This is one of the most inspiring things I have ever read.

2009 Inauguration Ball Guests began arriving early. There are no place cards and no name tags. Everyone knows everyone else here. Now, there's a grand foursome - Malcolm X and Betty Shabazz sharing laughs with Martin and Coretta Scott King. Looks like Hosea Williams refused the limo again, keeping it real. And my goodness; is that Rosa Parks out there on the dance floor with A. Phillip Randolph?

Seated at a nearby table, Frederick Douglass has a captive audience in W.E.B. DuBose and Fannie Lou Hamer, and Medgar Evers has just joined them. Marian Anderson was asked to sing tonight, but she only agreed to do it if accompanied by Marvin Gaye, John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix. Look, there's Harriet Tubman. No one knows how she arrived, but there she is. And my guess is that, when the time comes, no one will see her leave.

There's Jackie Robinson swiftly making his way through the hall as the crowd parts like the Red Sea to the unmistakable sound of applause. "Run, Jackie, run!" Along the way he is embraced by Jessie Owens. Three beautiful young women arrive with their escorts – Schwerner, Goodman and Chaney. Ms. Viola Liuzzo flew in from Michigan, exclaiming, "I could not miss this."

Richard Pryor promised to be on his best behavior. "But I can’t make any guarantees for Redd Foxx and Moms Mabley," he chuckled. Joe Louis just faked a quick jab to the chin of Jack Johnson, who smiled broadly while slipping it. We saw Billy Eckstine and Nat King Cole greet Luther Van Dross. James Brown and Josh Gibson stopped at Walter Payton's table to say hello.

It made me cry, and I don't cry easy. My God, it spoke to me. My Mama is there too, and my Papi, and so are my grandparents, and probably some of yours too. I can see this scene playing out in my minds eye...

One of my ex bosses often sends me little notes with anecdotes such as these. They are incredibly wise. I wanted to share this with all of you.

Five (5) lessons about the way we treat people.

1 - First Important Lesson - Cleaning Lady.

During my second month of college, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had breezed through the questions until I read the last one: "What is the first name of the woman who cleans the school?"

Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the cleaning woman several times. She was tall, dark-haired and in her 50's, but how would I know her name?

I handed in my paper, leaving the last question blank. Just before class ended, one student asked if the last question would count toward our quiz grade.

"Absolutely, " said the professor. "In your careers, you will meet many people. All are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say "hello."

I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.

2. - Second Important Lesson - Pickup in the Rain

One night, at 11:30 p.m., an older African American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride.

Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young white man stopped to help her, generally unheard of in those conflict-filled 1960's. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxicab.

She seemed to be in a big hurry, but wrote down his address and thanked him. Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door. To his surprise, a giant console color TV was delivered to his home. A special note was attached.

It read:

"Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes, but also my spirits. Then you came along.
Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just before he passed away... God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving others."

Sincerely,

Mrs Nat King Cole.

3 - Third Important Lesson - Always remember those who serve.

In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a 10-year-old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of him.

"How much is an ice cream sundae?" he asked. "Fifty cents," replied the waitress.

The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied the coins in it.

"Well, how much is a plain dish of ice cream?" he inquired.

By now more people were waiting for a table and the waitress was growing impatient.

"Thirty-five cents," she brusquely replied.

The little boy again counted his coins.

"I'll have the plain ice cream," he said.

The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away. The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and left. When the waitress came back, she began to cry as she wiped down the table. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies..

You see, he couldn't have the sundae, because he had to have enough left to leave her a tip.

4 - Fourth Important Lesson. - The obstacle in Our Path.

In ancient times, a King had a boulder placed on a roadway. Then he hid himself and watched to see if anyone would remove the huge rock.
Some of the king's wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply walked around it. Many loudly blamed the King for not keeping the roads clear, but none did anything about getting the stone out of the way.

Then a peasant came along carrying a load of vegetables. Upon approaching the boulder, the peasant laid down his burden and tried to move the stone to the side of the road. After much pushing and straining, he finally succeeded.

After the peasant picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse lying in the road where the boulder had been. The purse contained many gold coins and a note from the King indicating that the gold was for the person who removed the boulder from the roadway. The peasant learned what many of us never understand!

Every obstacle presents an opportunity to improve our condition.

5 - Fifth Important Lesson - Giving When it Counts...

Many years ago, when I worked as a volunteer at a hospital, I got to know a little girl named Liz who was suffering from a rare & serious disease. Her only chance of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion from her 5-year old brother, who had miraculously survived the same disease and had developed the antibodies needed to combat the illness. The doctor explained the situation to her little brother, and asked the little boy if he would be willing to give his blood to his sister.

I saw him hesitate for only a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, "Yes I'll do it if it will save her." As the transfusion progressed, he lay in bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did, seeing the color returning to her cheek. Then his face grew pale and his smile faded.

He looked up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, "Will I start to die right away".

Being young, the little boy had misunderstood the doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his sister all of his blood in order to save her.

I hope these lessons provide a little extra inspiration today: "Find the Good in Everyday"... "Work like you don't need the money, love like you've never been hurt, and dance like you do when nobody's watching."

REMEMBER: Believe you will receive what you think about most, take inspired action and "Be Happy Now"!

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

Martin Luther King Jr.

Crossposted to my business blog

This.... is awesome!

Some thoughts on philosophy

"I have spent most of my life dedicated to the advance of 'people technology,' I have been blessed with incredible opportunities and taught by incredible teachers. Growing up in the mean streets of South Central Los Angeles, I learned early that, 'failure was not an option,' but I did fail, and I always had great people there to pick me up, help me dust off, and point out the lessons to be learned. I have made a lot of money in my life, but I finally have figured out that money is not a measure of success, it is only a measure of people's willingness to acknowledge that success! Today I take pride in the achievements of my children, and the opportunity that God and circumstance has given me to participate in the building of an incredible industry in Central America. The secret to Utopia's success is that in a world that seems to be mostly about making money, we are about achieving lasting results and the relationships that go along with them..."

David Anderson
President - The Utopia Group

Finally arrived in Central America tonight... I am glad I knew the finale already because otherwise I would have done an Elvis to my TV!

This

Is the most motivating movie I have ever seen.

And this scene...

other than the Gettysburg scene, is one of the most memorable in the movie. This is all about what it means to be a winner. To reach down deep inside and find that something extra... The no surrender, no retreat mentality that is what makes champions and heroes. If you have never seen Remember the Titans, go out and rent it...

If you are an athlete, it will teach you something about being a champion athlete.
If you are a business person, it will teach you about competitive drive, and what it takes to be the best.
If you are a parent, it will teach you and your kids something about appreciating differences.... Remember the Titans is a masterpiece, AND it is a little known bit of History that can teach us as much as the references to history sprinkled throughout the movie...

I am 47, have three beautiful children, a beautiful wife, an interesting and pretty successful business, and nearly a half century of living behind me...

Yeah, its all good...

You know, I truly, truly grieve for those poor young men and women who diet at VT on Monday... Their deaths are an outrage that not be comprehended by civilized human beings... I certainly dont want to belittle that loss in any way, but my God, what does it say about us as a nation when we are capable of grieving so profusely about our children, while on the other side of the world, we have created an environment so horrible as this:

4 bombs kill 164 people in Baghdad

Four large bombs exploded in mostly Shiite areas of Baghdad on Wednesday, killing at least 164 people and wounding scores — the deadliest day in the city since the start of the U.S.-Iraqi campaign to pacify the capital two months ago.

The U.S. Defense Department called it "a very bad day in Iraq."

In the deadliest of the attacks, a parked car bomb detonated in a crowd of workers at the Sadriyah market in central Baghdad, killing at least 116 people and wounding 145, said Raad Muhsin, an official at Al-Kindi Hospital where the victims were taken.

A police official confirmed the toll, speaking on condition of anonymity because he was not authorized to release the information.

Among the dead were several construction workers who had been rebuilding the mostly Shiite marketplace after a bombing destroyed many shops and killed 137 people there in February, the police official said.

The laborers typically finish work around 4 p.m. each day. One of those wounded, 28-year-old Salih Mustafa, said he was waiting for a minibus to head home when the blast went off at 4:05 p.m.

"I rushed with others to give a hand and help the victims," he said. "I saw three bodies in a wooden cart, and civilian cars were helping to transfer the victims. It was really a horrible scene."

The market is situated on a side street lined with shops and vendors selling produce, meat and other staples. It is also about 500 yards from a Sunni shrine.

About an hour earlier, a suicide car bomber crashed into an Iraqi police checkpoint at an entrance to Sadr City, the capital's biggest Shiite Muslim neighborhood and a stronghold for the militia led by radical anti-U.S. cleric Muqtada al-Sadr.

The explosion killed at least 33 people, including five Iraqi security officers, and wounded 45, police and hospital officials said.

Black smoke billowed from a jumble of at least eight incinerated vehicles that were in a jam of cars stopped at the checkpoint. Bystanders scrambled over twisted metal to drag victims from the smoldering wreckage as Iraqi guards staggered around stunned.

