I'd like to thank those who frequented my archives section during my absence last week. I still get a kick out of the image that I put up. It's from Gremlins 2 for those who don't get out much. Why do I find it funny? Because it scared the living hell out of me when I first saw it, but not the way that you're probably thinking.
Anyone who's followed this blog long enough remembers a story about someone running up in the drug store with a gun when I was eight and me being trampled as all the adults ran to save their own lives. You might also remember another story about someone pulling a gun in the theater during Another 48 Hours. Well, those two stories happened a week apart and the drug store episode happened the same day I saw Gremlins 2.
So what's the point?
Do the psych profile for an eight year old who has two perceived "near death" experiences within a seven day period. Even the most hardened projectytes have to be tempered into that life. I wasn't from the projects, just some shitty neighborhoods on occasion. Somebody pulling a gun in a movie theater and then a week later finding yourself starring in your own movie while walking around a store alone while some fool is in the front with a gun can mess you up for a few days.
There was no grief counseling. The most my mother said to me was, "If the police ask you anything, you tell them you didn't see nothing. You don't somebody coming after you because people are crazy." That just made the shit worse. LOL It never entered my mind that I might run into the guy again. After that I guess she figured I needed a pick me up so we went to see Gremlins 2...in the exact same theater we'd just run out of the week before.
I spent the entire movie looking over my shoulder checking out the facial expressions of the people behind us. Does anyone look disgruntled? Anyone looking like they're reaching for a gun? When I wasn't doing that I was sinking down in the chair hoping that the seat-back would somehow stop (or at least slow down) a bullet.
I couldn't wait to get outta there and then they did that $@##@ scene where the gremlins "take over" the theater. All I saw was the film cut off and a white screen. My heart jumped outta my chest as I dove to the floor waiting for someone to start shooting. It wasn't until I realized people were laughing and not screaming that I got up and told my mother I'd dropped my Raisinettes on the floor. 'Yeah, uh, I, uh, yelled because I really liked those Raisinettes and uh mama you work so hard to provide candy for me that I just couldn't bear to see them hit the ground."
Monday, April 30, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Technical Difficulties (Hectic Schedule) I'll Be Back
Got a lot on my plate this week. Between doctor visits, dental appointments, the kid and just life in general...I'll be back. In the meantime, there are about 300 posts in the archives. Feel free to peruse.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Metro Opens Doors
Ah, good old Metro. You never know what the day will bring. Your bus may have a delay, you might be exposed to viral meningitis. You just never know. Unlike the entitled bourgeoisie of MD and VA, we DC-bred kids didn't have a yellow stretch limo come take us to school everyday. Well, that's not fair to MD and VA kids, they didn't get dropped off everyday. Whenever the wind would blow too hard, their school would be closed while we'd still be standing outside in the cold waiting for the Amistad bus to shuttle us across the city like some type of modern-day Middle Passage.
This might be going off on a tangent, but there's a reason that so many people from DC take offense when people use "DC" as a blanket term for where they're from instead of just saying they're from Maryland or Virginia. The lack of a school bus to take you to and from school everyday is part of that reason. I hold no animosity toward the good folks from PG County. Some of my best friends are from PG (haha). The fact remains however, that being from MD or VA means that you didn't have to wake up on a zero degree day and look at sixteen feet of snow piled up to your third floor window and then turn on the TV and wait for the words to scroll across the bottom of the screen as slow as humanly possible (and in no logical order): Federal Gov't Closed, Anne Arundel County Closed, PG County Closed, Loudon County Closed, Hell Closed, Antarctica Closed, Winter Closed, DC Public Schools Open On Time.
I remember the Metrobus electric sliding across the 11th Street Bridge and me making sure I was sitting next to one of those emergency windows with the red latch release lever in case we ended up in the river or, if I wasn't, trying to read the emergency instructions on the little hatch on the ceiling. So yeah...you my good Temple Hills friend are from PG...not DC.
Anyway, getting back to my original point: The metrobus is full of wonder so I'm not surprised at the news over the last two weeks about the driver who had meningitis, the 90 or so buses they had to take offline due to them randomly bursting into flames nor the bus driver who got in a fistfight with a passenger over a fare dispute. I've seen bus drivers kicked, spit on, beat up and actually was on a 32 bus when someone started shooting at the bus driver when he pulled up to the stop.
Metroopensdoors
This might be going off on a tangent, but there's a reason that so many people from DC take offense when people use "DC" as a blanket term for where they're from instead of just saying they're from Maryland or Virginia. The lack of a school bus to take you to and from school everyday is part of that reason. I hold no animosity toward the good folks from PG County. Some of my best friends are from PG (haha). The fact remains however, that being from MD or VA means that you didn't have to wake up on a zero degree day and look at sixteen feet of snow piled up to your third floor window and then turn on the TV and wait for the words to scroll across the bottom of the screen as slow as humanly possible (and in no logical order): Federal Gov't Closed, Anne Arundel County Closed, PG County Closed, Loudon County Closed, Hell Closed, Antarctica Closed, Winter Closed, DC Public Schools Open On Time.
I remember the Metrobus electric sliding across the 11th Street Bridge and me making sure I was sitting next to one of those emergency windows with the red latch release lever in case we ended up in the river or, if I wasn't, trying to read the emergency instructions on the little hatch on the ceiling. So yeah...you my good Temple Hills friend are from PG...not DC.
Anyway, getting back to my original point: The metrobus is full of wonder so I'm not surprised at the news over the last two weeks about the driver who had meningitis, the 90 or so buses they had to take offline due to them randomly bursting into flames nor the bus driver who got in a fistfight with a passenger over a fare dispute. I've seen bus drivers kicked, spit on, beat up and actually was on a 32 bus when someone started shooting at the bus driver when he pulled up to the stop.
Metroopensdoors
Monday, April 23, 2012
Tatsumaki Senpuu Kyaku
Went to sleep next to the wife last night. Had a dream that I was walking down the street shortly after dawn. I looked up at this high rise building and saw two kids staring out the window at me. I returned my gaze to the street ahead of me and a monarch butterfly started flying off a flower and towards me. As the butterfly drew closer I did that thing that I guess everyone does where you assess whether or not to dodge something coming toward you or just stand there and let it go around. In my dream state I deduced that a butterfly weighs next to nothing so even if it hit me it wouldn't hurt me in anyway.
I continued on my collision course with the butterfly and as it got closer to my face I closed my eyes in anticipation of the small fluttering of its feather-like wings on my face. Instead it hit me with the force of a brick duct taped to the end of a sledgehammer. I awoke immediately and grabbed the bridge of my nose and detected the faint yet distinct smell of a Pampers overnight diaper and Johnson and Johnson's Baby Lotion. My daughter must've gotten in the bed at some point while I was asleep and proceeded to Hurricane Kick me in the face in the spirit of Ryu or Ken from Streetfighter.
Realizing that it was her, I did what any other parent does in that situation. I rolled over and went back to sleep.
[caption id="attachment_2139" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Talk about fighting for love"]
[/caption]
I continued on my collision course with the butterfly and as it got closer to my face I closed my eyes in anticipation of the small fluttering of its feather-like wings on my face. Instead it hit me with the force of a brick duct taped to the end of a sledgehammer. I awoke immediately and grabbed the bridge of my nose and detected the faint yet distinct smell of a Pampers overnight diaper and Johnson and Johnson's Baby Lotion. My daughter must've gotten in the bed at some point while I was asleep and proceeded to Hurricane Kick me in the face in the spirit of Ryu or Ken from Streetfighter.
Realizing that it was her, I did what any other parent does in that situation. I rolled over and went back to sleep.
[caption id="attachment_2139" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Talk about fighting for love"]
[/caption]
Thursday, April 19, 2012
He's Four
I wonder how old my daughter will be when she's five. I didn't turn five until I was about eight when all the restaurants upped their "kids eat free" meals to five. I'm trying to set small attainable goals as part of my "stop worrying about everything" campaign. It would be nice to be so well off financially that I'm willing to pay for my kid to eat out. See, small attainable goal. Considering how few places actually let kids eat free these days, I technically have already accomplished it. Like Chris Rock's dad on the show, I watched her waste $3.23 worth of breakfast last weekend at the Silver Diner.
I remember my mother asking me what I wanted for my eighth birthday. I told her that I wanted to go to Chesapeake Bay Seafood House and that I didn't want to have to pretend to be five. I got tired of eating those baby gulf shrimp that came on the "free" menu. I wanted grown up shrimp. Growing up I was so short and my voice was so high pitched that I was somehow frozen in time as a five year old. Now for those who have seen me in person, yestechnically I am still short BUT if the light hits me at a certain angle and the observer has a blood-alcohol level of at least .26 or sober and standing at least 7.5 feet away then an optical illusion is created whereby I appear to be six foot one...and that's good enough for me!
Anyway, back then I used to treat going out to eat like a Broadway performance. I knew my character's history: I was four and a half years old in Ms Dixon's Pre-K class at Maury Elementary. I enjoyed big wheeling, watching Transformers and more than anything I wanted to see the South of Sesame Street before I died. I even went to the trouble of dumbing down my vocabulary and diction to lend authenticity to the role. In reality however, the waitress didn't care. "He's four" always seemed to steal my spotlight and ruin hours of preparation.
Like in gymnastics, puberty can kill the careers of a lot of aspiring restaurant actors like myself. Around nine or ten I started growing a mustache and went from a baby-faced cherub to Hoggle from Labyrinth. It was a good run though.
