She showed me photos of her eleven grandchildren and six great-grand children, and as we bridged past the pleasantries, we shifted to a darker history…

 

I was traveling from a location scout in San Diego, feeling rather tired from a long day of driving. En-route home from my dear old mum’s apartment, I dropped by her place to say, “Hi.” As all mothers do, she pulled me in for dinner, something no self-respecting British man could decline.

You have to know my mum, an amazing Brit, 86 years young at the time, her incredible history going all the way back to the WWII Blitz over London. Endless stories of a city under siege as wave after wave of bombs fell upon a civilian population; part of a mad-man’s quest to what he thought was perfecting the world. We all know how it ended and hopefully have all gleaned something from the horror it propagated. But more impactful are the tales of the brave who endured and conquered the wrath of pure evil. Enough of that for now; back we go to September 17, 2011, sitting in my mum’s apartment.

We enjoyed dinner, and over one of her 3 choices of dessert (customary in her home), I showed her the 365 project. Her eyes immediately lit up and to the phone she went to call her neighbor. Five minutes later I was sitting in Pat’s living room, meeting her and her four-legged companion, Sassy, for the first time.

We chatted for over an hour, and a little distracted by Sassy running all over the place, we still managed to have a remarkable conversation about faith and laughter. Her happiness was contagious and even though Sassy was drawing blood as she scratched on Pat’s delicate skin, Pat remained unaffected and smiling. Got to love the craziness of our pets, don’t we?

She showed me photos of her eleven grandchildren and six great-grand children, and as we bridged past the pleasantries, we shifted to a darker history as she told me of her son’s murder as well as the early death of her high school sweetheart husband. Of a tragic work injury that removed her from the workforce, and her being the only one still living out of all of her siblings. Still, she was unshaken in her optimism and positive outlook on the world. An example of light and courage she was. I was overwhelmed with a feeling in meeting her, simply this: grateful.

The night was getting late. I was getting close to my self-imposed publishing deadline and I had a big day coming. Plus, my eyes were starting to droop. I needed to get some sleep. All leading to my inability to refuse an invitation to sleep on my mums couch, figuring that I could hit the road at 5am to make it to my LA commitments. After all, it was better to feel the sting of morning exhaustion than the disappointment of a Jewish mother.

Mum asleep, I sat at the end of the couch, now made makeshift bed. Recounting the time spent with Pat, I listed what I had learned about her.

• She rolled with the punches
• Felt fortunate that she could still walk and think
• Held her hospital’s record for the most stints in a living human heart – ten to be exact
• I could not figure out how she could have had 3 hips replacements with only 2 hips
• And most amusingly, Pat had patterned her life after Betty Boop

Pat, I will always love you young lady.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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I asked, “Where are you from?”  He said, “Wherever I’m passing by.”

 

I had the opportunity to photograph the news anchors of Univision 34, Los Angeles—a great group of people to work with and a ton of fun to photograph. The photo shoot started very early in the morning and finished in the evening. It was, to say the least, a very full day. No gripes; I love to be busy. Plus, I had a plan for the day. Simple, straightforward, and easy—just grab someone at lunch break to interview and photograph.

But as life always does, the curve ball came. Lunch was absorbed with unfinished business as it locked me to my mobile phone. Still no problem; I shifted to the fallback plan. Find a willing person in the hallway at the end of the shoot. Strike two—wrapped the shoot and the halls were quite.

Adding a touch of stress, it was 8pm, and I only had 4 hours left until the day ended. A pressure I put on myself in committing to never miss the daily time stamp of my commitment to post a story every day. Told myself if I missed one, I would reset the clock to day one. (I never missed a day and the project changed my life for the better.)

So there I was, equipment packed, in the parking structure, sitting in the driver’s seat of my truck, engine running, and ready to wander the streets looking for someone to interview. Memories of the evening before fell upon me as I shifted into reverse in prepping to exit an echoing garage. But for whatever reason the gear shifter decided to give me grief. My wife and I have a saying, “If it’s not broken, it must not belong to the Redstone’s.” Car issues two nights in a row, !*%#^$#!!!!!

