Lamborghini Blues

Lamborghini Blues, originally uploaded by davebanksfilms.

Exposure and Other Worldly Morsels

Beirut L.A.

April 17, 1993, Saturday, 2:30 a.m. I am fully clothed and laying in bed watching Sting in the science fiction movie “Dune,” eating Girl Scout peanut butter cookies and drinking coffee. I am in a hotel room at the Wyndham Garden Hotel in Commerce, California along with off-duty San Jose detectives and ex-Navy Seals, all of who have been hired as freelance and assigned to me as bodyguards, and all of who are armed to the teeth. A Seal will drive our bulletproof Crown Victoria that is being rented by the production company for a thousands bucks a day, and one of the detectives will ride “shotgun.” Our team has been issued flak jackets, Kevlar helmets, pepper spray and Israeli gas masks. Ironically, the instructions for the gas masks are in Hebrew and none of us can reads Hebrew. Unlike the first intifada – the L.A. Riots of 1992 - I now have an official backstage pass to the “L.A Riots Part 2-1993 Tour.” I’m embedded with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department Special Enforcements Bureau, in a platoon made up of thirty-six Sheriffs Deputies traveling in sixteen marked patrol cars and one “armored hostage rescue vehicle.”

3:15 a.m. The call comes in to prep the gear, check out and travel to a new location. Crap! Dune is not over and I will miss the best part where giant sandworms appear out of the desert floor and destroy the Harvesters that mine for the Spice on the planet Arrakis. In the hotel lobby I am informed that the production company has had second thoughts and now feels the thousand-dollar-a-day bulletproof car is too expensive. They do not want to be held responsible for any damage to it. Looks like I will be riding in a Deputy Sheriff’s patrol car.

8:25 a.m. We have rendezvous with several other platoons of uniformed deputies in what appears to be an abandoned hotel parking lot. Some deputies are relaxing in their vehicles, others are outside, pacing nervously. It is here that I hear the verdict and sentencing of the defendants in the second Rodney King trial as I’m searching for a place to get some coffee. Several of the patrol cars have their trunks open with portable radios tuned to the KFWB all-news station. The newscaster’s flat voice echoes across the parking lot along with news of the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, a nuclear accident in Russia, a fire fight with the Branch Davidians in Waco, Texas and a nifty review of Billy Crystal hosting the 65th Academy Awards and the shows ratings.

9:20 a.m. The platoon relocates to a substation located at the City Hall Complex in Lynwood.

11:25 a.m. This is our first sit-down meal since Thursday night the 15th of April. “Today is Saturday the 17th of April” I think. I'm sitting in a chair at a table where both have been bolted to the floor. This is Angelo's Burgers on Atlantic Boulevard in Lynwood. I am getting ready to eat a breakfast burrito, in the company of fifty deputy sheriffs in this small burger joint. After the meal we talk with the deputies and drink coffee when I notice a homemade sign made of cardboard and a magic marker on the counter where you place your order. “The Movie ‘Falling Down’ with Michael Douglas was filmed here on May 12th, 1992." It was here at Angelo's that the famous scene where Michael Douglas’ beleaguered character is trying to order breakfast from a fast-food chain called "Whammy Burgers" was filmed. The menu has changed from breakfast to lunch and Michael wants breakfast not lunch. In short, the movie is about a man in L. A. who goes bonkers. It’s ironic that we are sitting here at Angelo's with deputy sheriffs having breakfast waiting for a city to go bonkers.

Saturday 2:15 p.m. It is not the result of the announcement of the court’s verdict that sends us racing at top speed from Lynwood to an amusement park north of Los Angeles. Apparently a scheduled rap concert has been oversold by a thousand tickets or so. As expected, some of the fans were upset, and out of frustration windows were broken at restaurants across the street from the entrance to the amusement park.

4:35 p.m. The deputies, our crew and assorted bodyguards are in a holding pattern at the upper entrance to the park. Everyone is hungry. With my supply of Atomic Fireball jawbreakers, Balance Bars and gum gone, the production company finally breaks down and decides to get McDonald’s quarter pounders for everyone. Half way through the order, McDonald’s runs out of quarter pounders and we end up with Happy Meals for most of the crew and seventy plus deputies.