[caption id="attachment_2133" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="What do you mean? Of course I'm five!"]
[/caption]
I remember my mother asking me what I wanted for my eighth birthday. I told her that I wanted to go to Chesapeake Bay Seafood House and that I didn't want to have to pretend to be five. I got tired of eating those baby gulf shrimp that came on the "free" menu. I wanted grown up shrimp. Growing up I was so short and my voice was so high pitched that I was somehow frozen in time as a five year old. Now for those who have seen me in person, yestechnically I am still short BUT if the light hits me at a certain angle and the observer has a blood-alcohol level of at least .26 or sober and standing at least 7.5 feet away then an optical illusion is created whereby I appear to be six foot one...and that's good enough for me!
Anyway, back then I used to treat going out to eat like a Broadway performance. I knew my character's history: I was four and a half years old in Ms Dixon's Pre-K class at Maury Elementary. I enjoyed big wheeling, watching Transformers and more than anything I wanted to see the South of Sesame Street before I died. I even went to the trouble of dumbing down my vocabulary and diction to lend authenticity to the role. In reality however, the waitress didn't care. "He's four" always seemed to steal my spotlight and ruin hours of preparation.
Like in gymnastics, puberty can kill the careers of a lot of aspiring restaurant actors like myself. Around nine or ten I started growing a mustache and went from a baby-faced cherub to Hoggle from Labyrinth. It was a good run though.
[caption id="attachment_2133" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="What do you mean? Of course I'm five!"]
[/caption]
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Wealth of the Indies
I was watching a movie called Heist with Gene Hackman and Delroy Lindo. Lindo's character said something along the lines of "You're asking for me to freely share the wealth of knowledge that comes from a lifetime of experience." I may be getting the quote wrong, but the overall gist of it sticks with me when I think about my role as a parent.
Ideally, parents are supposed to be venture capitalists in their kid's development. Our role is to freely give the wealth of knowledge that we acquired over a lifetime of experiences. No more clearly is this evident to me than when I think about my own relationship with my parents. My mother was fifteen and it wasn't until I was about twenty that I realized that that fact is the explanation for a lot of our bumping heads when I was growing up. There isn't so much you can teach when you're so close to the beginning of the learning phase yourself.
Being that young and having a kid at home precludes you from going out and gaining the same life experience that someone without children gets. I'm 29 and my daughter is 2. When my mother was 29, I was 14. I don't know what the hell I'd do with a 14 year old and she didn't either. So there's that perspective, the one that finds me constantly learning and experiencing things that my friends (whose parents were well over 30 when they were born) got back when they were still in elementary school. To put it plainly, I'm trying to learn and experience as much as I can now so that I can process it and share it with my daughter as she grows older.
That isn't to say that this venture capitalist is metaphorically broke. I think that my upbringing actually gave me a lot of resources to work with. I had to teach myself a lot of things and that self reliance made me one hell of a force to be reckoned with. I find myself analyzing the most mundane memories and experiences like a prospector with a wash pan in a stream looking for gold.
I'm data mining. I'm looking for anything that may prove useful to give my daughter the upper hand or at least a fighting chance in this rat race. I've stumbled a lot and I hope that I went through it so that she won't have to. Still there's that delicate balance between preparing and sheltering. Unlike me, I want her to know how to navigate college and how to network and build relationships. I don't want her to have to work two part time jobs and try to do school full time. But at the same time I don't want to raise an entitled, inexperienced brat who is overly reliant on us and lacks the self confidence that I got by doing damn near everything on my own.
It's a pickle.
Ideally, parents are supposed to be venture capitalists in their kid's development. Our role is to freely give the wealth of knowledge that we acquired over a lifetime of experiences. No more clearly is this evident to me than when I think about my own relationship with my parents. My mother was fifteen and it wasn't until I was about twenty that I realized that that fact is the explanation for a lot of our bumping heads when I was growing up. There isn't so much you can teach when you're so close to the beginning of the learning phase yourself.
Being that young and having a kid at home precludes you from going out and gaining the same life experience that someone without children gets. I'm 29 and my daughter is 2. When my mother was 29, I was 14. I don't know what the hell I'd do with a 14 year old and she didn't either. So there's that perspective, the one that finds me constantly learning and experiencing things that my friends (whose parents were well over 30 when they were born) got back when they were still in elementary school. To put it plainly, I'm trying to learn and experience as much as I can now so that I can process it and share it with my daughter as she grows older.
That isn't to say that this venture capitalist is metaphorically broke. I think that my upbringing actually gave me a lot of resources to work with. I had to teach myself a lot of things and that self reliance made me one hell of a force to be reckoned with. I find myself analyzing the most mundane memories and experiences like a prospector with a wash pan in a stream looking for gold.
I'm data mining. I'm looking for anything that may prove useful to give my daughter the upper hand or at least a fighting chance in this rat race. I've stumbled a lot and I hope that I went through it so that she won't have to. Still there's that delicate balance between preparing and sheltering. Unlike me, I want her to know how to navigate college and how to network and build relationships. I don't want her to have to work two part time jobs and try to do school full time. But at the same time I don't want to raise an entitled, inexperienced brat who is overly reliant on us and lacks the self confidence that I got by doing damn near everything on my own.
It's a pickle.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Baby's Gun
Whenever a parent fails to lynch their child in public or caves to their demands there is always that person who says something along the lines of, "You act like you're afraid of that child. You're the parent." That irks me because some of these people fail to realize that...well this is better explained with an analogy.
Kids are like guns. I'm not afraid of a gun, rather I fear the bullet that comes out of it. I'm not afraid of my daughter, I'm afraid of what comes out of her. There's an invisible force called stress that erupts from her on a daily basis disrupting the natural order of things. I was alive 28 years before she was born. That's a long time to get used to things and set in one's ways. I had this false notion that I'd always have some impact on the daily flow of events as they pertained to my life. Then came the baby.
Suddenly simple tasks like going to the mall became advanced level routines that required military grade preparation.Do I have enough food for the trip, did I pack a bottle, is there a snack in the stroller, do I have her toys, is there an extra set of clothes, can the stroller fit through that aisle, what's the backup plan in case the elevator takes too long, do we chance it on the escalator, is it almost her nap time, don't let her fall asleep in the car because she'll be up all night, how am I gonna carry all the stuff in the house along with her and so on.
My brain is like a computer and right now I have too many programs open at once. Over time you get used to thinking like this and things become second nature, but you first have to survive initiation. You're stressed out over all of this stuff and the child is still in a good mood. Imagine what happens when the child has a Jack-Jack moment and turns into a hell spawn in the middle of a crowded store.
You go through the motions of trying to remember your training. The authors of all of those parenting books are secretly off somewhere laughing their asses off as you try to remain calm and "subvert your child's tantrum." The kid wants the Elmo doll that costs too much and you try to hand em an Elmo Graham Cracker outta your bag. They don't tell you that subversion only pisses the kid off more. The five-point harnesses installed in most strollers was not designed with the child's safety in mind. It's to stop the kid from climbing out the stroller, breaking that graham cracker into a shiv and repeatedly stabbing your lifeless body with it.
Then to make things worse, the kid will ask for stuff that it doesn't want. For some reason their brains operate like time-lock safes. If you miss that window to give them a nap, they lose grasp on all cognitive functions of logic. They ask for a toy then cry when you hand it to them. The kid asks for water. I pull an ice cold bottle of water out of the little travel freeze bag. She takes a sip and throws it on the ground screaming in protest. I don't know if she's doing her Mister impression from The Color Purple (Ain't cold enough) or what, but she just doesn't know how close she is to being safe dropped at the police station.
Over time you not only get used to it, but you start to recognize the signs. There will be moments when you can avoid it. You see the nap time counter winding down and you get em to sleep just in the nick of time. Maybe you just say the hell with it and leave the mall early. Other times you have no choice. You're in a restaurant, you already ordered and the food just came out. The kid's eyes roll up in her head and you realize that Regan is gone. You're now "speaking to the person inside of Regan." The kid wants to play with your $700 iPhone so to have just one meal in peace you give it to em and pray they don't levitate away still strapped to the highchair. Someone somewhere will look at you and judge you. "They're scared of that child." No I'm not, I'm scared of what will happen if all these programs inside my head crash at one time under the weight of the stress.
Kids are like guns. I'm not afraid of a gun, rather I fear the bullet that comes out of it. I'm not afraid of my daughter, I'm afraid of what comes out of her. There's an invisible force called stress that erupts from her on a daily basis disrupting the natural order of things. I was alive 28 years before she was born. That's a long time to get used to things and set in one's ways. I had this false notion that I'd always have some impact on the daily flow of events as they pertained to my life. Then came the baby.
Suddenly simple tasks like going to the mall became advanced level routines that required military grade preparation.Do I have enough food for the trip, did I pack a bottle, is there a snack in the stroller, do I have her toys, is there an extra set of clothes, can the stroller fit through that aisle, what's the backup plan in case the elevator takes too long, do we chance it on the escalator, is it almost her nap time, don't let her fall asleep in the car because she'll be up all night, how am I gonna carry all the stuff in the house along with her and so on.
My brain is like a computer and right now I have too many programs open at once. Over time you get used to thinking like this and things become second nature, but you first have to survive initiation. You're stressed out over all of this stuff and the child is still in a good mood. Imagine what happens when the child has a Jack-Jack moment and turns into a hell spawn in the middle of a crowded store.