I was trapped in an empty garage and struggling to get my vehicle into gear on the forth day of a one-year commitment that I though was about to go down in flames. I needed to find a person to photograph and I needed it then. It was 9pm and I had wasted an hour figuring out the car problem. I shifted into gear and began backing out. Then a stranger appeared in my rear view mirror.

Hector was his name, one of Univision’s news photographers returning from the day’s assignments. I said to myself (as many of us do when random stuff happens), “Maybe my car broke down for a reason,” and perhaps that reason was to meet Hector.

Hector taught me a thing or two about what news photographers go through.

A Few Generalizations in Bullet Points
• His news van was really his office.
• Everyday he commuted to and from Los Angeles and San Bernardino in bringing the news to us. Not a short drive.
• He had been nominated for an Emmy.
• He had one documentary under his belt that had been featured at the San Diego Latino Film Festival.

But Here Is What Was Really Impressive
From 1999 to 2005 Hector’s assignment was to cover events happening on the Mexico / California border. He told me of things so frightening and gruesome that I choose not to publish. It was with the greatest respect and empathy that he shared what he had recorded. All I can say is that with all my years of portrait and advertising photography, I had never found myself in the depth of situations as had Hector. In only a few minutes he opened my eyes to the courage of media photographers. He was a young guy, just getting married, who put it all on the line to look tragedy right in the face, and thinking beyond his own safety, took the risk to bring us the news.

In retrospect, all I can say is, Thanks Hector, and all of you brining us the real news. Keep up the meaningful work!

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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Take one middle-class Caucasian man dressed like a college golfer; put him in a public park; place a camera around his neck and paperwork in his hand. Then have him loiter around the teen center—at night, mind you. Sound suspicious? Perhaps.

 

I was not really thinking too soundly on this one. The saving grace was having my wife and daughter by my side—gave me a bit of credibility (all except for the golf club my sweet little child kept swinging in the air…really, she was just practicing her drive—golf industry, look out!).

We spent a good hour approaching people. All very gracious, but none taking the offer to be photographed. I began to notice a consistent through-line, a common tendency for people to slowly gain distance. Subtle things, like a tree between us, or a wall, and one of my favorites, a car. Bottom line, no one wanted to come near me. In retrospect, I did look a little creepy.

The story got better. The night crept to just past 8pm and kids were slowly leaving the park, beginning to release the area for the rougher evening crowd. Lights were shutting down soon, and with my tail between my legs after many a rejection, and a commitment to return at a later date dressed a bit more appropriately, I made the call to leave for greener pastures. We approached our car and looked at each other no differently than usual. You know that, You have the keys, right? look.You got it! Keys were safely secured, dangling in the ignition behind the steering wheel, doors locked, safe and sound inside the vehicle. We are just that kind of family… always planning ahead; and truly, I could see no better stop-gap to auto theft than to lock the keys, and of course my wallet, securely in the car.

Now there we are, no photos, no wallet (no better place than in the glove compartment of a locked car, right?), and 10K of camera equipment in my backpack. By the way, even the locals kept their eyes peeled as the night came on, and being the only guy in the whole park wearing a bright blue beach shirt, I was really starting to feel like a target. Standing in bewilderment at the fact my family and I were stranded out of our bright red
Accord in the midst of what seemed like a sea of much less bright cars. Gary Larson’s Far Side comic series strangely came into my mind; specifically the one of two deers talking, one with a target on his chest. His buddy saying to him, “Bummer of a birth mark, Hal.” And that night, I was Hal!

