So apparently there was a little snowstorm that came through and left a bunch of people stranded at the airport. Ahhhh, that brings back memories:
Anyone remember Skybus? I do!
Back in 2008 I had to go to a wedding in Ohio. Skybus was the new airline that was supposed to blow Jet Blue and Southwest out of the water with their $10 fares. To cut costs they didn't have a call center or a staffed window at the airport. The first 10 tickets were $10 and from there the prices went up to like $30 max. I figured I'd give them a chance and that's when I learned that being ghetto isn't limited to race.
First off I had to drive an hour to the smallest airport in Greensboro, NC. Second, when the plane pulled up I noticed that it didn't dock at the terminal. We had to literally walk out of the airport, down the tarmac and walk up a series of ramps to get on the plane. They also hit a metrobus move by painting a huge Nationwide Insurance ad all over the plane. Hey, can't knock the hustle. I get on the plane and get a seat down in front.
All of a sudden a woman in a black sweatsuit walks to the front of the plane. I'm thinking she's a passenger going to the bathroom. Nope. She's the flight attendant. Before starting the safety speech, she tells us that this message was sponsored by Nationwide Insurance and like two other companies. After the speech about exits and flotation devices she gives us the spiel about how Skybus is a little different than most airlines. For starters, no free anything. Pillows were $5, blankets were $10 (but you could keep them as souvenirs). Peanuts were $2, cans of soda were $3 and (here's the kicker) once we reach cruising altitude, the QVC cart would be coming by.
Yep, they were selling jewelry, electronics and clothes on the plane. I slept through that but did wake up just before we landed. The pilot gave the usual "weather, time and thanks for flying" speech but at the end he said (and I'm not making this up) "It's 54 degrees in Columbus today, but a nice 85 in Fort Lauderdale. As a matter of fact, this plane will be heading there from Columbus. For last minute tickets at the bargain of $20 please see the flight attendant and remain on board."
Now if that wasn't ghetto enough for you, guess what happened when I got off? The damn company went bankrupt. I don't mean a week or a month later. No, five minutes after I got off...about the same amount of time it took to walk from the runway to the terminal since they didn't lease gates at airports...I looked up on the TV in the baggage claim and the crawl on the bottom of CNN said, "Skybus files bankruptcy."
The whole drive to the hotel I was thinking, damn I was lucky that I got my flight before they closed down. I guess tomorrow will be my last flight with them. WRONG! That day was my last flight. I got to the hotel and checked on the computer. Their website stated that due to rising fuel costs they were shutting d0wn at midnight. Anyone interested in a refund should call their credit card company to inquire about travel insurance claims.
For the next hour I tried in vain to find a return ticket under $700. I ended up renting a car and driving twelve hours through torrential rain back to NC. When I got to the airport I saw maybe five Skybus planes sitting off the runway with boots on them. I'm not making this up. They had these bright orange covers on the engine that said "Do not move this plane."
It was the most expensive $10 I've ever spent.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
In Loving Memory...
In loving memory of
The Modern Black Sitcom/Drama
1990's-mid 2000's
Gone but not forgotten:
The Cosby ShowA Different WorldThe Fresh Prince of Bel-AirIn the HouseMartinLiving SingleNew York UndercoverIn Living ColorRocThe Sinbad ShowTheaHanging With Mr. CooperFamily MattersMalcolm and EddieThe Steve Harvey ShowThe Jamie Foxx ShowThe Wayans BrothersMoeshaAll of UsEveHalf and HalfThe HughleysOne on OneGirlfriendsThe ParkersMy Wife and KidsEverybody Hates Chris
Is That Kyle?
It's a sad day in Toon Town when Kyle Barker is shopping at Marshalls. Did anyone else catch the TJ Maxx/ Marshalls commercial with the people walking through the mall singing a semi-Christmas carol about spending too much? For some reason, my eyes always focus in on the token Black person in every commercial, and this time my mouth dropped to see TC Carson aka Kyle Barker from Living Single.
It always hurts to see a beloved actor fall from grace and end up doing commercials--especially a Black one. Living Single was Fox's bread and butter and one point, but no one seemed to take off from that show besides Queen Latifah. I don't blame anyone for it; Showbiz is brutal. I think I would rather someone disappear altogether than go backwards down the acting ladder...then again, a brother's gotta eat.
It always hurts to see a beloved actor fall from grace and end up doing commercials--especially a Black one. Living Single was Fox's bread and butter and one point, but no one seemed to take off from that show besides Queen Latifah. I don't blame anyone for it; Showbiz is brutal. I think I would rather someone disappear altogether than go backwards down the acting ladder...then again, a brother's gotta eat.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Agnosticism Sucks...Sometimes
It kinda sucks being Agnostic. Before I continue, that is not the same as autistic. Yes, someone actually asked me that. "You speak so well, I didn't know you were, you know, retarded." Agnostic is basically the equivalent of being "on the fence" when it comes to God and religion. It's different than atheism where you don't believe in anything at all.
So where was I? Oh yeah, it sucks. Like right now we're approaching Christmas. Facebook is littered with people talking about Jesus' birthday and I can't really say anything. You see, I don't have a problem with religion at all. I used to be a die-hard Christian and not just the Sunday-only Christian either. How I got to this point is a long story. I'll just say that I didn't have a bad experience, no one from the church did me dirty. My belief structure changed without a bad experience serving as a catalyst. I throw that in there because the minute you tell some people that you don't go to church they go the route of "the bad experience" and "try my church."
Anyway, it's hard because, while I don't have beef with church, I do have an issue with 1) inaccurate information being broadcast all over the place and 2) having to keep my mouth shut. I looooove to voice my opinion, but it's dangerous when religion is the topic. I don't want to be misinterpreted as trying to bash it and at the same time I don't want to plant a seed of doubt in anyone's faith. A lot of people need faith to get by. Life is hard enough as it is. Some people can't function without something deeper to believe in.
So that's why it sucks. Just to give a small example...Jesus' name wasn't Jesus. It irked me as a Christian to hear people swinging for the fences with the "unless you plead the blood of Jesus and profess his 'true name' you will go to hell." The letter J didn't exist back then, neither did the sound that J makes. His name was Yeshua and Jesus is just the result of that name being translated into different languages with different sounds.
Another small bite of info that shouldn't cause any major pitchfork and torch brigades: Palestine is pretty cold in December. No shepherd would be out during that time. Instead it was probably either in the spring or early fall that Jesus would've been born. December 25th was, however, the observance of Saturnalia--a "pagan" ritual. It is historical record that to help with the adoption of Christianity by the "pagans," a lot of holidays and celebrations were merged together.
Now if you're a Christian, none of that should really dissuade you from your beliefs. It doesn't matter if you have the wrong birthday or the wrong name, because the idea is still the same. As a non-Christian though...you can see how it can be slightly frustrating. It also doesn't help that everywhere you turn (mostly facebook) you run into people who speak only in scripture. If the name is wrong, imagine what the "words in red" were at one point. I can't say anything though, because that would lead into the very thing I hope to avoid.
It's frustrating when people can make their view point heard without meaning to annoy or offend, but the minute I say "I'm not a Christian" I run into heavy opposition and become labeled as the antichrist.
So where was I? Oh yeah, it sucks. Like right now we're approaching Christmas. Facebook is littered with people talking about Jesus' birthday and I can't really say anything. You see, I don't have a problem with religion at all. I used to be a die-hard Christian and not just the Sunday-only Christian either. How I got to this point is a long story. I'll just say that I didn't have a bad experience, no one from the church did me dirty. My belief structure changed without a bad experience serving as a catalyst. I throw that in there because the minute you tell some people that you don't go to church they go the route of "the bad experience" and "try my church."
Anyway, it's hard because, while I don't have beef with church, I do have an issue with 1) inaccurate information being broadcast all over the place and 2) having to keep my mouth shut. I looooove to voice my opinion, but it's dangerous when religion is the topic. I don't want to be misinterpreted as trying to bash it and at the same time I don't want to plant a seed of doubt in anyone's faith. A lot of people need faith to get by. Life is hard enough as it is. Some people can't function without something deeper to believe in.
So that's why it sucks. Just to give a small example...Jesus' name wasn't Jesus. It irked me as a Christian to hear people swinging for the fences with the "unless you plead the blood of Jesus and profess his 'true name' you will go to hell." The letter J didn't exist back then, neither did the sound that J makes. His name was Yeshua and Jesus is just the result of that name being translated into different languages with different sounds.
Another small bite of info that shouldn't cause any major pitchfork and torch brigades: Palestine is pretty cold in December. No shepherd would be out during that time. Instead it was probably either in the spring or early fall that Jesus would've been born. December 25th was, however, the observance of Saturnalia--a "pagan" ritual. It is historical record that to help with the adoption of Christianity by the "pagans," a lot of holidays and celebrations were merged together.
Now if you're a Christian, none of that should really dissuade you from your beliefs. It doesn't matter if you have the wrong birthday or the wrong name, because the idea is still the same. As a non-Christian though...you can see how it can be slightly frustrating. It also doesn't help that everywhere you turn (mostly facebook) you run into people who speak only in scripture. If the name is wrong, imagine what the "words in red" were at one point. I can't say anything though, because that would lead into the very thing I hope to avoid.
It's frustrating when people can make their view point heard without meaning to annoy or offend, but the minute I say "I'm not a Christian" I run into heavy opposition and become labeled as the antichrist.
Monday, December 20, 2010
How they get you.
I feel like I neglect this section of the site. It's easy to write about my crazy thoughts, but a lot harder to write about parenting. For one thing, I'm very blunt and to the point. I don't want things to be misread as unhappy with the baby. Second, I have a very "interesting" sense of humor. I don't want people calling Child Services over a joke that is mistaken as serious. But if I am to evolve as a writer, I guess I have to write what's close to my heart so...
Baby for sale!
For sale is a slightly worn black baby. Approximately 2 feet tall by .5 foot wide and .33 foot deep. Has slight scratches from her long fingernails.
This baby is insane. I often write about how she doubles as a human coupon because most cashiers wanna talk to her, play with her and either make mistakes on my charge or give me a discount. There are some dark sides to the story too though. I'm just now strong enough within myself to write about them.
For one, the baby beats me. Those little fingers are strong and, when she curls them up into a fist and starts swinging in protest of being put in the stroller/car seat, I have to remind myself that it's a child hitting me and not give into the reflex that tells me to bop and weave. Those tiger legs are nothing to sleep on either. Changing a diaper can be life and death some days. If I miss "nail clipping day" then those little toe nails are like talons or something. I have no doubt that, if she needed to, my daughter could easily catch a salmon swimming upstream with her bare feet.
Shit.
No explanation really needed with that one. The baby shits as if there's money in it for her. In her mind, there is a contest where prizes are given based on who can shit through their clothes at the most inopportune times. Nothing breaks you into parenthood like having to change a diaper and a set of clothes on a packed (and stalled) subway car and then scoop watery shit out of the stroller seat with a makeshift glove made up of diaper wipes and an old newspaper. 200 extra points are awarded to the baby for spraying you while you're doing it. 500 points are deducted from the assholes who stare at you like, "Is he really doing that...here?" No, I'm going to let my child stew in her own excrement for the next thirty minutes while Metro figures out how to get the train moving again.
Crying.
My daughter has singing in her future and I have the Joe Jackson school of managing to attend. She cries as though it's the last breath of life she'll ever get. You can literally hear her down the hall and around the corner from my apartment. It's the kind of cry that pierces your soul. You keep telling yourself that there is nothing wrong with her. She's been fed, changed, burped, she's passed gas, and her body temp is fine. She's just being an ass. Then you look over to assert yourself as the alpha dog and she looks up at you with watery eyes and before you know it, she's mind fucked you into picking her up and singing the same stupid song from Sesame Street four times in a row because it makes her smile.
Suffice to say, the baby has made me her bitch. But, it's a job that I'm willing to take. Now some people annoy the hell out of me when they give me that cliched "my kids are my life" crap. I want to say, go do something with yourself. But then I find myself thinking the same thing.
Here is a person who doesn't work, doesn't contribute in any way. She doesn't wash dishes, she doesn't let me know when my show comes back from commercial or anything. She cries whenever she isn't pleased, makes noise through all of the punch lines of the tv shows and decides to shit through her clothes just as the team gets to the red zone. I have to plan my trips around her and everything that made being a man cool is now gone. I can't just pick up and go when I want. I have to make sure I have bottles and the bottle cooler. Is there ice in it? Is there at least one room temperature bottle? Has she been changed? Did she go again? Is that just gas? Do I have at least one of her toys to tether to the car seat? Where is her other sock? Do I have enough bibs? Is this outfit warm enough for the walk to and from the car yet cool enough and breathable for the ride inside the car?
And after fifteen minutes...now we can go. Then she shits on the walk to the elevator.
You go through all of this every single day. You never get a break and just when you're ready to sit alone in a four cornered room staring at candles...she laughs or does something like she did yesterday where I laid on the floor beside her chanting "please go to sleep" and she rolled over onto her stomach, crawled clockwise in a circle until her face was lined up with mine put all her weight on one arm and lifted the other one up enough to touch my face and she smiled a big toothless grin with one little drop of slobber hanging out the side of her mouth and she held her hand there for about five seconds just staring into my eyes and then calmly put her hand back down, crawled counter clockwise so that she could see the tv again and went back into her own little world while I sat there dumbfounded as I realized that those cooks are on to something. This little girl really is my entire world.
Baby for sale!
For sale is a slightly worn black baby. Approximately 2 feet tall by .5 foot wide and .33 foot deep. Has slight scratches from her long fingernails.
This baby is insane. I often write about how she doubles as a human coupon because most cashiers wanna talk to her, play with her and either make mistakes on my charge or give me a discount. There are some dark sides to the story too though. I'm just now strong enough within myself to write about them.
For one, the baby beats me. Those little fingers are strong and, when she curls them up into a fist and starts swinging in protest of being put in the stroller/car seat, I have to remind myself that it's a child hitting me and not give into the reflex that tells me to bop and weave. Those tiger legs are nothing to sleep on either. Changing a diaper can be life and death some days. If I miss "nail clipping day" then those little toe nails are like talons or something. I have no doubt that, if she needed to, my daughter could easily catch a salmon swimming upstream with her bare feet.
Shit.
No explanation really needed with that one. The baby shits as if there's money in it for her. In her mind, there is a contest where prizes are given based on who can shit through their clothes at the most inopportune times. Nothing breaks you into parenthood like having to change a diaper and a set of clothes on a packed (and stalled) subway car and then scoop watery shit out of the stroller seat with a makeshift glove made up of diaper wipes and an old newspaper. 200 extra points are awarded to the baby for spraying you while you're doing it. 500 points are deducted from the assholes who stare at you like, "Is he really doing that...here?" No, I'm going to let my child stew in her own excrement for the next thirty minutes while Metro figures out how to get the train moving again.
Crying.
My daughter has singing in her future and I have the Joe Jackson school of managing to attend. She cries as though it's the last breath of life she'll ever get. You can literally hear her down the hall and around the corner from my apartment. It's the kind of cry that pierces your soul. You keep telling yourself that there is nothing wrong with her. She's been fed, changed, burped, she's passed gas, and her body temp is fine. She's just being an ass. Then you look over to assert yourself as the alpha dog and she looks up at you with watery eyes and before you know it, she's mind fucked you into picking her up and singing the same stupid song from Sesame Street four times in a row because it makes her smile.
Suffice to say, the baby has made me her bitch. But, it's a job that I'm willing to take. Now some people annoy the hell out of me when they give me that cliched "my kids are my life" crap. I want to say, go do something with yourself. But then I find myself thinking the same thing.
Here is a person who doesn't work, doesn't contribute in any way. She doesn't wash dishes, she doesn't let me know when my show comes back from commercial or anything. She cries whenever she isn't pleased, makes noise through all of the punch lines of the tv shows and decides to shit through her clothes just as the team gets to the red zone. I have to plan my trips around her and everything that made being a man cool is now gone. I can't just pick up and go when I want. I have to make sure I have bottles and the bottle cooler. Is there ice in it? Is there at least one room temperature bottle? Has she been changed? Did she go again? Is that just gas? Do I have at least one of her toys to tether to the car seat? Where is her other sock? Do I have enough bibs? Is this outfit warm enough for the walk to and from the car yet cool enough and breathable for the ride inside the car?
And after fifteen minutes...now we can go. Then she shits on the walk to the elevator.