You go through the motions of trying to remember your training. The authors of all of those parenting books are secretly off somewhere laughing their asses off as you try to remain calm and "subvert your child's tantrum." The kid wants the Elmo doll that costs too much and you try to hand em an Elmo Graham Cracker outta your bag. They don't tell you that subversion only pisses the kid off more. The five-point harnesses installed in most strollers was not designed with the child's safety in mind. It's to stop the kid from climbing out the stroller, breaking that graham cracker into a shiv and repeatedly stabbing your lifeless body with it.
Then to make things worse, the kid will ask for stuff that it doesn't want. For some reason their brains operate like time-lock safes. If you miss that window to give them a nap, they lose grasp on all cognitive functions of logic. They ask for a toy then cry when you hand it to them. The kid asks for water. I pull an ice cold bottle of water out of the little travel freeze bag. She takes a sip and throws it on the ground screaming in protest. I don't know if she's doing her Mister impression from The Color Purple (Ain't cold enough) or what, but she just doesn't know how close she is to being safe dropped at the police station.
Over time you not only get used to it, but you start to recognize the signs. There will be moments when you can avoid it. You see the nap time counter winding down and you get em to sleep just in the nick of time. Maybe you just say the hell with it and leave the mall early. Other times you have no choice. You're in a restaurant, you already ordered and the food just came out. The kid's eyes roll up in her head and you realize that Regan is gone. You're now "speaking to the person inside of Regan." The kid wants to play with your $700 iPhone so to have just one meal in peace you give it to em and pray they don't levitate away still strapped to the highchair. Someone somewhere will look at you and judge you. "They're scared of that child." No I'm not, I'm scared of what will happen if all these programs inside my head crash at one time under the weight of the stress.
Matinee
No spoilers, I promise.
I went to see The Cabin In The Woods over the weekend and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Somehow I missed every trailer and article about the film so I had zero clue what it was about. I only looked it up because Parris and Jay on the Remember When podcast suggested it. My enjoyment is the synergy that resulted from two factors: It was a decent B-movie and (most importantly) I only paid $6 to see it.
I didn't even know they still did matinees in DC under ten bucks. Of course you have to go before noon to get that price and most theaters try to be slick and show the first film at 12:05. Since I can't have my way and return to the glory days when a movie ticket and a McDonald's Extra Value Meal cost the same price, I'm gonna try and overthrow the system by going completely left field with something.
What if all movies fell under a fee schedule? I mean think about it, there is no reason that I have to pay the same $16 bucks to see Mission Impossible 4 and Chronicle. One cost $145 million to make while the other had a scant $12 million budget. I wouldn't pay the same for a stuffed chicken breast from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse as I would a spicy chicken breast from Popeyes. I think the cost of the ticket should be proportional to the budget. The Cabin In The Woods cost $30 million so $6 seems about right.
Like I said, I enjoyed the movie. I got my six bucks worth and then some, so they should have a tip jar near the exit. I'd drop an extra two bucks in there. That could go to the gaffers, key grips, foley artists and all of the other random technicians who don't get any recognition until the bottom of the credits when everyone is walking out. Maybe ticket sales wouldn't be declining so badly if they had a realistic grip on demand side economics.
That will never happen, so until then I'll just wait for everything to go to Redbox. Every movie is good when it only costs $1.59.
I went to see The Cabin In The Woods over the weekend and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Somehow I missed every trailer and article about the film so I had zero clue what it was about. I only looked it up because Parris and Jay on the Remember When podcast suggested it. My enjoyment is the synergy that resulted from two factors: It was a decent B-movie and (most importantly) I only paid $6 to see it.
I didn't even know they still did matinees in DC under ten bucks. Of course you have to go before noon to get that price and most theaters try to be slick and show the first film at 12:05. Since I can't have my way and return to the glory days when a movie ticket and a McDonald's Extra Value Meal cost the same price, I'm gonna try and overthrow the system by going completely left field with something.
What if all movies fell under a fee schedule? I mean think about it, there is no reason that I have to pay the same $16 bucks to see Mission Impossible 4 and Chronicle. One cost $145 million to make while the other had a scant $12 million budget. I wouldn't pay the same for a stuffed chicken breast from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse as I would a spicy chicken breast from Popeyes. I think the cost of the ticket should be proportional to the budget. The Cabin In The Woods cost $30 million so $6 seems about right.
Like I said, I enjoyed the movie. I got my six bucks worth and then some, so they should have a tip jar near the exit. I'd drop an extra two bucks in there. That could go to the gaffers, key grips, foley artists and all of the other random technicians who don't get any recognition until the bottom of the credits when everyone is walking out. Maybe ticket sales wouldn't be declining so badly if they had a realistic grip on demand side economics.
That will never happen, so until then I'll just wait for everything to go to Redbox. Every movie is good when it only costs $1.59.
Monday, April 16, 2012
The Onyx Child
This random memory just popped in my head.
Back in high school I went on a ski trip to Killington, Vermont. I'm proud to say that I'm one of the Snowy Seventeen. That's the name I just made up for the me and the other sixteen Black people in America that can ski. So anyway, our bus stopped at Walmart one night on our way back to the lodge.
I was excited, I'd never been to a Walmart before. DC didn't have one yet so I wanted to see if the store lived up to the hype from all those whistling smiley face commercials. "Wow, they have a seven hundred ounce box of Froot Loops for three dollars. This place is amazing." I started making my way back to the front with my wheelbarrow of cereal when I had a horror movie moment. There before me at the end of the aisle was this little six year old White girl in a ballerina outfit.
I don't know where she came from, she kinda just appeared out of thin air like an apparition or something. She was standing completely still and staring at me, like the possessed kids in horror movies always do. There was no one else on the aisle, just me and her. I walked by her, said in my nice nonthreatening voice, "Hello" and kept it moving. She got really wide eyed and took off running to the next aisle. As I was walking I heard her yell, "Mommy, mommy! Guess what, a BLACK man spoke to me!"
The mother saw me walking by and said, "Be quiet Emily!" "No mommy, I saw one for real. He spoke to me. A BLACK MAN spoke to me! What language do they speak?" The mother looked totally embarrassed and even though I tried to look upset like a racism PSA, I was actually laughing inside. I thought it was funny. I couldn't blame that little girl. I was in Killington, Vermont. There weren't any other Black people there…or so I thought.
The next day we went to the movies after the slopes closed. A couple of us hit up the bathroom first and while I was washing my hands, I heard a toilet flush in one of the stalls and I looked up in the mirror just as the stall door was opening. You know how people freeze when they see a loose dog or a bear or something in the woods? This Black dude came out the stall and just froze when he saw us. He didn't say anything for a good five seconds. The next thing I know he just got excited as hell.
"Oh my God! Where are y'all from? Where y'all live at? My girl is not gonna believe this! I haven't seen any other Black people since I moved up here man! Y'all trying to hang out or something?" I got all of that in about ten seconds. He was so excited to see us you would've thought we'd rescued him off an island or something. His excitement was equally matched by his disappointment when we told him we were just visiting. He said he'd been there for six months and wished he'd seen us sooner as we could've all hung out. I've never seen someone that desperate before. It wasn't even creepy. I could tell he generally felt out of place.
Back in high school I went on a ski trip to Killington, Vermont. I'm proud to say that I'm one of the Snowy Seventeen. That's the name I just made up for the me and the other sixteen Black people in America that can ski. So anyway, our bus stopped at Walmart one night on our way back to the lodge.
I was excited, I'd never been to a Walmart before. DC didn't have one yet so I wanted to see if the store lived up to the hype from all those whistling smiley face commercials. "Wow, they have a seven hundred ounce box of Froot Loops for three dollars. This place is amazing." I started making my way back to the front with my wheelbarrow of cereal when I had a horror movie moment. There before me at the end of the aisle was this little six year old White girl in a ballerina outfit.
I don't know where she came from, she kinda just appeared out of thin air like an apparition or something. She was standing completely still and staring at me, like the possessed kids in horror movies always do. There was no one else on the aisle, just me and her. I walked by her, said in my nice nonthreatening voice, "Hello" and kept it moving. She got really wide eyed and took off running to the next aisle. As I was walking I heard her yell, "Mommy, mommy! Guess what, a BLACK man spoke to me!"
The mother saw me walking by and said, "Be quiet Emily!" "No mommy, I saw one for real. He spoke to me. A BLACK MAN spoke to me! What language do they speak?" The mother looked totally embarrassed and even though I tried to look upset like a racism PSA, I was actually laughing inside. I thought it was funny. I couldn't blame that little girl. I was in Killington, Vermont. There weren't any other Black people there…or so I thought.
The next day we went to the movies after the slopes closed. A couple of us hit up the bathroom first and while I was washing my hands, I heard a toilet flush in one of the stalls and I looked up in the mirror just as the stall door was opening. You know how people freeze when they see a loose dog or a bear or something in the woods? This Black dude came out the stall and just froze when he saw us. He didn't say anything for a good five seconds. The next thing I know he just got excited as hell.
"Oh my God! Where are y'all from? Where y'all live at? My girl is not gonna believe this! I haven't seen any other Black people since I moved up here man! Y'all trying to hang out or something?" I got all of that in about ten seconds. He was so excited to see us you would've thought we'd rescued him off an island or something. His excitement was equally matched by his disappointment when we told him we were just visiting. He said he'd been there for six months and wished he'd seen us sooner as we could've all hung out. I've never seen someone that desperate before. It wasn't even creepy. I could tell he generally felt out of place.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Tears of A Clown
Some things should just remain a memory in your head.