But there was no need to fear, my daughter stood forward and boldly stated, “Don’t worry Dad, I’ve got a golf club.” Wife does what wives do—brought the common sense back into play, grabbed the cell phone and thirty minutes later Francis arrived, the Diamond Security man of the hour. To the rescue he stepped, car door picking tools in hand and cell phone on shoulder. Literally 2 minutes and the door was open. He turned, handed me a clipboard with paperwork to sign. As I watched him fade away towards the driver’s side of his truck my gut told me he was my photo opportunity that day and with that feeling I could not let him get away. The possibility of failing to get a photo on day four of a one-year challenge was looming and the clock was rapidly ticking away. I rushed this savior-of-the-moment in a sprint of determination.

He terminated his phone conversation and looked at me with a straight face of inquisition as I explained what I was up to. He paused. Thinking and summing me up much like the rest of those I approached that evening had. It appeared as if I was about to receive yet another failed attempt to befriend a stranger. Preparing for a long night of searching, I visualized myself elsewhere. Maybe the pharmacy up the street, a polka club, Pizza Hut was in order, and if that failed, maybe I was supposed to simply throw myself into on-coming traffic and just photograph whatever happened. That way, at least, I would have had a good injury story to support the fact that I tanked out on day four.

It’s funny how many crazy thoughts can zip through the mind in a nanosecond, and at that moment my mind was taking me to strange places. I forced myself to shut the nutty thinking down and looked back at my new friend Francis, who with an approving nod of acceptance redeemed my efforts. I’m telling you, I owed this guy big time.

So, if you ever find yourself in Canoga Park, night falling, and keys locked in the car, pick up the phone, call AAA and ask for Francis at Diamond Security… and please remember, tip him well!

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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There I was, walking my neighborhood saying hi to all my neighbors. Felt strangely like Ozzie on an outing to borrow a cup of sugar for Harriet. No not Ozzy Osborn, but Ozzie Nelson.

 

Ozzie Nelson?

If you don’t know the vintage sitcom, Ozzie and Harriet were the ideal TV family and ran on ABC from October 3, 1952 to September 3, 1966. A fourteen-year run that was quite remarkable for its longevity. For trivia, here is a Wikipedia link, and if you’re bored, curious or just plain nostalgic, here is a link to YouTube episodes.

Back to the story: I was on the streets, strolling house by house, ignoring the graffiti and feeling mighty full of 50’s style neighborly love.

I rounded a corner and behind the barrier of an old school picket fence house rose the energy and laughter of Alishia and her mother Valerie. I came upon them right as they began a game of front yard badminton.

I mustered my courage and somewhat fearing the possible blows of long-handled racquets, a fear brought on by my remembrance of the thrashing I received just the day before from a less than friendly person I had approached. A guy who pushed me into on-coming traffic, so I gingerly approached them to ask if they would allow me to take their picture.

No racquet swung, we chatted for a short time and realizing that we shared a similar point-of-view of what I was publishing, Alishia accepted the offer to be interviewed and photographed.

A FEW OF ALISHIA’S INSIGHTS:

• Observe and Share Everything •
• Practice Humility in Every Situation •
• Value Community •

Lot’s of wisdom from a young woman of 21! Wouldn’t you agree?

I was only three days into the beginnings of Sidewalk Ghosts, but one constant was already emerging:  “A vast majority of people were willing and wanting to share.”

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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11:30am: Early lunch with family, I sat in uncomfortable chair at breakfast joint. Almost decided to photograph and interview Chef Abraham. Discouraged by the lunch rush, I passed on the prospect.

1:00pm: Fry’s Electronics. Bought blue-tooth keypad for iPad and spent enjoyable 30 minutes in demo massage chair. Healed from the terrible ergonomics of entry one. Still figuring the project out, I readied to comfortably blog day 2 of the first 2 years of the daily interviews that founded Sidewalk Ghosts.

4:00pm: The day was burning, embarked on forced quest for stranger two, Found myself at shopping center and denied by one very cool looking person. First aggressive rejection of countless more to come; left dry lump in throat as to if I was crazy doing this project.

