestler who claims to be the son of Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer, wears shorts emblazoned with SB1070 (the bill denying immigrants services in AZ), and mocks his opponents from Mexico.

 

 

 

 

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CALIFORNIA: Toothbrushes and solitary confinement

The other day, on my way out of town on vacation, I stopped by a San Bernardino County Courthouse to hear a bit of the trial of Richard Gatica.

Richard Gatica is accused of strangling his cellmate at West Valley Detention Center in Rancho Cucamonga in 2006. He then propped up the cellmate for more than a day, pretending to talk and play chess with the cellmate, and moving the corpse occasionally, so that jailers wouldn’t realize what had happened.

Gatica, who grew up in Rosemead, was already doing two life terms in prison when this happened. So prosecutors are asking for the death penalty.

I happened to catch the testimony of the psychiatrist, employed by the prison system, who examined Gatica for several hours and reviewed thousands of pages of documents about him, and concluded Gatica suffered from several kinds of mental illness.

The doctor described a childhood of apparently nonstop abuse by a sadistic mother who “was severely mentally ill, both because of addictions and because of an innate mental disease which appears to be major depression. … Mr. Gatica was, along with his younger brother, the focus of his mother’s illness and anger in that Mr. Gatica was physically and emotionally abused through much of his childhood.”

Among the mental illnesses Gatica developed was post-traumatic stress disorder.

The doctor went on to say that later, in the prison system, Gatica was incarcerated in a special housing unit, SHU, which amounts to solitary confinement, where inmates are denied human contact, often sunlight and are let out of a cell an hour a day. The SHU is reserved usually for inmates who’ve committed some crime in prison, or been part of a prison gang. Gatica lived in a SHU for a dozen years, the doctor said.

“He grew up without a father in the home and with a crazy abusive mother who was also a drug addict. There wasn’t much opportunity for Mr Gatica to learn coping skills, how to be a loving, caring person. What he learned was how to be a drug addict and a criminal. Being in the segregated housing unit only reinforced Mr Gatica’s dwelling in his internal world of disassociation and very pathological defense mechanisms.”

One of which, the doctor said, was to develop an extreme phobia to germs to the point where he would scrub his cell with a toothbrush “20 to 30 times a day or [wash] his hands 20 to 30 times a day.”

Gatica sat in his seat, dressed in a lavender shirt, a tie, black slacks, glasses, short, gelled hair — looking like a business executive and watching the very middle-class jury absorb all this.

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LOS ANGELES: Paartaaay!!!

This party story in Holmby Hills, near Westwood, reminds me of high school a bit — just on steroids.

Five hundred people showing up in half an hour, outside your home. Cell phones like cigarette lighters.

I love the woman, Ms. Newman — who overnight becomes my armchair tech philosopher.

 

 

 

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CALIFORNIA: Master pot growers

Cool story by Joe Mozingo in today’s LAT, on the master pot growers of California.

 

 

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STORYTELLING: Lives well spent

Some of the best storytelling in many papers, and certainly in the LA Times, is found in the obituaries.

Today there were two that made for great reading, and left me thinking about what it meant to have a life well spent.

Eleanor Callahan, 95, had been the wife and partner and frequent subject of photographer Harry Callahan.

Dr. Edward Shanbrom, 87, was apparently a tireless researcher on all manner of medical topics, but above all developed a detergent for cleansing blood plasma of viruses, including the HIV.

 

 

 

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PRISON: Tattooed heads of Protective Custody

I had a meeting with a parolee yesterday. I’ll omit his name, but he’s been locked up for 10 years, and was convicted in a fairly high profile gang killing.

We talked about a lot of stuff. But one thing I find very interesting is the major change in the prison system that’s been underway for a decade now: gang-associated inmates have been dropping out of gangs in droves and entering protective custody.

Used to be, protective custody was only for child molesters, ex-cops, witnesses and old men. The entire population amounted to a few hundred guys statewide. But in the last decade, gang members, from all the races, including Latinos both northern and southern, have been dropping out in the thousands. (I wrote about this a few years ago. Since then, the SNY phenomenon has continued to expand.)

Prison administrators have had to open up entire yards –800-1000 guys each — not just small wings of prisons, to house all the new PC inmates.

These are called Sensitive Needs Yards — SNYs. Most prisons in the state now have them; one prison, Mule Creek, is entirely PC. The growth population is gang members, as you can see if you ever visit them. (The heads of these guys all have well-known gangs tattooed on them: Avenues, White Fence, Florencia, etc etc. The heads make good reading. If you ever get a visit, check them out.)

Many of these guys are just older — late 30s and early 40s — and tired of the gang rat race. Many, too, are fleeing what problems they got into in “active” prison yards (for active gang members), where they may owe someone money for dope or gambling, or they’ve been greenlighted for some infraction that is real or (often) imagined by prison gang shotcallers.

This is a huge cultural change for CA’s prisons. I’ve heard stories of guys, years ago, who would rather die that “lock it up” in PC, as it was known. One fellow, greenlighted by the Mexican Mafia, walked an active yard and had the words tattooed on his chest, “I’m Still Here” and lasted a good stretch before they threw him off a tier (that’s the story I heard, anyway). Those days are gone.