You go through all of this every single day. You never get a break and just when you're ready to sit alone in a four cornered room staring at candles...she laughs or does something like she did yesterday where I laid on the floor beside her chanting "please go to sleep" and she rolled over onto her stomach, crawled clockwise in a circle until her face was lined up with mine put all her weight on one arm and lifted the other one up enough to touch my face and she smiled a big toothless grin with one little drop of slobber hanging out the side of her mouth and she held her hand there for about five seconds just staring into my eyes and then calmly put her hand back down, crawled counter clockwise so that she could see the tv again and went back into her own little world while I sat there dumbfounded as I realized that those cooks are on to something. This little girl really is my entire world.
Do you accept Baby?
The baby strikes again!
I went to Buy Buy Baby (the name really does say it all, doesn't it) to get a baby food maker and the guy at the register took pity on me and gave me $25 off. "Man you look like you just trying to do the best that you can with that baby and handle your responsibilities. Plus, this joint is expensive. Here's a coupon that somebody left behind."
Then I went to Bloomingdale's to buy my wife something and the two saleswomen went crazy over my daughter. "She's so cute. Look at how she smiles at me. She must like me..." I have no problem using my baby. So anyway, when I got to the register the same exact thing happened. First she did the usual, "If you put this on your [store] card then you could save 15%." I declined as usual and she was like, "Well since you have that pretty baby with you, I'll go ahead and give you the discount anyway."
Please, if you don't have one...go out and cop a new baby. They're like human coupons.
I went to Buy Buy Baby (the name really does say it all, doesn't it) to get a baby food maker and the guy at the register took pity on me and gave me $25 off. "Man you look like you just trying to do the best that you can with that baby and handle your responsibilities. Plus, this joint is expensive. Here's a coupon that somebody left behind."
Then I went to Bloomingdale's to buy my wife something and the two saleswomen went crazy over my daughter. "She's so cute. Look at how she smiles at me. She must like me..." I have no problem using my baby. So anyway, when I got to the register the same exact thing happened. First she did the usual, "If you put this on your [store] card then you could save 15%." I declined as usual and she was like, "Well since you have that pretty baby with you, I'll go ahead and give you the discount anyway."
Please, if you don't have one...go out and cop a new baby. They're like human coupons.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Washington Redskins--A Conundrum Unto Themselves
The Redskins are just special. I promised myself that if I were going to successfully free myself from the grasp of Cowboys fandom then I'd have to cease and desist all cracks on the Redskins, but they are making it too damn tempting.
Last week was torture for me. I wanted to clown them on Facebook but I tried to hold true to my word. Even when they screwed up the snap at the end I kept my mouth shut. Today though...I can't contain myself. They benched Mcnabb. Not only benched, they made him third string.
Do you really demote a guy whose face is on every bus stop? I'm not saying he lived up to the hype. Hell no he didn't, but look at what he was working with. Every time a receiver screwed up or the defense phoned it in from the sidelines, he got up on that podium after the game and (homeless beard and all) took ownership like a team player should. The Redskins obviously don't believe in reciprocity. They threw his ass under the bus. Wait, he's 3rd string. They threw his ass under a bus and then blew the joint up.
I guess he'll be closing his Capital One Bank account and moving to Minnesota next year...too bad because "they're everywhere."
Last week was torture for me. I wanted to clown them on Facebook but I tried to hold true to my word. Even when they screwed up the snap at the end I kept my mouth shut. Today though...I can't contain myself. They benched Mcnabb. Not only benched, they made him third string.
Do you really demote a guy whose face is on every bus stop? I'm not saying he lived up to the hype. Hell no he didn't, but look at what he was working with. Every time a receiver screwed up or the defense phoned it in from the sidelines, he got up on that podium after the game and (homeless beard and all) took ownership like a team player should. The Redskins obviously don't believe in reciprocity. They threw his ass under the bus. Wait, he's 3rd string. They threw his ass under a bus and then blew the joint up.
I guess he'll be closing his Capital One Bank account and moving to Minnesota next year...too bad because "they're everywhere."
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Memory Lane
Remember this?
Here's something that's always bothered me about this video...what the hell is in that box? It can't be weed because--let's be honest--weed was the least of anyone's concerns in the 80's. It could be coke, but I think I see a lighter in there. I know damn well that it isn't crack off of the sheer size of the box alone. Can you imagine a crackhead letting that much crack just sit? That only leaves heroin but...damn! I mean what kind of family has heroin addicts at both the parenting and child level? That's just sad.
Meanwhile, I'm still feeling for this brother:
That was by far the most realistic response to all of those corny PSAs. The little dude summed it up with, "they sure aren't afraid of me...and they don't take 'no' for an answer."
Here's something that's always bothered me about this video...what the hell is in that box? It can't be weed because--let's be honest--weed was the least of anyone's concerns in the 80's. It could be coke, but I think I see a lighter in there. I know damn well that it isn't crack off of the sheer size of the box alone. Can you imagine a crackhead letting that much crack just sit? That only leaves heroin but...damn! I mean what kind of family has heroin addicts at both the parenting and child level? That's just sad.
Meanwhile, I'm still feeling for this brother:
That was by far the most realistic response to all of those corny PSAs. The little dude summed it up with, "they sure aren't afraid of me...and they don't take 'no' for an answer."
Monday, December 13, 2010
Dear Facebook
Facebook,
Girl I love you. I mean, we been together since '05. That's gotta count for something. I left Blackplanet for you, but I mean...damn, stop sweating me. Nobody likes desperation. I like that you growing and doing your own thing, but let me be me. Everytime I turn around you changing your makeup. It's like everytime I log on, you look different.
Why you always worried about who I'm friends with? You say it's just "friend finder" and that you're trying to be helpful, but on the real...you don't need to know everything I do. Now you wanna know where the hell I'm going. "Places?" What kinda tabs are you trying to keep on me.
When I opt out of your "Places" you still manage to just pop the fuck up. How is it that you're supposed to be in Facebookland yet you manage to pop up and find me when I'm on CNN and Yelp? You call yourself telling me what stories my friends read, but how do you even know that I'm on CNN in the first place?
Look, our time together is our time together and our time apart is our time apart. Why can't you be more like Google? That's my bottom chick right there. She aint changed in like ten years. I don't get a bunch of ads, suggestions or nothing. She let's me be me. When I need her, I know where to find her. Simple, plain-jane and always available.
I'm not saying we're over. I just need you to understand that I don't like these things that you're doing.
Girl I love you. I mean, we been together since '05. That's gotta count for something. I left Blackplanet for you, but I mean...damn, stop sweating me. Nobody likes desperation. I like that you growing and doing your own thing, but let me be me. Everytime I turn around you changing your makeup. It's like everytime I log on, you look different.
Why you always worried about who I'm friends with? You say it's just "friend finder" and that you're trying to be helpful, but on the real...you don't need to know everything I do. Now you wanna know where the hell I'm going. "Places?" What kinda tabs are you trying to keep on me.
When I opt out of your "Places" you still manage to just pop the fuck up. How is it that you're supposed to be in Facebookland yet you manage to pop up and find me when I'm on CNN and Yelp? You call yourself telling me what stories my friends read, but how do you even know that I'm on CNN in the first place?
Look, our time together is our time together and our time apart is our time apart. Why can't you be more like Google? That's my bottom chick right there. She aint changed in like ten years. I don't get a bunch of ads, suggestions or nothing. She let's me be me. When I need her, I know where to find her. Simple, plain-jane and always available.
I'm not saying we're over. I just need you to understand that I don't like these things that you're doing.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Santa Conspiracy
I'm here to tell niggas/ it ain't all swell nigga./ There's heaven/ then there's hell nigga. (Jay-Z)
Tis the season to be jolly, but there are a lot of pissed off people out there and it all starts with the whole Santa Claus thing. Some kids will be laying anxiously in bed hoping to nod off so that Santa can come. Others will have their worlds rocked when they accidentally discover that there is no Santa and that their parents are goddamn liars. I was slow as hell to figure that one out, but through no fault of my own: My parents went to college to study bullshittery and with two Masters and a Doctorate between the two of them, I couldn't compete.
My family was so elaborate with their lies, that it just had to be true. I used to mail Santa Claus letters all the time, but after finding her whole book of stamps missing, my grandmother told me that it wasn't necessary to use stamps because the letters traveled through elf magic. She told me that Santa Claus had the newer elves working down at the main post office and that they "just know" which letters are for Santa and that they have a plane that they fly from the post office back to the North Pole each night.
Bullshit number one.
Christmas was a holiday for my mother in more ways than one. It was the one time of the year that she could leave the house without me begging to tag along by saying just one thing: I'm going to see Santa Claus. Now it didn't matter how many times she said that, I always fell for it.
Me: I thought you saw him last weekend?
Her: He sent me a fax at work telling me to come back through this weekend because he had some questions about your list. Last weekend I went because he lost your list and needed another copy. I'd take you, but he can't reveal himself to children or else you'll be banned from ever getting toys again.
Me: Oh, well tell him I said hi!
I remember having a Christmas breakfast at school back in the first grade. The school went all out and even hired a guy to play Santa. Near the end, I guess the food choked him up or something because I remember him coughing a lot and Mrs Claus handing him a can of Coca-Cola. Why did this negro pull the beard off in front of all the kids to drink the soda, and then looked up embarrassed when Mrs Claus yelled, Charles, the kids!
I went home and told my grandmother what happened and instead of coming clean, she tells me that there is no such thing as a Black Santa Claus. The guy I saw was actually just a man that works for Santa Claus part time. The way she explained it, Santa can't be at every mall, so he hires people to represent him while he's back overseeing the toy making process.
Looking back, I appreciate them keeping the ruse going for so long. Growing up in DC in the 1980's made all of us poor Black kids grow up fast. Suburban kids had the luxury of remaining ignorant to the harsh realities of the world, we didn't. As early as kindergarten, our teachers were calling us all over on the playground to the spot where someone found bullet casings, syringes, crack vials, etc and teaching us what they were and what to (not) do if we found one. Going through extra effort to keep Santa Claus and the magic of Christmas real was a special gift that allowed me to just be a kid for a few extra years. For that, I thank them.
Tis the season to be jolly, but there are a lot of pissed off people out there and it all starts with the whole Santa Claus thing. Some kids will be laying anxiously in bed hoping to nod off so that Santa can come. Others will have their worlds rocked when they accidentally discover that there is no Santa and that their parents are goddamn liars. I was slow as hell to figure that one out, but through no fault of my own: My parents went to college to study bullshittery and with two Masters and a Doctorate between the two of them, I couldn't compete.
My family was so elaborate with their lies, that it just had to be true. I used to mail Santa Claus letters all the time, but after finding her whole book of stamps missing, my grandmother told me that it wasn't necessary to use stamps because the letters traveled through elf magic. She told me that Santa Claus had the newer elves working down at the main post office and that they "just know" which letters are for Santa and that they have a plane that they fly from the post office back to the North Pole each night.
Bullshit number one.
Christmas was a holiday for my mother in more ways than one. It was the one time of the year that she could leave the house without me begging to tag along by saying just one thing: I'm going to see Santa Claus. Now it didn't matter how many times she said that, I always fell for it.
Me: I thought you saw him last weekend?
Her: He sent me a fax at work telling me to come back through this weekend because he had some questions about your list. Last weekend I went because he lost your list and needed another copy. I'd take you, but he can't reveal himself to children or else you'll be banned from ever getting toys again.
Me: Oh, well tell him I said hi!
I remember having a Christmas breakfast at school back in the first grade. The school went all out and even hired a guy to play Santa. Near the end, I guess the food choked him up or something because I remember him coughing a lot and Mrs Claus handing him a can of Coca-Cola. Why did this negro pull the beard off in front of all the kids to drink the soda, and then looked up embarrassed when Mrs Claus yelled, Charles, the kids!
I went home and told my grandmother what happened and instead of coming clean, she tells me that there is no such thing as a Black Santa Claus. The guy I saw was actually just a man that works for Santa Claus part time. The way she explained it, Santa can't be at every mall, so he hires people to represent him while he's back overseeing the toy making process.
Looking back, I appreciate them keeping the ruse going for so long. Growing up in DC in the 1980's made all of us poor Black kids grow up fast. Suburban kids had the luxury of remaining ignorant to the harsh realities of the world, we didn't. As early as kindergarten, our teachers were calling us all over on the playground to the spot where someone found bullet casings, syringes, crack vials, etc and teaching us what they were and what to (not) do if we found one. Going through extra effort to keep Santa Claus and the magic of Christmas real was a special gift that allowed me to just be a kid for a few extra years. For that, I thank them.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Black Man With Baby=Ambassador For Peace
I would like to take this moment to thank every no good nigga out there who doesn't take care of his kids. I feel bad for your kids because they're missing out on getting to know you, but from the bottom of my heart, I THANK YOU for being you. If not for you, I would not get so much attention and props for doing something I actually want to do.
I've already written about how I have to carry an umbrella around at all times for the random women that fall out of the sky. I'm a faithful and loving husband, but if my wife eveeeeeer decides she wants to leave...I'm keeping the baby. I have Beyonce and Jada Pinkett clones approaching me 24/7 just to see the baby. I love my wife, but this baby is my AAA. If the marriage breaks down, I can just phone in some help.
So anyway, I'm at the DMV today. It usually takes 45 minutes to an hour to get help. I was in and out in 5 minutes. First the security guard let me to the front of the line since I had a baby. Then the lady at the desk hooked me up with the "next in line" ticket. With at least 40 people in front of me, I was called in the first two minutes.
The girl at the desk talked my baby for about five minutes, then called her coworker over to the desk to look at the baby and the coworker just happened to be the one to make an exception for my issue. "Since you got that cute baby with you and you taking care of your responsibilities, Imma hook you up."
So to every no good dude out there...THANK YOU. Keep up the good work. Imma see if I can work this con over at Equifax or Transunion. "I have a baby...can I get 100 points on my credit?
I've already written about how I have to carry an umbrella around at all times for the random women that fall out of the sky. I'm a faithful and loving husband, but if my wife eveeeeeer decides she wants to leave...I'm keeping the baby. I have Beyonce and Jada Pinkett clones approaching me 24/7 just to see the baby. I love my wife, but this baby is my AAA. If the marriage breaks down, I can just phone in some help.
So anyway, I'm at the DMV today. It usually takes 45 minutes to an hour to get help. I was in and out in 5 minutes. First the security guard let me to the front of the line since I had a baby. Then the lady at the desk hooked me up with the "next in line" ticket. With at least 40 people in front of me, I was called in the first two minutes.
The girl at the desk talked my baby for about five minutes, then called her coworker over to the desk to look at the baby and the coworker just happened to be the one to make an exception for my issue. "Since you got that cute baby with you and you taking care of your responsibilities, Imma hook you up."
So to every no good dude out there...THANK YOU. Keep up the good work. Imma see if I can work this con over at Equifax or Transunion. "I have a baby...can I get 100 points on my credit?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Santa Makes Rudolph's Naughty List
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Santa Makes Rudolph's Naughty List
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Tuesday, November 30, 2010
PETA Makes The Naughty List
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Random Rant Nov 30
Two thoughts weighing heavily on my mind that I need to get out:
1) If I ever see the WikiLeaks guy, I'm fucking him up on sight.
2) What the hell is wrong with North Korea.
First....
I'm trying to do my part and invest in some fledgling stocks...mainly the banking industry. I know it's risky, but if things turn around one could make a huge gain. Just as things are getting better, jackass from Wikileaks comes back with his "announcement" that he'll publish documents from "one of the biggest banks in the US." Could you be any less specific? He made that announcement over a year ago. Why the hell are you still talking about what you're gonna do? You're messing with my money and playing with my money is like playing with my emotions. So...if I ever see him, Imma bust his head to the white meat. Imma go Kim Jong-Il on his ass.
Speaking of which...
What the hell is wrong with North Korea...making it rain on those people over in South Korea. You got beef with your neighbor? Fine. I get that. My neighbors get on my damned nerves too. But dude, watch your mouth when grown folks are talking. You don't talk to Mama Liberty (America) like that. I'm not super patriotic, but I am aware of my surroundings and Lil Kim, trust me when I tell you that you don't wanna mess with these crazy ass people over here.