4:30pm: Tugged into Golfsmith by my 8-year-old daughter. First wanted to be a dentist, then cowgirl, then Egyptologist, then doctor, then stunt girl, now golf pro. Break down and buy her a 7 iron.

4:45pm: Price golf lessons, $1000 for roughly 10 lessons! *#! Wholly Heck!!

5:00pm: Left store resolved to find better way to spend beginnings of daughter’s college fund.

6:00m: Went to driving range instead.

6:45sh: Arrived to Encino California, Ready Golf Driving Range. All was well.

7:00pm: Hit ATM, withdrew cash for golf club rental.

7:01pm: Reluctantly ate $3 ATM fee!!

7:05pm: Approached strangers Daniel and Donal. Good guys, they stepped in.

One Was Mostly Silent, The Other Chose To Be Invisible.

As quoted by Irish cigar toting golfing buddy Donal.“Daniel, the genuine article, and a gentleman to boot.”

These two guys were great. Would have been nice to get Donal on camera as well, but he left all stage honors to Daniel. We small talked for about 20 minutes and captured this photo of Daniel, An accountant, moved to Los Angeles from New York in 2006 to get closer to better golfing.

He kept it simple by sharing a quick philosophy,“I’d rather roam on a golf course than be stuck at a desk.”

The Man Was A Golf Ball Cannon – SERIOUSLY!

7:30pm: Stepped onto mat and began hitting drives with my daughter, as we did, kept hearing a solid crack and watched balls escape over the horizon’s fence as they exited the driving range at over 300 yards. There was no way I was leaving without photographing the golf ball mangling man that was to our left. The guy’s drive was no joke.

Brent, Online marketing dude at Avatar Labs– a very cool Entertainment advertising agency. Turned out we knew a few of the same people. Who would have thought? Began to realize just how small the world could be.

A minimalist, he shared these words of wisdom, “Life is Good!”

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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“What is your name?” I asked.

In deep dialect he responded, “Slava.”

“Do you have a hobby, Slava?” I casually followed up.

He paused, glanced at my reflection in the rear view mirror, eyes staring as if summing me up; and, after an uncomfortable delay–“Guitar.”

“What kind of music?” I inquired further.

He lightly laughed and then fell silent, letting the question float in the air like a sinking balloon.

To say the least, I felt very rejected. It seemed that, for whatever reason, Slava did not want to converse with me, and the last thing I wanted to do was go down a rabbit hole toward setting myself up for hurt. For I was raw, having just encountered one of the worst experiences of my life. I needed to protect myself, and I had to do it quickly. I turned my eyes to meditate on the scenery outside, the green trees whipping by as I licked my wounds in accepting what felt like a very dismissive hint. I didn’t get it. All I was trying to do was strike up a bit of light conversation. No big deal. To just socialize in letting go of a day I truly wanted to put behind me, and to get the silent treatment was a glorious capstone to an absolutely terrible afternoon. I took a few quite breaths, calmed my reactionary self, and dismissed my desire for conversation, and as I did, Slava again looked at my reflection,

“A Russian song.” He turned his eyes back to the road.

The door was reopened, my emotions rekindled, and I just couldn’t let it go, I was simply too curious who this mysterious Slava was.

Readjusting my approach to a more direct path, “May I take your photograph?” I invited.

He summed me up under a withheld smile, but this time it was I looking at the reflection in the rear view mirror,

“Maybe!” He again fell silent.

Yet, there was one last icebreaker I felt I had to try. A question that I thought was as non-threatening as one could be. So I threw it. “What kind of Russian song?”

I did not get the response I expected. Slava stayed silent, shared no words, no body language showing any interest to converse, and post a final and brief stare at me through the rear view mirror, no engagement at all. He simply turned his eyes back to the road and resumed driving.

The sinking balloon dropped lower. Pushed down by what looked liked absolute disinterest on the part of Slava, it fell to the floor. Did I get too personal with my last question? Could I have somehow inadvertently opened a sensitive subject by inviting him to share more about his music?