All week I've been forcing myself to go outside after my wife gets home to "take advantage of living in the city." When we lived in NC I used to complain that there was nothing to do so this week I dedicated my life to finding "man stuff" to do after she gets off. Yesterday the mentally challenged idea popped into my head that I should go back down memory lane and hit up the carnival over at Capital Plaza. What the hell was I thinking?
Even as a teenager I stayed away from DC carnivals at night unless I was just looking to play the Matrix. (You're telling me I can dodge bullets? No, when you're ready... you won't have to.) It was fifty degrees last night and, like roaches, I figured that was about ten degrees colder than most of these bad ass kids are willing to tolerate. I was right. The place was deserted. I felt bad for the carnival people though.
The saddest sight in the world is an empty carnival. It was like watching the tears of a clown with all those people sitting on their own rides and games staring at me like "play me!" I would've if that place didn't look so damned dirty. I didn't even trust the canned sodas. Then I felt old as hell because I couldn't bring myself to get on a ride. Tickets were a $1.25 a piece and the cheapest ride was the swings for four tickets. I'm not paying $5 to let a giant centrifuge fling me to my death. Those raggedy ass chains holding that thing up looked like a bike lock chain and the fact that it looked like it was made out Lego and Duplo blocks didn't help sway my opinion either.
There were two guys working on one of the ferris wheel gondolas with a crowbar. They saw me and said, "We're open buddy!" Umm, no the hell you aren't. I decided to leave after one time around but in order to get out I had to walk past all the games. That's the most desperate part of the carnival. They're like washed up hookers trying to solicit a john. "Look man, I'm thirty years old. I don't wanna play no damn duck game. Get away from me." For a brief (and I do mean brief) moment I considered winning something to take home to my daughter, but every prize looked like something you'd buy in a crack house garage sale. Nothing was completely inflated, everything was dirty and they had this balloon hammer that, because it wasn't inflated all the way, looked like a crack pipe.
I left and went to the Walmart a few feet away. 75 angry black people standing in five open lines while the "team leader" was telling two of them to shut down their registers and clock out...now that was an adventure.
[caption id="attachment_2116" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Promise me Simba, you must never go there."]
[/caption]
All week I've been forcing myself to go outside after my wife gets home to "take advantage of living in the city." When we lived in NC I used to complain that there was nothing to do so this week I dedicated my life to finding "man stuff" to do after she gets off. Yesterday the mentally challenged idea popped into my head that I should go back down memory lane and hit up the carnival over at Capital Plaza. What the hell was I thinking?
Even as a teenager I stayed away from DC carnivals at night unless I was just looking to play the Matrix. (You're telling me I can dodge bullets? No, when you're ready... you won't have to.) It was fifty degrees last night and, like roaches, I figured that was about ten degrees colder than most of these bad ass kids are willing to tolerate. I was right. The place was deserted. I felt bad for the carnival people though.
The saddest sight in the world is an empty carnival. It was like watching the tears of a clown with all those people sitting on their own rides and games staring at me like "play me!" I would've if that place didn't look so damned dirty. I didn't even trust the canned sodas. Then I felt old as hell because I couldn't bring myself to get on a ride. Tickets were a $1.25 a piece and the cheapest ride was the swings for four tickets. I'm not paying $5 to let a giant centrifuge fling me to my death. Those raggedy ass chains holding that thing up looked like a bike lock chain and the fact that it looked like it was made out Lego and Duplo blocks didn't help sway my opinion either.
There were two guys working on one of the ferris wheel gondolas with a crowbar. They saw me and said, "We're open buddy!" Umm, no the hell you aren't. I decided to leave after one time around but in order to get out I had to walk past all the games. That's the most desperate part of the carnival. They're like washed up hookers trying to solicit a john. "Look man, I'm thirty years old. I don't wanna play no damn duck game. Get away from me." For a brief (and I do mean brief) moment I considered winning something to take home to my daughter, but every prize looked like something you'd buy in a crack house garage sale. Nothing was completely inflated, everything was dirty and they had this balloon hammer that, because it wasn't inflated all the way, looked like a crack pipe.
I left and went to the Walmart a few feet away. 75 angry black people standing in five open lines while the "team leader" was telling two of them to shut down their registers and clock out...now that was an adventure.
[caption id="attachment_2116" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Promise me Simba, you must never go there."]
[/caption]
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Al Sharpton Is GI Joe
I don't think Al Sharpton gets a fair trial in the court of public opinion. I'll be the first to admit that my knee-jerk reaction whenever I saw him on television was to change the channel. I didn't know anything about the man and had never actually listened to him talk, at least not for more than thirty seconds. He just always seemed to be on TV talking about this or that is racist and I thought he was a glory hog. Now…Al Sharpton is GI Joe to me.
"Al Sharp-tonnnn! An Afro-American hero. Al Sharpton is there, fighting for freedom wherever there's struggle over land and sea and air. Al Sharp-ton is there!"
Seriously though, the first time I actually listened to what he had to say was at Michael Jackson's funeral. He said something along the lines of, "Your daddy wasn't crazy. It was crazy what your daddy had to put up with." He said it so matter-of-factly and had the same "no bullshit" look that an uncle or grandparent who's been around the block has when they speak. He was telling the truth and I took notice.
Then I saw him on HBO's The Black List. He admitted that he knew he didn't have a chance in hell of winning the presidential election, "Even if every other candidate died, I knew they'd find a way to make someone else president." He said he ran just to include us in the debate. By being a candidate they had to respond to the issues he raised. I can't fault him for that.
After that, Reverend Al was A-okay in my book. So yesterday when he spoke after the charges against George Zimmerman were announced, I turned up the television to hear what he had to say. He didn't disappoint. "I don't want anybody high-fiving today. These people lost their son. He's not coming back. This isn't a time for gloating or celebrating. We didn't win anything today." He also reminded people that the original statement from the Sanford chief of police was that no charges would be filed.
So I repeat my original statement, Al Sharpton is GI Joe. He goes wherever he thinks he's needed and he brings the fight to injustice. Say what you will about him, but you have to admit that his celebrity brings at least one camera or one news network to wherever it is he chooses to go. This time around it was Trayvon Martin. I think Martin's family was right to thank Rev Al for coming in and turning it from a local issue to a national one. A few years ago it was Jena Six.
I'm not saying he's a saint. If it comes out in the future that he killed the Easter Bunny or something, don't come back pointing the finger at me. I'm just saying that for all the negative things I hear that attempt to belittle him as just a spectacle, I think there should be more positive things said about him. From what I can see, he's given more than he's taken from the world and it never seems to be done in a selfish or self-serving way. If he were to die today, I can't say there's anybody waiting in the wings to step up and take his place. That worries me.
"Al Sharp-tonnnn! An Afro-American hero. Al Sharpton is there, fighting for freedom wherever there's struggle over land and sea and air. Al Sharp-ton is there!"
Seriously though, the first time I actually listened to what he had to say was at Michael Jackson's funeral. He said something along the lines of, "Your daddy wasn't crazy. It was crazy what your daddy had to put up with." He said it so matter-of-factly and had the same "no bullshit" look that an uncle or grandparent who's been around the block has when they speak. He was telling the truth and I took notice.
Then I saw him on HBO's The Black List. He admitted that he knew he didn't have a chance in hell of winning the presidential election, "Even if every other candidate died, I knew they'd find a way to make someone else president." He said he ran just to include us in the debate. By being a candidate they had to respond to the issues he raised. I can't fault him for that.
After that, Reverend Al was A-okay in my book. So yesterday when he spoke after the charges against George Zimmerman were announced, I turned up the television to hear what he had to say. He didn't disappoint. "I don't want anybody high-fiving today. These people lost their son. He's not coming back. This isn't a time for gloating or celebrating. We didn't win anything today." He also reminded people that the original statement from the Sanford chief of police was that no charges would be filed.
So I repeat my original statement, Al Sharpton is GI Joe. He goes wherever he thinks he's needed and he brings the fight to injustice. Say what you will about him, but you have to admit that his celebrity brings at least one camera or one news network to wherever it is he chooses to go. This time around it was Trayvon Martin. I think Martin's family was right to thank Rev Al for coming in and turning it from a local issue to a national one. A few years ago it was Jena Six.
I'm not saying he's a saint. If it comes out in the future that he killed the Easter Bunny or something, don't come back pointing the finger at me. I'm just saying that for all the negative things I hear that attempt to belittle him as just a spectacle, I think there should be more positive things said about him. From what I can see, he's given more than he's taken from the world and it never seems to be done in a selfish or self-serving way. If he were to die today, I can't say there's anybody waiting in the wings to step up and take his place. That worries me.
844
Okay, so I didn't win that Mega Millions jackpot. I was holding out hope that maybe I was suffering from a case of temporary amnesia and had forgotten that I went to Baltimore or Kansas and bought the winning ticket. It's cool though. It's not like I haven't won the lottery before.
I started playing the lottery when I was about five. My grandmother used to go around the corner to the liquor store everyday to play the Pick 3. I knew what "box 50 cent, 50/50 one dollar and straight 50 cent" meant by the time I was five years old. So one day I was in the store and told her to play a number. She didn't listen, even though I told her that it was going to win. A few days later we were back in the store and a man walked up to her and told her that he overheard me talking to her a few days ago and he put a dollar on my number both straight and boxed. He won a good amount of money. He gave me five dollars for being good luck…then he asked me to give him another number to play.