Lil Kim Jong has been real big with his, "We got nukes" chest puffing. On behalf of Barack, I have this to say: Whatever you about to discover, we off that. We started this nuke thing. You are threatening a country where people kill each other over tennis shoes and puffy coats. Do you know the type of ass whooping you'll get if you so much as light a bottle rocket facing our direction?
Go back to your little fort, listen to your iPod and re-evaluate your life, man. Have a frappucino or a slurpee or something.
1) If I ever see the WikiLeaks guy, I'm fucking him up on sight.
2) What the hell is wrong with North Korea.
First....
I'm trying to do my part and invest in some fledgling stocks...mainly the banking industry. I know it's risky, but if things turn around one could make a huge gain. Just as things are getting better, jackass from Wikileaks comes back with his "announcement" that he'll publish documents from "one of the biggest banks in the US." Could you be any less specific? He made that announcement over a year ago. Why the hell are you still talking about what you're gonna do? You're messing with my money and playing with my money is like playing with my emotions. So...if I ever see him, Imma bust his head to the white meat. Imma go Kim Jong-Il on his ass.
Speaking of which...
What the hell is wrong with North Korea...making it rain on those people over in South Korea. You got beef with your neighbor? Fine. I get that. My neighbors get on my damned nerves too. But dude, watch your mouth when grown folks are talking. You don't talk to Mama Liberty (America) like that. I'm not super patriotic, but I am aware of my surroundings and Lil Kim, trust me when I tell you that you don't wanna mess with these crazy ass people over here.
Lil Kim Jong has been real big with his, "We got nukes" chest puffing. On behalf of Barack, I have this to say: Whatever you about to discover, we off that. We started this nuke thing. You are threatening a country where people kill each other over tennis shoes and puffy coats. Do you know the type of ass whooping you'll get if you so much as light a bottle rocket facing our direction?
Go back to your little fort, listen to your iPod and re-evaluate your life, man. Have a frappucino or a slurpee or something.
Monday, November 29, 2010
If You're Thinkin Bout My God, It Don't Matter If You're Black or White
Is it just me or do White and Black people have two totally different concepts of God? I think the overall "jist" of God is the same (loves people, hears prayers, etc) but the physical and intrinsic characteristics draw a stark contrast. Lemme give you some examples:
White God can hear.
Walk by any White church on a Sunday morning and you won't hear a peep from inside. That's strange too because they tend to have rather large congregations. To the contrary, Black churches can be heard from a block away. Doesn't matter if there are only four members in the church, you can hear a guitar, organ, drums and tambourine as soon as you enter the same zip code.
This leads me to my theory that Black God suffers from mild hearing loss. You have to shout to get His attention and I'll even go so far as to say that He has a mild case of ADD. That's the best explanation I have for people shouting, dancing, running around the church and perculating. I assume it's to keep Him interested. Meanwhile, White God seems to be cool with a simple (and quiet) "Dear Lord." Some even speculate that you can actually pray to him silently. I'm guessing that prayers come to him on some kind of big screen tv with subtitles/ closed-captioning.
Black God is from the streets.
White God doesn't require you to converse with Him in the King's English, but it seems to be the lexicon of choice for White parishioners. And even if they don't speak perfect English, the way that they talk to God seems more casual and direct. "Lord, please watch over us. Amen."
Talking to Black God is like walking up to Goldie or something. First, you have the signifying. You don't just say, "Hey God, what's up." You have to approach Him and let him know that you know that he knows that he's the man. "Lord, we know that you were there with Daniel in the lion's den. You are an awesome God. When I rose this morning, I didn't have no doubt..." It's almost like you're introducing Him at the Apollo. "He hails from heaven. He is the inspiration behind the best selling book, THE BIBLE. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the Father, Son and the Holy Ghooooooost!"
Black God's street cred isn't just fueled by the lingo, it's where Black God lives. White churches tend to be very nice, pristine places. I'm not saying that Black God doesn't have some nice places, but his brand image is diluted by some of the "other" places he lives. Black God is kinda like the dude on Grand Theft Auto. You start out with crappy houses when the game begins, but then you upgrade over time. No different with Black God. He's the original hustler and moves his product in any locale. You have your hole in the wall churches, the store front churches, the shacks that were leftover from the Underground Railroad, basement churches, rec centers and I even saw an old gas station converted into a church.
Now, when he does buy a nice place, he decks that joint out. ATM's, bowling alleys, huge jumbotrons. He lets his people walk around with iPads and s-curls. He takes care of his peoples.
Now I don't mean to say that I think either side is right. Both sides will probably say I'm going to hell for this. I just like to share my observations.
If You're Thinkin Bout My God, It Don't Matter If You're Black or White
Is it just me or do White and Black people have two totally different concepts of God? I think the overall "jist" of God is the same (loves people, hears prayers, etc) but the physical and intrinsic characteristics draw a stark contrast. Lemme give you some examples:
White God can hear.
Walk by any White church on a Sunday morning and you won't hear a peep from inside. That's strange too because they tend to have rather large congregations. To the contrary, Black churches can be heard from a block away. Doesn't matter if there are only four members in the church, you can hear a guitar, organ, drums and tambourine as soon as you enter the same zip code.
This leads me to my theory that Black God suffers from mild hearing loss. You have to shout to get His attention and I'll even go so far as to say that He has a mild case of ADD. That's the best explanation I have for people shouting, dancing, running around the church and perculating. I assume it's to keep Him interested. Meanwhile, White God seems to be cool with a simple (and quiet) "Dear Lord." Some even speculate that you can actually pray to him silently. I'm guessing that prayers come to him on some kind of big screen tv with subtitles/ closed-captioning.
Black God is from the streets.
White God doesn't require you to converse with Him in the King's English, but it seems to be the lexicon of choice for White parishioners. And even if they don't speak perfect English, the way that they talk to God seems more casual and direct. "Lord, please watch over us. Amen."
Talking to Black God is like walking up to Goldie or something. First, you have the signifying. You don't just say, "Hey God, what's up." You have to approach Him and let him know that you know that he knows that he's the man. "Lord, we know that you were there with Daniel in the lion's den. You are an awesome God. When I rose this morning, I didn't have no doubt..." It's almost like you're introducing Him at the Apollo. "He hails from heaven. He is the inspiration behind the best selling book, THE BIBLE. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the Father, Son and the Holy Ghooooooost!"
Black God's street cred isn't just fueled by the lingo, it's where Black God lives. White churches tend to be very nice, pristine places. I'm not saying that Black God doesn't have some nice places, but his brand image is diluted by some of the "other" places he lives. Black God is kinda like the dude on Grand Theft Auto. You start out with crappy houses when the game begins, but then you upgrade over time. No different with Black God. He's the original hustler and moves his product in any locale. You have your hole in the wall churches, the store front churches, the shacks that were leftover from the Underground Railroad, basement churches, rec centers and I even saw an old gas station converted into a church.
Now, when he does buy a nice place, he decks that joint out. ATM's, bowling alleys, huge jumbotrons. He lets his people walk around with iPads and s-curls. He takes care of his peoples.
Now I don't mean to say that I think either side is right. Both sides will probably say I'm going to hell for this. I just like to share my observations.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Beyonce the HomeWrecker
The Beyonce special is on TV and the wife is watching. If one of us were a different gender then this wouldn't be a problem, but my wife is a woman and I'm a man. That means that there's tension already. You have no idea what I'm going through right now.
Women--even her biggest fans--hate Beyonce. It's like they're all agents and she's Neo from the Matrix. She represents the anomaly, the unexplained occurrence that pisses them the hell off. Take my wife for example: After the concert she said, "That bitch is perfect. I couldn't find one flaw on her ass."
Women exist in the realm of "Beauty, talent, success: Pick one." Beyonce is Neo and they have to kill that broad. LOL So here I am in the house listening to my wife saying stuff like, "I find comfort in the fact that she'll be thirty before me." I have to walk the tightrope of watching the show that my wife wants to see without falling victim to the siren's song. I have to look interested in the show, without looking interested in Beyonce.
I failed horribly the last time we played this game. I took her to a Beyonce concert and unfortunately we had pretty good seats. She came out half naked and I kept my composure. I swear to God she looked at me like five times and I kept my cool. But then she lifted up on some wires and landed on a satellite stage a few feet away from us and I got to see her up close and personal and that was just it.
Time slowed down. It was like that Rick James sketch on Dave Chappelle. No lie, I saw Beyonce's aura. I looked in her eyes and it was a rap. I love my wife to death, but at that moment in time, I couldn't tell you what her name was if you offered me a million dollars. My wife caught me gawking and although she "gave me a pass" I haven't stopped hearing about it since. (Secretly, that shit was worth it. That woman is fucking gorgeous.)
Anyway, I'm trying to do better this go round, so when she asks stupid questions like, "What do you think of that outfit she has on," I know to just say something like, "I wouldn't let our daughter go out in something like that, I don't care how much money she made." Deflection, my good friends...it is the cornerstone to a happy marriage.
God damn you Beyonce for trying to break up my shit.
Women--even her biggest fans--hate Beyonce. It's like they're all agents and she's Neo from the Matrix. She represents the anomaly, the unexplained occurrence that pisses them the hell off. Take my wife for example: After the concert she said, "That bitch is perfect. I couldn't find one flaw on her ass."
Women exist in the realm of "Beauty, talent, success: Pick one." Beyonce is Neo and they have to kill that broad. LOL So here I am in the house listening to my wife saying stuff like, "I find comfort in the fact that she'll be thirty before me." I have to walk the tightrope of watching the show that my wife wants to see without falling victim to the siren's song. I have to look interested in the show, without looking interested in Beyonce.
I failed horribly the last time we played this game. I took her to a Beyonce concert and unfortunately we had pretty good seats. She came out half naked and I kept my composure. I swear to God she looked at me like five times and I kept my cool. But then she lifted up on some wires and landed on a satellite stage a few feet away from us and I got to see her up close and personal and that was just it.
Time slowed down. It was like that Rick James sketch on Dave Chappelle. No lie, I saw Beyonce's aura. I looked in her eyes and it was a rap. I love my wife to death, but at that moment in time, I couldn't tell you what her name was if you offered me a million dollars. My wife caught me gawking and although she "gave me a pass" I haven't stopped hearing about it since. (Secretly, that shit was worth it. That woman is fucking gorgeous.)
Anyway, I'm trying to do better this go round, so when she asks stupid questions like, "What do you think of that outfit she has on," I know to just say something like, "I wouldn't let our daughter go out in something like that, I don't care how much money she made." Deflection, my good friends...it is the cornerstone to a happy marriage.
God damn you Beyonce for trying to break up my shit.
Happy Thanksgiving!
People go through all kinds of phases before finally coming to rest in the seat of their own wisdom. I'm sure that there are a lot of people out there who hate holidays. I'm no exception, because I used to be one of those people.
For a long time I saw Thanksgiving as just another lie agreed upon that benefits the food, travel and retail industries. I didn't celebrate it for a couple of years as some sort of protest. Now, I see things a little differently.
Sidebar:
That Folgers Coffee commercial just came on. The son comes home early in the morning and wakes the whole family with the aroma from a fresh pot of coffee and the mom and dad jump out of bed like, "He's here." The guy gives his sister a gift and she takes the bow off and places it on his shirt saying, "You are my gift."
I think that drives home the whole point, but not in the cliched warm and fuzzy way that you may think. Imagine the backstory on this guy: Maybe he's starting out in his own career and hasn't been home in forever. He doesn't call because he's trying to start his own life and when you're young, the more distance you put between you and where you started, the more you feel free--a necessary thing for personal growth.
So anyway, the dude probably didn't really want to go home. Maybe his family felt dejected because they didn't see him that much...like he forgot about them. The people at his job kept talking about the holidays, the stores he frequents put up decorations for Thanksgiving the day after labor day and now he feels obligated to go.
My grandfather died a month or so ago and even though we weren't really close or affectionate when I was growing up, he always seemed so excited to see me during the last year or two of his life. I felt weird when I realized that I had that much value to someone. It also made me feel kind of bad to realize that my not coming around was essentially the same as denying someone a present that cost me nothing.
So, back to young Johnny (whatever the guy's name is in the commercial). If you cast aside the history of the holidays (and the money that companies make off them) and just take them at face value, they aren't really that bad. I can't hate the fact that people have agreed upon a day where despite whatever is going on in your life at that moment, you have to drop everything and fulfill that promissory note that you took out years ago when you first allowed someone to love you. There's no shame in paying it back with your presence at the table or gathering around the tree.
So Happy Thanksgiving to everyone...from the guy who used to think that it was stupid.
I'm thankful for the insight that tells me just how much of a good thing I've got going with my life.
For a long time I saw Thanksgiving as just another lie agreed upon that benefits the food, travel and retail industries. I didn't celebrate it for a couple of years as some sort of protest. Now, I see things a little differently.
Sidebar:
That Folgers Coffee commercial just came on. The son comes home early in the morning and wakes the whole family with the aroma from a fresh pot of coffee and the mom and dad jump out of bed like, "He's here." The guy gives his sister a gift and she takes the bow off and places it on his shirt saying, "You are my gift."
I think that drives home the whole point, but not in the cliched warm and fuzzy way that you may think. Imagine the backstory on this guy: Maybe he's starting out in his own career and hasn't been home in forever. He doesn't call because he's trying to start his own life and when you're young, the more distance you put between you and where you started, the more you feel free--a necessary thing for personal growth.
So anyway, the dude probably didn't really want to go home. Maybe his family felt dejected because they didn't see him that much...like he forgot about them. The people at his job kept talking about the holidays, the stores he frequents put up decorations for Thanksgiving the day after labor day and now he feels obligated to go.
My grandfather died a month or so ago and even though we weren't really close or affectionate when I was growing up, he always seemed so excited to see me during the last year or two of his life. I felt weird when I realized that I had that much value to someone. It also made me feel kind of bad to realize that my not coming around was essentially the same as denying someone a present that cost me nothing.
So, back to young Johnny (whatever the guy's name is in the commercial). If you cast aside the history of the holidays (and the money that companies make off them) and just take them at face value, they aren't really that bad. I can't hate the fact that people have agreed upon a day where despite whatever is going on in your life at that moment, you have to drop everything and fulfill that promissory note that you took out years ago when you first allowed someone to love you. There's no shame in paying it back with your presence at the table or gathering around the tree.
So Happy Thanksgiving to everyone...from the guy who used to think that it was stupid.
I'm thankful for the insight that tells me just how much of a good thing I've got going with my life.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Spice Up Your Life
I just watched a segment on the news talking about (ahem)
Apparently there are videos on Youtube teaching kids to smoke nutmeg and that has become the new fear-flavor of the week. First, nutmeg has been used as a drug for a minute. I learned about that watching the Malcolm X movie as a kid. Did I run out and try to do it? Hell no. I didn't even know what was going on and my mother explained it in the usual dismissive Black parent tone.
"Why did he give him nutmeg?"
"People get high of that sometimes. Now be quiet, we're in the theater."
Now they're talking about trying to figure out if there should be some registry you have to get on in order to buy nutmeg, similar to the whole Sudafed thing. My question: Why are we constantly trying to save people from themselves? I'm all for putting safety caps on top of the Triaminic bottle to keep little kids from OD'ing, but once you pass twelve I don't really give a damn what you do.
If you want to go out and buy a treasure chest of Sudafed to build a meth lab, knock yourself out. When you blow up in the process, I just hope none of your neighbors die with you. If you want to smoke nutmeg, K12 or pop rocks...knock yourself out! Why do I have to now show ID to buy sinus medicine?
I personally believe that part of the problem with society is that we're trying to steal nature's job. Sometimes survival of the fittest helps in population control. If you're too stupid to know that smoking seasonings or playing chemist with a GED is bad then we don't really need you. Heaven forbid you reproduce and raise another dimwitted child.
People are stupid.
THE DANGERS OF NUTMEG!
Apparently there are videos on Youtube teaching kids to smoke nutmeg and that has become the new fear-flavor of the week. First, nutmeg has been used as a drug for a minute. I learned about that watching the Malcolm X movie as a kid. Did I run out and try to do it? Hell no. I didn't even know what was going on and my mother explained it in the usual dismissive Black parent tone.
"Why did he give him nutmeg?"
"People get high of that sometimes. Now be quiet, we're in the theater."
Now they're talking about trying to figure out if there should be some registry you have to get on in order to buy nutmeg, similar to the whole Sudafed thing. My question: Why are we constantly trying to save people from themselves? I'm all for putting safety caps on top of the Triaminic bottle to keep little kids from OD'ing, but once you pass twelve I don't really give a damn what you do.