Darker even, were the negative opinions that began to enter my mind. Stuff like, “What is his problem!”

The smell of jet fuel wafted into the car as the airport drew closer. Slava, with a now regular repetition of occasional rear view mirror checks of me, stayed resolute in his awkward silence as the airport exit sign came into view–my queue to begin preparing for an end to a very isolated commute. There were no words exchanged as I looked down to gather my bags and count a driver’s gratuity from the few dollars I had, all the while not realizing that Slava had taken a diversion away from the airport entrance and toward a dead end side street just prior to the roadway leading to the drop off for departing flights.

The area was clean and industrial. Easy to recognize that the buildings were new and the deep black asphalt hardly used. Row after row of large units with tall big-rig loading docks lined the street on both sides. All empty of any movement. Completely vacant, and most likely, never occupied. Each proof that the Recession was real; testaments of brick and mortar witnessing the aftermath of a harsh economic downturn.

Not fully knowing Slava’s reasoning for the detour or of his intentions, I became very aware, and with no view of other road traffic I tensed up. Growing incrementally uncomfortable as I postured to the front of the seat, my mind began to percolate. Was I about to receive a stern thrashing from Slava for asking too many bothering questions? After all, retribution might have been in order for sticking my nose into his business with my barrage of personal inquiries.

There was a growing lump in my throat as Slava stopped at the end of a deserted culdesac, shifted the vehicle into park, and turned off the engine.

Vulnerable was an understatement to how I felt as I inventoried my surroundings. The lump in my throat beginning to swell into a chokehold as I was totally out of my comfort zone, scoping all possible scenarios should things turn bad.

Do I grab my bags and run, or just sprint without them? If it gets physical, could I protect myself? Scenario after scenario flashed through my head, and with each downward spiral of my logic, my uneasiness and heart rate increased. It was ridiculous that with all the life experience I had, that I could feel so out of control. That I could let my imaginative self get the best of me by creating a portfolio of frightening outcomes to the moment that was at hand.

My chest was pounding and I was ready to react, when, at the height of my anxiety, Slava leaned over the front seat, turned his head and peered directly into my eyes, “Songs about friends. Shall we take a photo outside the car?” He smiled warmly.

My walls instantly fell. I felt embarrassed for so negatively assessing the character of a person I did not know. Regretful for drawing conclusions far too quickly about another person without due consideration; the mirror was again pointed at me and I was looking at myself, a little ashamed that, in a way, I had profiled Slava. Judged his silence and short responses as aggression. Dug my heals in the sand as to who he was before I knew who he was, and in doing, almost blocked an opportunity to better know a very good man. A man who, after posing for a few candid photographs, unexpectedly opened up to trust me with an intimate part of his life story. I was honored to say the least. Never in my life would I have, at first glance, realized the depth of this amazing well-intentioned human being.

Slava was a success story of the richest kind. Migrating with his wife and children from the Ukraine to the United States in 1989, he had settled into a life where family and kindness to others were first priority. A mechanical engineer by trade, he chose to leave his career and travel to a country where his children could build a better life. A life altering decision that exemplified his belief that humility and love of family are more important than vocation.

At first he chauffeured as a means of income. A way to put his two sons through college, yet in it he found a new freedom that allowed him to meet, in his words, “…many interesting people.” Something that was foundation to Slava’s character and the reason why he chose to continue his life as a chauffeur. In getting to know him, I was blessed. My heart turned toward a man of wonderful charm and empathy toward the world around him. A person who walked with grace and respect that was impossible to ignore. It was with the greatest of compassion he accepted me, and it was obvious that his interest to know me was genuine.

In the end, the reasoning for his silence was reassuring. Basically this, he could see that I was troubled and he was concerned for me–the explanation for his endless scans of me through his rear view mirror. He further clarified that the traffic was very bad and he did not want to take his mind of the road, hence, the lack of conversation that I took very personally. Explained to me that he could not in good conscience drop me at the airport not knowing if I was OK–the motivation for his decision to stop at the only quite place he knew before entering the driveway to Philadelphia International—the deserted industrial area.