Earlier, a parked car exploded near a private hospital in the central neighborhood of Karradah, killing 11 people and wounding 13, police said. The blast damaged the Abdul-Majid hospital and other nearby buildings.

The fourth explosion was from a bomb left on a minibus in the central Rusafi area, area, killing four people and wounding six others, police said.

Also in Baghdad, four policemen were killed Wednesday afternoon when gunmen ambushed their patrol south of the city center, police said. Six pedestrians were wounded in the gunfire.

U.S. officials had cited a slight decrease in sectarian killings in Baghdad since the U.S.-Iraqi crackdown was launched Feb. 14. But the past week has seen several spectacular attacks on the capital, including a suicide bombing inside parliament and a powerful blast that collapsed a landmark bridge across the Tigris River.

"There have been in the past week or two, a couple of days in which the violence has really spiked. Any time that happens it concerns us but it's a little early to draw any trend-type conclusions," Defense Department spokesman Bryan Whitman said Wednesday in Washington.

"We've always said that there are going to be good days and bad days ahead. With respect to casualties, this had been a very bad day," he added.

One of my buddies called me up today out of the blue...

"Bro, I was worried about you. You have not been on MSN Messenger, Yahoo or posted to the blog. I was beginning to get seriously concerned," he said.

Not to worry folks. I have not been around much lately, but the reason has been all about life and business. Last week I spent preparing for this coming week, where I will be spending seven days in Honduras, working on my new Call Center project. I also had the opportunity to meet on Friday with a great group of guys from the U.S. who are looking to establish a outsourcing relationship here. It was a busy couple of days.

Well, I have officially retired my IBM Thinkpad T-40. I was planning on getting a new IBM Thinkpad T-60, but instead moved to Dell. I got a great deal on a Dell Precision M65, and I have to tell you, it is a beast. 2GB of High Speed Memory, Core Duo 2.33 Ghz Processor, Wifi a+b+g, Bluetooth, huge 15.4 inch display. Yeah it is a monster.

I will be leaving for Honduras on Wednesday, and have a couple of client meetings tomorrow and tuesday, so likely wont be doing much blogging over the next couple of days, but wanted to reassure those who were wondering, that I am still alive and well.

Happy New Year everyone, may God grant you a happy and prosperous 2007!

Go Trojans!

My Thoughts on the Hussien execution
Executing Saddam on a Holy Day of Islam is another boneheaded move, probably orchestrated by the administration. The man deserved the death penalty if anyone did, but after this long, it could have waited until the Haj was done. By executing him today, it is just another of rank stupidity, and will do nothing to improve the situation in Iraq. In fact, he should have been tried for all of his crimes and THEN executed.

James Brown
I'm Black and I'm proud, and you Godfather are one of the reasons for it.

Gerald Ford
You are going out the way you lived, a humble public servant. I have MUCH respect for you, and long for the days when politicians like you guided public discourse. Goodbye Mr. President, you are perhaps one of the few who leave us with a legacy void of much controversy. Oh your Nixon Pardon was controversial for sure, but it was the right thing to do. God Bless, and Rest Easy!

To my many friends in Salt Lake City, who were some of the kindest people I have ever met...

There is something REALLY wrong with the Mormon Church.

After reading this book, by one of the former wives of Brigham Young, and then going online and doing a lot of research... I am convinced that at BEST, these poor people are in REAL trouble.

Their church was founded by a scoundrel and womanizer, who apparently created the whole polygamy thing, just so he could build himself a Harem, and his work was carried on with Gusto by Brigham Young himself who had 50 wives and 57 children...

Young was perhaps the most famous polygamist of the early church. Young married some 50 women and had 57 known children. In 1856 he built the Lion House to accommodate his sizable family. This remains a Salt Lake City landmark, together with the Beehive House, another Brigham Young Family home. A contemporary of Young wrote: "It was amusing to walk by Brigham Young's big house, a long rambling building with innumerable doors. Each wife has an establishment of her own, consisting of parlor, bedroom, and a front door, the key of which she keeps in her pocket".

and apparently, according to Ann Eliza Young, did not do too much to take care of any of them, except his favorites.

And now, the Mormons are posthumously baptizing Holocaust victims AND Nazis? Man I can't WAIT till the next time a couple of the little cherub faces missionaries come to my door. I am going to ROCK their world...

When I lived in Salt Lake City briefly in 1993, I made friends with several Mormons, some of them notable, and even attended church with them. One of my best friends, a successful businessman in Northern California, was a Mormon Missionary. For several years I have had a high opinion of Mormonism, but lately that impression has been turned.

Knowledge brings to light a lot of things... I think anyone considering a conversion to Mormonism needs to arm themselves with it...

I mean, after winning this honor, all the others seem so trivial!

You need further convincing that the Web is the new Forum? It is the communal hearth arround which all of us gather. Web 2.0 is not just a catch phrase any more. The sale of You Tube to Google, the Rise of Google itself... The phenomenon of My Space... It's a new world, and indeed a new story:

But look at 2006 through a different lens and you'll see another story, one that isn't about conflict or great men. It's a story about community and collaboration on a scale never seen before. It's about the cosmic compendium of knowledge Wikipedia and the million-channel people's network YouTube and the online metropolis MySpace. It's about the many wresting power from the few and helping one another for nothing and how that will not only change the world, but also change the way the world changes.

The tool that makes this possible is the World Wide Web. Not the Web that Tim Berners-Lee hacked together (15 years ago, according to Wikipedia) as a way for scientists to share research. It's not even the overhyped dotcom Web of the late 1990s. The new Web is a very different thing. It's a tool for bringing together the small contributions of millions of people and making them matter. Silicon Valley consultants call it Web 2.0, as if it were a new version of some old software. But it's really a revolution.

And we are so ready for it. We're ready to balance our diet of predigested news with raw feeds from Baghdad and Boston and Beijing. You can learn more about how Americans live just by looking at the backgrounds of YouTube videos—those rumpled bedrooms and toy-strewn basement rec rooms—than you could from 1,000 hours of network television.

And we didn't just watch, we also worked. Like crazy. We made Facebook profiles and Second Life avatars and reviewed books at Amazon and recorded podcasts. We blogged about our candidates losing and wrote songs about getting dumped. We camcordered bombing runs and built open-source software.

Some of us are pioneers in this new world... Our friends ragged on us about our blogging, and for our personal web pages... Those same friends now quietly create their own blogs, or sign up for my space.

We have built massive repositories of information, created virtual worlds and communities, sold billions of dollars in merchandise, created candidates and helped win elections. We have faced down major media operations, and raised millions to help victims of natural disasters.

Netcitizenship has become a common ground, bringing citizens of the world closer together.

But it has also spawned some bad...

Terrorist use the internet to communicate and dispense propaganda.

Scammers from Nigeria, other parts of Africa and Europe, farm tens of thousands of emails a day, to send their ridiculous scam emails, and attempt identity theft through phishing attacks.

Hate Groups use the internet to spread their message of hate.

Scammers of every ilk use the internet as their virtual office...

It's not perfect, but perhaps that is why Time is so RIGHT. The Internet IS the new world, it is a place where all of us can participate Rich and Poor, and where access to a connected computer is all it takes to be heard. A friend of mine and fellow blogger, used to run his popular blog from Library computers... He was homeless and did not own a computer, so he logged on at his local library and contributed to the debate. He inspired me... With all the wants and needs a person in his position must have had... Having a voice in the debate was a priority. It is HIS picture that should grace the cover of time, because despite the contributions of hotchick@xxx.com, and her lingerie shows from her bedroom... It is people like my friend who has led this revolution...

So thank you Time Magazine, for acknowledging us. I have taken the liberty of preparing my cover... After all, all of us would not fit!

For taking the plunge!

Well, I did it.

I signed the formal acceptance letter from my work. In a little over a month, I'll be working in a brand-new location around Lebanon, New Hampshire. I'm getting a promotion, a significant raise, and a moving allowance. (Also that one-hundred-dollar signing bonus, but I barely count that.) It'll be a smaller facility, fewer people, but it could be a lot of fun, too.

When he messaged me last week during the middle of the USC vs. UCLA football game to ask my thoughts, his career move was not exactly at the top of my priorities... Especially since USC was losing the game at the time, but I was flattered that he would ask my opinion. It was just a bit hard to answer in the middle of a crowded bar, using my Treo Cellphone to chat with him!

Good luck Jay! Sometimes starting fresh, can be an invigorating experience, not just for the career but for life. Despite being an insane Right WInger, you are a cool guy and a good friend. I wish you much luck and success!

While Thanksgiving is not a holiday here, and most people don't celebrate it, I had a wonderful thanksgiving yesterday. Big Turkey, football, and a visit by one of my best friends...

I try to never forget to thank the allmighty for the blessings he has bestowed on me. I do this daily, but it seems appropriate to take this one day a year to share thanks with all of you. This Thanksgiving I am thankful for many things.

- For the fact that God has given me the blessing of being able to prepare a table in his honor tomorrow. It may be humble compared to the spread that will be laid out wherever the Anderson's gather in California tomorrow, but it will be ours, and I thank God for the strength that allowed me to earn the money that put it on the table. I am only too conscious that there will be many who will go hungry tomorrow.

