Ya know, sometimes we do look alike

Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, solving the long-lost mystery of the Chinese Fords.

The answer rests with my great-grandfather, a man that was ridiculously easy to find––once you knew his real name. He was born Min Chung, in Canton in 1851. (That would be the one in China, not the town in Ohio that’s known for the Football Hall of Fame).

Seeking fame, fortune and probably anything that didn’t resemble famine, he immigrated to the desert of Nevada where he worked his way up to Chinese labor superintendent for the Borax Mining Company. A lofty position for a Chinese person at the time. One that had that him rubbing elbows with numerous Euro-American businessmen, engineers, miners and robber barons––three of whom mention my great-grandfather in their memoirs.

One mentions that Min Chung adopted the Americanized name William Ford, after William Douglass, a hotel owner and family friend. While another account has a young Min working as a valet for another William Ford–-a famous sportsman and hunter. (Not sure if it's any relation to the father of Henry).

The truth is, I’ll never know exactly, but I would guess it’s an amalgamation of the two stories. Like Marion Morrison or Archibald Leach (later known as John Wayne and Cary Grant), he needed to pimp up the truth a bit. So he chose a name that would suit his needs, and confuse his progeny for generations.

Min, became William “Billy” Ford, who met his wife, Loy Lee, for the first time on their wedding day. Back then eHarmony consisted of hiring a Chinese matchmaker who specialized in arranged marriages. Loy was American-born and fit well into Min's, I mean Billy’s, social circles.

They had seven children together—all were given American names. The fifth child was my grandfather, born on July 4, 1907. He was given the name George William Ford, but oddly enough, in the film industry he switched to George F. Chung. He probably got tired of people asking where the name came from too. If you were white in Hollywood circa 1940, you had to be Borax white. And if you were Chinese, well…you had to be more Chinese. Or Japanese. My dad mentioned my grandfather often being cast as a Japanese soldier. That whole look-alike thing again.

My grandfather went on to become a technical advisor for the television series Kung Fu. A show, oddly enough, about a Chinese immigrant walking the desert. (Though played by a white guy).

Life if anything favors the ironic, grasshoppa’.

Ford. Jamie Ford

One of the big mysteries in my life (aside from how they make Teflon stick to the pan) is this: I’m ½ Chinese–-from my Dad’s side. He was fluent in Cantonese. He grew up in a Chinese home. But somehow we ended up with the last name: Ford. Like the car. Like the clumsy president. Like the guy who shot Jesse James in the back of the head. F-O-R-D.

My late Grandfather, a man I never met, was born George William Ford. Not even a Chinese middle-name to go on. To make matters worse, my dad was an only child. No Chinese uncles or aunts to mine for familial information. And when my dad died, the mystery remained unsolved.

I’d searched and googled and searched some more. Eventually I just gave up. Chinese immigrants often transposed first and last names when they arrived in America, or had their names written down phonetically when they registered in the states––who knows what happened. I certainly didn’t. The rumor was that someone had been adopted, by missionaries perhaps, hence the very western surname.

This all changed a year ago.

I got a call from a kindly woman––a genealogical researcher. She’d been hired to help settle the estate of a great aunt I didn’t even know I had. It meant $$$--but more importantly, she said these magical words: “When it’s all said and done, we’ll send a family tree and contact information for the other living relatives.” Relatives that to this point, were unknown to me.

Well, guess what I got in the mail? Sure, I got a little coinage from Heaven. (Thanks Auntie Alyce, I’ll put it to good use, I promise). But more importantly, I was able to contact cousins, who were able to fill in the blanks.

Like Richard Lym––to whom I am DEEPLY grateful. He sent me photos of my grandfather, who…surprise-surprise…looks like me. Or I look like him. Either way, it's pretty cool. Richard also sent my grandfather’s membership card in the Screen Actors Guild (1946) and his Motion Picture Employee card, ID No. 50810.

One of few things I did know about my grandfather was that he was an actor and an extra in a lot of Gunga Din-type movies in the 40s. When the credits rolled and you saw, “Chinaman #4, or Soldier #2, that was him.

He also taught martial arts. Something my dad taught was well.

But best of all, I finally found out where my last name came from. Granted, it’s unique being one of the only Chinese Fords in America, but a little confusing too.

So where did the name come from? Can you wait ‘till tomorrow?

MySpace, the final frontier

Once upon a time I blogged about the quirks of living in a small town. One of those quirks is that we basically have one homeless guy. His name is Larry. Local lore has it that Larry was once an aircraft mechanic before succumbing to paranoid delusions.

Now he spends his time commandeering shopping carts, binding them with spare parts––pipes, boards, whatever he can find. The resulting spray-painted creations look like ships, planes or the occasional helicopter. Once an aircraft mechanic, always…well, you know.

When his creations get so large that they impede traffic, the police impound them. Annoyed, but undeterred, Larry starts all over again.

Larry is so well-known that when the temperature drops to freezing, the local newspaper usually runs a “Larry is okay” editorial reminder. Locals worry. I have to admit, I do to. But the downtown merchants association buys Larry a new sleeping bag, Sorels and a snowmobile suit each Christmas. And when it drops below zero an anonymous donor pays for a motel room.

One time Larry found a perfectly good toaster lying in an alley. Did he use it to stay warm? No, he used it to make toast––plugging it into an exterior outlet behind my old office. I’d drive to work and see Larry sitting on the curb, toaster plugged in with an enormous orange extension cord, buttering his breakfast.

Another time I saw Larry in a local steakhouse. He was sitting alone, eating two ice-cream cones, one in each hand. Maybe he’s not so crazy after all.

So why the homage to Larry? Well, because Larry has a MySpace page.

I don’t think he put it up himself. In fact, I know he didn’t. Local teens did it on a lark––as a way for people to “get to know Larry.” It must be working because Larry now has 724 friends. Altruism or exploitation? Yes!

I have mixed feelings about MySpace. Sure, the social connectedness is interesting. But please––let’s not kid ourselves. MySpace is like a Denny’s after the bars have closed. Not everyone is a drunken idiot, but there are just enough staggering around to ruin your Grand Slam Breakfast.

But what’s a writer to do? Do I have a MySpace page? (Yes, I do. I’m not a total Luddite). And in a few months I’ll pimp it out. Once I get cover art, I’ll doll it up. In the meantime, send me an add request. And by the way, Larry says “hey.”

Ho Ho Horrors

Ah, it’s Christmas time. That special time of the year. When neighbor looks kindly on neighbor. When our hearts are filled with love and the joy of the season. And when we dress up our kids and drag them to the mall to be terrorized by some creepy fat dude in a fake beard.

I swear, there are few things more frightening to children than a department store Santa. Parents might as well take photos of their kids getting booster shots. There would probably be less crying and terrified screaming. And lollipops are always better than candy canes in my book.

For some reason I never cried on Santa’s lap. But then again, when Santa asked me what I wanted, I told him a chainsaw. Yes, I was a little weird. I have this great photo from when I was five years old. I loved Hot Tamales––that cinnamon candy that burns your mouth. I loved sucking on ‘em, but they were so hot I’d end up drooling red slobber down my newest Christmas outfit. My grandma probably opened our Christmas card and thought I'd been beaten into smiling.

In honor of traumatized children everywhere, The Sun-Sentinel put together this ginormous gallery of scared Santa pix. You can even upload your own. If this bit of Christmas catharsis doesn't kill the holiday blues, I don't know what will. Enjoy.

(And for the record, I'm still waiting on that chainsaw).