Slava taught me well that day as he graciously accepted my invitation to be photographed. Literally putting me on a path that would lead me to produce the hundreds of portraits and essays that I am now re-publishing in Sidewalk Ghosts. Stories that in first publication stimulated thousands of discussions that blossomed a point-of-view. Dialogues not solely conceived through my words and experiences mind you, but conversations founded on wisdom shared through hearing the stories of others. Outlooks derived from many brave and diverse individuals who trusted me at first glance to expose who they were as they gave a priceless gift: The freedom to see others, the self-control to forgive, and a greater understanding of the word “empathy.”

Philly is know as The City of Brotherly Love, and Slava was one of their greatest ambassadors. Although unknown to the masses, his voice chimed loudly through his very presence, and I was lucky enough to have met him. I was not seeking it, but in meeting Slava, I found myself in the presence of greatness. Not as the media and popular list of Who’s Who might presume. But rather, through the language of a very reserved man who possessed a plain and pure truth. Namely, the importance of caring about one another.

His last words to me, with a kindly shared handshake at my designated terminal, “I wish you a good life my friend.”

Talk Tomorrow My Good Friends,
Richard
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From the very beginning of my stranger meeting journey I promised to describe my feelings in one way or the other; so in continuing to honor the integrity of the commitment, I’ll stand by that pledge in this installment of Sidewalk Ghosts.

June 27, 2012, stuck on traffic jammed highway 101, I was exasperated. Stressed, rushed, and fatigued as I commuted to a very important production meeting. Fully focused on presenting a portfolio of new work in referencing a project that I was producing, and even though Sidewalk Ghosts has grown my outlook towards the people around me in appreciating our differences, I have to say, on that day, after 292 consecutive days of interview strangers and publishing the experience, I was sad to admit, less than enthusiastic. Yet in looking back, it would be shallow to ignore not only the personal growth the experience had blessed me with; but more importantly, the impact I witnessed from how others had come together as they read my little campy stories and words shared by so many unique individuals.

It was 11:18am. Overwhelmed in holding back my road frustration as I zigzagged lanes in attempt to cut any minute I could. Words flying in and out of my head, that if not for a fun little dictation app, would have escaped me forever. Looking like a schizophrenic man debating with himself I quoted: “I have not yet meet my stranger-turned-friend for the day yet, and I have no idea what is in store for me. My meeting is at 2:00pm. We’ll see what happens.”

1:00pm. I finally arrived at my destination, the Pacific Design Center (PDC). Almost 2 hours from the time I hit 18 miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic, I had 60 minutes to settle for my meeting. Too early to check in, I sat in the lobby, and as per my stranger meeting custom dictated, and despite my earlier mentioned fatigue, I loosed my attitude and began to smile and nod at all who passed by.

As expected, most gestured back with a questioning curiosity, “Who is this guy? What does he want with me? He’s a creeper!”

No harm, no foul taken. After all, I was an absolute stranger and to be skeptical of the darkly dressed dude sitting in the center of a very open space was quite an acceptable human reaction. So I cast no judgment or took it personally. It was quite natural for people who did not know me. But one thing struck me funny as I compared my moments before isolated drive to the scarcity of those passing by me in the air-conditioned bliss of a wide-open public space. And in that contemplation, I calculated one common denominator: The invisible wall, that all too often, we place between the world around us and ourselves. It mattered not if it was in an automobile or on foot in an busy building. Of resonance was a lesson learned in the observation, namely, at too many times we are a divided people.

I had a little time to kill, so I did an experiment. Went to the building entryway and opened doors for others. Most were grateful of the gesture, but there were a few who scurried by, almost seeming frightened by my outreach. It wasn’t like I was pushing over their boundaries. I asked for no response and purposefully positioned my body language to be as non-threatening as possible. Just opened the door.