Within SNYs now, though, there are new gangs sprouting — the 2-5s, the Independent Riders.

An SNY is of course a step down for a longtime gang member like this parolee, who views it all with a combination of both amusement and disdain, having spent years gang-banging on the street in what he considers to be the gang major leagues. (I can’t really go into why he ended up on an SNY.)

The SNY gangs are “starting because a lot of dudes haven’t never been nowhere,” he said, by which he meant, they haven’t been in any mainline prison population, but go right to an SNY as soon as they enter prison.

Worse, coming from a gang world where race lines were strictly obeyed and apartheid conditions rule at times, the parolee felt the new gangs “initiate anybody – whites, blacks, northerners.” (The parolee is a southerner — a southern California Latino gang member, a Sureno in prison parlance, who’ve had a decades-long war with northern California Latino gang members, Nortenos.) “You got a lot of guys that can’t respect that. I didn’t care for it at all.”

With so many guys on SNYs and active yards always on lockdown, one effect is that prison officials have taken to giving the jobs to SNY inmates, he said, who aren’t locked down so often and thus can leave their cells and do the jobs.

Tattoos, meanwhile, are all the rage on SNYs, by guys, according to the parolee, who want to look the part. “A lot of them never really hit a mainline [prison yard]. [But] now they want to portray that image on the SNY yards. Now they want to feel what they couldn’t on the outside.”

What’s more, he said, the yards now lack the order and control that prison gangs imposed. Snitching is rampant, so is gambling.

“There’s no structure. So many people are doing what they want. Somebody’s going to whack you, and nobody’s going to say anything about it. You don’t have to answer to nobody.”

Just a view from another part of the world.

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CALIFORNIA: Tough times for Stocktone

I’m sorry to see my old favorite town of Stockton going through rough financial times and moving toward declaring bankruptcy.

Things seemed to be turning around for Stockton a few years ago, when I wrote of what seemed to be its reemergence.

I was the crime reporter for the Stockton Record from 1988-92, years that were its worst, criminally speaking. Homicide records were set each year I was there. The town was awash in crack and Crips — both of which came up from LA — and Nortenos and Surenos, who were mostly homegrown. There was a schoolyard massacre in 1989 and a whole lot more.

Still, I loved the place, though not always for reasons having to do with quality of life. It was my post-graduate journalism education.

It was also a place that was daily dealing with the reality of “multi-culturalism” — a term then in vogue in universities, but often used by people who had few connections to any place where it was playing out. Stockton was a town where you’d find four kids in a car, each from a different race. It was a place where you’d hear people order a cup of coffee by saying, “I’d like a cup of coffee” and not whatever it is they were saying up in Seattle, where I moved for my next job.

Some favorite Stockton crime reporter memories:

-Interviewing a Crip named T-Tone, who asked me if I was going to portray the Crips “in a positive light.”

-Interviewing Jack Johnson, a heroin addict, in jail for burglarizing my house.

-Writing about every murder that took place in the county in 1989, finding photos for most of them, and putting it all out in a special two-part report (thanks to my editor, Bruce Spence).

-Getting a Christmas card from Gus, a member of the Nuestra Familia prison gang, in jail and accused of killing a witness in a crime, for which he was first convicted and later absolved. (At his sentencing, the judge gave him 80 years or something, and Gus said, “Why don’t you just shoot me right here?”) In the card he wrote, if memory serves, “Mr. Quinones, another year has passed and the people who killed Angel are still free to roam the streets. Merry Christmas.”

-Having a knife pulled on me by a heroin dealer at that park just north of Charter Way, just south of downtown.

-Corresponding with Danny Ray Horning, who’d dismembered a guy, then went on the lam, robbing banks through the Pacific Northwest before heading to Arizona, where he was caught. I wrote his story off those letters. Then, 20 years ago this summer, he escaped prison in Arizona and took law enforcement on a wild chase for weeks through the area around the Grand Canyon. He’s on Death Row,  last I heard.

-Learning that everyone in a county jail has a story they want to tell — and they’ll tell it quicker if you bring them cigarettes (now, sadly, not allowed).

-Dale Wagner. I learned to read gang graffiti from Dale, a gang detective who probably forgot more stuff about gangs than most others knew. Dale was a great cop — a fluent Spanish speaker. He’d been in Vietnam as a Marine, then gone into policing and was sent to Berkeley to help quell the student riots of th3 1960s, where he bopped some heads. Somehow, me, with my earring and Berkeley student background, and Dale, with his Berkeley history, got along famously.

He told me once that a gang member was shot and dying on an emergency room table. Yet the kid wouldn’t tell the doctors or investigators who shot him. (This was when Latino street gangs were famous statewide for their unwillingness to talk to cops.) Dale shows up and the guy’s going in and out of consciousness. Dale leans over him and says, Chuy, you’re dying, buddy.  Tell me who did it. The kid realizes what’s happening, rises up on the table in his last act on this earth, and takes Dale by the shirt and gives him a name. “Get him, Wagner!” he says, and lies back down and dies. (I think I have that story right.)

Anyway, these are a few of the reasons I love Stockton — perhaps not what the Chamber of Commerce would like to hear, but stories that I’ll never forget.

 

 

 

 

 

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