If you want to go out and buy a treasure chest of Sudafed to build a meth lab, knock yourself out. When you blow up in the process, I just hope none of your neighbors die with you. If you want to smoke nutmeg, K12 or pop rocks...knock yourself out! Why do I have to now show ID to buy sinus medicine?
I personally believe that part of the problem with society is that we're trying to steal nature's job. Sometimes survival of the fittest helps in population control. If you're too stupid to know that smoking seasonings or playing chemist with a GED is bad then we don't really need you. Heaven forbid you reproduce and raise another dimwitted child.
People are stupid.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Where the Hell Have I Been?
So where the hell have I been?
I know my loyal reader (whoever you are) out there was ready to send out a search party. Fear not...I'm back. My computer crashed, my grandfather died, I've been fixing up my grandmother's house and just about anything else that could happen, happened. But, I'm back and man have I got a lot to talk about.
First off...I got a new computer.
Yes dear friends, your boy is now "bougie" on a whole 'nother level...I got a Macbook. Personally, I never felt glam enough to even go in the Apple Store, but after resuscitating my windows laptops (plural) over and over for the past two years, I finally put some money in Steve Jobs' plate.
Now that I've joined the cult, I must say that I am loving the new life. I have been through maybe five Windows PCs in as many years and it was quite the experience to boot this baby up and it just came the hell on. There was no "Would you like to activate your free trial of Norton/ Corel Picture/ MS Office 2010/ AOL/ Yahoo Messenger."
I never noticed how much of an advertising whore Microsoft was until I bought this Mac. What's even trippier is the fact that I've had this thing for about a week and haven't had to reboot it yet. I close the lid, open it back up and shit keeps working. I'm going bananas in here.
So anyway, there are some challenges to this thing. In many ways, switching from PC to Mac is like screwing outside of your race. You know someone who's done it, but you kinda have to see for yourself. The same thing that worked on one, doesn't work on the other and you feel the need to brag to someone.
So anyway, I wont bore you with the details, but it is cool to have something that friggin works. The coolest thing of em all is being able to work on this thing six-eight hours straight without charging it. My old Sony Vaio gave you a good hour and a half before giving up the ghost. And that was with the power settings turned as conservative as possible. Now...please don't let this damn thing break since I've hyped it up so much.
I know my loyal reader (whoever you are) out there was ready to send out a search party. Fear not...I'm back. My computer crashed, my grandfather died, I've been fixing up my grandmother's house and just about anything else that could happen, happened. But, I'm back and man have I got a lot to talk about.
First off...I got a new computer.
Yes dear friends, your boy is now "bougie" on a whole 'nother level...I got a Macbook. Personally, I never felt glam enough to even go in the Apple Store, but after resuscitating my windows laptops (plural) over and over for the past two years, I finally put some money in Steve Jobs' plate.
Now that I've joined the cult, I must say that I am loving the new life. I have been through maybe five Windows PCs in as many years and it was quite the experience to boot this baby up and it just came the hell on. There was no "Would you like to activate your free trial of Norton/ Corel Picture/ MS Office 2010/ AOL/ Yahoo Messenger."
I never noticed how much of an advertising whore Microsoft was until I bought this Mac. What's even trippier is the fact that I've had this thing for about a week and haven't had to reboot it yet. I close the lid, open it back up and shit keeps working. I'm going bananas in here.
So anyway, there are some challenges to this thing. In many ways, switching from PC to Mac is like screwing outside of your race. You know someone who's done it, but you kinda have to see for yourself. The same thing that worked on one, doesn't work on the other and you feel the need to brag to someone.
So anyway, I wont bore you with the details, but it is cool to have something that friggin works. The coolest thing of em all is being able to work on this thing six-eight hours straight without charging it. My old Sony Vaio gave you a good hour and a half before giving up the ghost. And that was with the power settings turned as conservative as possible. Now...please don't let this damn thing break since I've hyped it up so much.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Opt Out of Stupidity
Just when I think people can't get any dumber... Are people really planning an "Opt-out Day" for the airport body scanner? And wait...they're doing it the day before Thanksgiving...the busiest day of the year??? What the hell is wrong with people? Where's all that damn patriotism that was going around like the swine flu a few years ago. Back when Bush told everyone that terrorists were hiding inside cereal boxes, you could've gotten people to do anything. Now, after actually catching a guy with a bomb in his underwear, people are sheepish.
"It invades privacy."
So does shrapnel from an airliner falling at a rate of 9.8 m/s through your bedroom ceiling and through your bed/body before coming to rest on the kitchen floor below.
"It's unAmerican."
Get the fuck outta here.
"Too much radiation"
Really? You get more radiation standing in front of a microwave.
Now conspiracy theories aside, we all saw two planes slam into a building a couple of years back. Considering how well the country handled that situation, I'm personally on board for any kind of searches up to and including stripping down completely and riding the plane naked. Get over yourselves! You are not that friggin important where you feel that you shouldn't be scanned. That sounds like some axis of evil stuff right there.
"It invades privacy."
So does shrapnel from an airliner falling at a rate of 9.8 m/s through your bedroom ceiling and through your bed/body before coming to rest on the kitchen floor below.
"It's unAmerican."
Get the fuck outta here.
"Too much radiation"
Really? You get more radiation standing in front of a microwave.
Now conspiracy theories aside, we all saw two planes slam into a building a couple of years back. Considering how well the country handled that situation, I'm personally on board for any kind of searches up to and including stripping down completely and riding the plane naked. Get over yourselves! You are not that friggin important where you feel that you shouldn't be scanned. That sounds like some axis of evil stuff right there.
Monday, November 15, 2010
PassCode Accepted
[caption id="attachment_306" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="The White man within"]
[/caption]
Even though you've been raised as a negro, you are not one of them. They can be a great people Kal-El, they wish to be. They lack only the light to show them the way. For this reason above all, I have sent them you, my only son.
It happened again today: My mutant power ruined what would have otherwise been a perfect day. I called my bank about a problem with my account and the lady on the phone was extremely friendly. She told me to come in and that's when the problem arose. As soon as I got there, I got "the look." I get "the look" everytime I go in for a job interview after talking to someone on the phone. It's the look that says, "Oh my god, you sounded White on the phone."
While she was pregnant, my mother was exposed to radiation while standing next to a White man. It altered my genetic code, leaving me with the ability to code switch. I'm not the only one of my kind, but with our identities being secret, I rarely know who else has the gift.
It's kinda like that thing that the Hulk has...except in reverse. If I go out to Bethesda or some other place with few Black people, my mutant power triggers. I can't help myself: The "pimp" in my step that all Black men have turns into a bounce, the scowl on my face that keeps crackheads at bay in the hood turns into a smile and even my clothes change. My North Face coat and jeans turn into a Polo coat and Dockers.
It's not just my outward appearance either. I watch Charlie Rose, listen to NPR and actually enjoy going to the National Art Gallery once a month. That means that my conversations go a little different than you'd expect from a Black guy in a hoodie and jeans.
Now, this mutant power works both ways. You can't enjoy the works of Thomas Cole without getting some flack from your ghetto counterparts. Years of being "the nerd" in DC Public School taught me to blend in. I've learned how to hit reverse on the code switch button. You can't pull into the parking lot of Forestville or Iverson Mall blasting classical music. You'll get "got." So, that's when knowing every Jay-Z and T.I. song comes in handy. Those Dockers turn back into jeans REAL quick. My speech slurs, my walk becomes more purposeful and I look over my shoulder a lot. I also keep my fists balled up and have the "nigga please" look on my face. That's how I get in and out of the Chinese carryout in one piece.
I run into a few other code-switchers from time to time. I've even encountered some who were so good at it that it took months to see through them. It's a secret society, all we ask is trust.
[/caption]Even though you've been raised as a negro, you are not one of them. They can be a great people Kal-El, they wish to be. They lack only the light to show them the way. For this reason above all, I have sent them you, my only son.
It happened again today: My mutant power ruined what would have otherwise been a perfect day. I called my bank about a problem with my account and the lady on the phone was extremely friendly. She told me to come in and that's when the problem arose. As soon as I got there, I got "the look." I get "the look" everytime I go in for a job interview after talking to someone on the phone. It's the look that says, "Oh my god, you sounded White on the phone."
While she was pregnant, my mother was exposed to radiation while standing next to a White man. It altered my genetic code, leaving me with the ability to code switch. I'm not the only one of my kind, but with our identities being secret, I rarely know who else has the gift.
It's kinda like that thing that the Hulk has...except in reverse. If I go out to Bethesda or some other place with few Black people, my mutant power triggers. I can't help myself: The "pimp" in my step that all Black men have turns into a bounce, the scowl on my face that keeps crackheads at bay in the hood turns into a smile and even my clothes change. My North Face coat and jeans turn into a Polo coat and Dockers.
It's not just my outward appearance either. I watch Charlie Rose, listen to NPR and actually enjoy going to the National Art Gallery once a month. That means that my conversations go a little different than you'd expect from a Black guy in a hoodie and jeans.
Now, this mutant power works both ways. You can't enjoy the works of Thomas Cole without getting some flack from your ghetto counterparts. Years of being "the nerd" in DC Public School taught me to blend in. I've learned how to hit reverse on the code switch button. You can't pull into the parking lot of Forestville or Iverson Mall blasting classical music. You'll get "got." So, that's when knowing every Jay-Z and T.I. song comes in handy. Those Dockers turn back into jeans REAL quick. My speech slurs, my walk becomes more purposeful and I look over my shoulder a lot. I also keep my fists balled up and have the "nigga please" look on my face. That's how I get in and out of the Chinese carryout in one piece.
I run into a few other code-switchers from time to time. I've even encountered some who were so good at it that it took months to see through them. It's a secret society, all we ask is trust.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Learn to Cook!
Random rant of the day:
The people across the hall are driving me crazy. Our rent is entirely too high to have to put a towel under the door every single day just to keep the smell out of our apartment. They're nice people and I try to cut them some slack because they have small kids, but damn...how hard is it to learn to cook? Right now it smells like they're over there cooking marinated raccoon meat in a urine bath.
Every. Single. Day.
There isn't a point to this entry...I just had to get that off my chest.
Thank you for reading.
Good day.
The people across the hall are driving me crazy. Our rent is entirely too high to have to put a towel under the door every single day just to keep the smell out of our apartment. They're nice people and I try to cut them some slack because they have small kids, but damn...how hard is it to learn to cook? Right now it smells like they're over there cooking marinated raccoon meat in a urine bath.
Every. Single. Day.
There isn't a point to this entry...I just had to get that off my chest.
Thank you for reading.
Good day.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Happy Veteran's Day
I don't how many people are actually doing anything today besides enjoying a day away from work, but I want to send my appreciation to everyone who currently is or at one point did serve in the military. I'm not naive enough to buy into the rhetoric of "dying to protect our country." After all, this isn't the 1940s. There is no world war and no threat of invasion. Yes, we have a few nuts trying to blow up bits and pieces of the US, but there is no one dumb enough to try and come over and here and "conquer" America.
Can you imagine what that would look like? A hundred row boats show up from Pakistan and a few thousand men "storm" Miami Beach armed with AK-47s and none of them carrying more than two or three magazines. Even Orlando has enough of a gang presence to take care of them. Like DL Hughley said, "Why are we sending so many troops to Afghanistan? You can take over Afghanistan with a stick."
So yeah, with no imminent threat of invasion, I still salute our troops. I joke a lot, but I really do respect the sacrifice. I don't totally understand it, but I respect it. I decided to join the Army during my freshman year of college. I made it to the recruiting office and was ready to sign up when the recruiter said something along the lines of, "You won't regret your decision. Our commander in chief is a brilliant guy and this military is in good hands." This was February 2001 and the brilliant mind he was speaking of belonged to George W Bush.
I told him that I personally thought Bush was an idiot and that he stole the election from Gore. Anyone who knows me personally can attest that I don't care who you are, I don't bite my tongue. Army captain, baptist minister, or Thundercat...I will not bite my tongue. We had a five minute shouting match on how I absolutely could not speak ill of the head of the nation and that they would "teach me my place" when I got to Basic Training. I tore up the form and that was it for me and the military. A good friend of mine went through with it and less than a year later (9/11) he was shipped overseas. As far as I'm concerned, he never came back.
His convoy was attacked several times over the course of two months and each time it chipped away at his mind and body. Barely able to stand without medication, night terrors and with only the shadow of his old personality, he isn't the same guy. With a college degree, he can't get a job even with veteran's preference. He considers himself one of the luckier ones.
So with all of that said, I salute any and everyone who enlisted rather it was for honor, country or just to pay the bills and stay out of trouble.
Thanks for all that you did and do.
Can you imagine what that would look like? A hundred row boats show up from Pakistan and a few thousand men "storm" Miami Beach armed with AK-47s and none of them carrying more than two or three magazines. Even Orlando has enough of a gang presence to take care of them. Like DL Hughley said, "Why are we sending so many troops to Afghanistan? You can take over Afghanistan with a stick."
So yeah, with no imminent threat of invasion, I still salute our troops. I joke a lot, but I really do respect the sacrifice. I don't totally understand it, but I respect it. I decided to join the Army during my freshman year of college. I made it to the recruiting office and was ready to sign up when the recruiter said something along the lines of, "You won't regret your decision. Our commander in chief is a brilliant guy and this military is in good hands." This was February 2001 and the brilliant mind he was speaking of belonged to George W Bush.
I told him that I personally thought Bush was an idiot and that he stole the election from Gore. Anyone who knows me personally can attest that I don't care who you are, I don't bite my tongue. Army captain, baptist minister, or Thundercat...I will not bite my tongue. We had a five minute shouting match on how I absolutely could not speak ill of the head of the nation and that they would "teach me my place" when I got to Basic Training. I tore up the form and that was it for me and the military. A good friend of mine went through with it and less than a year later (9/11) he was shipped overseas. As far as I'm concerned, he never came back.
His convoy was attacked several times over the course of two months and each time it chipped away at his mind and body. Barely able to stand without medication, night terrors and with only the shadow of his old personality, he isn't the same guy. With a college degree, he can't get a job even with veteran's preference. He considers himself one of the luckier ones.
So with all of that said, I salute any and everyone who enlisted rather it was for honor, country or just to pay the bills and stay out of trouble.
Thanks for all that you did and do.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Fantastic Voyage?
I've been calling Carnival the ghetto cruise line for years and, once again, people said I was "bougie." Well this week a Carnival cruise ship broke down in the middle of the ocean after an engine fire. They just announced that the crew was finally able to get normal amenities back on line. That's right, they just got running water, sewage and lights back on. They still don't have heating and air conditioning. Any hood person can tell you that utilities are usually the first to go when times are tough.
The navy showed up and dropped off food rations. That's right...rations! Pop tarts, spam, bread and canned crabmeat. Tell me that's not a hood grocery list. Spam? Really? If they had hot water, I'm sure they'd be eating Top Ramen. (No disrespect to Nissin and the Top Ramen family...shout out to Maruchan!)
So now they're getting a TUG BOAT to pull the remaining 150 miles to shore. Do you know how slow a tug boat moves? You could get out and swim faster than one of those. Once they get the 4500 passengers back to Mexico shore, a caravan of buses will take them back to California.
So let's recap...
The whip broke down and is about to be towed. The fam is eating Spam, Little Debbies and tunafish to pass the time away. The lights, phone and a/c were out and they're all catching the bus back home. Ghettoness confirmed!
The navy showed up and dropped off food rations. That's right...rations! Pop tarts, spam, bread and canned crabmeat. Tell me that's not a hood grocery list. Spam? Really? If they had hot water, I'm sure they'd be eating Top Ramen. (No disrespect to Nissin and the Top Ramen family...shout out to Maruchan!)
So now they're getting a TUG BOAT to pull the remaining 150 miles to shore. Do you know how slow a tug boat moves? You could get out and swim faster than one of those. Once they get the 4500 passengers back to Mexico shore, a caravan of buses will take them back to California.
So let's recap...
The whip broke down and is about to be towed. The fam is eating Spam, Little Debbies and tunafish to pass the time away. The lights, phone and a/c were out and they're all catching the bus back home. Ghettoness confirmed!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Tea Anyone?
I don't know what it is, but I like the Tea Party people...uh, Tea Partiers...whatever you call them. They remind me of George Bush and I loved him. I haven't been the same since he left office.