Now trust me, I’m not proposing that we naively drop our walls. There is good reason for them at many a time. Still, it made me question, “What if we all just trusted a little more?” Would we find new light in those we pass by, work, and live with, by becoming just a little more aware of each other.

Anyway, there I was, at the PDC, clock ticking down to meeting time. Most people avoiding me, when one person stood out as a person to interview: His name was Levi.

“Make what you love. It is the best thing you can do for yourself,” he summarized.

Continuing, “I think I can only speak for myself. My agenda is “me” first. Which is probably quite similar to the rest of the human race.”

Was Levi self-absorbed? Somehow, I don’t think so. Read on.

Yes, Levi spoke of me first, but the more I got to know him I quickly understood he was not caught up in egotism.

“I just feel like if I curate my life, and the people that I love, in the manner that I desire, my world is going to be a lot better and more enjoyable. But it is really important that in all the things that I do, that they are also good for other people. You know, we can only make a little change by ourselves. But, at least for the immediate influence for those around us, it can make somewhat of a difference.

“It’s like if people make smart cars. Only one person is going to own that car, so by buying it, they are really helping themselves by owning the car and are not hurting the rest of the people around them.

“I’m a super on-the-fence type of deal. I don’t think there’s too many people that actually make an effort to teach things where a lot of other people learn, but it is a lead-by-example type deal for me, where if people start paying attention they might learn something.”

I think Levi taught me that day through his most eloquent example. On a day of rushed mind and heart, and in the middle of a world of moving people, he paused to share a most insightful and simple wisdom. His words rang in my ear, “What if people start paying more attention?”

Talk soon my friends,

Richard

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“Try to find some kind of a spiritual crutch, so when people are not around you can rely on, you have somewhere to turn.”

 