- For the blessing of my health, that allows me to work and take care of my family.

- For the continuing survival and occasional successes of this blog, that has played such a vital role in helping me maintain my sanity, and has connected me with so many friends around the world.

- For those friends, who I hesitate to name individually... for fear I may forget someone. You know who you are, old, new, past, present and future. You also know the love and respect I have for you. I have learned over the past five years what real friendship is. I have learned to know the difference between friends of convenience and real ones.

- For my clients, who have generously given me their trust, and committed themselves to working for our mutual benefit.

- For the simple pleasures I enjoy. For the joys of living in a country where the national slogan is, "pure life..." Where people actually talk to their neighbors and a simple joy like sitting on my front porch at night and talking with one, is a much looked forward to activity.

- And last but far from least... For my family... Mari, Elsie, Apollonia, Jean and Romeo (my dog), who love me every day and give me the support that makes all the rest possible.

To all of you, who through intent or accident, end up here today, Happy Thanksgiving... I hope your day is a joyous one, and that you take a couple of minutes today to think about what you have to be thankful for...

I just received this from one of my fraternity brothers this morning... Well worth passing on! Thanks Greg for sharing.

A friend came to my dorm room just to chat while her laundry was drying. As we were chatting, two young freshman came by. One of the boys wanted to "talk" to my friend (as in date). She asked him how old they were, and both of the boys replied 18. My friend and I both laughed hysterically because we are both 22 years old. After my friend left the young men were still hanging around and he wanted to know how he could gain the interest of her. The first thing I told him to do was to pull up his pants. He asked why, then said he like saggin' his pants. I told him to come over to my computer and spell the word saggin'. Then I told him to write the word saggin' backwards. S-A-G-G-I-N N-I-G-G-A-S I told him the origin of that look was from prison. Men in prison wore their pants low when they were spoken for. The other reason their pants looked like that was because they were not allowed to have belts because prisoners were likely to try to commit suicide. We as young black people have to be the ones to effect change. We are dying. The media has made a mockery of the Black American. Even our brothers and sisters from Africa don't take us seriously. Something as simple as pulling up your pants and standing with your head high could make the biggest difference in the world's perception of us. It is time to do right by ourselves. We need to love and embrace each other. No one is going to do for us. It all comes down to perception. What people perceive, is what is reality to them. We have to change not only the media's perception of us, but we need to change the perception of ourselves. Remember all eyes are on you Black Man. All eyes are on you Black Woman. All eyes are on you Black Child. People are waiting for us to mess up. We have let not only the media, but the government and the world taint the pure essence of us. They have stripped our culture down to the point where we only believe we can become rappers and sports athletes. We are so much more. To all my black men, Its time to stand up. There are billions of Black Women who want to do nothing more than worship the ground that you walk on. We are so in love with your potential. We want to have your back, we want to love, support and cherish every ounce of your being. But with that you have to show that you are willing to be the head of our households. You have to prove yourselves worthy of our submission. We need you to be hard working...Not a hustler. We need you to seek higher education, to seek spirituality. We need you to stand! And trust us, we will have your back. We know that it gets hard, we know you get weary. Trust and believe that there is nothing that a Black Woman and a Black Man can't handle with God on their sides. To all my Black Women: It is also time for us to stand up. It is time for us to stop using our bodies as our primary form of communication. It is time to be that virtuous woman that Proverbs spoke of. We can not sit by the way side, while our men our dying by the masses. We are the epitome of Black Love. It starts within us. We need to speak with conviction to let not only our Black Men know, but the world know that we are the Mother's of this world. We are so powerful. We are so beautiful. We need to love and embrace every blessing God has given us physically emotionally and spiritually. For all My Black Children: We need to love them. We need to teach them. We need to stand up for them. We need to protect them. We need to show them that there is no "get rich quick." We need to tell them that they WILL die trying if the submit to a life of crime and deceit. We need to teach our children to that no one will love them the way we can. And being a basket ball player or a rapper is not reality, its not realistic and a small percentage of people ever make it that far. We need to teach our children that we can be better than the rappers and athletes. We can be the owners of these sports teams, we can be the CEO's of our fortune 500 companies. We need to believe in literacy. I am almost certain if we were to look back to the 1930's and 40's, the literacy rates for Black American Children are probably still the same.

I have started work on my book again:

The following is an excerpt... Please give me your feedback!

32 Days
The Story of a survivor of the Los Angeles Ghetto
By: David Scott Anderson

Introduction
I have wanted to write a book for years. Many issues have contributed to it not happening, primary among them was the discipline to simply sit down and write. Since Starting my Blog, ISOU in October of 2003, I have focused on creating the type of discipline necessary to write daily, and it has helped me in my quest. Then came the issue of topic. What do I write about? Finding a solution to that also helped me to set into motion the plan for this book. My idea was to set a timeframe, and to write whatever I wanted to write within that timeframe. The result was 32 Days of writing madness that attempts to cover some of the most interesting chapters in my own search for utopia. It is raw in some places, and names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty, but little has been left out. From the Ghetto to the streets of London to the Gentlemen's Clubs of Latin America, join me in my quest for Utopia.

Chapter One - Growing up Ghetto

There are times when I look back on my childhood and I am simply amazed that I lived through it all.
I grew up on 73rd and Hoover in Los Angeles. Fifty yards from my house, on the other side of an alley, was an abandoned house called the "Crip Shack." The Crip Shack was the birthplace and "offices," of the notorious Hoover Crips, the nastiest part of the Crip Street gang Alliance made famous in Hollywood films like "Colors."
The Story inside the Story…
'The Real Crips..."

The death of Tookie Williams got me to reminiscing about my days living under the shadow of the Crip Empire. My first memory of the rise of modern street gangs in Los Angeles was in the early 60's. One of my older sisters was a member of the Slausonettes, a predecessor to the Crips later rival, the "Bloods" who were originally called the "Brims." My earliest impressions of gangs were romantic.

My sister and her compatriots wore long leather jackets, had huge Afros and talked Black Power. They were the closest thing to Black Panthers we had at that time, and everybody knew the Black Panthers were cool! All these 'cats' used to hang out at my house and call me "'lil brother." They were hard assed, take no shit "mutha's," who were not afraid of the police, dissed white folk, and were generally cool. It was a radical time in the U.S. (The Early 60's), and our heroes wore leather coats, sported big afros, and expressed Black Power through forceful action and rage.

My first bad experience with "gangstas," came when I was in the third or fourth grade. A kid named Michael Coleman, who's big brothers were all hard core Brims, used to extort lunch money from all the other kids, including myself.

I used to hide from him when I could, and when I couldn't, I simply went hungry after turning over my $.25 lunch money. One day I mouthed off to some guys in my class that I was tired of giving Michael my lunch money and would not do it any more. It somehow got back to him and when he confronted me I told him to, "fuck himself." That resulted in a threat to, "kick my ass," after school. I don't know how I made it through the day that day, but sure enough he and half the student body were waiting for me after school.

Through sheer fear I think, I managed by all accounts to win the fight. I was warned that his Big Brother, "Fat Rat," would settle the score with me later. I told my sister about it, and for whatever reason... probably due to her intervention, I never met "Fat Rat."

By the time I got to Junior High School, the gang culture had fully evolved and I was living on 73rd and Hoover in Los Angeles.

Now anyone who knows Crip Mythology knows that the Hoover Crips, one of the most virulent of the Crip strains were headquartered in the same neighborhood. I went to school with some of the founders of the Hoovers, and some of them were even my friends. But the Hoovers were only one of the gangs that colonized Bethune Jr. High School in 1972. There were the Bounty Hunters, Acey Duce's, Pirus, Rolling 60's and a bunch of other gangs of Crip or Blood affiliation by that time. And they were constantly at war.

Once the school was shut down due to a threat of attack by one of the rival gangs. On the 6 o'clock news that day there was a report of an arms cache being discovered near the school. The cache included grenades and various automatic weapons. The school was always tense, and one had to be constantly on guard as to not to get on the bad side of one of the local gangsters.

One day I had the misfortune of doing so. His name was, "Pee Wee". He was one of the leaders of one of the school's Crip factions, and not one I knew anyone in. Pee Wee like most of his "boys," wore a style of shoes called, "biscuits." The shoes were always shined to a super high gloss. One day standing in the lunch line, I stepped on his foot. Realizing my error I turned to him to apologize. He started screaming at me, calling me names and insulting me. I knew when I opened my mouth in response, there would be hell to pay. At that point I did not care as my own pride was on the line. "Fuck your shoes," I screamed back at him. Now Pee Wee was a lot smaller than I, and I knew I could beat him in a one on one fight, but I also knew who he was and knew that there would be no, "mano a mano."

After school I was on my way home with a friend when I saw him standing on a corner with about twenty other guys. I knew I could not out run them, and that my only chance was that one of the frequent police patrols around the school would pass and break up the group. I turned to my friend and said, "Dude you aint in this... go while you still can." He did not need a second warning, he took off running in the other direction, while I continued on towards my destiny and my ass kicking. I shouted back at my friend. "Go to my house, get my big brothers." I am not sure he heard me, but there would be no Calvary that day. My friend never went to my house, and when and my brother found out what happened when he was called by the school to pick me up.