I don't know about you, but every single time George W was on TV, I felt...smarter. No matter how bad things were going for me, he always lifted my spirits. I mean, if he could be President then I could do anything!
Then Obama showed up with his fancy words and self-written speeches. My self esteem took a nose dive. Harvard? Lawyer? Articulate? Fuck! I'm a college drop out with bad credit. How the hell can I compete with that?
Then came Sarah Palin!
Talk about The Little Engine that Could. I thought we were done with her ass when she hammered the nail into John McCain's coffin, but noooooo. She went back to Alaska, called up Glenn Beck and all of the other Fraggles and they went to marchin' on Washington.
Now, I don't really know what the hell the Tea Party wants. I don't think they know what the hell they want. All I know is that I hope they stay around for just a little while longer. It's like George Bush got wet and ate after midnight at the same time. All these little spawns of Bush are running around saying equally stupid shit and my self esteem couldn't be higher. I feel...beautiful inside. Thank you Sarah Palin! Thank you!!!
Viva la Tea Party! I think Imma go buy some Lipton tea and throw in the Potomac right now.
I don't know about you, but every single time George W was on TV, I felt...smarter. No matter how bad things were going for me, he always lifted my spirits. I mean, if he could be President then I could do anything!
Then Obama showed up with his fancy words and self-written speeches. My self esteem took a nose dive. Harvard? Lawyer? Articulate? Fuck! I'm a college drop out with bad credit. How the hell can I compete with that?
Then came Sarah Palin!
Talk about The Little Engine that Could. I thought we were done with her ass when she hammered the nail into John McCain's coffin, but noooooo. She went back to Alaska, called up Glenn Beck and all of the other Fraggles and they went to marchin' on Washington.
Now, I don't really know what the hell the Tea Party wants. I don't think they know what the hell they want. All I know is that I hope they stay around for just a little while longer. It's like George Bush got wet and ate after midnight at the same time. All these little spawns of Bush are running around saying equally stupid shit and my self esteem couldn't be higher. I feel...beautiful inside. Thank you Sarah Palin! Thank you!!!
Viva la Tea Party! I think Imma go buy some Lipton tea and throw in the Potomac right now.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Black Card Revocation #1: Tyler Perry Sucks
This will cost me some points on my Blackness Credit Report, but I don't give a damn. Tyler Perry fucking sucks. He has a new movie coming out and the Facebook statuses are already buzzing: "It's a tear jerker, bring a tissue."
I'd cry too if I had to sit through another one of his movies. Everyone is so damn melodramatic and the writing is atrocious. Now don't get me wrong, I have a sense of humor. Fun is fun and jokes are jokes. This blog isn't exactly "proper" writing, but at the same time I don't pretend that it's the Wall Street Journal.
When I first saw the play of Madea's Family Reunion, I almost fell out of my chair...in the barbershop...watching the bootleg. It was only when he started taking himself serious and he became the only Black production on TV and film that I started having issues. There were always two kinds of Black plays: The churchy kind and the "real" plays. August Wilson's Fences was a real play because of the solid writing and acting (James Earl Jones, Mary Alice, Courtney Vance). Churchy plays like Mama I Want to Sing, My Grandmother Prayed for Me, and anything else with one of the Winans in it were catered to the church crowd. The production values were lower, some people broke character, but you had a good time. Never before did we confuse the two.
Then came Tyler P.
All of a sudden we (Black people) start accepting bad wig mics, cheesy songs and banter with the audience as a broadway productions...So he makes them into movies. Those movies suck because of poor dialogue, storytelling, directing, editing and acting....so then he starts making tv shows. Exactly ten years after what was hands down the best era of Black television we end up with Tyler Perry Productions being the only source of Black entertainment.
Living Single, Martin, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, The Cosby Show, A Different World, Roc, The Wayans Brothers, In Living Color, New York Undercover, Hanging With Mr. Cooper, In the House, Malcolm and Eddie and many other shows came on in the 90s. What do we have now? House of Pain and Meet the Browns. We went from realistic characters to buffoons and caricatures.
The sad thing is that these shows get high ratings so we'll get more of the same, just like we get more Tyler Perry movies. I don't want my kids growing up thinking that this is the best that Black artists have to offer.
So knowing that my Blackness Score is on the line...I'll take a hit on my credit. Tyler Perry sucks!
I'd cry too if I had to sit through another one of his movies. Everyone is so damn melodramatic and the writing is atrocious. Now don't get me wrong, I have a sense of humor. Fun is fun and jokes are jokes. This blog isn't exactly "proper" writing, but at the same time I don't pretend that it's the Wall Street Journal.
When I first saw the play of Madea's Family Reunion, I almost fell out of my chair...in the barbershop...watching the bootleg. It was only when he started taking himself serious and he became the only Black production on TV and film that I started having issues. There were always two kinds of Black plays: The churchy kind and the "real" plays. August Wilson's Fences was a real play because of the solid writing and acting (James Earl Jones, Mary Alice, Courtney Vance). Churchy plays like Mama I Want to Sing, My Grandmother Prayed for Me, and anything else with one of the Winans in it were catered to the church crowd. The production values were lower, some people broke character, but you had a good time. Never before did we confuse the two.
Then came Tyler P.
All of a sudden we (Black people) start accepting bad wig mics, cheesy songs and banter with the audience as a broadway productions...So he makes them into movies. Those movies suck because of poor dialogue, storytelling, directing, editing and acting....so then he starts making tv shows. Exactly ten years after what was hands down the best era of Black television we end up with Tyler Perry Productions being the only source of Black entertainment.
Living Single, Martin, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, The Cosby Show, A Different World, Roc, The Wayans Brothers, In Living Color, New York Undercover, Hanging With Mr. Cooper, In the House, Malcolm and Eddie and many other shows came on in the 90s. What do we have now? House of Pain and Meet the Browns. We went from realistic characters to buffoons and caricatures.
The sad thing is that these shows get high ratings so we'll get more of the same, just like we get more Tyler Perry movies. I don't want my kids growing up thinking that this is the best that Black artists have to offer.
So knowing that my Blackness Score is on the line...I'll take a hit on my credit. Tyler Perry sucks!
Letter of Resignation
Attn: Jerry Jones
It is with mixed emotions that I tender my resignation effective at the close of business February 6, 2011. The experiences that I've had as a fan these past eighteen years will stay with me forever, however, I feel that over the last few seasons, the team and I have been going in different directions. No fan-team relationship is perfect, but that doesn't excuse the complete lack of reciprocity in our current situation.
I was born and raised in Washington, DC and lived exactly two blocks away from the Redskins' old stadium, RFK. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be a Cowboys fan in Washington, DC--not just regular Washington, DC, Southeast DC!!! Despite the numerous bottles, rocks and bullets being thrown in my direction, I wore the gray and blue jersey with pride. (I am Emmit Smith.) In the 90's, my sacrifices were rewarded with Superbowl wins or at the very least, one hell of a playoff run. These last few years though...You aren't even trying!
Do you know what it's like to argue sports with a Redskins fan? One minute into the conversation and you'll have no doubt why DC has the worst public school system and former title as murder capital. I used to joke that in the battle of the minds, Redskins fans came unarmed. So far they've won four times the number of games that we have. There's nothing I can say to that.
I can't do this anymore. 1 and 7 is just inexcusable. This organization is no longer conducive to my success or self esteem, so I'm afraid we must part ways. Don't worry, I have no plans to violate the non-compete agreement;I wouldn't become a Redskin fan if they paid me.
It is with mixed emotions that I tender my resignation effective at the close of business February 6, 2011. The experiences that I've had as a fan these past eighteen years will stay with me forever, however, I feel that over the last few seasons, the team and I have been going in different directions. No fan-team relationship is perfect, but that doesn't excuse the complete lack of reciprocity in our current situation.
I was born and raised in Washington, DC and lived exactly two blocks away from the Redskins' old stadium, RFK. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be a Cowboys fan in Washington, DC--not just regular Washington, DC, Southeast DC!!! Despite the numerous bottles, rocks and bullets being thrown in my direction, I wore the gray and blue jersey with pride. (I am Emmit Smith.) In the 90's, my sacrifices were rewarded with Superbowl wins or at the very least, one hell of a playoff run. These last few years though...You aren't even trying!
Do you know what it's like to argue sports with a Redskins fan? One minute into the conversation and you'll have no doubt why DC has the worst public school system and former title as murder capital. I used to joke that in the battle of the minds, Redskins fans came unarmed. So far they've won four times the number of games that we have. There's nothing I can say to that.
I can't do this anymore. 1 and 7 is just inexcusable. This organization is no longer conducive to my success or self esteem, so I'm afraid we must part ways. Don't worry, I have no plans to violate the non-compete agreement;I wouldn't become a Redskin fan if they paid me.
-Respectfully Yours,
The One and Only
What the Hell is a Wiggle?
[caption id="attachment_226" align="alignleft" width="200" caption="Would you trust your kids with them?"]
[/caption]
Okay, I'm watching "The Wiggles" on Netflix with my daughter right now for the first time. Who the hell authorized this show? I heard of them before, but I always assumed they were cartoons, or animals or something. I mean honestly, what the hell is a wiggle? Is that what we're calling grown ass men in sex offender costumes these days?
The last time wearing a long sleeve solid-color Fruit of the Loom sweatshirt was cool was 1988. Dr. Huxtable had one, but even he moved on to wool patterns. As a matter of principle, man-law requires that you beat the shit out of any man wearing one within 100 feet of a school. And you know what? If I ever see a Wiggle, that's exactly what I'm gonna do. How dare you, PBS, undo twenty years of stranger danger messages!
[caption id="attachment_227" align="alignright" width="160" caption="Puff the magic dragon"]
[/caption]
As the show goes on, I see them talking to and dancing with a six foot tall dog, a purple octopus and a dancing dinosaur. This makes me think of only one thing: psychotropics! No good pedophile would be caught dead without some ruffies.
I blame all of this on Barney. Before that purple bastard showed up, PBS was four straight hours of Sesame Street with a little Mr Rogers, 321 Contact and Square One thrown in for good measure. Barney took the land of make-believe to a whole new sick and twisted level. Sesame Street was this hidden gated community where we just accepted that muppets and people lived in harmony.
[caption id="attachment_228" align="alignleft" width="262" caption="The mascot for Ritalin"]
[/caption]
Barney, on the other hand, was a 30 minute case study of the effects of Ritalin on children in special ed. Don't act surprised. How else do you explain eight year olds being in the same class as twelve and fifteen year olds? Then we have the conundrum of how the hell do all of the kids imagine the exact same thing in real time? I can see Barney talking to one of them at a time, but for all of them to hear and see Barney do the exact same thing...not even heroin addicts synchronize their trips. At the end of every episode the kids went home and the camera panned to show us that Barney was still a small stuffed animal.
There's a fine line between imagination and hallucination. You don't teach kids that it's okay to be crazy, just like you don't teach them to hang out with Chester and the rest of the Wiggles.
[/caption]Okay, I'm watching "The Wiggles" on Netflix with my daughter right now for the first time. Who the hell authorized this show? I heard of them before, but I always assumed they were cartoons, or animals or something. I mean honestly, what the hell is a wiggle? Is that what we're calling grown ass men in sex offender costumes these days?
The last time wearing a long sleeve solid-color Fruit of the Loom sweatshirt was cool was 1988. Dr. Huxtable had one, but even he moved on to wool patterns. As a matter of principle, man-law requires that you beat the shit out of any man wearing one within 100 feet of a school. And you know what? If I ever see a Wiggle, that's exactly what I'm gonna do. How dare you, PBS, undo twenty years of stranger danger messages!
[caption id="attachment_227" align="alignright" width="160" caption="Puff the magic dragon"]
[/caption]As the show goes on, I see them talking to and dancing with a six foot tall dog, a purple octopus and a dancing dinosaur. This makes me think of only one thing: psychotropics! No good pedophile would be caught dead without some ruffies.
I blame all of this on Barney. Before that purple bastard showed up, PBS was four straight hours of Sesame Street with a little Mr Rogers, 321 Contact and Square One thrown in for good measure. Barney took the land of make-believe to a whole new sick and twisted level. Sesame Street was this hidden gated community where we just accepted that muppets and people lived in harmony.
[caption id="attachment_228" align="alignleft" width="262" caption="The mascot for Ritalin"]
[/caption]Barney, on the other hand, was a 30 minute case study of the effects of Ritalin on children in special ed. Don't act surprised. How else do you explain eight year olds being in the same class as twelve and fifteen year olds? Then we have the conundrum of how the hell do all of the kids imagine the exact same thing in real time? I can see Barney talking to one of them at a time, but for all of them to hear and see Barney do the exact same thing...not even heroin addicts synchronize their trips. At the end of every episode the kids went home and the camera panned to show us that Barney was still a small stuffed animal.
There's a fine line between imagination and hallucination. You don't teach kids that it's okay to be crazy, just like you don't teach them to hang out with Chester and the rest of the Wiggles.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Ten Year Old Girl Gives Birth
And now let's talk for a minute about ass whippings.
Forbes.com has an article about a ten year old girl giving birth in Spain. The girl is a Romanian immigrant and her mom (probably 15 years old herself) says that it's completely normal in their culture. The father of the baby is about thirteen years old.
My daughter is four months old and the thought that I can be locked up for manslaughter in just nine short years scares the hell out of me. I can see it now. I pick my daughter up from fourth grade when the teacher asks me to come in for a conference. I go into the office expecting a bad report card and instead the school nurse hands me a positive EPT pregnancy test. I snap and go Keanu Reeves "Matrix Reloaded" on all the prepubescent little boys in the school with a yard stick.
I didn't even know that ten year olds could get pregnant. I grew up around "hood children" but the youngest parent I knew was twelve. She got pregnant our sixth grade year. By twelfth grade she had at least four kids. Apparently someone beat her record.
Forbes.com has an article about a ten year old girl giving birth in Spain. The girl is a Romanian immigrant and her mom (probably 15 years old herself) says that it's completely normal in their culture. The father of the baby is about thirteen years old.
My daughter is four months old and the thought that I can be locked up for manslaughter in just nine short years scares the hell out of me. I can see it now. I pick my daughter up from fourth grade when the teacher asks me to come in for a conference. I go into the office expecting a bad report card and instead the school nurse hands me a positive EPT pregnancy test. I snap and go Keanu Reeves "Matrix Reloaded" on all the prepubescent little boys in the school with a yard stick.
I didn't even know that ten year olds could get pregnant. I grew up around "hood children" but the youngest parent I knew was twelve. She got pregnant our sixth grade year. By twelfth grade she had at least four kids. Apparently someone beat her record.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Voting: Giving Blind People Sniper Rifles
For the past week I've been inundated with Facebook status updates along the lines of, Get out and vote. It's your civic duty. No it's not! Perhaps I'm arguing semantics here, but when I think of a civic duty, I think of something compulsory like jury duty. You know, something that threatens imprisonment for failing to comply. Paying taxes is another one, but not voting. No, voting is a civic right. It's something you're allowed to do, but not required to do.
It's no secret that social media sites like Myspace and Facebook aren't exactly catering to Mensa candidates these days. Considering the fact that these places are abound with idiots, should we really use them as a platform to urge people to go out and vote? I've seen hundreds of status updates in the past month regarding voting, but none talking about the actual candidates. I understand that we don't want to sway people to one side, but if your friends won't do it, then those misleading campaign ads will.
How much can you really learn about someone from a paid advertisement? Have you gone to a campaign rally? Did you fact check the candidate through your own research and observation? Do you even know who at least 75% of the people on the ballot are? I bet some people can't even tell you who their neighborhood representative is, yet they want to empower someone to become senator or president. If you can't provide a brief description of what the Councilman At-Large does versus the Shadow Representative then you shouldn't be allowed to vote.
Because our country's history is marred by the not so distant memory of people being denied the right to vote based on physical characteristics, we choose not to impose any restrictions besides age and criminal record. Look at some of the people that you see at these rallies and tell me that you don't think some kind of intelligence test should be given beforehand. If anything, telling them that there's a test coming may actually force some of them to study.
Until that day comes we'll continue to have people voting based on the emotion of the day, which nine times out of ten is related to an issue that's been blown out of proportion and has very little to do with the job itself. Just how many times in a given workday will a congressman be faced with a decision regarding abortion or gay marriage? Two, four or six years is a long time to guarantee someone a job based on two or three really pretty bullet points on their resume.