After that, I was the Black Buddha of the family giving out lottery numbers. One day I told my grandmother to play 844. She played it and we waited until the numbers were drawn that night. Sure as hell, 844. She won $80 and we split it. My mother still owes me that $40 because she borrowed it to put towards her car note. That was 1990, so the interest on that is about $7,000 (I don't have my calculator handy. That's strictly off the top of my head) So if you're reading this mother, I accept cash or pre-paid Visa.
Anyway, I retired from Lotterizing (Lottery+Prophesying) after that. Then I dusted off the old crystal ball in '93. My school was going on a ski trip and my mother said she didn't have the $50 for me to go. On the night before the last day to pay, I asked to borrow a dollar and asked her to buy me a lottery ticket. I played good old 844 and two hours later I sat in front of the TV and watched them pull 4-4-8. I yelled, "I won $80, I won $80! I can go on my trip." My mother responded, "You won $40. You borrowed a dollar from me remember. We split it. I'll loan you the other ten so you can go on your trip."
Accounting skills, like gambling, run deep in my family. I conceded her demands for half my winnings since I knew I couldn't claim the money anyway because I was only ten and once again I retired from lotterizing…that is unless I sleepwalked to Kansas or Baltimore and bought a Mega Millions ticket two weeks ago.
I started playing the lottery when I was about five. My grandmother used to go around the corner to the liquor store everyday to play the Pick 3. I knew what "box 50 cent, 50/50 one dollar and straight 50 cent" meant by the time I was five years old. So one day I was in the store and told her to play a number. She didn't listen, even though I told her that it was going to win. A few days later we were back in the store and a man walked up to her and told her that he overheard me talking to her a few days ago and he put a dollar on my number both straight and boxed. He won a good amount of money. He gave me five dollars for being good luck…then he asked me to give him another number to play.
After that, I was the Black Buddha of the family giving out lottery numbers. One day I told my grandmother to play 844. She played it and we waited until the numbers were drawn that night. Sure as hell, 844. She won $80 and we split it. My mother still owes me that $40 because she borrowed it to put towards her car note. That was 1990, so the interest on that is about $7,000 (I don't have my calculator handy. That's strictly off the top of my head) So if you're reading this mother, I accept cash or pre-paid Visa.
Anyway, I retired from Lotterizing (Lottery+Prophesying) after that. Then I dusted off the old crystal ball in '93. My school was going on a ski trip and my mother said she didn't have the $50 for me to go. On the night before the last day to pay, I asked to borrow a dollar and asked her to buy me a lottery ticket. I played good old 844 and two hours later I sat in front of the TV and watched them pull 4-4-8. I yelled, "I won $80, I won $80! I can go on my trip." My mother responded, "You won $40. You borrowed a dollar from me remember. We split it. I'll loan you the other ten so you can go on your trip."
Accounting skills, like gambling, run deep in my family. I conceded her demands for half my winnings since I knew I couldn't claim the money anyway because I was only ten and once again I retired from lotterizing…that is unless I sleepwalked to Kansas or Baltimore and bought a Mega Millions ticket two weeks ago.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
This Message Will Self Destruct
By the time someone reads this it'll be the morning. The sun will have risen and reset the day. Despite this fact, I'm writing this anyway. It's currently 10:18PM. My child is bouncing around with her hair out in a fro. Normal kids would be asleep right now but this model comes with a backup generator. She could possibly go another two or three hours.
All I want to do is play some NBA 2K12, eat some Cheez Its and have a Coke and a smile. I don't wanna look at Super Why. The mechanism inside of me that pretends to be entertained by the Let's Rock Elmo doll is broken. I'm this close to taking out the batteries and telling her that Elmo has been put on the heart transplant list and one (or six) AA hearts should become available tomorrow.
After 10 is mommy and daddy time or at the very least daddy and Xbox/PS3/DVR/Netflix time. I blame my wife. My daughter was on her way to sleep. The eyes were closing. I saw the lids about to touch and then my wife messed it up. She smiled or maybe she had a happy thought. I don't know what exactly, but she did something that my daughter's telepathy picked up on that translated into "they're gonna have fun without me" and my daughter woke back up. I know the drill. She goes to sleep, I removed all glimpses of hope from my face. I pretend to be having a bad day. I pretend that I'm sleepy too. Then, when she's actually in her bed asleep, I army crawl back into the living room. I mute the TV, turn on the closed captions and "read" some TV. Reading is fundamental, you know.
It's moments like these that I'm tempted to start a child support task force. I want to be like Tom Cruise and the rest of the Mission Impossible team. Imma go hunt down all of these deadbeat, no good fathers who miss out on moments like these. I'm gonna drag them back to their respective families and they're gonna put in the time. If you won't do it because it's the right thing for your child then you're gonna do it because I have to do it and I'm way more important than you.
The Department of Social Services can disavow all knowledge of our existence in the unlikely even that we fail, but c'mon, I'm motivated by the shame that I know way too many episodes of Sesame Street by heart. I want justice.
[caption id="attachment_1537" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Even if I have to scale a 200 story glass crack house, I WILL find you."]
[/caption]
All I want to do is play some NBA 2K12, eat some Cheez Its and have a Coke and a smile. I don't wanna look at Super Why. The mechanism inside of me that pretends to be entertained by the Let's Rock Elmo doll is broken. I'm this close to taking out the batteries and telling her that Elmo has been put on the heart transplant list and one (or six) AA hearts should become available tomorrow.
After 10 is mommy and daddy time or at the very least daddy and Xbox/PS3/DVR/Netflix time. I blame my wife. My daughter was on her way to sleep. The eyes were closing. I saw the lids about to touch and then my wife messed it up. She smiled or maybe she had a happy thought. I don't know what exactly, but she did something that my daughter's telepathy picked up on that translated into "they're gonna have fun without me" and my daughter woke back up. I know the drill. She goes to sleep, I removed all glimpses of hope from my face. I pretend to be having a bad day. I pretend that I'm sleepy too. Then, when she's actually in her bed asleep, I army crawl back into the living room. I mute the TV, turn on the closed captions and "read" some TV. Reading is fundamental, you know.
It's moments like these that I'm tempted to start a child support task force. I want to be like Tom Cruise and the rest of the Mission Impossible team. Imma go hunt down all of these deadbeat, no good fathers who miss out on moments like these. I'm gonna drag them back to their respective families and they're gonna put in the time. If you won't do it because it's the right thing for your child then you're gonna do it because I have to do it and I'm way more important than you.
The Department of Social Services can disavow all knowledge of our existence in the unlikely even that we fail, but c'mon, I'm motivated by the shame that I know way too many episodes of Sesame Street by heart. I want justice.
[caption id="attachment_1537" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Even if I have to scale a 200 story glass crack house, I WILL find you."]
[/caption]
Friday, April 6, 2012
Encyclopedia Brown
According to CNN, Encyclopedia Britannica has printed it's final edition. I'm kinda shocked because I thought they stopped printing those years ago, or at best they were only making them for libraries and universities. For some reason, knowing that there are only a thousand left makes me want to buy one. I'm not going to, but that's how I feel.
When I was little I used to be stuck in the house alone ALL THE TIME. My grandmother would go to work at night and leave me at home with my grandfather who was basically the old guy from Soul Food who never left his room. It's no wonder I'm so boring to my friends nowadays. When I was seven I used to sit in the living room alone at night listening to WTOP (news/talk radio) for hours on end while reading newspapers from cover to cover.
One day I found one book from an old encyclopedia set in the basement. With nothing else to do, I started reading it. Soon I could tell you a little about damned near everything starting with the letter L: Labyrinths, larks, leeks, levers. I read it like it was a novel and when I finished I went searching for the rest. I found them and I engrossed myself in those too. I learned things that solidified my position as a nerd for the rest of my life: ornithology, state flag origins, cartography.
It wasn't all valuable knowledge though. The books were from the 1950s and 60s so a good deal of it was outdated, like the parts referring to computers as huge rooms of machinery. Black people apparently hadn't been invented yet and everything just seemed too happy back then. Still, those books hold a special place in my heart. I learned a lot and they kept me entertained.
I wonder what my life would've been like if I'd had wikipedia and the internet back then. I either would've learned way more or devoted myself to playing Xbox live. (probably the latter)
When I was little I used to be stuck in the house alone ALL THE TIME. My grandmother would go to work at night and leave me at home with my grandfather who was basically the old guy from Soul Food who never left his room. It's no wonder I'm so boring to my friends nowadays. When I was seven I used to sit in the living room alone at night listening to WTOP (news/talk radio) for hours on end while reading newspapers from cover to cover.
One day I found one book from an old encyclopedia set in the basement. With nothing else to do, I started reading it. Soon I could tell you a little about damned near everything starting with the letter L: Labyrinths, larks, leeks, levers. I read it like it was a novel and when I finished I went searching for the rest. I found them and I engrossed myself in those too. I learned things that solidified my position as a nerd for the rest of my life: ornithology, state flag origins, cartography.
It wasn't all valuable knowledge though. The books were from the 1950s and 60s so a good deal of it was outdated, like the parts referring to computers as huge rooms of machinery. Black people apparently hadn't been invented yet and everything just seemed too happy back then. Still, those books hold a special place in my heart. I learned a lot and they kept me entertained.