I turned into an alley a few hundred feet from where they were waiting and took off running. All I remember after that was the sound of running feet and a fist to the back of my head... then, "biscuits," a lot of them. I rolled into a fetal position and tried to protect my face and groin from the feet. When I came too a bit later, I was in a police car being taken back to the school. I told the cops who did it... Not sure why, maybe I was just too dazed to realize how potentially stupid that was. The next day I was a hero at school. A lot of people had seen me get the crap beat out of me, but apparently I had got a couple of good licks in before I went down. I honestly don't remember hitting anyone. But I think most of all those who were not gangsters were proud of me for standing up to one of them. I will never forget this really cute girl saying to me, "It took 20 of them to take you down David, you aint got nuthin' to be ashamed of." I wasn't ashamed. I was just scared and I was for a long time after that.

My second experience with the Crips came a year later, when one of Tookie's boys decided he did not like fat kids and decided to make me the object of daily abuse. He lived in some projects at the end of my block and every day I had to pass him on the way home. He would sit on the front porch of the apartment he lived in and shout insults at me every day. One day I just got tired of it. As I passed he started with the, "Hey fat boy," shit and I screamed back. "Fuck you rag head." He wore a blue Crip rag on his head. He looked surprised for a second and then picked up a bat and came off the porch. I took off running like a mad man for my house, but I was no match for him. I never saw him coming but I felt the bat as it impacted my head just above my ear. When I woke up I was staring up at my Older Brother and a bunch of folks from the block. My head was wet from the blood that came out of a small gash the bat had opened. My brother looked down at me... "Who did this..." I did not know the guys name, so I just pointed at the apartments. By that time, my attacker was gone.

I learned a very important lesson after that day... actually a couple. One, keep my mouth shut... The other... that most of the "gangstas," were cowards who away from their "homeboys," or without a weapon, were nothing. A few days after the incident, my brother, a decorated Vietnam War Veteran, took me in his car to look for my assailant. We came upon him in front of the local liquor store. I pointed him out. My brother ran the car up on the curb in front of him. Before he had a chance to run, my brother was on him. He slammed him up against the side of the building. "You see the little homie in the car?" He screamed his face just inches from my attackers. "That be my little brother. If you so much as come within 50 feet of him again Motherfucker, I will kill you and your whole family." As if to emphasize his point, my brother pulled out a hunting knife and put it to his throat. "And if you think you and your Cuz's are bad asses, you don't know me." He stuck the point of the knife in the guys earring and literally ripped if out of his ear. Then he threw him to the ground like a rag doll and straddling him he pulled a gun from his waistband. He leaned over and placed the gun on the guys forehead, chambering a round in the process. "I just got back from "Nam," motherfucker and I am not afraid to die! Are you?" The guy probably pissed his pants, but I just remember him laying there on the ground shaking violently. My Brother kicked him in the side, returned to the car and we took off. I don't know if he lived in those apartments or not. But I never saw him again. Nor did I have any gang problems again.

Those were some scary times in Los Angeles. While Tookie Williams claims that the Crips were founded originally to protect the neighborhood are debatable, the truth is that the Crips, Bloods and all their various affiliates were nothing less than a form of Mafia. They created a sense of fear in our communities that have and continue to have profound historical effects. It was street gangs that led the burning of Los Angeles after the Rodney King verdict. It was street gangs, led by Crips who introduced rock cocaine into our neighborhoods. Tookie paid today for a series of murders, but in retrospect, no man could in ten lifetimes pay for all the pain he and his compatriots caused. So NO I don't feel sorry for him at all. Every time I venture back to those times in my head. I realize that I suffered from my own imprisonment, and lethal injection... A lethal injection that killed much of the joy of childhood for me.

I went to Jr. High at Mary McLeod Bethune. A couple of my classmates were the founders of the Crips and other less notorious, but equally brutal gangs. In my last year of Jr. High, the school was evacuated on rumors of an impending shootout, and latter that day, the LAPD found enough weapons in a nearby house to arm a platoon of Army Rangers.

In the ninth grade, I was gang jumped by 20 members of the Ace Duces (A Crip Faction), and one of the lesser street gangs who populated the school. I accidentally stepped on the shoe of one of their leaders while in the cafeteria line. I was standing in line waiting for my Government Issue hot lunch, when I stepped backwards and onto the shiny new biscuits (A type of shoe popular at the time) of "Pee Wee," one of the gang leaders. Pee Wee was a short little fuck with a huge afro. Pee Wee dressed the part of the gangster at the time. Silk shirt, pleated pants, leather jacket and biscuits It was a uniform of sorts for the bangers. And even though all of us did our best to match the style, you could always tell who the real bangers were.

I knew immediately that I had fucked up, and so did every one else in the lunch line. Everyone turned around to see what was going to happen. Even though I knew at that moment that I was fucked, I could not risk coming off like a wimp. "Hey man, I am sorry about that," I mumbled. He looked at me with contempt and hatred, and replied. "Motherfucker you best to be cleaning my biscuits." Now I could have probably saved my self the requisite ass kicking at that point by kneeling down and cleaning the footprint off his shoes, but that was against ghetto code. I knew that if I cleaned his shoe, I might survive the ass kicking that day, but would forever be marked, "a bitch." The ass kicking would simply be delayed. I also knew I would not be able to live with the snickers I would get from that day on, so I signed my own ass kicking warrant at that moment and responded. "Fuck your biscuits." I dropped my tray and walked away. I missed lunch, but my major concern at that point was finding a place to hide until lunch was over.

My confrontation with Pee Wee was the talk of the school for the rest of the day. I hid out at the next break, and watched the clock with a knot in my stomach the rest of the day. I knew that at 3:00 I had an appointment with Pee Wee and his boys. When the bell rang, I hauled ass for the street with my boy Otis, who was my best friend at the time. We were halfway up the block when I saw Pee Wee. He was standing on the corner, half a block away with a small army of guys, most of whom I did not even recognize. I turned to Otis... "Bruh, this ain't your fight," I heard myself say. "Bail and see if you can find my big brother. I am gonna get my ass kicked, ain’t no need for you to get yours kicked too." Otis looked relieved as he took off running. If I was expecting the Calvary to come to my rescue, it didn't happen. My house was over a mile away, even if Otis had went looking for my Brother... Which he didn't. I ducked into an alley 20 yards from Pee Wee and his gang, hoping they did not see me in the crowd of kids leaving the school. As I turned into the alley I began to trot. Not exactly run, just kind of jog. Just as I was beginning to think I had escaped, there was a tap on my shoulder.

"Yo homeboy," I heard a voice say. "Someone is calling you." I then felt the blow. Then they converged. I don't to this day know how many there were. All I know is I was swinging wildly, not connecting very often, and they were... Big time. I remember going down in the alley, and biscuits, lots of biscuits kicking me everywhere. I rolled into a fetal ball trying to protect myself, and then I heard the siren.

I must have blacked out. The next thing I remember was being in the Vice Principals office with a couple of cops, Pee Wee and the VP.

I remember my face hurt, and so did other parts of my body. In fact, it would be easier to say what did not hurt.
I was a little nervous about coming back to school the next day, especially since I was black and blue all over, with my eye practically swollen shut. I figured best case scenario is that I would get clowned by everyone who saw me get my ass kicked in that alley. I latter found out that the audience to my ass kicking included my dear buddy Otis. To my surprise, I found out I was somewhat of a hero at school after that day. The consensus seemed to be that I had stood up to the gangsters. Even though I lost the fight, I had won respect. "Damn homeboy, you got yo assed whupped, but you went down swingin'," was a typical comment. Even the gangsters seemed to give me a little more respect after that day...

It was not easy growing up where I did. The gang culture was all around me. 73rd and Hoover was in the middle of a battle zone. Crips, Brims (Latter immortalized as Bloods in the movies), Ace Duce's and Bounty Hunters, battled amongst themselves and with the Police of the notorious 77th Division, for the streets of my neighborhood. And the cops were little more than a street gang themselves, terrorizing the neighborhood and brutalizing anyone they saw as a potential threat. 77th Division would latter become the subject of a number of criminal investigations, including planting weapons on shooting victims and falsifying arrest records. I would have my own run in with them while I lived there. More on that later.

Most of the guys who founded the Crips came from my neighborhood.

One of the original founders was a guy named Leo. Leo was a small stature, light skinned, good looking black kid, who had a lot of natural intelligence and leadership. Unfortunately, he chose to apply it to all the wrong things.
Leo was a God Father in the Crips, one of the main leaders, and for some reason he liked me. He used to send me on errands to buy him and his boys junk food. My little crew and I would be playing softball or football on the abandoned lot next to the Crip shacks and Leo would call me over. I don't think he ever knew my name. It was always, "Hey fatboy, com'ere." I would hustle over and Leo would roll off a wad of bills and send me off to the liquor store to buy him something. He would always give me a dollar for myself. And even though he joked about me being a fat kid in front of his boys, he always treated me kindly.