A misinformed, uneducated and (sometimes) purposely ignorant emotional person is just as dangerous when exercising his or her right to vote as s/he would be with a loaded gun. You don't see us going on Facebook urging people to exercise their civic right to bear arms do you?
It's no secret that social media sites like Myspace and Facebook aren't exactly catering to Mensa candidates these days. Considering the fact that these places are abound with idiots, should we really use them as a platform to urge people to go out and vote? I've seen hundreds of status updates in the past month regarding voting, but none talking about the actual candidates. I understand that we don't want to sway people to one side, but if your friends won't do it, then those misleading campaign ads will.
How much can you really learn about someone from a paid advertisement? Have you gone to a campaign rally? Did you fact check the candidate through your own research and observation? Do you even know who at least 75% of the people on the ballot are? I bet some people can't even tell you who their neighborhood representative is, yet they want to empower someone to become senator or president. If you can't provide a brief description of what the Councilman At-Large does versus the Shadow Representative then you shouldn't be allowed to vote.
Because our country's history is marred by the not so distant memory of people being denied the right to vote based on physical characteristics, we choose not to impose any restrictions besides age and criminal record. Look at some of the people that you see at these rallies and tell me that you don't think some kind of intelligence test should be given beforehand. If anything, telling them that there's a test coming may actually force some of them to study.
Until that day comes we'll continue to have people voting based on the emotion of the day, which nine times out of ten is related to an issue that's been blown out of proportion and has very little to do with the job itself. Just how many times in a given workday will a congressman be faced with a decision regarding abortion or gay marriage? Two, four or six years is a long time to guarantee someone a job based on two or three really pretty bullet points on their resume.
A misinformed, uneducated and (sometimes) purposely ignorant emotional person is just as dangerous when exercising his or her right to vote as s/he would be with a loaded gun. You don't see us going on Facebook urging people to exercise their civic right to bear arms do you?
I'm Afraid of White Women At Night
Today's story starts like many you've read before in the paper. "Recent college grad, Amy Whatsherface was walking down a poorly lit street after midnight when she noticed a Black male dressed in all black coming her direction. She froze..."
Well I'm the Black male in this story and here is where the story changes. I was walking home from the train one night, the streetlight went out for some reason and I look up and see a White lady walking by herself at twelve o' clock at night carrying a bag from Lord and Taylor. She put on the usual, "I'm not going to panic or look racist but I'll still grab my purse and tighten my stance" face. There was no need. The minute I saw her I went into survival mode alpha. I crossed the damn street and made it my point to sing the Whitest song I could think of at the moment (When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can always go downtown) loud enough for her to hear me. I then got my black ass to a well lit, busy street as quickly as possible without running.
I'm deathly afraid of White women at night. White joggers might as well be boogeymen. See, I live in a really nice neighborhood but as Dave Chappelle put it, "It's not great but the police would never believe my Black ass lived there." The last thing I need is to fit the description of a suspect. Now the onus is on the White woman. Why the hell are you walking by yourself so late? Yes, it is a free country and yes, you should be able to walk through your neighborhood at night if you want. But you can't! This is Washington, DC. This is a horrible place during the day, what the hell makes you think night is any better?
So, because Amy wants to be a superwoman I gotta pick up the slack and protect myself. I usually walk down well lit heavily trafficked streets. I never keep my hands in my pockets. I always make a phone call while I'm out so that we have proof of where I was based on the cell tower picking up the signal and whenever I see a White woman by herself...I go the other way.
Well I'm the Black male in this story and here is where the story changes. I was walking home from the train one night, the streetlight went out for some reason and I look up and see a White lady walking by herself at twelve o' clock at night carrying a bag from Lord and Taylor. She put on the usual, "I'm not going to panic or look racist but I'll still grab my purse and tighten my stance" face. There was no need. The minute I saw her I went into survival mode alpha. I crossed the damn street and made it my point to sing the Whitest song I could think of at the moment (When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can always go downtown) loud enough for her to hear me. I then got my black ass to a well lit, busy street as quickly as possible without running.
I'm deathly afraid of White women at night. White joggers might as well be boogeymen. See, I live in a really nice neighborhood but as Dave Chappelle put it, "It's not great but the police would never believe my Black ass lived there." The last thing I need is to fit the description of a suspect. Now the onus is on the White woman. Why the hell are you walking by yourself so late? Yes, it is a free country and yes, you should be able to walk through your neighborhood at night if you want. But you can't! This is Washington, DC. This is a horrible place during the day, what the hell makes you think night is any better?
So, because Amy wants to be a superwoman I gotta pick up the slack and protect myself. I usually walk down well lit heavily trafficked streets. I never keep my hands in my pockets. I always make a phone call while I'm out so that we have proof of where I was based on the cell tower picking up the signal and whenever I see a White woman by herself...I go the other way.
Obama vs The World
I guess I'll have to turn in my Black Card after this one, but I have nothing else to do so...why not write about it?
Hearing that the Republicans are getting the House and possibly the Senate hasn't really evoked any sense of concern. I don't know how to put this but...I don't really have any faith in Obama. White people may read this and say, Well let's see where he's going with this blog. Black people on the other hand have already stopped reading, You a sell out!
I had no illusion that things would change overnight. I just don't have any hope that they'll get better any time soon. I wanted him to win because I thought he had it in him to take us in a new direction, I just didn't know how tough the opposition was. He's a charismatic guy and one hell of a public speaker. The problem is that you can't win over close-minded people and unfortunately he picked his battles kind of oddly.
Healthcare was a big issue, but it may not have been the right issue to go after. I'm not talking politics, I'm talking about picking something that would make the most difference. People don't care about healthcare. Sick people care. Let me rephrase that. Sick people who are on their last leg and can't afford to see a doctor care about it. Everybody else is healthy, can afford healthcare or too busy eating fast food, inhaling sugary products and smoking to care.
I mean let's take a look at the commercial with the pudgy woman at the grocery store talking about the proposed soda tax. The government is too involved, she says as she loads up her cart with ground beef, chips, a two liter soda and some orange drink. She's just a quesadilla away from a heart attack herself, but I won't go there.
Hearing that the Republicans are getting the House and possibly the Senate hasn't really evoked any sense of concern. I don't know how to put this but...I don't really have any faith in Obama. White people may read this and say, Well let's see where he's going with this blog. Black people on the other hand have already stopped reading, You a sell out!
I had no illusion that things would change overnight. I just don't have any hope that they'll get better any time soon. I wanted him to win because I thought he had it in him to take us in a new direction, I just didn't know how tough the opposition was. He's a charismatic guy and one hell of a public speaker. The problem is that you can't win over close-minded people and unfortunately he picked his battles kind of oddly.
Healthcare was a big issue, but it may not have been the right issue to go after. I'm not talking politics, I'm talking about picking something that would make the most difference. People don't care about healthcare. Sick people care. Let me rephrase that. Sick people who are on their last leg and can't afford to see a doctor care about it. Everybody else is healthy, can afford healthcare or too busy eating fast food, inhaling sugary products and smoking to care.
I mean let's take a look at the commercial with the pudgy woman at the grocery store talking about the proposed soda tax. The government is too involved, she says as she loads up her cart with ground beef, chips, a two liter soda and some orange drink. She's just a quesadilla away from a heart attack herself, but I won't go there.
The Biggest Loser...I hate this show
Today on Shows that I Hate we examine The Biggest Loser
Who is the psychological guru at NBC who manages to pick the most mentally screwed up people in America every single season. Every season week there is some whiny person complaining about how no one read them a bedtime story as a kid. NO one cries that damn much. These people seriously need psychological counseling, not just fat camp.
Meanwhile, can we please get someone who can do a better job at subtle product placement? I'm telling you...as soon as the next pair of contestants hook up they're gonna do a product placement for Orthoevra and Trojan condoms. Just remember where you heard it first.
Who is the psychological guru at NBC who manages to pick the most mentally screwed up people in America every single season. Every season week there is some whiny person complaining about how no one read them a bedtime story as a kid. NO one cries that damn much. These people seriously need psychological counseling, not just fat camp.
Meanwhile, can we please get someone who can do a better job at subtle product placement? I'm telling you...as soon as the next pair of contestants hook up they're gonna do a product placement for Orthoevra and Trojan condoms. Just remember where you heard it first.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Twas the Night Before the Due Date
Twas the night before the due date and all through the house
Not a creature was working, not even a mouse
The bills were all laid on the table with care
In hopes that the Credit Fairy soon would be there
The couple was nestled all snug in their bed
While visions of paychecks danced through their heads
When out on the street there arose a commotion
I sprang from my bed thinking, “it’s a tow truck”
When what to my wondering eyes should I see?
A Benz with a woman as fine as can be
Her hair long and flowing, her outfit quite classy
She matched head to toe, and her diamonds were flashing
With a credit report in hand reading Eight Forty-Three
I knew in an instant, “She’s the Credit Fairy!”
Clutching her purse, and fixing her hair
She clicked thrice her black heels and ascended the air
She approached the front door and gave a slight knock,
Whispered her credit score and made it unlock
Over on the table she found the bills in a stack
Pulled a wand from her purse and gave them a tap
She read each amount and each debtor’s name
Lifted her wand and I heard her exclaim:
“Now Equifax, Transunion, Experian and FICO
Now Verizon, Now Visa, Capital One and Geico
Away from this home, I command you depart
And give this young couple a fresh credit start”
The cable came back on, the internet did too
The bills disappeared and the fridge was filled with food
I ran to the window in time to see her drive by
With a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye
She rolled down her window and shouted out in delight
“Good credit to all, and to all a good night!”
Not a creature was working, not even a mouse
The bills were all laid on the table with care
In hopes that the Credit Fairy soon would be there
The couple was nestled all snug in their bed
While visions of paychecks danced through their heads
When out on the street there arose a commotion
I sprang from my bed thinking, “it’s a tow truck”
When what to my wondering eyes should I see?
A Benz with a woman as fine as can be
Her hair long and flowing, her outfit quite classy
She matched head to toe, and her diamonds were flashing
With a credit report in hand reading Eight Forty-Three
I knew in an instant, “She’s the Credit Fairy!”
Clutching her purse, and fixing her hair
She clicked thrice her black heels and ascended the air
She approached the front door and gave a slight knock,
Whispered her credit score and made it unlock
Over on the table she found the bills in a stack
Pulled a wand from her purse and gave them a tap
She read each amount and each debtor’s name
Lifted her wand and I heard her exclaim:
“Now Equifax, Transunion, Experian and FICO
Now Verizon, Now Visa, Capital One and Geico
Away from this home, I command you depart
And give this young couple a fresh credit start”
The cable came back on, the internet did too
The bills disappeared and the fridge was filled with food
I ran to the window in time to see her drive by
With a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye
She rolled down her window and shouted out in delight
“Good credit to all, and to all a good night!”
He Can Thrill You More...
[caption id="attachment_188" align="aligncenter" width="370" caption="He can thrill you more than any ghost would ever dare try"]
[/caption]
[/caption]
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Why Nintendo Cartridges Required Blowing
There really is no way to word that title that doesn't sound weird is there?
[caption id="attachment_172" align="alignleft" width="268" caption="Blow Me"]
[/caption]
Anyway, this is super geeky, but I happened to look this up on Wikipedia a while back and thought that others might find this interesting.
I doubt that there is a single person in the world who owned a Nintendo and didn't have to do this at least once: You put a game in and press power. The screen as well as the red light on the Nintendo blink on an off. What do you do? You take it out, blow into it and put it back in. Problem solved...until you have to do it again (and again). Why?
To save you time I'll paraphrase the article:
There were a shit load of video game systems that failed in the early eighties. Nintendo wanted their system to stand out so they made a front loading system similar to a VCR. The problem with this design was found in the metal chips on the cartridge itself as well as those inside the Nintendo. When both were brand spanking new, the metal slots would align and info would pass between with no problem. After repeatedly putting games in and taking them out, the slots started to wear down and didn't connect too well. So, info didn't pass too well. Dirt and dust exacerbated the problem. So that's why blowing worked sometimes. Nintendo said you shouldn't do it, but hey it worked...sorta.
When it didn't work and you kept getting the flash, it was because of Nintendo's crappy authentication system. The technical aspects of it are beyond the scope of my knowledge, but it all came down to a timing mechanism that measured how fast info was transmitted to verify that it was an actual Nintendo game. If it didn't transmit correctly, then it locked out the game and you got a blinking light. Well, bent and worn down slots slowed down the timing which is why some games just blinked no matter how much you blew in them.
[caption id="attachment_168" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Mario is The One!"]
[/caption]
Being the inadvertent geniuses that we were, we all learned some way to slam the cartridge in there (mostly out of frustration) to get it to work...until someone bump
ed into it just as you were about to kill Bowser for the eighth time and then Mario turned into The Matrix with letters and code everywhere.
[caption id="attachment_172" align="alignleft" width="268" caption="Blow Me"]
[/caption]Anyway, this is super geeky, but I happened to look this up on Wikipedia a while back and thought that others might find this interesting.
I doubt that there is a single person in the world who owned a Nintendo and didn't have to do this at least once: You put a game in and press power. The screen as well as the red light on the Nintendo blink on an off. What do you do? You take it out, blow into it and put it back in. Problem solved...until you have to do it again (and again). Why?
To save you time I'll paraphrase the article:
There were a shit load of video game systems that failed in the early eighties. Nintendo wanted their system to stand out so they made a front loading system similar to a VCR. The problem with this design was found in the metal chips on the cartridge itself as well as those inside the Nintendo. When both were brand spanking new, the metal slots would align and info would pass between with no problem. After repeatedly putting games in and taking them out, the slots started to wear down and didn't connect too well. So, info didn't pass too well. Dirt and dust exacerbated the problem. So that's why blowing worked sometimes. Nintendo said you shouldn't do it, but hey it worked...sorta.
When it didn't work and you kept getting the flash, it was because of Nintendo's crappy authentication system. The technical aspects of it are beyond the scope of my knowledge, but it all came down to a timing mechanism that measured how fast info was transmitted to verify that it was an actual Nintendo game. If it didn't transmit correctly, then it locked out the game and you got a blinking light. Well, bent and worn down slots slowed down the timing which is why some games just blinked no matter how much you blew in them.
[caption id="attachment_168" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Mario is The One!"]
[/caption]Being the inadvertent geniuses that we were, we all learned some way to slam the cartridge in there (mostly out of frustration) to get it to work...until someone bump
ed into it just as you were about to kill Bowser for the eighth time and then Mario turned into The Matrix with letters and code everywhere.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Homeless Depot?
I want to play a game. Imagine that you're riding down the highway on your way to Wal-Mart or somewhere. You get off the exit and you're on one of those four-six lane roads about to make a left turn to get to the Wal-Mart. Standing on the island/grass median is a homeless guy. What does he look like?
I'm curious if the homeless guy I'm imagining looks like one that you've seen before. I'm gonna be David Blaine on this one. Does your guy have on a long sleeved shirt that's dingy but not torn? Does he have on jeans that are technically dirty but they kinda look neat at the same time? Is he wearing Sauconys, New Balances or some of those cheap Nikes that you'd only find in Rack Room Shoes? Finally, is he holding a cardboard sign with black lettering?
I only ask because I'm noticing a lot of similarities in homeless people along the highway. It's leading me to believe that there is a Homeless Depot somewhere that sells begging supply kits. Think about it: How is it that every homeless person on the highway has a cardboard sign. Why is the lettering so perfect? It's almost like they used a stencil or something. How the hell did they get the edges of the sign so neat if they cut it from an old box?
Now I don't think homelessness is funny. I just don't believe most of the people on the side of the highway are really homeless. If you live in the woods, why are your shoes so clean if it just rained yesterday? One day I was on the bus and this guy got on the bus, folded up his sign, pulled out a wad of ones and then sat down. He pulled some scrubs out of his bag, and put on his hospital employee ID badge. And no, I'm not making that up.
So I wonder where this Homeless Depot is. I bet their floral department sells all those half dead roses that you see people selling on the side of the road. The lime green and neon pink cellophane paper is probably their bread and butter. Speaking of the rose guy...how the hell do they get there? Who's supplying them. They usually have that bucket with like four bouquets, yet an hour later after selling three, the bucket magically refills. Someone is re-upping their flowers.