I wonder what my life would've been like if I'd had wikipedia and the internet back then. I either would've learned way more or devoted myself to playing Xbox live. (probably the latter)
Mary J Blige and the Chicken of Fire
Crispy chicken, fresh lettuce, three cheeses, ranch dressing wrapped up in a tastyyyy flouuuur tortilla!
I know I'm late, but I just saw the Mary J Blige chicken commercial. All I have to say is HAAAAAAAAAAA!
I must have arthritis in my black power fist or something, because I don't find this video particularly offensive. If Mary wants to sing about chicken, please let her. I have no verification of this but...if they want to pay her two million dollars to sing about chicken, she better! For two million dollars I'd get up there and sing about crack:
It's white and bro-ken
put it in a pipe
and smoke it
Seriously though, I think we need to stop being so self conscious about every little thing. Yes, there is a negative stereotype linking Black people to fried chicken but, guess what, some Black people do eat fried chicken. Don't believe me, go to Popeyes and do some research.
What kind of throws me off is her reaction to it. She says she didn't sign off on it as if they digitally inserted her likeness into the commercial. Mary, you've been out for over twenty years now. We know what you look and sound like. If she really had a problem with the commercial then I imagine that would've come up when she saw the lyrics to the song. Performing the song in front of a camera pretty much strips you of the ability to save face after people complain about it. Take it on the chin, cash your check and keep it moving.
BB King sang "love that chicken from Popeyes." I dare someone to say something to him.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Parallel Worlds
Here's a breakdown of today's events...in two different universes.
Universe 1
I'm 29, I have NO children. It's gonna be a nice day today. I wanna enjoy it but I have things to do. I need to go grocery shopping, hit up Target and do laundry.
At 10 AM I drag the clothes to the laundry room, put them in the washer and set the timer on my phone for 32 minutes. I then run to the car, drive down the street to the grocery store, do my shopping, come home and put everything up just as the timer is going off for me to go switch the clothes over.
At 10:32 AM I've just started the clothes in the dryer, I set the timer on my phone for one hour and I run to the car, drive to Target, shop, come home and put everything up just as the timer for the dryer is going off.
At 11:35 AM I'm done with all my errands and I have the rest of the day to myself.
Universe 2
I'm 29. I have one child, not an army of children, not 17 and counting, it's not Ordale and the wife plus 8. It's just one friggin child. It's a nice day, I wanna enjoy it, but I have things to do. I need to go grocery shopping, hit up Target and do laundry.
At 10 AM I drag the clothes to the laundry room. The child takes off running the other direction down the hall. I put the clothes in the washer, the child starts taking them out. I put the clothes back in the washer, the child tries to escape the laundry room. This repeats for a while.
I set the timer on my phone for 30 minutes and get ready to go to the grocery store. The child starts making the "I have to use the bathroom face." I take her to the pot and she says she doesn't have to go. I begin a CIA style interrogation. "We know you really have to go. We have ways of making you go." The child breaks down and eventually goes. I then get the child dressed...again. I now have ten minutes left on my timer which isn't nearly enough time to go to the store and back. So we wait.
At 10:45 the clothes are ready to be switched over. The child plays hide and seek rather than following orders to leave the apartment. We eventually switch the clothes over. The child again plays the game of taking the clothes out of the dryer as I put them in. This goes on for a while.
11AM, we get ready to head out to the grocery store. One hour is on the timer. I can't find the child's shoe. "Where is your shoe? We have ways of making you talk." The child becomes a special forces agent and is unfazed by interrogation. At 11:15 we find the shoe, but now the sock is missing from her foot. I get a new pair. The child is now dressed fully at 11:19. We're ready to go. The child says, "Ap-ple?" I scoff. "You are not hungry. I just fed you!" The child rebuts, "Ap-ple?" I give the child an apple and we leave. A minor scuffle ensues during the "get in the car seat" moment. We make it to the grocery store, shop, the child is angered over me not buying "Dora the Explorer" related products (fruit roll ups, cereal, other things no way related to the show).
Trying to bring the bags in the house and keep the child from running away proves to be a challenge. We get back, it's now 11:56. Four minutes left on the timer. We get the clothes and now it's time to go to Target. "Chick-en? me Chick-en? Ap-ple? Chick-en? Me?" The child is hungry again. After feeding her, cleaning her up changing her clothes and fighting her to leave the house it is now 1:14 PM. We hit traffic on the way to Target and I turn around and go back home.
It is now 1:45, I'm tired. I don't feel like doing anything. It doesn't matter that it's a beautiful day. I have no intentions of going outside ever again with this child.
And that ladies and gentlemen is a day in the life of me.
Universe 1
I'm 29, I have NO children. It's gonna be a nice day today. I wanna enjoy it but I have things to do. I need to go grocery shopping, hit up Target and do laundry.
At 10 AM I drag the clothes to the laundry room, put them in the washer and set the timer on my phone for 32 minutes. I then run to the car, drive down the street to the grocery store, do my shopping, come home and put everything up just as the timer is going off for me to go switch the clothes over.
At 10:32 AM I've just started the clothes in the dryer, I set the timer on my phone for one hour and I run to the car, drive to Target, shop, come home and put everything up just as the timer for the dryer is going off.
At 11:35 AM I'm done with all my errands and I have the rest of the day to myself.
Universe 2
I'm 29. I have one child, not an army of children, not 17 and counting, it's not Ordale and the wife plus 8. It's just one friggin child. It's a nice day, I wanna enjoy it, but I have things to do. I need to go grocery shopping, hit up Target and do laundry.
At 10 AM I drag the clothes to the laundry room. The child takes off running the other direction down the hall. I put the clothes in the washer, the child starts taking them out. I put the clothes back in the washer, the child tries to escape the laundry room. This repeats for a while.
I set the timer on my phone for 30 minutes and get ready to go to the grocery store. The child starts making the "I have to use the bathroom face." I take her to the pot and she says she doesn't have to go. I begin a CIA style interrogation. "We know you really have to go. We have ways of making you go." The child breaks down and eventually goes. I then get the child dressed...again. I now have ten minutes left on my timer which isn't nearly enough time to go to the store and back. So we wait.
At 10:45 the clothes are ready to be switched over. The child plays hide and seek rather than following orders to leave the apartment. We eventually switch the clothes over. The child again plays the game of taking the clothes out of the dryer as I put them in. This goes on for a while.
11AM, we get ready to head out to the grocery store. One hour is on the timer. I can't find the child's shoe. "Where is your shoe? We have ways of making you talk." The child becomes a special forces agent and is unfazed by interrogation. At 11:15 we find the shoe, but now the sock is missing from her foot. I get a new pair. The child is now dressed fully at 11:19. We're ready to go. The child says, "Ap-ple?" I scoff. "You are not hungry. I just fed you!" The child rebuts, "Ap-ple?" I give the child an apple and we leave. A minor scuffle ensues during the "get in the car seat" moment. We make it to the grocery store, shop, the child is angered over me not buying "Dora the Explorer" related products (fruit roll ups, cereal, other things no way related to the show).
Trying to bring the bags in the house and keep the child from running away proves to be a challenge. We get back, it's now 11:56. Four minutes left on the timer. We get the clothes and now it's time to go to Target. "Chick-en? me Chick-en? Ap-ple? Chick-en? Me?" The child is hungry again. After feeding her, cleaning her up changing her clothes and fighting her to leave the house it is now 1:14 PM. We hit traffic on the way to Target and I turn around and go back home.
It is now 1:45, I'm tired. I don't feel like doing anything. It doesn't matter that it's a beautiful day. I have no intentions of going outside ever again with this child.
And that ladies and gentlemen is a day in the life of me.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
King Marion Barry
DC held elections yesterday and Marion Barry was elected to his third term on the city council. I think by now it's obvious that Southeast is Marion Barry's kingdom and the Big Chair is his throne. I live five wards over so his win has very little affect on me. Still, I rooted for him just a little even though it conflicts with all I've become.
A lot of people are baffled at his political invincibility. Why the hell do they keep electing a (former?) crackhead? I think that it all boils down to electing someone whom you feel represents you. I think you would have to grow up poor and Black in this city to really understand where some of these people are coming from…even if you still wouldn't agree.
Long before he became Mayor, Marion Barry was the people's champion. DC didn't have autonomy and a lot of Black people were just relegated to menial tasks. Some felt like an afterthought in Congress' mind. Enter: Marion Barry--a trash talking guy in a dashiki who left the field of organic chemistry to march with Dr. King in the civil rights movement. His ferocity, sincerity and volition endeared him to the city's downtrodden and disenfranchised Black denizens.
He started an organization called Pride Inc that gave a lot of people jobs and he led marches around town. He became something of a folk hero. Then he became mayor. The first thing he did was start appointing a lot of Black people to high ranking positions. The city government and the police department slowly started shifting to a more African American presence. It was something of a psychological motivator to see people who look like you running your city. "I can do that!" Now I'm not gonna lie and say they all did good jobs, but it did help change people's perception of what avenues were open to them. Then he started screwing up with women, inappropriate behavior and drugs. Then DC became a cesspool of drugs and violence. Then he got caught smoking crack. I have no doubt that his being on drugs is part of the reason things got so bad here, but still people vote for him. Why?
I think that it has a lot to do with economic race relations in this city. Unlike places like NY and Philly where you see poor people of all races huddled together in the hood, DC never really seemed to have a poor White population. The racial lines ran parallel to the income lines and that has always been a source of tension. When I was a kid, everything was relegated to Black/White. We couldn't afford to go eat in Georgetown or anywhere near the zoo or even downtown. We couldn't afford to go to the movie theaters west of Rock Creek Park. Quite frankly, we just stayed away from that side of town altogether. Those places were "for White people."