Leo became a major drug dealer, and in the end broke the cardinal rule of dealing. He started using his own product. I started to notice that his eyes had a glazed, faraway look, and he started to scare me. One night I was on my way home and passed the Crip Shacks to cut through the alley and head home. From the darkness of the shack I heard Leo's voice. "Hey Fatboy, come 'ere." I hesitated, but knew I had better do what he said. Leo was not the kind of guy you never wanted to piss off. I climbed up into the ruined house and looked around in the darkness. Leo was sitting in a corner smoking a joint. "Come over here kid," he said. I walked over to where he was sitting. He held the joint up to me. "You want a hit?" I shook my head no.. He laughed. "Go ahead, take a hit. It aint nothin' but weed, lil nigga. It aint gonna kill ya." I nervously took the joint, and took a feeble hit on it, not even inhaling. He laughed. "Nigga that aint no way to smoke a joint. Suck that mutha fucka!" I tried again, inhaling deeply this time. The weed burned my throat and made me feel dizzy. Leo stumbled to his feet. "That's it homey. Suck on that thang." I handed the joint back to him. He took a deep drag, and I could see that weird look in his eyes, even in the darkness. The moon shined in through the holes in the roof and walls, giving his face and eyes a weird glow.

He looked at me for a long time, taking drags on his weed. "I want you to do something for me lil' nigga," he said. I don't want you to tell nobody though. "What," I asked. He reached down and unzipped his pants. "I want you to suck my dick." I stepped back towards the hole in the wall I had come in through. "I cant do that Leo," I stuttered. "I aint no fag!" He laughed. "I know you aint no fag, fatboy. But aint nobody going to know. Just me an you... Think of all the shit I done done for you!" I was feeling panic rising in my gut. Leo had killed people. Lots of them, if the stories were to be believed. Now he was telling me to suck his dick. If I did it, I was fucked. It would be all over the block by the next day. If I didn't do it, he might just kill me. I was getting sick at the thought...

"Leo," I pleaded. "You aint no fag. You are Leo, the baddest mutha fucker in the Crips. What it gonna look like, people hear you got boys suckin' your dick." He seemed to think about this for a minute, and then as quickly as it started, it was over. He put his dick back in his pants, zipped up and laughed his ass off. "I knew you weren't no fag, lil' nigga. I just had to be sure. He reached in his pocked and peeled a twenty dollar bill off his bankroll. He handed it to me, and told me to get, "the fuck out my house." I practically ran out of that house that night. I made it a point to avoid the place for a few months after that. Then about three months latter I heard Leo had been shot dead in a drive-by. I don't know if Leo intended to rape me that night or not, I would like to think it was just a test like he said... But I will never know. I was 10 Years old at the time...

There was another Crip Founder who grew up with me too. His name was Phillip. Phillip was a super cool, laid back thinker... I never saw Phillip in a fight. While Leo was known to be a hard case and a cold blooded murderer who handled his "set," through strength and intimidation, Phillip was known as a smart leader. He rarely lost his cool, and led by the strength of his intellect, and pure charisma. Phillip and I met when my 7th grade English Teacher asked me to tutor him. We formed a friendship that would last until he was sent to jail a year latter.
Phillip was always well dressed, sharp and smooth. They used to call him a Junior Pimp, and the girls adored him. At 14, Phillip was probably getting laid more than Hugh Heffner, and he was just as cool. Phillip always called me David. He respected me, and he protected me. He was kind of like a Black version of the Fonz, and everyone knew that if you hung out with Phillip, you weren't to be fucked with. I never saw him using drugs, or even drinking. When he was around his "set," or his boys, there was no question who was in charge. Although it may sound strange considering how much I liked Phillip, I am glad he went to jail when he did. If he had not, I would have probably ended up a Crip...

I was the tenth of ten children. Most of my siblings had already grown up and left the nest when I came along.
I was the miracle baby, born when my mother was 42 years old and my father in his late 50's. I was not expected and not planned for. But I was loved... Perhaps even more than my siblings, I was loved. I was my mother's baby. Though we were poor by most people's standards, my mother did everything she could to give me the best she could offer. Other than the occasional hand me down clothes, I pretty much got what I wanted as a kid. I was spoiled. I was the baby. In return I was expected to bring home good grades, go to church on Sunday, and be a, "good boy." I fulfilled most of that obligation for my first 15 years, even joining the Boy Scouts, something that took a lot of courage in one of the most violent neighborhoods in Los Angeles. (Just walking down the street in a Scout Uniform could get you an ass kicking by the Gangsters). At the time I was trying hard to be like my war hero Brother, who I worshiped more than the God I visited on Sundays. It was my Big Brother Thomas, the Vietnam War veteran, who saved my ass the one time I did cross paths with the Thugs in Blue from 77th Street Division, LAPD.
I was selling candy for my mother's church when I was stopped by one of the police Anti-Gang units. They were called, "Team 2," and they were notorious in the ghetto at that time. I heading home after a day of selling candy door to door for my mother's church when a Team Two car pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of us. The driver called me over to the car. "Hey Fat Boy, get your black ass over here," the cop said. I was with three other friends and we all walked over to the patrol car. "What you got in the bag Nigger?" the cop asked. "I ain't no nigger, cop." I said in my most defiant "ghetto," voice. The driver opened the door of the patrol car and he and his partner stepped out. "We got us a smartass here," he said to his partner, who just shook his head. "I asked you a question boy," he said, taking his shades off as he stepped up within a foot or so of where I was standing.

My parents always admonished me to be respectful of cops and I generally was, but here this guy was harassing me when I was actually doing something good for a change. I was not going to have it. It did not help that all of us in the neighborhood had recently come under the influence of Brother Charles X, a Muslim shopkeeper who sold cookies, candy and the radical black Muslim theology of "the evils of whitey." I was in no mood to be interrogated by this, "white devil," and I figured I was in the right, so "fuck 'em." I looked the cop in the eye and answered him. "I know my rights Mr. Police officer man... I ain't done nothin' wrong. I am selling candy for my mama's church, so why don't you pigs leave me alone."

The next thing I knew I was slammed against the Police Cruiser, and being frisked. The cop took the bag with the candy, and the money I had collected that day. Listen you little fat bastard, I know you stole the candy, so we are going to confiscate it. He took the bag from my hand, and told me to move on. I stood there, not believing that a cop had just, stole, a bag of candy from a kid on the street. My friends were standing back on the curb. Bunch, one of my best buddies at the time, started ragging on me. "Yo mama gonna whup yo ass David," he said. I knew at that point that I had two options. I was either going to take an ass kicking from these two cops or from my Mama... And to be honest, I was a helluva lot more afraid of my Mama at that moment. You did not mess with my mama when it came to the church. I stepped between the cop and his car. "Look man," I said. "You are just going to have to arrest me. I know I ain't done nothing wrong. And I ain't going home without that candy and the money those people done paid me." The cop laughed. "Have it your way boy." He grabbed me by the shoulder, spun me around against the car, and slapped the cuffs on me... I was shoved roughly into the back of the police car, and whisked away, as my friends stood laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

I sat on a low bench in the police station for over an hour before my mother and her Pastor showed up at the police station. I could hear them talking to the Desk Sergeant outside the holding area. The cop was telling them how I resisted arrest and how they were going to hold me for questioning in a gang matter. No matter how much my mother pleaded and the good Reverend admonished, the Sergeant just "dissed" them. Finally I heard them leave. The Sergeant came back to see me at that point. I was cuffed to a low bench in a smelly, hot room. I guess he could tell I was afraid. "Did you really think your mama and, "Reverend Ike," were gonna get your ass out of the trouble you are in boy?" He asked me, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Now if you had just kept your mouth shut and not argued with the officers, you would be home having dinner right now." He laughed and walked out of the room. Seems like hours passed, but I am sure it wasn't that long. Suddenly, I heard my older Brother Thomas speaking to the Desk Sergeant. "You got a kid here named David Anderson?" he asked. "Who's asking," replied the desk Sergeant. "The man who came to get him out," replied my brother. "And what the fuck makes you think you are going to have any more luck than his mama, or the "Reverend Doctor Feel Good." Replied the cop.

I will never forget my Brother's reply. "Because my Mother and the Reverend did not just spend three years working for the U.S. Government killing people for a living. And because if you mother fuckers don't let my little brother go in the next five minutes, you are going to have to explain why you arrest a kid for selling candy for the church, and why you killed a decorated Vietnam Vet who just came here to get his baby brother out of jail. Cause if I leave here without David, when I come back, I am going to declare war on you mother fuckers." I heard the cop say something I could not make out, and the next thing I know, my Brother and I are in his car driving home. The bag of candy and cash were sitting on the seat between us. Fucking cops had even paid for the couple of boxes of candy they had taken from the bag. My brother never said a word on the drive home. We pulled into the driveway, he patted me on the head, leaned over me and opened the door. I wanted to say, "thank you." I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted to tell him that he was my hero. I didn't say anything. I wish I had...
That was the last run in I ever had with the cops, except for the couple times I was pulled over for moving violations... Yeah, life in the Ghetto in the 70's was a hoot... Good Times and JJ Walker didn't have shit on the Anderson family. But things would only get more interesting...