Hell, this thing may go deeper than we can imagine. What if this is like a growth program like the Boy Scouts. You start off selling Krispy Kreme doughnuts on the side of the road for your "fundraiser" and then graduate to roses and finally you become your own man and can get your own cardboard sign. If you don't pay your dues though they probably make you get out there with a shirt and tie and a bucket saying that it's for your church.
This is some Illuminati type ish. I'm scared. lol
I'm curious if the homeless guy I'm imagining looks like one that you've seen before. I'm gonna be David Blaine on this one. Does your guy have on a long sleeved shirt that's dingy but not torn? Does he have on jeans that are technically dirty but they kinda look neat at the same time? Is he wearing Sauconys, New Balances or some of those cheap Nikes that you'd only find in Rack Room Shoes? Finally, is he holding a cardboard sign with black lettering?
I only ask because I'm noticing a lot of similarities in homeless people along the highway. It's leading me to believe that there is a Homeless Depot somewhere that sells begging supply kits. Think about it: How is it that every homeless person on the highway has a cardboard sign. Why is the lettering so perfect? It's almost like they used a stencil or something. How the hell did they get the edges of the sign so neat if they cut it from an old box?
Now I don't think homelessness is funny. I just don't believe most of the people on the side of the highway are really homeless. If you live in the woods, why are your shoes so clean if it just rained yesterday? One day I was on the bus and this guy got on the bus, folded up his sign, pulled out a wad of ones and then sat down. He pulled some scrubs out of his bag, and put on his hospital employee ID badge. And no, I'm not making that up.
So I wonder where this Homeless Depot is. I bet their floral department sells all those half dead roses that you see people selling on the side of the road. The lime green and neon pink cellophane paper is probably their bread and butter. Speaking of the rose guy...how the hell do they get there? Who's supplying them. They usually have that bucket with like four bouquets, yet an hour later after selling three, the bucket magically refills. Someone is re-upping their flowers.
Hell, this thing may go deeper than we can imagine. What if this is like a growth program like the Boy Scouts. You start off selling Krispy Kreme doughnuts on the side of the road for your "fundraiser" and then graduate to roses and finally you become your own man and can get your own cardboard sign. If you don't pay your dues though they probably make you get out there with a shirt and tie and a bucket saying that it's for your church.
This is some Illuminati type ish. I'm scared. lol
Metro Rallies to Destroy My Sanity
So I had been looking forward to the Jon Stewart Rally to Restore Sanity ever since it was announced. I saw it as a way for a few hundred thousand people to band together to form one big middle finger pointed at the media and the fear-mongers. Unfortunately, I didn't get to enjoy the rally as I'd hoped. Metro got in the way.
If you're reading this from outside the DC area, you probably aren't familiar with the metro. It's our transit service. While funded by various governments, Metro gets its real power by feeding off the souls of the adults and the happiness of small children. So today, they made me their appetizer.
In a normal world it would take just ten short minutes to get from my station to the Smithsonian station where the rally was being held. Knowing the wiles of Metro the way that I do, I got to the station an hour early. Train after train after train was packed to the point where no one could get on. I don't mean "comfortably." I mean period. There were people's shirts sticking through the doors. It was packed.
After 30 minutes of watching sardines go by I decided to just catch the bus. That would get me there in 20 minutes. Three different bus lines converge near my house. Not one bus would stop. Why? They were packed too.
Now you could look at this as "well it was a really popular event, there was nothing they could do." Don't! Metro sucks! They could have run more trains, buses or something. No, they had that stupid schedule today all the while running their dumb permanent "track advisory warning."
So I ended up walking the five miles to the rally. By the time I got there, I was in no mood to stand up. I stayed for a few minutes and then tried to go home. Alas! Same problem going home. Apparently other people wanted to leave too.
Metro Sucks!
True Hollywood Story: My Car is on Fire
Okay, so as a wedding present my mother decided to give us her old car. People with money give you new stuff. Poor people give you what they have. Still, we appreciated it. So we drive the thing from DC all the way back home to NC. No problems. The next day I drop the wife off at work, fill up the tank and then head to my own job. I get to a light and a guy pulls up beside me.
"Hey buddy, you got water spewing out the bottom of your car!"
It's some snaggletoothed guy who looks drunk so I'm like, "Thanks" and I keep driving. I'm thinking to myself, "the old 'water spewing out of the car' trick. Not today buddy." So I drive further and come up to another light. I look down and notice that the gas tank that I just filled up is now 1/4 full. That's when that nerdy brain of mine starts working. "Water is clear. What else is clear? Gasoline!" I pull over and turn off the car. I get out and low and behold, there is a big puddle of gas under the car and I notice that I've basically made a huge trail of gas leading up to where I am.
So I pop the hood, notice that the gas valve came loose from the engine and I put it back where it goes. Problem solved. I fill the tank back up and go on my way. That evening I call the shop to see if they can squeeze me in the next day to fix the loose hose. The guy tells me I can come in tomorrow but he thinks they should tow me in because "riding around with a loose gas valve is dangerous." Once again, my smart brain tells me, "the old we need to charge you $80 to tow your car when you really could just drive here yourself trick." I decline and tell em I'll be there tomorrow.
Scene 2:
I get up the next morning, get in the car and put the key in the ignition. Now, I'm not stupid. I know that there is a chance that the guy was sincere and maybe riding around with a loose gas line in something that makes sparks and small explosions every other second is probably a bad idea but I was broke. I had about a hundred bucks in the bank and couldn't afford the tow PLUS the dealership was like a mile from my house downhill. At most, I could pull to the first stop sign and coast the rest of the way there.
So I say a little prayer, turn the ignition and BAM. I see a flash of light, hear this loud ass noise and the car lifts up off the front wheels a little bit. In my mind, I'm officially dead. I see the wedding playing out, all the hours I wasted playing Sega and Playstation and I'm back to my childhood days starting freeze tag with bubble gum bubble gum in the dish...
Then I realize that I'm not dead. I open my eyes to a bunch of black smoke and flames coming up from under the hood. In one movement, I unlock the door, open it and land on the sidewalk about ten feet away from the car. Then I think back to every summer movie where a car blows up. That's when the nerd brain cuts back on (yeah the nerd brain didn't come in handy a few minutes ago when I turned the key, but never mind that now). I start wonder if the car will actually explode if the engine keeps running. Can fire travel through the fuel line into the gas tank? So time slows down while the people in my head decide whether or not to risk diving back into the car to turn off the engine. After putting it to a vote, I turn the ignition off and run up three flights of stairs back into my apartment to call 911.
Scene 3
"911, what's your emergency?"
"My car is on fire. Send a fire truck to 1505 Du..."
"Please state your name."
"Huh? My car is on fire. I need a fire truck at 1505..."
"Sir I need your name."
I give her my name.
"And what's the emergency?"
"My car is on FIRE!"
"What's your address?"
"1505 Duke..."
"Sir can you spell the street name please."
"WHAT!? Listen, my car is on fire. It's next to apartments. They could catch fire. I really need..."
"Sir, I understand that there is a fire, but I need you to spell the street name."
"D-U-K-E..."
"And you say that there is a fire here. What kind of vehicle is it."
"It's a Dodge Acclaim."
"Please spell that sir."
"WHAT THE HELL. LOOK I NEED YOU TO SEND A FIRE TRUCK"
"Sir, please don't use profanity."
"D-O-D-G-E..."
"And what color is the vehicle sir."
"I don't know what color it is now. What color flames are!"
"Is it burgundy sir?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Someone already reported that fire sir."
I hung up on her.
Scene 4:
I go back outside and sit and watch my car burn. The fire has consumed the entire front of the car but the passenger cabin is still intact. A guy comes running out his apartment towards me. I tell him that I'm alright but I notice that he isn't coming to help. This son of a bitch, gets in the car next to mine, peels out of the parking space and drives down the hill and parks his car, then runs back into his apartment without saying a single word.
The fire truck shows up. Rather than try to put out the fire, they try to open the car doors. I yell out, "Here are the keys!" They look at me, turn around and take an axe to the windows. They then stand there talking for a few minutes (maybe congratulating each other on breaking the windows for no apparent reason) and then spray down the engine to put out the fire.
So then the fire chief pulls up and tells me that he's with the arson department.
"Is this your car?"
"It was."
"Did you start this fire?"
"Huh? Uh no."
"Is the car in your name?"
"No it's in my mother's name. She gave it to me two days ago."
"Do you have a reason to believe that your mother may be trying to harm you?"
"WHAT?"
"I'm going to need your mother's contact information."
He goes on to tell me that it's possible that my mother rigged the vehicle. Rrrrrright.
So the wife and I sit outside on the stoop and marvel at the charred remnants of our wedding present all the while being thankful that I'm still alive when the phone rings.
"Hi, this is the management office for the apartment complex. We've been informed by the fire department that your vehicle caught fire. Is that true."
"Yes, thank you for calling, but everyone is okay."
"Uh, that's good to know sir, but that's not why I'm calling. Your rental agreement states that no resident may keep a dilapidated, non-working or vandalized vehicle on the property. You must remove the vehicle immediately or we will tow the vehicle and you will be responsible for the charges."
You know, part of me wants to tell you what I said in response, but even I have profanity limits for this website. Plus when you put that many curse words side by side, it really doesn't make a coherent sentence.
Anyway, they towed the car and we moved outta the apartment complex. Charges against my mother (the criminal mastermind) were never filed.
"Hey buddy, you got water spewing out the bottom of your car!"
It's some snaggletoothed guy who looks drunk so I'm like, "Thanks" and I keep driving. I'm thinking to myself, "the old 'water spewing out of the car' trick. Not today buddy." So I drive further and come up to another light. I look down and notice that the gas tank that I just filled up is now 1/4 full. That's when that nerdy brain of mine starts working. "Water is clear. What else is clear? Gasoline!" I pull over and turn off the car. I get out and low and behold, there is a big puddle of gas under the car and I notice that I've basically made a huge trail of gas leading up to where I am.
So I pop the hood, notice that the gas valve came loose from the engine and I put it back where it goes. Problem solved. I fill the tank back up and go on my way. That evening I call the shop to see if they can squeeze me in the next day to fix the loose hose. The guy tells me I can come in tomorrow but he thinks they should tow me in because "riding around with a loose gas valve is dangerous." Once again, my smart brain tells me, "the old we need to charge you $80 to tow your car when you really could just drive here yourself trick." I decline and tell em I'll be there tomorrow.
Scene 2:
I get up the next morning, get in the car and put the key in the ignition. Now, I'm not stupid. I know that there is a chance that the guy was sincere and maybe riding around with a loose gas line in something that makes sparks and small explosions every other second is probably a bad idea but I was broke. I had about a hundred bucks in the bank and couldn't afford the tow PLUS the dealership was like a mile from my house downhill. At most, I could pull to the first stop sign and coast the rest of the way there.
So I say a little prayer, turn the ignition and BAM. I see a flash of light, hear this loud ass noise and the car lifts up off the front wheels a little bit. In my mind, I'm officially dead. I see the wedding playing out, all the hours I wasted playing Sega and Playstation and I'm back to my childhood days starting freeze tag with bubble gum bubble gum in the dish...
Then I realize that I'm not dead. I open my eyes to a bunch of black smoke and flames coming up from under the hood. In one movement, I unlock the door, open it and land on the sidewalk about ten feet away from the car. Then I think back to every summer movie where a car blows up. That's when the nerd brain cuts back on (yeah the nerd brain didn't come in handy a few minutes ago when I turned the key, but never mind that now). I start wonder if the car will actually explode if the engine keeps running. Can fire travel through the fuel line into the gas tank? So time slows down while the people in my head decide whether or not to risk diving back into the car to turn off the engine. After putting it to a vote, I turn the ignition off and run up three flights of stairs back into my apartment to call 911.
Scene 3
"911, what's your emergency?"
"My car is on fire. Send a fire truck to 1505 Du..."
"Please state your name."
"Huh? My car is on fire. I need a fire truck at 1505..."
"Sir I need your name."
I give her my name.
"And what's the emergency?"
"My car is on FIRE!"
"What's your address?"
"1505 Duke..."
"Sir can you spell the street name please."
"WHAT!? Listen, my car is on fire. It's next to apartments. They could catch fire. I really need..."
"Sir, I understand that there is a fire, but I need you to spell the street name."
"D-U-K-E..."
"And you say that there is a fire here. What kind of vehicle is it."
"It's a Dodge Acclaim."
"Please spell that sir."
"WHAT THE HELL. LOOK I NEED YOU TO SEND A FIRE TRUCK"
"Sir, please don't use profanity."
"D-O-D-G-E..."
"And what color is the vehicle sir."
"I don't know what color it is now. What color flames are!"
"Is it burgundy sir?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Someone already reported that fire sir."
I hung up on her.
Scene 4:
I go back outside and sit and watch my car burn. The fire has consumed the entire front of the car but the passenger cabin is still intact. A guy comes running out his apartment towards me. I tell him that I'm alright but I notice that he isn't coming to help. This son of a bitch, gets in the car next to mine, peels out of the parking space and drives down the hill and parks his car, then runs back into his apartment without saying a single word.
The fire truck shows up. Rather than try to put out the fire, they try to open the car doors. I yell out, "Here are the keys!" They look at me, turn around and take an axe to the windows. They then stand there talking for a few minutes (maybe congratulating each other on breaking the windows for no apparent reason) and then spray down the engine to put out the fire.
So then the fire chief pulls up and tells me that he's with the arson department.
"Is this your car?"
"It was."
"Did you start this fire?"
"Huh? Uh no."
"Is the car in your name?"
"No it's in my mother's name. She gave it to me two days ago."
"Do you have a reason to believe that your mother may be trying to harm you?"
"WHAT?"
"I'm going to need your mother's contact information."
He goes on to tell me that it's possible that my mother rigged the vehicle. Rrrrrright.
So the wife and I sit outside on the stoop and marvel at the charred remnants of our wedding present all the while being thankful that I'm still alive when the phone rings.
"Hi, this is the management office for the apartment complex. We've been informed by the fire department that your vehicle caught fire. Is that true."
"Yes, thank you for calling, but everyone is okay."
"Uh, that's good to know sir, but that's not why I'm calling. Your rental agreement states that no resident may keep a dilapidated, non-working or vandalized vehicle on the property. You must remove the vehicle immediately or we will tow the vehicle and you will be responsible for the charges."
You know, part of me wants to tell you what I said in response, but even I have profanity limits for this website. Plus when you put that many curse words side by side, it really doesn't make a coherent sentence.
Anyway, they towed the car and we moved outta the apartment complex. Charges against my mother (the criminal mastermind) were never filed.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Back to the Future Part III
October 26, 2010 9:48PM So here's the third and final installment of my tribute to the 25th anniversary of Back to the Future. I went to see it in the theater this past weekend and today I went and bought the blu-ray. It's geeky, I know, but it's one of those childhood things that you can't (and don't want) to outgrow.
It all started one day back in kindergarten. My friend Anthony noticed my very rough drawing of a car and asked me if it was a time machine. The thing hardly looked like a car, but the square in the middle with the words flux capacitor beneath a big Y gave it away. He told me that it was his favorite movie and we decided to build a time machine together. First, we decided that we needed to watch the movie a few more times and write down the stuff that Doc Brown said during the scene at the mall parking lot. You gotta love five year old logic: Knowing a movie line for line would somehow grant us advanced scientific knowledge.
As the year went on, I eventually came to know the movie line for line and my interest in building a time machine fueled a passion for everything science related. This continued long after kindergarten and actually up through high school. Throughout my elementary school years, I immersed myself in anything that seemed smart: reading the encyclopedia cover to cover, learning meaningless facts and watching a lot of PBS. It didn't make me a lot of friends, but, on the flip side, it kept me out of trouble...well, that kind of trouble.
I've electrocuted myself about ten times. I've blown out the power to the house at least three times and my grandmother had to rescue me from being struck by lightning more times than I can count. Back then there were no warnings at the beginning of movies and tv shows, not that it would've deterred the scientist in me. I way too many stories that I can share in one post, but I'll give you one example.
You know those stands that musicians use to hold their sheet music? I once got a hold of one. I ripped the part that holds the book off. I took a hammer to an old lamp shade and hammered it to the point where it would fit perfectly (upside down--think satellite dish) atop the music stand. I then took a broken television and stripped the rubber shielding off the power cord. I wrapped the wires around the metal music stand...Then I took it outside right before a thunderstorm and placed it in the yard. My goal was to see if I could get lightning to strike the stand, power the tv and blow the glass out of the screen. I was seven.