7:46p.m. The sun has set. I tag along with a squad of seven deputies, taking in the sights and sounds of the park. I wonder if we can stop long enough to get a corndog. Occasionally families and kids looking for a way out of the park stop us and ask for directions. None of our group are familiar enough with the park and we are not much help in answering their questions. We have not been in the park longer than fifteen or twenty minutes at the most when there is an atmospheric change in the night.

There is now a lull in the sounds. The normal sounds of a carnival atmosphere where laughter and excited screams of kids on a wild rides are mixed in the night air have diminished. There is something different happening here. There is a different kind of screaming now. A disconcerted screaming that builds and continues until all laughter has been swallowed by the night. A swelling of emotions rises from my stomach and settles into my chest and heart. My instincts are telling me something that I don't yet consciously perceive. It is at this point that time becomes a series of different scenarios in slow motion and other craziness in “quick time”.

Like locusts swarming upon a field of grain, kids and families are pouring out of nowhere, surrounding us. The deputies react by creating a circle in the middle of a concrete walkway. If you were to look down from overhead, you would see a circle of tan helmets surrounded by a sea of bodies. A sergeant is in the middle trying to hear the two-way radio above the human sounds. My eye is glued in the Nikon’s viewfinder, and the cameras motor drive whines with click-click-click-click-click. The framed faces are growing with expressions of dread, concern, and confusion as the volume of pandemonium rises to a higher decibel.

Somewhere in the park ahead of us panic strikes like lightning and like the delay of thunder, so is my reaction and that of the seven deputies. We catch the first swell of the crowd seeking safety. It is a stampede of hundreds of people coming right at us, and we are a mere wall of eight people. The noise levels of crying, shouting and screaming rises again to a decibel level higher then an AC/DC concert. I hear a deputy shouting " Was that gunfire ? Was that gunfire?"

The mob recedes and confusion fills the void. Again gunshots or firecrackers are set off somewhere in the park ahead of us and a larger tidal wave of families in sheer panic descend upon us. Unlike the 1992 riots I covered nearly a year ago to the day- this had the element of the vulnerability of families caught in the middle of a total breakdown of civil order. They have become a captive audience for Mad Hatter’s Wild Ride and Freak Show. A group of teenage boys and girls run up to us screaming that a park security guy is getting beat up behind us. We turn but can't see anything but a wall of humanity one hundred yards deep.

More deputies arrive out of nowhere and we make our way across a sea of glass shards, white plastic coat hangers, price tags and paper images of cartoon characters. A helicopter flies overhead with its powerful spotlight shining down on the throngs. The beam creates a massive shadow from the tree limbs and scaffolding which slowly crawls over the entire area like a black web.

Passing by a restaurant I notice that the doors are cracked I peer into the darkness and silhouetted in the foreground are chairs, tables and serving trays stacked on top of each other. Beyond the barrier, a young man dressed in his chef's whites stares at me with a dazed and anxious look. I can only assume that he has chosen to stand sentry with fire extinguisher in hand as the world outside goes for a roller coaster ride into a momentary lapse of sanity.

The park is now quieter as the deputies contain and prod the visitors to the main entrance. I pass a long line of kids at a pay phone trying to call their parents to come and get them while near by is a marble statue of a rabbit riding a horse waving goodbye to his guests.

April 19, 1993

This morning I read in the L A Times, “The park reopened Sunday to an enthusiastic spring break crowd as law enforcement officials, park managers and a music promoter tried to pinpoint blame for two melees that damaged both the park and its reputation as a place for family entertainment. An all-night repair job replaced broken windows and looted merchandise in time for Sunday's 10 a.m. opening”

I later learned that the “melees” cost the park an estimated 2 million dollars in damages, 40 people were emergency evacuated and that it took 450 deputies to move 40,000 people out of the park. Urban legend has it that a body was found underneath a roller coaster ride four days after the riot. In ShowBiz news, there is big buzz about the release of Steven Spielberg’s film “Jurassic Park” It’s about a team of genetic engineers creating an amusement park full of cloned dinosaurs – then all hell breaks out.

Lamborghini Blues

"A painter paints his pictures on canvas. But musicians paint their pictures on silences" -Masestro Leopold Stokowski

It's not that I am a snob about music but any world traveler will tell you that the most essential item in your rucksack is your music. For me, The Jonas Brothers just doesn't round out the experience of speeding in a Land Rover across the Sahara Desert- though the Clash's "Rock the Casbah" does.