Chapter 2 - The Making of a General
I feel pretty damned lucky to have grew up at the time I did, and in Los Angeles. Like most people I guess, I occasionally struggle with whether I would change anything. I find little that I would truly change. I remember the first day I walked into Washington High School. It was a big day for me... High School, another level, a step closer to becoming an adult. Washington was a whole new world for me. My mother sent me halfway across town to go to Washington, hoping that by doing so, she would be taking me away from the influences of the gangs and gangsters in our old neighborhood. Little did she know that she was tossing me from the fat into the frying pan. Washington High School in 1975 was the capital of the Crip Empire. The school was dominated by Crips. If you were male and attended Washington High School in 1975, you were a Crip, an athlete or a victim!

I decided that my salvation lay in being an athlete. Washington High School was part of Southern League, probably one of the most powerful Basketball and Football Conferences in Los Angeles, and made up of all the Black High Schools in the City. To make the football team, there were three requisites. You had to be big, BAD and fast. I met the first two easily; the third I wasn't bad at, but I wouldn't be running track. Despite being over 200 Pounds at 15 years old, most of it was baby fat, so I suffered as the training regimen began. My first two a days were torture. Carrying around all that excess body weight and another 40 pounds of equipment was not an easy thing. And September in Los Angeles is still wicked hot. But my teammates stood by me. I learned for the first time what it was like to be part of a team. Oh I learned about Teamwork as a Boy Scout, but this was different. Scouting was playing at being a warrior. At Washington High School in 1976, if you were on the Football Team, you WERE a warrior! It was tough running laps in the stifling heat, and many times I felt like I would pass out from it, but I kept going. There were guys who ran right beside me, shouting encouragement and pulling me along when I faltered. I remember the pride I had when I mounted the bus every day for the long trek home, carrying my helmet and my Washington Generals practice jersey.

As a sophomore, I was made part of the Jr. Varsity starting team, and the Varsity backup squad. Washington had some incredible players at the time, many who would go on to play professional ball. Playing was like being in a miniature war every week, and "General Pride," was something even the gang bangers took seriously. There was a big "W," painted in the main entrance to the school, and signs everywhere said, "Don't step on the W." It was a tradition that went back to the days when the school was all white. But I doubt if the rule was enforced the same back them. In 1975, if you got caught stepping on the W, the only question was who would kick your ass, The football players or the Crips who had their own way of showing, "school pride."

Our first game was against Locke High School. It was a scrimmage and I got to play offense and defense. I outweighed most of the boys on the other side by 50 pounds, so it was with sadistic pleasure that I got to run over the smaller players as I led a power sweep running play. On defense, I was punishing. Often taking on and beating two blockers to make a tackle. We won the scrimmage 44-0.

At the same time, I got my first introduction to Fraternity Life. At Washington there were social clubs for almost any type of student. The social clubs were like fraternities, with pledge periods and initiations. One of the most popular was "The Lettermen," a social club open only to Letter winners in one of the school's athletic programs. As a football player, it was automatic that you would join The Lettermen. Through The Lettermen, I would get my first taste of what it was like to go through the humiliation of joining an exclusive club. I would learn a lot more when I went on to the University. As a Letterman candidate we marched from class to class singing, "Trying so hard, so hard, to be a Letterman, so hard, so hard to be a Letterman." There was this funky little step, or way we had to march, and as ridiculous as it sounds today, I thought it was way cool at the time. Being a Letterman initiate was cool. It was like being in a "dignified," gang, and no one fucked with you. It also worked out to be a great way to get laid. And I lost my cherry to a girl who I would give my Letterman Jacket. It happened at my Sister's house. Who lived just a few blocks from the school, and whose address I was using to attend Washington.

While I never really lived with my Sister, she gave me a key to her place, and let me stay there on those nights when practice ended late or when I was just too tired to go home. My sister loved to party, and she was often out until late with her friends. Technically I lost my cherry to one of her friends several months before, when I was sleeping on her couch and she and one of her friends came home drunk after a night of partying. My sister stumbled off to her bed to sleep it off, and her friend, one of the sexiest women I have ever know came over to the couch I was sleeping on and started messing with me. I was sleeping in my shorts in the September heat, and she reached under the covers and started fondling me. While I had never had a girl or woman touch me there, I had heard all the stories, and definitely knew what was happening. She reached under the blanket and started jerking me off. I just lay there real quiet, not knowing if should touch her or not. It did not take me long to reach climax. Hey, I was a fifteen year old being jerked off by the glamorous 30 something friend of my Sister. Think about it. When I finished, she pulled my shorts back up, kissed me on the lips and left. I saw her many times after that, and we never even spoke of what happened that night, but she would often smile at me in a knowing sort of way.

The day I officially lost my cherry was a great one. We had just beaten cross town rival Fremont High School, starting a near riot on that campus. I had my best game with four unassisted tackles and a performance that earned me a write up in the school paper the next day. Out bus was pelted by stones and soda bottles by irate Fremont fans, and we had barely escaped without injury. Our cheerleaders were on the same bus as the team, and I had been checking out one of them, Charise, for a long time. She sat next to me on the ride back to Washington. I took the opportunity to chat with her on the long ride back. When we got back to the school I invited her to my Sisters place. "It's only two blocks away, and my Sister can take you home latter," I volunteered. At that point I knew my sister was not at home, and that she would not be back for at least a few hours.

When we got to my Sisters place, she was as I expected, no where to be found. I offered Charise something to drink, and we sat on the couch and watched TV. It did not take long before we were doing some pretty heavy making out on the couch, and the short skirt of her cheerleader outfit made "access," a helluva lot easier. We were both hot and sweaty from the game, and I suggested we take a shower together. She ignored me, telling me that the sweat turned her on. I made love for the first time that night, with my football pants down around my ankles, wearing my grass and dirt stained game jersey. Not exactly what I imagined the first time would be like, but I will never forget it. I still have a fetish for making love partially clothed. He, heh!

Midway through that first Year, I suffered two devastating injuries that would end my dreams of playing for the NFL, end my glorious High School Football career, and nearly end my scholastic career as well.

Chapter 3 – From Athlete to Scholar
I have been asked often why I have a taste for Latin women. It's a long story and one probably worthy of Freudian Analysis, but it probably started in 1976...
In October of 1975 I suffered arm and knee injuries while playing football for Washington High School. Those injuries required surgery and a recovery period of several weeks. Unlike previous years in school, I had never really focused on my studies at Washington, and they had suffered. When I finally returned to school after two months I was informed that there was no way I could successfully complete the 10th grade on time with my grades and the amount of work I was behind in. My mother met with the school principal and it was recommended that I transfer to a special school called a "continuation school."

Continuation Schools were a special program at that time designed for students who for various reasons had fell behind in their regular program. They were attended by a mixture of losers, teen mothers and various malcontents that the regular school simply did not want to deal with any more. They had no athletic programs, few frills and were considered a, "last chance," for most kids. I was not "thrilled," at the prospect of going to one of these schools. Neither was my mother, but there were few options left at that point.

Most of the Continuation Schools were located on "regular," high school campuses, and Washington had one as well. It was called Duke Ellington High School. Fortunately for me, (I don't think I could have bared the shame of being there), Ellington was full, so I was sent to far off Metropolitan High, in an industrial area of East Los Angeles, and my life was about to change forever...

"Metro," was a tiny little campus in the heart of the warehouse district of East Los Angeles. The entire school consisted of a basketball court, two bungalow like buildings and a parking lot. The day my mother and I arrived for our, "interview," it was cold and gloomy, and I felt like I had been consigned to a special kind of hell. Our Interview was with the Assistant Principal, a tough little mixed heritage Black and Native American woman, who explained the simple rules to us. "This is your last stop David," she said. "You can either make the best of it, and graduate with your class, or you can fail. It is all up to you. Then she explained a concept that made all the sense in the world to me. At Metro, all course work was self paced and based on, "contracts." Each class had a contract consisting of required course work. Teachers were facilitators, but each student was responsible for fulfilling their commitment as fast or as slow as their abilities permitted. I was intrigued... I had always been bored by standard course curriculums. I often felt like I was wasting my time by being forced to work at the same speed as others who were less capable. Here was my opportunity. If what this woman was saying was right, I would not only catch up with my class at Washington, I would finish before them!

My first days at Metro were difficult. The student body was a mixture of teenage mothers, lightweight thugs, who weren't quite up to Crip or Blood standards of viciousness, a few people like myself who had simply fell behind, and a few certifiable nut cases and losers who were on the last leg of a journey to failure. I was no thug, but neither was I a nerd or loser, so finding my place was a difficult one. I decided that my best course of action was to forget about any kind of social life, and to focus on manipulating the contract system to my advantage. I dived into my work with a vengeance, working like a demon to finish contracts quickly and asking for extra work. When I arrived at Metro my GPA was 2.0, when I finished it was 3.87. How I got there was a combination of hard work, and the love of some of the best teachers I have ever met.