That was insanely dangerous and stupid (albeit kinda cool), but if only you knew how many books I read on lightning, electricity and conduction before I had that bright idea. It's a wonder that I'm still alive. Still, all silly ideas aside, you have to appreciate a movie that can make an inner city second grader hike to the library by himself and check out science fair project books when his school didn't even have science fairs.
Last week my family got together and out of the blue my aunt asked, Do you remember when you were little and used to quote movies by heart? What was that thing that you used to say that I thought was so cute? Being 28, I don't particularly enjoy entertaining old people with my childish wonder anymore so I told her that I didn't remember. Secretly though I wanted to stand in the middle of the living room and say,
No this sucker's electrical, but I need a nuclear reaction to generate the 1.21 jiggawatts of electricity I need. Doc, you don't just walk into a store and buy plutonium, did you rip this off? Of course, from a group of Libian nationalists. They wanted me to build them a bomb, so I took their plutonium and gave them a shiny bomb casing full of old pinball machine parts. Come here, I'll show you how it works...
It all started one day back in kindergarten. My friend Anthony noticed my very rough drawing of a car and asked me if it was a time machine. The thing hardly looked like a car, but the square in the middle with the words flux capacitor beneath a big Y gave it away. He told me that it was his favorite movie and we decided to build a time machine together. First, we decided that we needed to watch the movie a few more times and write down the stuff that Doc Brown said during the scene at the mall parking lot. You gotta love five year old logic: Knowing a movie line for line would somehow grant us advanced scientific knowledge.
As the year went on, I eventually came to know the movie line for line and my interest in building a time machine fueled a passion for everything science related. This continued long after kindergarten and actually up through high school. Throughout my elementary school years, I immersed myself in anything that seemed smart: reading the encyclopedia cover to cover, learning meaningless facts and watching a lot of PBS. It didn't make me a lot of friends, but, on the flip side, it kept me out of trouble...well, that kind of trouble.
I've electrocuted myself about ten times. I've blown out the power to the house at least three times and my grandmother had to rescue me from being struck by lightning more times than I can count. Back then there were no warnings at the beginning of movies and tv shows, not that it would've deterred the scientist in me. I way too many stories that I can share in one post, but I'll give you one example.
You know those stands that musicians use to hold their sheet music? I once got a hold of one. I ripped the part that holds the book off. I took a hammer to an old lamp shade and hammered it to the point where it would fit perfectly (upside down--think satellite dish) atop the music stand. I then took a broken television and stripped the rubber shielding off the power cord. I wrapped the wires around the metal music stand...Then I took it outside right before a thunderstorm and placed it in the yard. My goal was to see if I could get lightning to strike the stand, power the tv and blow the glass out of the screen. I was seven.
That was insanely dangerous and stupid (albeit kinda cool), but if only you knew how many books I read on lightning, electricity and conduction before I had that bright idea. It's a wonder that I'm still alive. Still, all silly ideas aside, you have to appreciate a movie that can make an inner city second grader hike to the library by himself and check out science fair project books when his school didn't even have science fairs.
Last week my family got together and out of the blue my aunt asked, Do you remember when you were little and used to quote movies by heart? What was that thing that you used to say that I thought was so cute? Being 28, I don't particularly enjoy entertaining old people with my childish wonder anymore so I told her that I didn't remember. Secretly though I wanted to stand in the middle of the living room and say,
No this sucker's electrical, but I need a nuclear reaction to generate the 1.21 jiggawatts of electricity I need. Doc, you don't just walk into a store and buy plutonium, did you rip this off? Of course, from a group of Libian nationalists. They wanted me to build them a bomb, so I took their plutonium and gave them a shiny bomb casing full of old pinball machine parts. Come here, I'll show you how it works...
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sony Retires the Walkman
According to CNN Sony has retired the Walkman cassette player. No surprise here. The thing became obsolete over a decade ago when portable CD players came out. Still, I feel the need to eulogize the device that made public transportation bearable.
Back in the late 80s/early 90s, the Walkman was what the cell phone is today: Something you never leave the house without. I guess before I continue I should be honest, I never had an actual Walkman. That's the official brand name of Sony's device. I had some knock off piece of crap made by JVC, GPX or some other knockoff brand you'd find in Radio Shack, Nobody Beats the Wiz and Sam Goody.
It's funny too, because GPX and other knockoffs always came with shitty headphones that either snapped in half, lost the spongy ear cover or only worked in one ear unless you held the cord in a certain position. Some, like the one pictured, had a radio on them that got crappy reception but was still better than the tape player itself.
Cheap ones didn't have rewind so you had to take the tape out, flip it over, fast forward a few seconds, flip it back over, play and repeat until you got to the part of the tape you wanted to hear.
As long as you didn't run, hold it sideways or move too fast, your tape would probably survive the trip outside and back home. Every now and then though (Every other day) you'd notice the music starting to slow down and sound garbled. You had a split second to hit stop and save your tape from the walkman. Then you had to pull the cassette out and sowly pull the ten miles of tape out of the machine. Next, you'd get a pencil, roll the tape back up and from that point on that one section of the tape would sound messed up.
Despite the hassle of protecting your tapes, the Walkman served its purpose. It gave me something to listen to on my way to school. Of course back then the pickings were slim. Unlike today, there was no "playlist." Hell you got 60-90 minutes of music and if you were like me you copied your songs off the radio. Sometimes, on a "good" tape, you had no commercials, no DJ and all of the songs started and stopped correctly. On a "bad" tape, maybe you didn't hit record in time. Maybe some songs cut off prematurely because you accidentally taped over them or you reached the end of the tape. And of course we all had that tape where you couldn't go past a certain point because the machine would magically eat the tape beyond that part.
Now that I think about it...good riddance Walkman! lol
Back in the late 80s/early 90s, the Walkman was what the cell phone is today: Something you never leave the house without. I guess before I continue I should be honest, I never had an actual Walkman. That's the official brand name of Sony's device. I had some knock off piece of crap made by JVC, GPX or some other knockoff brand you'd find in Radio Shack, Nobody Beats the Wiz and Sam Goody.
It's funny too, because GPX and other knockoffs always came with shitty headphones that either snapped in half, lost the spongy ear cover or only worked in one ear unless you held the cord in a certain position. Some, like the one pictured, had a radio on them that got crappy reception but was still better than the tape player itself.
Cheap ones didn't have rewind so you had to take the tape out, flip it over, fast forward a few seconds, flip it back over, play and repeat until you got to the part of the tape you wanted to hear.
As long as you didn't run, hold it sideways or move too fast, your tape would probably survive the trip outside and back home. Every now and then though (Every other day) you'd notice the music starting to slow down and sound garbled. You had a split second to hit stop and save your tape from the walkman. Then you had to pull the cassette out and sowly pull the ten miles of tape out of the machine. Next, you'd get a pencil, roll the tape back up and from that point on that one section of the tape would sound messed up.
Despite the hassle of protecting your tapes, the Walkman served its purpose. It gave me something to listen to on my way to school. Of course back then the pickings were slim. Unlike today, there was no "playlist." Hell you got 60-90 minutes of music and if you were like me you copied your songs off the radio. Sometimes, on a "good" tape, you had no commercials, no DJ and all of the songs started and stopped correctly. On a "bad" tape, maybe you didn't hit record in time. Maybe some songs cut off prematurely because you accidentally taped over them or you reached the end of the tape. And of course we all had that tape where you couldn't go past a certain point because the machine would magically eat the tape beyond that part.
Now that I think about it...good riddance Walkman! lol
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Dedicated to the Legacy of Me
When Father's Day rolls around I expect a damn statue to be erected. My wife thinks I'm joking. Come next June, if there's no statue then I'm retiring from husbandry and fatherhood. I'm technically what you call a stay-at-home-dad, but around these parts I prefer to call myself a housebitch.
Today I got up and went grocery shopping. We don't have a car so that means that I had to hoof it. I got my little old lady cart and walked a mile up the street to the farmer's market. Along the way I saw that the video store was having a fire sale, so I looked through about a thousand movies for something that might (AOL keyword: MIGHT) keep my three month old's attention long enough for me to cook, clean, breathe and eat. No sooner than I'd gotten home and dumped the produce on the counter, I had to go back out to the real grocery store.
I dragged my old lady cart another mile down the street to the Giant. I spent a half hour in there (most of it in line) and then made the trek back up the mile-long hill to my house, all the while pulling my sleigh full of food. I put the groceries away and then went back out a third time to go to the CVS to buy diapers. Being the bastion of hell that it is, CVS didn't have any in her size so I had to walk another damn mile to the other CVS where they did have her size.
After four hours, I'm finally home and sad to see that the NFL decided to start the games without me...again. And just think, this is the weekend. Imagine what my weekdays look like. So yeah, next Father's Day there better be a damn ten foot tall marble statue erected in the park. I want a parade and rose bearers to lead me to it and when I get there, there better a feast in my honor. Oh yeah, my wife and daughter aren't invited. I'll bring them a plate though.
Today I got up and went grocery shopping. We don't have a car so that means that I had to hoof it. I got my little old lady cart and walked a mile up the street to the farmer's market. Along the way I saw that the video store was having a fire sale, so I looked through about a thousand movies for something that might (AOL keyword: MIGHT) keep my three month old's attention long enough for me to cook, clean, breathe and eat. No sooner than I'd gotten home and dumped the produce on the counter, I had to go back out to the real grocery store.
I dragged my old lady cart another mile down the street to the Giant. I spent a half hour in there (most of it in line) and then made the trek back up the mile-long hill to my house, all the while pulling my sleigh full of food. I put the groceries away and then went back out a third time to go to the CVS to buy diapers. Being the bastion of hell that it is, CVS didn't have any in her size so I had to walk another damn mile to the other CVS where they did have her size.
After four hours, I'm finally home and sad to see that the NFL decided to start the games without me...again. And just think, this is the weekend. Imagine what my weekdays look like. So yeah, next Father's Day there better be a damn ten foot tall marble statue erected in the park. I want a parade and rose bearers to lead me to it and when I get there, there better a feast in my honor. Oh yeah, my wife and daughter aren't invited. I'll bring them a plate though.
Back to the Future Part II
I had a great time at the movies yesterday. I never expected more than a handful of people to show up, but the theater was actually full. People cheered as the credits rolled and took turns yelling out lines from the film. The atmosphere was great and for once I didn't feel like such a dork for loving the movie so much.
Now I just have to find a place for this free poster.
Now I just have to find a place for this free poster.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Back to the Future Part I
It's a little known Black History Fact that I'm a super geek. Sometimes I hide it well, other times not too well and sometimes I flaunt it proudly. Today is the latter. I'm on my way to see the theatrical re-release of Back to the Future, my all-time favorite movie.
Prior to my decision to become an underachiever, I had the crazy idea that I'd someday build a time machine. Of course I was about five at the time, but that didn't stop me from watching the movie every single day after school. I had to analyze each scene if I was going to successfully build my flux capacitor out of a broken lamp, cardboard paper and toilet paper rolls (don't ask). As a result of repeated viewing, I still know the movie line for line twenty years later.
So, if you happen to be reading this morning and find yourself in the DC area, come on down to the AMC Georgetown theater and enjoy the (only) 12:30 showing.
Prior to my decision to become an underachiever, I had the crazy idea that I'd someday build a time machine. Of course I was about five at the time, but that didn't stop me from watching the movie every single day after school. I had to analyze each scene if I was going to successfully build my flux capacitor out of a broken lamp, cardboard paper and toilet paper rolls (don't ask). As a result of repeated viewing, I still know the movie line for line twenty years later.
So, if you happen to be reading this morning and find yourself in the DC area, come on down to the AMC Georgetown theater and enjoy the (only) 12:30 showing.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Irony: See Marriage and Fatherhood
Life is full of irony.
I spent all of high school in love with two different girls who I had no doubt were out of my league. On the last day of twelfth grade, they each (separately) signed my yearbook with something along the lines of, I always had the biggest crush on you. Have fun in college!
That pretty much sums up my skill with women. I could never pick up on the signs, you know? If only I'd known back then that a wedding ring would solve all of my problems. Like most new husbands, my wife had to remind me to put on my ring those first few months. I felt lucky as hell to have landed her, but the idea of wearing a ring just didn't register with me. I kept forgetting it. Now, in her mind the wedding ring is a small round shield to protect me from the wiles of loose women. God bless her naive heart.
In the seven years that I've been married, I've learned that a wedding ring is less of a shield and more of a worm on a hook. It's as if women have their own special grading system when it comes to men. The sole on a man's shoes can tell you if he's got a car, his hands tell you what kind of work he does, but a wedding ring...
Oh man!
A wedding ring is like a certificate of authenticity. Combine the wedding ring with a simple question like, How long have you been married, and a woman has all the information she needs. When I say I've been married seven years, that's like saying "I'm a good man, with obviously a good job or credit considering the store and part of the city that I'm in. I must not have any major flaws because some woman has chosen to stay with me for seven years. That must mean that I'm either romantic, loaded with cash or endowed in other ways."
Now for all the power that the wedding ring has, nothing compares to the stroller.
Let me share with you, dear friends, the ballad of the Graco stroller.
If the wedding ring really were a shield like my wife naively thinks, then the stroller would be my sword. Pushing my three month old baby in her stroller while proudly wearing my wedding ring is like dipping myself in gold and standing on a pedestal. I'm a Black man who speaks proper English, is married AND takes care of my kids. When I walk by a playground or the baby section of target, I feel like a crippled gazelle limping alone at night through the savanna.
Maybe the women are wearing camouflage or maybe my eyesight is just that bad where I don't see them lurking in the bushes on a sunny day, but it shocks me everytime when a random woman jumps up out of a manhole like an urban Vietcong and dashes across four lanes of traffic to ask me what time it is, how I'm doing, how old my daughter is or where the closest store is.
Irony- Women want you when they shouldn't. I love my wife, but if I EVER figure out how to get this flux capacitor working, I'm going back ten years and I'm buying a cheap wedding band from the mall and a stroller from Babies R' Us.
It's nice to be admired, but I have to remind myself
I spent all of high school in love with two different girls who I had no doubt were out of my league. On the last day of twelfth grade, they each (separately) signed my yearbook with something along the lines of, I always had the biggest crush on you. Have fun in college!
That pretty much sums up my skill with women. I could never pick up on the signs, you know? If only I'd known back then that a wedding ring would solve all of my problems. Like most new husbands, my wife had to remind me to put on my ring those first few months. I felt lucky as hell to have landed her, but the idea of wearing a ring just didn't register with me. I kept forgetting it. Now, in her mind the wedding ring is a small round shield to protect me from the wiles of loose women. God bless her naive heart.
In the seven years that I've been married, I've learned that a wedding ring is less of a shield and more of a worm on a hook. It's as if women have their own special grading system when it comes to men. The sole on a man's shoes can tell you if he's got a car, his hands tell you what kind of work he does, but a wedding ring...
Oh man!
A wedding ring is like a certificate of authenticity. Combine the wedding ring with a simple question like, How long have you been married, and a woman has all the information she needs. When I say I've been married seven years, that's like saying "I'm a good man, with obviously a good job or credit considering the store and part of the city that I'm in. I must not have any major flaws because some woman has chosen to stay with me for seven years. That must mean that I'm either romantic, loaded with cash or endowed in other ways."
Now for all the power that the wedding ring has, nothing compares to the stroller.
Let me share with you, dear friends, the ballad of the Graco stroller.
If the wedding ring really were a shield like my wife naively thinks, then the stroller would be my sword. Pushing my three month old baby in her stroller while proudly wearing my wedding ring is like dipping myself in gold and standing on a pedestal. I'm a Black man who speaks proper English, is married AND takes care of my kids. When I walk by a playground or the baby section of target, I feel like a crippled gazelle limping alone at night through the savanna.
Maybe the women are wearing camouflage or maybe my eyesight is just that bad where I don't see them lurking in the bushes on a sunny day, but it shocks me everytime when a random woman jumps up out of a manhole like an urban Vietcong and dashes across four lanes of traffic to ask me what time it is, how I'm doing, how old my daughter is or where the closest store is.
Irony- Women want you when they shouldn't. I love my wife, but if I EVER figure out how to get this flux capacitor working, I'm going back ten years and I'm buying a cheap wedding band from the mall and a stroller from Babies R' Us.
It's nice to be admired, but I have to remind myself