My choice of tunes has become the soundtrack for the journey and it has saved my sanity. I can attest that there is nothing better then listening to your iPod under the influence of Ambien on a trans-Atlantic flight. It is a wonderful hypnotic chemical that takes you away from the crying babies and exasperated mothers on El Al Airlines (not the Ambien, the song). The music has isolated me from Egyptian wedding parties at two o'clock in the morning as well as helping me pass days (not hours) while waiting for a flight out of Kabul.

I have collected CD's from world markets, bazaars, back alley kiosks and hotel lobbies. I'd like to think that my taste in music is eclectic; you can find Middle Eastern Dance, Bollywood, Japanese Pop, Electronica, Soul, Rock, Tango and Neapolitan ballads on my iPod proving that I am in constant search for my own personal soundtrack.

Like a still image, a song can transport you back to a moment in time that has been forgotten. For instance, during the fires of Southern California in 2009 I had a very real flashback when Shakira's song; "Whenever, Wherever" blared out from the radio while driving on the Glendale Freeway. The smell of burning wood, diesel and the thump-thump of the helicopters overhead transported me immediately back to Afghanistan.

It was only a matter of time that my love of photography and music began to feed each other. Over the years one of my passions has become shooting stills of musicians of all genres and having a real conversation about travel, life and what art means to that person. It was during one of these shoots that I met Tracy G who was the lead guitarist for Ronnie James Dio back in the 90's. In spite of Tracy G's heavy metal credentials his soulful song "Lamborghini Blues" swept me away without the aid of a pharmaceutical.

[wpvideo wdakCEoR]

Ancient Spores

For the moment I’m alone on my belly crawling in darkness. With every breath I can feel spiny particles of dust entering my nostrils and working their way up to my sinus cavity. It is here where the tiny particles of earth, parasites, spores and history will stowaway for months -- traveling secretly through my membranes which means for the next six months a carnival sideshow of “freaks of nature” will make their presents known on the main stage of my face.

Above me is “the collapsed pyramid,” also known as the Meidum pyramid. Meidum is the forgotten pyramid of Egypt, about 20 miles south of Cairo. At her base are tons of scattered fragments from an outer shell that collapsed when Pharaoh Sneferu tried to transform it into a true pyramid with a flat triangular sides. I have crawled into a shaft on its eastside which was originally dug out by tomb robbers some 4,000 years ago. These looters did not waste time on making their entrance passage any bigger than absolutely necessary. Switching my headlamp on, I extend my arms out in front of me, holding the video camera to document my progress. However, it is my ample rump that curbs my progress as I reach the crux of a tight squeeze. With the toes of my boots I push forward and with a grunt I move along, scooping with me a layer of earth down into the crotch of my pants. I am scarcely breathing in spite of the money we paid the Egyptians to stand at the entrance with torn pieces of cardboard to fan hot air into the tunnel. It is this suffocating heat that worries me more than snakes, scorpions and the curse of the mummy. Even though the sun is 94.5 million miles away and takes roughly 8 minutes to reach earth it seems as if the sun has directed all its energy from purgatory to Meidum. The temperature is well above ninety degrees in the conduit and my body-fluids are evaporating faster than I can replace. On the way to this location I hydrated with bottled water, Fanta, hot Coca Cola and triple espressos to the point of OD’ing. I’m parched, my voice has become a scratchy whisper and it’s at this point, wedged into my Egyptian hole, that I discover I have complicated feelings. Should I have stayed in L.A. hiring myself out to shoot other peoples dreams? No! After a transient adventure with ABC Network it was time to bail when I was brought up on charges by my union for introducing a new camera called the Betacam. I had become the pipe bomb in their midst for embracing new technology that would ultimately change broadcasting forever. In the eyes of the union, I had passed the point of no return. So, I left my comrades behind with the shrapnel of old ideas. It was that camera -the Betacam- that became my fast-pass to the world and brought me to this hole in the ground.