There were a lot of people who felt that side of town to be closed off to them. It was an economic issue, but on the surface it looked like a racial one and people took it that way. As soon as Marion Barry left office and Tony Williams took over, the economic development in this city took off. New businesses came to town, they constructed a baseball stadium and M St SW started looking less like a giant project complex and more like a place you could feel safe at night. The reoccurring phrase from everyone I grew up with: "They fixing that shit up for White people."
The city couldn't stay poor forever. No one in their right mind enjoyed being the murder capital, but at the same time there was legitimate concern that now that the city was starting to get better, we (lower income Blacks) were getting pushed out. Low income housing projects were razed fairly quickly. I was in college when it happened, but it seemed like in between every Spring, Summer and Fall break I'd come home to see another childhood hotspot torn down. My new adult/mature/accounting-major mind understood that it needed to happen.
It wasn't a good thing that my neighborhood convenience store was really a liquor store where the crackheads used to beg me for money and shoot up in the alley. But despite my intelligence, nostalgia tugs on your heart strings just a bit when you see your childhood home where most of these "mentalstorage" stories took place completely demolished with nothing remotely familiar standing nearby. The store I used to go to for 25 cent candy and 50 cent freeze pops is now a three unit condominium and the new tenants (all White) look at me with trepidation whenever I walk by.
With gentrification comes a raise in property value which in turn raises property taxes and economic development typically means someone is getting displaced. With so much of the city headed that direction, Southeast DC seems like the last frontier. With talk of a waterfront, trolley cars and ferries going from Southeast to Alexandria and the National's Stadium, it just doesn't sound like low income African Americans are the target demographic for such changes. When you consider all of the new developments sprouting up in Southeast, particularly on those really hilly parts where you have clear views of the river, the air force base and the Monument, it's hard to imagine those properties remaining "affordable living dwellings" for very long.
So I think that's where Marion Barry comes in. There's an implicit feeling that even though he can't stop change from rolling on through, he'll remain a resounding voice for those who aren't too keen on it. He lives there, he walks like 'em, talks like 'em and despite his demons, he's the devil they know.
[caption id="attachment_2077" align="alignnone" width="604"]
"Niggas watchin the throne, very happy to be you. Power to the people! When you see me, see you! And I'm from the murder capital..."[/caption]
A lot of people are baffled at his political invincibility. Why the hell do they keep electing a (former?) crackhead? I think that it all boils down to electing someone whom you feel represents you. I think you would have to grow up poor and Black in this city to really understand where some of these people are coming from…even if you still wouldn't agree.
Long before he became Mayor, Marion Barry was the people's champion. DC didn't have autonomy and a lot of Black people were just relegated to menial tasks. Some felt like an afterthought in Congress' mind. Enter: Marion Barry--a trash talking guy in a dashiki who left the field of organic chemistry to march with Dr. King in the civil rights movement. His ferocity, sincerity and volition endeared him to the city's downtrodden and disenfranchised Black denizens.
He started an organization called Pride Inc that gave a lot of people jobs and he led marches around town. He became something of a folk hero. Then he became mayor. The first thing he did was start appointing a lot of Black people to high ranking positions. The city government and the police department slowly started shifting to a more African American presence. It was something of a psychological motivator to see people who look like you running your city. "I can do that!" Now I'm not gonna lie and say they all did good jobs, but it did help change people's perception of what avenues were open to them. Then he started screwing up with women, inappropriate behavior and drugs. Then DC became a cesspool of drugs and violence. Then he got caught smoking crack. I have no doubt that his being on drugs is part of the reason things got so bad here, but still people vote for him. Why?
I think that it has a lot to do with economic race relations in this city. Unlike places like NY and Philly where you see poor people of all races huddled together in the hood, DC never really seemed to have a poor White population. The racial lines ran parallel to the income lines and that has always been a source of tension. When I was a kid, everything was relegated to Black/White. We couldn't afford to go eat in Georgetown or anywhere near the zoo or even downtown. We couldn't afford to go to the movie theaters west of Rock Creek Park. Quite frankly, we just stayed away from that side of town altogether. Those places were "for White people."
There were a lot of people who felt that side of town to be closed off to them. It was an economic issue, but on the surface it looked like a racial one and people took it that way. As soon as Marion Barry left office and Tony Williams took over, the economic development in this city took off. New businesses came to town, they constructed a baseball stadium and M St SW started looking less like a giant project complex and more like a place you could feel safe at night. The reoccurring phrase from everyone I grew up with: "They fixing that shit up for White people."
The city couldn't stay poor forever. No one in their right mind enjoyed being the murder capital, but at the same time there was legitimate concern that now that the city was starting to get better, we (lower income Blacks) were getting pushed out. Low income housing projects were razed fairly quickly. I was in college when it happened, but it seemed like in between every Spring, Summer and Fall break I'd come home to see another childhood hotspot torn down. My new adult/mature/accounting-major mind understood that it needed to happen.
It wasn't a good thing that my neighborhood convenience store was really a liquor store where the crackheads used to beg me for money and shoot up in the alley. But despite my intelligence, nostalgia tugs on your heart strings just a bit when you see your childhood home where most of these "mentalstorage" stories took place completely demolished with nothing remotely familiar standing nearby. The store I used to go to for 25 cent candy and 50 cent freeze pops is now a three unit condominium and the new tenants (all White) look at me with trepidation whenever I walk by.
With gentrification comes a raise in property value which in turn raises property taxes and economic development typically means someone is getting displaced. With so much of the city headed that direction, Southeast DC seems like the last frontier. With talk of a waterfront, trolley cars and ferries going from Southeast to Alexandria and the National's Stadium, it just doesn't sound like low income African Americans are the target demographic for such changes. When you consider all of the new developments sprouting up in Southeast, particularly on those really hilly parts where you have clear views of the river, the air force base and the Monument, it's hard to imagine those properties remaining "affordable living dwellings" for very long.
So I think that's where Marion Barry comes in. There's an implicit feeling that even though he can't stop change from rolling on through, he'll remain a resounding voice for those who aren't too keen on it. He lives there, he walks like 'em, talks like 'em and despite his demons, he's the devil they know.
[caption id="attachment_2077" align="alignnone" width="604"]
"Niggas watchin the throne, very happy to be you. Power to the people! When you see me, see you! And I'm from the murder capital..."[/caption]
An Occurrence At Owl Creek Porch
As I get closer to my 30th birthday I find myself reflecting a lot (hence all of these memory lane posts) and more than anything I just feel thankful for making it this far. Lord knows I've tried my best to take myself out. Let's see there was:
Nearly Drowning
Setting Fires
Electrocution
Falling out of carnival rides
And so many more. Still, nothing says "I want to live" like surviving a good old fashioned hanging.
I was an only child til I was about nine so I had a lot of alone time. When you add that to my vivid imagination, "too smart for my own good" ideas and just a tad bit of child neglect it's only a matter of time before you end up with a self-lynching. When I was about six years old I had this really long rope/clothesline that I used for all of my brilliant inventions. I made this really random rube goldberg machine that was our "security system" where, after opening the front door, an umbrella would swing down and hit you in the head. It was as lame as it sounds, but six year old me liked it.
Anyway...One particular day I tried to play superhero. I started off as Batman and tried to "scale" the tree in front of the house. DC trees, especially the ones owned by the city on the sidewalk are usually pruned so that they grow really high. I made a grappling hook by tying the rope to a small gardening shovel and tossing it up into the tree. I made it about two feet off the ground before the branch snapped.
"Batman sucks anyway." I moved on to being Superman. My grandmother lives in a row house and the front porch sits about fifteen feet off the ground, like a deck almost. I tied one end of the rope to the railing and the other end of the rope around my chest and under my armpits. Then I jumped off. The first thing I noticed was the intense pain as the rope tightened and started cutting into my chest and armpits. I'm no boy scout, but I'm guessing I tied a slip knot. The second thing I realized was that I didn't have a plan to get down.
I was dangling off the ground and the rope was really starting to cut off circulation, so I kind of kicked back and forth until I could reach this little ledge underneath the porch. I made it, pulled one arm out of the rope and then, just as I was pulling the other arm out, I slipped. The rope tightened around my neck and then I had a brand new problem: asphyxiation. Not being able to breathe surprisingly ranked lower than the pain of the thing tightening around my neck and all the blood rushing to my eyes.
If you thought I was kicking before, you should've seen me then. "Live Dammit Live!" I was too low to reach the ledge now and ironically my pointed toes were less than an inch off the ground. I was just high enough to not touch the ground. In my head this went on for about half a day, but obviously I can't be trusted to give you the real approximation. I just know that right before things went dark, I kicked my way to a pile of junk near the basement door and stood up on it enough to breathe and pull the rope from around my neck.
Five minutes later, the rope was in the trash and I went in the house and played Atari like a normal child.
Nearly Drowning
Setting Fires
Electrocution
Falling out of carnival rides
And so many more. Still, nothing says "I want to live" like surviving a good old fashioned hanging.
I was an only child til I was about nine so I had a lot of alone time. When you add that to my vivid imagination, "too smart for my own good" ideas and just a tad bit of child neglect it's only a matter of time before you end up with a self-lynching. When I was about six years old I had this really long rope/clothesline that I used for all of my brilliant inventions. I made this really random rube goldberg machine that was our "security system" where, after opening the front door, an umbrella would swing down and hit you in the head. It was as lame as it sounds, but six year old me liked it.
