The Rundown

By Allen David

Posted November 21, 2012 in News


Roaming around the blog of artist Pàvel Acevedo of Riverside—since his relocation from the Mexican state of Oaxaca, anyway—never fails to ignite my freshest fuses, the ones that ultimately explode my longest-held beliefs in my most-basic truths and force me to reconsider everything anew, from a different perspective. And through the process of perceiving something old as something new, I am overcome by the revelation that that the reality of everything is only whatever perspective is being experienced at the moment. From there, it’s so clear to see that art is everywhere—including, our five senses ensure, inside us. We are artists, all of us, creating every day, with every advance of the clock—from the moment that awakens us to the one that puts us to sleep . . . and in my case, whatever creates the koo-koo dreams that bring me back to consciousness with the thought/observation/philosophy that has come to define my life: What th—? Hey, I’m gonna put that on my headstone!!



OK, back on Pàvel Acevedo’s website and those fuses of reconsideration he ignited yesterday have me about to explode . . . with humiliation. See, the familiar thing that his incredible art is forcing me to see with fresh eyes—the particular sense that it is connecting with—is that I am a freakin‘ blowhard. “We are artists, all of us?” Jeez, please tell me you read that and couldn’t stop yourself from shouting, “Shut the f*@k up!” If you didn’t, well, like I said, Acevedo’s art does. His renditions of the human form—especially faces—are just-short-of-cartoonish images that use a sense of undulating movement to bring to the surface the inner turmoil that is created and the constantly mounting toll that is endured . . . simply by the act of not dying. A profile on Acevedo in The Press-Enterprise a few weeks ago revealed that the original inspiration for his interest in art—and its ongoing touchstone—was his father’s work as a physician. Acevedo said he created his earliest drawing by studying and reproducing illustrations from his father’s medical and anatomy books. And with this piece of information comes a revelation to which I can totally relate, to which I can suddenly see and comprehend in my own life. Because, see, my dad was a big-rig trucker, and, like, I’m this really good driver.



Forensic laboratory officials in San Bernardino conclude a three-day review of the unidentified female corpse found Tuesday across the street from Perris Hill Park by reversing the ruling on the field and pronouncing that she has been slain. Combined with the 76-year-old woman found lifeless in her ransacked home by her son on Wednesday and last week’s death of a man who succumbed to stabbing wounds in a hospital three days after a fight with his girlfriend, the number of people who have died at the hands of others in San Bernardino this year stands at 43. With six weeks to go in 2012, that already far exceeds the totals for 2011 (30), 2010 (32) and 2009 (32). No question, a killer year for members of San Bernardino’s homicidal community, but not really close to its all-time, single-calendar-year record of disregard for human life. The mark was set in 2005, when 58 people were killed by other people within the city limits of San Berdoo. To even tie it, somebody would have to kill somebody else every three days during the 45 days remaining until the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. That simply isn’t going to happen. Not because of the physical or spiritual toll such a killing spree might take on the Inland Empire’s most-homicidal maniacs. Nope, the obstacle is mental. To target and chase and quantify and achieve a body count, well, somebody’s got to have learned how to count.



My sentiments in the annual USC-UCLA football game ride with Traveler, the white horse that personifies the proud and powerful Trojan tradition . . . of having so much money you’re university can afford to have a big, white horse galloping the sidelines instead of, oh let’s just say, educating students. But these days my emotions can’t get beyond the horse’s ass that stands on the USC sideline coaching the football team. Lane Kiffin, a born-fortunate, became-presumptuous, mannerless man who seems to calculate the benefits of his success by how poorly he can treat others. Yeah, I know—what success? This USC team was picked to win the national championship, but it is buried in a losing streak that now includes a loss to cross-town rival UCLA. Next is Notre Dame, and if you love USC you will be rooting for the Fighting Irish, because . . . people don’t put up with unctuous losers.



Just out of the movies after spending 2 1/2 hours watching the brilliant Daniel Day Lewis remind us of Abraham Lincoln’s greatness in a remarkably restrained film—considering the director is Steven Spielberg. The movie is titled, Lincoln, although the story is actually about the legislative fight to outlaw slavery through passage of the 13th amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Unfortunately, some stove-piped asshat know-it-all spoiled the drama by revealing what was obviously supposed to be a double-surprise ending—that slavery was eliminated and that Abraham Lincoln was shot to death.



Vien Doan, a physician that emigrated from Vietnam, was there when American servicemen helped his family escape, was forming a sister-city relationship between Riverside and the town of Cần Thơ. . . until the plan was put on hold when some local military veterans argued that friendly ties should not be made with cities in communist countries—and especially a country where some unaccounted U.S. troops may remain. For some, sadly, the war continues to rage.



The City of Beaumont has turned 100 years old! Can you believe it? Yeah, I know, me, too!


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