My job on this shoot is to document tombs in Egypt and Israel. Waiting for me to get into position is Dr. Salima Ikram from the American University in Cairo. A Cambridge graduate, Dr. Ikram’s specialites are Egyptian archaeology, mummification and Egyptian religion. Armed only with a silk hand fan, a sky blue headscarf and a devotion to the music of David Bowie on her iPod, Dr. Ikram has ventured into ancient tombs and ruins more times then Lara Croft or Indiana Jones combined-she is the real deal. Maybe it is the adrenaline or the espressos, but after popping out of that earthly womb and into that burial chamber, I feel my rebirth has begun. I inhale a lung full of hot air and turn and face the tunnel. “Okay Dr. Ikram, I’m in the chamber” I shout. “Dave, tell me when to start crawling and I’ll describe what lengths the tomb raiders were willing to go.” she shouted back. “Let me get situated and I will cue you to start crawling” I replied. “Okay Dave, remember if I have to stop and turn around you promised not to shoot my bum.”“I promise” I say, with a smile. God, I love my job. [wpvideo ShEMPPK7]

Jesus of Hollywood

I don’t care if it rains or freezes

Long as I got my plastic Jesus

Sittin’ on the dashboard of my car

Comes in colorless, pink and pleasant

Glows in the dark, cause it’s iridescent

Take it with you when you travel far.

Plastic Jesus (Lyrics) – Sung by Paul Newman -Cool Hand Luke.

It is the Mecca of their religion with 10 million followers annually making the pilgrimage to this sacred site. This is the biggest religion in America. No spiritual following receives more airtime and print space. It is Celebritism. And the holy of holies even has an address: 6925 Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood, California.There you will find an archeological site full of artifacts - a temple, footprints, hand impressions and a sequence of letters, words and symbols etched in concrete. Beyond the grid of this archeological site is a walk-way that the locals refer to as the “Walk of Fame.” It is a three-and-a-half-mile (5.6 km) round-trip journey much akin to the Stations of the Cross in Jerusalem. Above the strata is rock art embedded with more than 2,000 stars featuring the names of not only human celebrities but also fictional characters and even animals. Each emblem is a pink terrazzo five-pointed star rimmed with bronze and inlaid into a charcoal square.Inside it you’ll find a revered name inlaid in bronze, below which is a round emblem indicating the category for which the honoree received the star. Even those of blind faith cherish these artifacts.

The first sacrament dates back to 1960. Who was that lucky first beneficiary? Paul Newman's wife, Joanne Woodward. (I don’t care if it rains or blows hard - as long as I’ve seen the star of Joanne Woodward). It was on the Walk of Fame that I found Jesus. He was sitting in Baja Fresh, a popular Mexican fast food chain, deep in conversation with a fellow patron.Jesus was listening intently while nursing a Starbuck’s Espresso Frapuccino Grande. After finishing his taco - I could only speculate it wasn’t pork - he stepped onto the Walk and I began to follow Him.

Immediately, pilgrims of all nationalities and tongues followed Him with their eyes but none were so bold as to either approach him or engage him, so I decided to take the plunge.“Jesus, are you homeless and forced to work as an historical character here in Hollywood to survive ?” He responded by reaching into his plain linen robe and pulling out a set of keys, “No man” he said, “ I drive a Mercedes and I have an apartment.” Many of the pilgrims would smile at Him and point but it seemed as if only the elderly were captivated by the Son of God and would seek his attention. And, as expected, He would listen patiently.

There were impassioned voices calling from passing cars, “Jesus, Jesus”. But interestingly enough I didn’t hear a peep calling for the attention of the other faux celebrities that congregated at the Temple. As far as historians can tell, Jesus first appeared on celluloid in 1903, just a few years after the birth of moving pictures. French brothers Auguste and Louis Lumiere produced “La Vie et la Passion du Jesus Christ,” a 44-minute silent film which was one of the earliest feature-length movie and every frame was painstakingly hand painted for color. Riding high on respectability for over one hundred years the subject of Jesus came crashing down in 2001 with the release of “Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter” - a second coming musical complete with kung-fu action. Need I say more?

Located east of the main temple is a second, smaller shrine on the Walk of Fame. This location is for the most devout believers where for $12.95 you can dwell for hours in worship, adoration and photo opportunities. Eerie wax figures of living and dead celebrity are dressed up in costumes so that followers can relive their favorite moments of their deity. In April of 2009, Hollywood auction house Profiles in History sold off “retiring figures.” More than 200 figures were sold online, including the Last Supper and the Beatles. Jesus and His 12 Disciples brought in more than $15,000. The Beatles brought in a mere $13,000. Sorry John, but Jesus is more popular than the Beatles.