March 10, 2012 – It was 7:00pm on a Friday night, the streets full of people enjoying the evening as the aroma of limitless dining choices wafted in the air—a regular occurrence in Granada Hills at a weekly event I have labeled “Catering Truck Alley.” Four blocks of bumper-to-bumper mobile kitchens, with each toting the best-of-the-best in what sidewalk dining could offer. I’d been there several times, and every time I attended I enjoyed amazing food and the compelling company of a most diverse culture. An experience where folding chair and curbside sitting was in vogue as many rubbed shoulders over aluminum foil wrapped cuisine; and for me, a socializing spot to meet a stranger or two.
I arrived with, sadly admitted, expectations of quickly finding a stranger turned friend. You see, I was hungry for street food, and in choosing my location that night I thought I’d have no problem starting up a conversation. Yet as I walked, a dry feeling engulfed me, one that after almost an hour of rejection from all I approached, swayed me away from wanting to talk to anyone, let alone enjoy eating anything at all. I was even starting to feel bitter, wondering how unfairly people must have been profiling me. I had no malice, no hidden agenda, just a promise to publish their words for the world to hear; and all the while I was wandering, nagging at me was a pull I could not get out of my head. But my pride got the best of me. A downfall that blocked me from listening to what my intuition was telling me, “Go to the barber shop you passed on that side street where you parked your car,”reasoning with myself that I had committed to meeting someone on the boulevard.
It was close to 8pm. I’d aimlessly strolled up and down the boulevard for close to an hour, been called a name or two, looked throughby many, and assuming the frustration I was feeling in trying to force a friendship, I might have been carrying a chip on my shoulder for everyone to see. So finally listening to my first inspiration, I dropped my pride and walked through the doors of the pool-tabled shop of Barber/Entrepreneur Jalon.
I admit, after the, “Stay away from me you camera freak,”bashing I had gone through, I was apprehensive to interrupt anyone in their own space—especially as he was working with a few clients, but I was committed. The night was going fast and I had a story to post by midnight.
Forcing myself to calm my attitude, I introduced myself, and with no need for great detail I was instantly welcomed. Warmly invited into the circle as Jalon worked on what seemed like a couple of long time customers. What caught me off-guard was their sincere interest to know who I was, even more than wishing to blow they’re own horns.
My first impression was proven true as both guys had been going to Jalon for years. “He is the best in The San Fernando Valley,”one said. “No,”the other exclaimed, “he is the best barber in California.”
What made Jalon so good at his craft? In the words of his clients, “Precision, like Kobe!”
Yet there was more to Jalon than precision. His shop was a sanctuary of friendship as I quickly realized I was amidst what felt like friends hanging out in a living room conversation.
Jalon set the tone, and upon his answering my first question, I realized why.
That question: “If you had the stage and the whole world was undivided in listening, what would you say?”
 “This may sound cliché, but we should all follow the golden rule,”Jalon began as he worked an intricate cut on one of his clients. Better even, friend.
For all the years of my Sidewalk Ghosts project, I’ve heard many talk of the Golden Rule, yet this was the first time I had been in an environment that radiated its values.
The Golden Rule: A universal premise that has been expressed by just about every kind of person you can think of. So, in meeting Jalon I was inspired to do a deeper research on its origin:
From the scriptures of the Bahá’í Faith:
 “Blessed is he who preferreth his brother before himself. —Bahá’u’lláh
Beware lest ye harm any soul, or make any heart to sorrow; lest ye wound any man with your words, be he known to you or a stranger, be he friend or foe.” —`Abdu’l-Bahá
Buddha advises:
“Comparing oneself to others in such terms as, “Just as I am so are they, just as they are so am I,” he should neither kill nor cause others to kill.—Sutta Nipata 705
One who, while himself seeking happiness, oppresses with violence other beings who also desire happiness, will not attain happiness hereafter. —Dhammapada 10. Violence”
Christian ethics:
“Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them” —Matthew 7:12
 “Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against one of your people, but love your neighbor as yourself” —Leviticus 19:18
Judaism:
“You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your kinsfolk. Love your neighbor as yourself.” —Leviticus 19:18
“The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” —Leviticus 19:34
“’That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn. —Talmud, Shabbat 31a, the ‘Great Principle’”
Islam:
 “…and you should forgive and overlook: Do you not like God to forgive you? And Allah is The Merciful Forgiving.” —Qur’an(Surah 24, “The Light,” v. 22)”
“The most righteous person is the one who consents for other people what he consents for himself, and who dislikes for them what he dislikes for himself.”
Care of Wikipedia, here is a link to a much fuller set of interpretations of the rule. A rather enlightening read.

Jalon was a man of compassion, who evidently held strong to The Golden Rule in the way he treated his clients… oh again, I mean friends…or maybe per The Golden Rule—“Neighbors.” Neighbors that through my unannounced visit had instantly called me friend.
Jalon finished the last haircut and even though quitting time from a long day had arrived, he graciously allowed me time to take a few photos. As I did, I challenged him to think of both the present and future of the world to come.

For the present: “Try to find some kind of a spiritual crutch, so when people are not around you can rely on, you have somewhere to turn.”
For what’s ahead: “I don’t think we are heading to too much good. There is too much inflation, and the way things are going, it looks like the government will be running things. I’m not sure if I want to be there.”
Two very sobering outlooks given almost eight years ago, both of which we can choose either to bypass or do what we can to contribute to a better future.
Jalon called it a crutch. But, now in retrospect, maybe what he said can be interpreted as humble wisdom. A call to look at our near past in considering this time; even a prompt to fully examine a most eloquent council.
So wherever we work, whatever our stresses, challenges or cultures, shall we honor the advice of a most sincere entrepreneur. Ponder the age-old proverb he clearly demonstrated on a cold March night. For it was in his open hearted attitude and attention to familiar relationships, as well as a stranger like myself, that for a moment, I was pushed to reflect upon a most impactful insight for nurturing rewarding and productive human interaction: Simply, The Golden Rule.
Talk soon my friends,
Richard
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