Life at Metro was cool. There were no fights, no violence of any kind, and if you took advantage of the system, you could get things done. My favorite teachers were Ms. Slifkin, Mr. Wolfson and Mrs. Depaolo. Elise Slifkin was my Biology Teacher. She was a hippie throwback to the 60’s. She was stern, but kind and bought out the best in me. Steve Wolfson was an attorney who taught Social Studies and History. He was fighting a landmark case at the time he taught at Metro, one he eventually won (http://www.4lawschool.com/property/marina.shtml ). One of the great things about Steve was that he treated me like an adult. He would discuss the merits of his case with me, and incorporate it into what I was learning as part of his Social Studies curriculum. Nancy Depaolo was simply a saint. One of the most dedicated teachers I have ever known. Nancy was my English Teacher, and the first person to really ever show any interest in my writing.

I bloomed at Metro, if it is possible to use a term like that to describe the man child that I was. Ms. Slifkin taught me the wonders of biology in ways that I never imagined. Through her I learned to tend to a garden, to see things in nature that I had never seen before, and to appreciate the beauty all around me. It was an entirely different world from what I was used to at other schools. The teachers seemed to care. Ms. Slifkin, Mrs. Depaolo and Mr. Wolfson became not only my teachers, but my mentors. They saw something in me that no other teacher had ever taken the time to see, and under their guidance, I saw myself growing. I was learning, not just the stuff I was obligated to by the contracts, but about life in General. Mrs. Depaolo helped a couple of other students and myself to put together a collection of poems and short stories. The book was sold all over the school district and we got to keep part of the funds in the way of credits to buy things at the school store. Most of the material in the book was mine, and I suddenly found myself a minor media star with people contacting me from all over the school district. One of the pieces in the book was a short story called, "Shades of Love," which was autobiographical though no one really knew it, You see, I had discovered LOVE for the first time at 16. She was a Chicano girl from nearby Belmont High School, and I met her when our basketball team scrimmaged with their Continuation High School. (More on that latter). I was deeply in love, and the poems and story were strongly influenced by that love.

In my second year at Metro, Mr. Robert Owens joined the faculty. Owens was the first Black male teacher I had ever had. And while I was fortunate enough to have a father at home, Mr. Owens became a surrogate father to me and to all the other young Black men on campus. He taught us about responsibility, respect for women, and how to be men. I think Mr. Owens was about the most respected teacher I ever had. While his office capacity was auto mechanic teacher, he was really more of a mentor and role model. I can remember sitting in his class room in a circle with a bunch of other guys from the school, while Mr. Owens sat and just rapped with us. "It takes more than a penis to make a father," he would say. He explained to us the responsibilities of fatherhood, and why those of us who had no children, should wait until we could afford them. He also spoke to the boys who were already fathers, not lecturing them, but just rapping with them. Explaining to them how important their role was, and building up their self esteem, while making sure they understood how important they would be to the development of their child, and how responsible they were for that role. He more than our fathers, and our big brothers, taught us to be men...And he taught us to carry ourselves with dignity and respect. The girls loved Mr. Owens. He called them ladies, and made us do so as well. If he caught us referring to women as bitches or ho's, (very common for young men at the time, and it seems a tradition that has only grown stronger with time), he would take us to his classroom and give us a good dressing down.

Mr. Owens also started a basketball team! While we could not belong to any league, Mr. Owens took coaching us very seriously. There were some very talented young men at Metro. Rick Walker had been a star forward at one of the Southern League high schools before he nearly flunked out, and was sent to Metro to make up his time. Owens taught us the John Wooden full court press offense, and while we could not legally play any of the "regular," high schools, he arranged for us to play all the continuation schools in the District. Poor assholes, they never knew what hit them... While we were organized and disciplined, most of the schools we played were just a bunch of the boys getting together and running street ball. I don't remember us winning a game by less than 50 points, in the two years Mr. Owens ran the program. The day I met Leticia, we were visiting Belmont High School, and the school permitted us to play in their gym, the first time most of our guys had ever played on a hardwood floor, and it was an inspired performance.

The teachers encouraged us to mix with the kids from the other school, and when this cute little Chicano girl sat down next to me in the bleachers, I knew I was in trouble. "Hi," she said with a big grin on her face. "Why aren't you playing with your Vatos?" I laughed. "Not my sport baby," I replied in my coolest voice. She looked up at me... "Hmmmm, I am afraid to ask, but what is your sport?" Now this was my opportunity to reply with a cool line. I looked around the bleachers. I would have guessed the Gym would hold about 1500 people. That day there were about 100, with our two little schools mixed together on one side of the Gym. There were a couple of Chicano guys watching me, waiting to see how I would react... "Well Seniorita, to be honest I am into one on one sports!" Two Chicano guys sitting in the row behind us whooped, "Whooo, SA is smooth!" Giving themselves a double high five in the process, and laughing.

I did not pay too much attention to the rest of the game. I know we won by like a hundred points or something, but I was too busy playing "Mac Daddy," to notice or care. I gave her my number and asked her what she was doing after school. She agreed to meet me in downtown L.A. to grab a bite and talk more. Her name was Leticia. She was this beautiful little brown skinned Chicano with full lips, long, thick hair, big brown eyes, and an ass to die for. Her laughter was hypnotic, her smile could light up a room, and her voice could melt the coldest ice. She taught me Spanish, but even before I learned, her words in Spanish could melt my heart and make me putty in her hands. Through her, I learned to love life. She taught me to love tacos and salsa music. She taught me to appreciate the beautiful Aztec Murals painted on the walls of housing projects all over East L.A., and she taught me to love another culture as much as I loved my own. And she taught me to make love to a woman, not just fuck. Through her I learned the profound difference between the two, and how each had their place. Twenty eight years latter, I can still hear her laugh and taste her lips. And to her I owe my love for Latin women and Latin culture.

That first night was magical. We had dinner at "Clifton's," a cafeteria style restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. Clifton's was a magical place. Great food and lots of it. And a decor that featured lots of plants and sort of a jungle motif. I don't even remember what I ate. I just remember looking into those beautiful brown eyes of hers and listening to that voice... She was beautiful, and I knew I was in love within five minutes of meeting her back at the Belmont High Gym. After dinner, we strolled through downtown, arm and arm. There was a park I knew of, not too far from Clifton's. We sat on a bench and just watched the people pass by. "You are the most beautiful girl I think I have ever known," I heard myself say. She laughed, "And you are the biggest liar." Each time she laughed, those big brown eyes twinkled, and I could not resist. I leaned in and kissed her on the lips. I was not sure what to expect. Would she get angry and leave? Would she slap me like chicks did in the movies? She kissed me back! A long passionate kiss, that seemed to last forever. And it was confirmed...I was in love. Maybe for the first time. I was 16 years old...

Chapter 4 – First Steps into Adulthood
In my final year at Metro there was a lot of pressure on me to choose a University. I got the feeling constantly that I was a "star," a success story, and that my accession to a major University was a sort of example to the other students. Elise Slifkin was particularly interested in helping me, and she offered to help me gain entry to UCLA. My opinion of the whole thing? I was scared. I did not feel I was ready to go to a Major University. I didn't believe my experiences at Metro, or with L.A.'s public School System had prepared me for University Life. I made a decision that would change my life once again...

I arrived at L.A. Southwest College in September of 1978. LASC was built on the ashes of the Watts Riots. It was one of those places City Fathers liked to point to as an example of progress in the Ghetto. Just a mile or so from Washington High School, LASC was supposed to be a bright shining star in the neighborhood. To some it was. When I first saw it, it reminded me of what the infamous Maginot Line in Pre World War II France must have looked like. It consisted of four buildings sitting on top of a hill, and some older prefab building that resembled aircraft hangers on the lower campus. The main buildings were multi storied concrete affairs with tinted windows that resembled slots in fortress wall. The building had the look of a fortress. I guess someone decided that if there were more riots, this was one place that would not burn.

There was a big practice football field, but no gym and grass was sparse. It was not what I imagined college would be like. I enrolled with a Journalism Major, and my first day in class, I got a big surprise. I walked into the journalism department and came face to face with an old friend... Well at least an acquaintance, Jeff Sneed was a guy I knew in Jr. High School back in my Bethune days. He was smart, athletic, and had the kind of looks girls drooled over. If you can remember Dr. J, Julius Irving of the Philadelphia 76ers, then you have an idea of what Jeff looked like. Jeff was the kind of guy who was so good looking even guys said he was good looking. "Yo man, don't I know you," I said upon encountering him. He looked at me and smiled. "Yeah man, we went to school together at Bethune." I laughed, "No shit. Small world. So you are studying Journalism too?" He nodded his head, and we started to rap. That was the first day of a friendship that would last for years to come. Jeff and I would become best friends, competitors and eventually enemies. But neither of us knew this at that moment, and we were both just happy to see someone we knew in a new place.

Life at LASC was interesting. It was the first time in my life where I did not have to go to school. I was an adult now, and going to class was a choice, not an obligation. My father died in February of 1978 of complications from cancer, and I was pretty much on my own at that point. Leti and I had broken up over the summer, and I was flying solo. LASC was a good choice for me. I don't think my head was on right to be starting UCLA at that particular time in my life.

When we arrived at LASC, the journalism program had a new professor, Mark Day, a 30-something writer of some note, who was a kind of social activist. Mark was as Liberal as they came. A Jewish dude who was obviously suffering from "Liberal Guilt," and who gave us way too much damned control over the campus paper. Truthfully, Mark seemed to be a bit intimidated by us. Especially Nita, the reigning editor of the paper when I arrived. Nita was this tough little black chick with a short afro, tight body and even tighter jeans, he heh! She would have been "tight," if not for the fact that she had a so-so face, and the butch haircut gave her a quasi lesbian look in my eyes at the time. She was also a bitch at times, but she was a good writer, if not that great an editor. It was the campus paper that gave me the sense of mission to get up everyday and go to school, even when I didn't have to, and I jumped in with a passion. By the end of the first Semester, Nita was out. She and Mark had gone at it on more than one occasion, and she did not hesitate to play to race/sex card. If she didn’t get what she wanted, it was, "You just don't respect a woman Mark." Or "You just can't handle a strong black woman Mark." Mark had his issues, but any objective observer could tell the man was bending over backwards to be accommodating. I was named Executive Editor of the paper the second Semester, and began a program to improve the quality of the paper. Jeff was named Managing Editor, and we began a partnership that would last for years.

We completely scrapped the look and feel of the paper, and executed a new design. We added a cartoonist, hired an old retired man from the neighborhood to sell advertisement for the paper. We grew the paper from four pages to eight and eventually to twelve. We broadened the scope of the paper to cover community events, movie reviews and strong editorial content, which was my focus. And the paper started to get noticed. If the first year was about "evolution," the second year would be "revolutionary." I didn't date much while at LASC. The paper was my lady, and I really didn’t have time for much of a social life.

The one person I did hang with in my two years at LASC was Cheryl, believe it or not, the Captain of the Cheerleader squad. Cheryl was this Big, leggy, big chested, honey colored black girl, with a beautiful smile and a fun loving nature. We were never really, "official," but we went out a couple of times. I think the reason Cheryl dug me was because I was not intimidated by her. She was a big girl, tall, athletic and strong. And she was aggressive. I think most of the Brothers at LASC were intimidated by her, although I don't think too many would have hesitated play quarterback/cheerleader captain with her. The truth was, I wanted her sexually, but she did not really turn me on intellectually. Perhaps that is why I never put too much effort into moving the relationship forward.

Since I wasn't focusing on dating, I took the time to improve my writing, and to focus on winning the paper some respect. During the second semester we attended a regional Conference for journalism students. During the conference we met students from all over Southern California, but made friends with one group in particular, Golden West College. Golden West was a Junior College located in the heart of Orange County, probably one of the most conservative, and "whitest," counties in all of Southern California. We could not have been more different our two schools, and yet we hit if off. We spend two days partying with them at the conference hotel, and on the second day of the conference, we took our first award in school history. We were awarded Best Small College Newspaper in Southern California. It was a tremendous honor, and a validation of all the hard work we had put in improving the paper. That weekend was about buzz, and the buzz was that there was a new player on the scene, and that our program would get some recognition out of it. Mark Day took the opportunity to use the award as a resume booster, and took a job at a more prestigious school. We really didn’t care. Mark had very little to do with the success of the paper anyway. My last words to him, "Fuck you Mark."

Mark was replaced by Jack Matcha, a someone famous writer from Hollywood. Jack had written for the, “Good Times,” TV show, and was as good they get in writing fundamentals. Jack was old… Very Old, when he came to teach at LASC. He was this little hunched over man who walked with a cane, suffered from the worst dandruff I have ever seen, and had nose hairs that looked like a freakin’ forest. It was hard looking at the old dude, but damn could he teach!

Jack was a little conservative at times, but he mostly stayed out of the way and let us do our thing. By my third semester at LASC, the paper was generating enough ad revenue to pay for itself. We were making a difference. The paper was respected in the community, recognized by the student journalism community, and important enough to the school that I actually felt like I had a little bit of clout. It was 1979 and Disco was all the rage. I like most people my age, were Donna Summer Fans, and I actually got an interview with the Disco Diva. Unfortunately I never got to meet her in person, but I submitted a list of questions and she answered them. I also learned it was good to be a journalist, even a student one. I got to attend a number of concerts, movie premiers and what not, with a press pass. It was pretty cool shit.

Jeff and I worked hand in hand on the paper, but there were occasional clashes of egos. There finally came a time when I had to tell him that I was the boss, and that our friendship had nothing to do with business. It was an uncomfortable conversation, but one that needed to be had. We would not have another conflict like that one for a couple of years.

In our last semester, we attended the State Journalism Conference. This time we would not win best paper. But we didn't totally wash out. I won an award for Best Sports Feature Story, and we received much acclaim as one of the best college papers in the State. Jeff and I both applied to the University of Southern California and were accepted that Spring. Neither of us were accepted into the Journalism Program as there were no slots available. We both decided to study Political Science. In may of 1980, I graduated and began the adventure of my life.

Chapter 5 – College Boy
In September 1980, I entered the University of Southern California, home of the mighty Trojans.

(To be continued)...

Prologue – Walking the Kitana’s Edge
Life has always been for me an adventure. As I near 50, I find myself more and more reflecting on my life, and what it all means.

I worked in Silicon Valley for eight years, and have worked in High Tech for almost 20. When I see the success of Google, I am amazed. Previous to founding Grupo Utopia, I worked for several startups. Two of them had in excess of 100 Million Dollars in startup funds, all of which they pissed away in a little over a year. Both companies were run by young, white Stanford Grads with almost no real world experience, and who with nothing more than a canned business plan and a PowerPoint Presentation, convinced some of Silicon Valley's top Venture Capitalist to bankroll their dreams. Both companies had proven CEO's at the helm, but were actually ran by young PM's (Product Managers in Silicon Valley Speak), who didn't know shit but considered themselves "Masters of the Universe." And that they were, at least as long as the money lasted.

At one company I had a GOLD American Express Card, in my name, with absolutely NO controls whatsoever on it. In fact, I never even saw the bill. It went straight to accounting, who paid it without even asking me about it. Once, we an executive photo shoot was planned and I was not told in advance, I came to work dressed in Jeans and a polo shirt. My boss, The President, sent me to San Francisco and told me to buy a couple of changes of clothes for the shoot, "something executive..." I spent almost a grand that day, and no one blinked.

Then there were the Friday Beer and Pizza bust. Every Friday, the company fronted for beer and Pizza for everyone on staff. This wasn’t much when the staff was a dozen people, but when it reached 100, you can imagine the weekly cost. There were also the fridges stocked with food and drink, and the morning bagel and donut runs. People regularly took six packs of soft drinks home with them, which were promptly replaced. This was all before the company saw a dime of revenue. The first day the company went live with a product, they took out TWO full page Ads in The Wall Street Journal. This despite the fact that at the time the product was only being sold in California. Another Million was spent on a commercial featuring animatronics dinosaurs... One that never even aired. The founders of the company were a bunch of guys in their early 20's that all knew each other. The company folded in less than a year and a half, I left about 8 months in, asked to leave by Management that "did not like my style," They paid me $60,000 for the privilege of getting the hell out of there. In the hot times we lived in, I was employed again in two weeks.

The next company I worked for, (and the last), was run by a couple of veteran medical sales types. The idea was to get Doctors to use a handheld computer to write prescriptions for patients. The handhelds were given to the doctors free of charge, with the idea of getting access to statistical information on prescription writing, which would be turned over to the pharmacy companies, who would in turn pay a fortune for the information. The program was also supposed to help doctors avoid drug interaction problems by keeping information about other drugs the patient was using, and keeping the physician from prescribing something that could cause a dangerous interaction problem. The program was complicated and slow, and there were major problems with syncing the information with the companies computers back in Silicon Valley. The idea also relied on the Doctor's assistant sticking around after work and initializing the sync, which worked "sometimes." Many of the Doctors ended up using the $500 handhelds to keep their golf scores and girlfriend/boyfriend's numbers.

There was also massive waste at that company as well. Weekly gourmet lunches for the entire staff, poor logistical planning that led to trainers having flights booked to far away cities at the last minute for training classes, resulting in thousands in unnecessary travel expenses. In other cases, units had to be shipped Federal Express overnight, instead of Ground, again because of poor planning. Favoritism ran rampant in the company, and the young Product Managers were running the show, despite not even being in accord on their own plans. After blowing through $300 Million Dollars, the company was sold after a year and a half. I again walked away with a nice parachute, this time about $40,000. Most of my time at Company Number II was spent just scratching my head trying to figure out how a good product, and a good idea, could be so royally fucked up by people smart enough to talk some real heavyweights into putting up $300 Million Dollars.

It was an interesting couple of years. Years that taught me a lot about what NOT to do if ever I got the chance to start a company. I unfortunately did not get $300 Million to start Utopia, but I have made the best of what investment I did get.

During my last years in Silicon Valley I kind of lost it. I worked for egotistical idiot after idiot. I made shit loads of money and spent it as fast as I made it. I lived an extravagant lifestyle, had affairs, partied my ass off, and started to believe the hype. But that