Anyway...One particular day I tried to play superhero. I started off as Batman and tried to "scale" the tree in front of the house. DC trees, especially the ones owned by the city on the sidewalk are usually pruned so that they grow really high. I made a grappling hook by tying the rope to a small gardening shovel and tossing it up into the tree. I made it about two feet off the ground before the branch snapped.
"Batman sucks anyway." I moved on to being Superman. My grandmother lives in a row house and the front porch sits about fifteen feet off the ground, like a deck almost. I tied one end of the rope to the railing and the other end of the rope around my chest and under my armpits. Then I jumped off. The first thing I noticed was the intense pain as the rope tightened and started cutting into my chest and armpits. I'm no boy scout, but I'm guessing I tied a slip knot. The second thing I realized was that I didn't have a plan to get down.
I was dangling off the ground and the rope was really starting to cut off circulation, so I kind of kicked back and forth until I could reach this little ledge underneath the porch. I made it, pulled one arm out of the rope and then, just as I was pulling the other arm out, I slipped. The rope tightened around my neck and then I had a brand new problem: asphyxiation. Not being able to breathe surprisingly ranked lower than the pain of the thing tightening around my neck and all the blood rushing to my eyes.
If you thought I was kicking before, you should've seen me then. "Live Dammit Live!" I was too low to reach the ledge now and ironically my pointed toes were less than an inch off the ground. I was just high enough to not touch the ground. In my head this went on for about half a day, but obviously I can't be trusted to give you the real approximation. I just know that right before things went dark, I kicked my way to a pile of junk near the basement door and stood up on it enough to breathe and pull the rope from around my neck.
Five minutes later, the rope was in the trash and I went in the house and played Atari like a normal child.
Monday, April 2, 2012
12 Year Old Email
Some emails you never delete
WHAT TIME IS IT? 4:00 pm
Name as it appears on your birth certificate: Iniko Glessie Johnson
Parents' names: Ernesteen and Willie
Number of candles that appeared on your last birthday cake: 18
Date that you regularly blow them (birthday): May 18th
Pets: Dogs: Current-Rocky (Great Dane ,mixed with Akita), Past- Sunny and Fluffy Height:5'5 1/2
Eye color: brown
Piercings: none
Tattoos:none but maybe some henna ones soon
Scars: Im a dancer so I have entirely toooooo many
Hometown: DC Big Baby!
HAVE YOU EVER...?
Had the drink Calypso Breeze? nope
Been in love? Yep, and I still am, isn't that right Eric Benet?
Been toilet-papered(TPd)? have you been toilet papered?
Loved somebody so much it makes you cry? mi familia
(THIS? Or THAT?)
Croutons or Bacon Bits: croutons
2 doors or 4 (on a car) : 4 please.
Mr. Pibb or Dr. Pepper: Gross
Blanket or Stuffed Animal: Stuffed Animal
Shampoo or Conditioner: With my hair you cannot have one without the other!
Bridges or Tunnels?: Stupid or Stupid Question?
One pillow or two: I prefer 5 for show but one to sleep
Adidas or Nike: Adidas
Nike or Reebok: Nikoe
Adidas or Reebok: adidas
WORD ASSOCIATION
(FIRST THING THAT COMES TO MIND)
RUBBER GLOVES: Touch-up
ROCK: solid
GREEN: sick
WET: (too easy)
CRY: never
PEANUT BUTTER: jelly
HAY: whats up
PAPER: or plastic
Subj: I was Bored!
Date: 12/27/1999 4:32:52 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: nikoj1@yahoo.com (Iniko Johnson)
To: Angelofwar2000@aol.com(Ordale Allen)
Date: 12/27/1999 4:32:52 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: nikoj1@yahoo.com (Iniko Johnson)
To: Angelofwar2000@aol.com(Ordale Allen)
OK, here's what you are supposed to do. "Copy" this entire e-mail and then change the answers so that they apply to you. Then, send this out to everyone you know, including the person who originally sent it to you, and you just may learn a thing or two.
WHAT TIME IS IT? 4:00 pm
Name as it appears on your birth certificate: Iniko Glessie Johnson
Parents' names: Ernesteen and Willie
Number of candles that appeared on your last birthday cake: 18
Date that you regularly blow them (birthday): May 18th
Pets: Dogs: Current-Rocky (Great Dane ,mixed with Akita), Past- Sunny and Fluffy Height:5'5 1/2
Eye color: brown
Piercings: none
Tattoos:none but maybe some henna ones soon
Scars: Im a dancer so I have entirely toooooo many
Hometown: DC Big Baby!
HAVE YOU EVER...?
Had the drink Calypso Breeze? nope
Been in love? Yep, and I still am, isn't that right Eric Benet?
Been toilet-papered(TPd)? have you been toilet papered?
Loved somebody so much it makes you cry? mi familia
(THIS? Or THAT?)
Croutons or Bacon Bits: croutons
2 doors or 4 (on a car) : 4 please.
Mr. Pibb or Dr. Pepper: Gross
Blanket or Stuffed Animal: Stuffed Animal
Shampoo or Conditioner: With my hair you cannot have one without the other!
Bridges or Tunnels?: Stupid or Stupid Question?
One pillow or two: I prefer 5 for show but one to sleep
Adidas or Nike: Adidas
Nike or Reebok: Nikoe
Adidas or Reebok: adidas
WORD ASSOCIATION
(FIRST THING THAT COMES TO MIND)
RUBBER GLOVES: Touch-up
ROCK: solid
GREEN: sick
WET: (too easy)
CRY: never
PEANUT BUTTER: jelly
HAY: whats up
PAPER: or plastic
WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE...
Salad Dressing: ranch
Color of Socks: white
Number: The number of blessings Ive received
Memory: uhauh
Toothpaste: Tartar Control Crest
Food: Chicken
Perfume/Cologne: Whispering Mist
Song at the moment: Say My Name
TV show: Whats TV ( Im in college)
Least Favorite Word: can't
Toothbrush: a good one
Subject in School: performance (dance, acting, singing)
Flower: white rose
Restaurant: olive garden
Least Favorite Subject: Political Science
ALOHOLIC DRINK: strawberry daquiri
Sport to Watch: ice skating
Salad Dressing: ranch
Color of Socks: white
Number: The number of blessings Ive received
Memory: uhauh
Toothpaste: Tartar Control Crest
Food: Chicken
Perfume/Cologne: Whispering Mist
Song at the moment: Say My Name
TV show: Whats TV ( Im in college)
Least Favorite Word: can't
Toothbrush: a good one
Subject in School: performance (dance, acting, singing)
Flower: white rose
Restaurant: olive garden
Least Favorite Subject: Political Science
ALOHOLIC DRINK: strawberry daquiri
Sport to Watch: ice skating
Do You Drink? I don't know what you're talking about
How many times did you fail your Permit and\ or Drivers test
License Test: Perfect Score the first time
Do you believe in Oijie Boards: nope
Where do you see your self in 10 years? Chilling on the deck of my 2.5 million dollar home in Jamaica with my husband Eric Benet sipping a strawberry daquiri and talking to Janet about my last Emmy and discussing when we were going to begin rehearsals for the next tour.(OK, maybe I'll just be drinking a snapple:))
What type of car do you drive now: A BMW (Bus, Metro, Walk)
What do you do most often when you are bored: sleep, play family feud with fellow Midd folks, Steve, Niko, and Jay, check email, make up choreography, sing, etc.(Even when Im bored, Im not really bored)
Name the person that you are friends with that lives the
farthest away from you: My childhood bestfriend Tony (Pretty Tony whatdecallem)
Bedtime: Whats that (Im in college)
Humiliating Moment: Just ask my best friend Leonard, he can tell you all of them.
Loudest person: My sister-girl Maika
Who will respond to this fastest: dont know
Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to
respond? dont care
WHAT TIME IS IT NOW? I wish it was time to get off of work but it is only 4:30
How many times did you fail your Permit and\ or Drivers test
License Test: Perfect Score the first time
Do you believe in Oijie Boards: nope
Where do you see your self in 10 years? Chilling on the deck of my 2.5 million dollar home in Jamaica with my husband Eric Benet sipping a strawberry daquiri and talking to Janet about my last Emmy and discussing when we were going to begin rehearsals for the next tour.(OK, maybe I'll just be drinking a snapple:))
What type of car do you drive now: A BMW (Bus, Metro, Walk)
What do you do most often when you are bored: sleep, play family feud with fellow Midd folks, Steve, Niko, and Jay, check email, make up choreography, sing, etc.(Even when Im bored, Im not really bored)
Name the person that you are friends with that lives the
farthest away from you: My childhood bestfriend Tony (Pretty Tony whatdecallem)
Bedtime: Whats that (Im in college)
Humiliating Moment: Just ask my best friend Leonard, he can tell you all of them.
Loudest person: My sister-girl Maika
Who will respond to this fastest: dont know
Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to
respond? dont care
WHAT TIME IS IT NOW? I wish it was time to get off of work but it is only 4:30
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!? Talk to your friends online with Yahoo! Messenger. http://messenger.yahoo.com
Every Day I'm Hustlin
Random memory # 245-c
They used to call me Hustleman back in high school. I tried to make a profit on everything. I always sold fundraiser candy for twice the price. I figured they weren't getting free labor outta me. The school store was shut down by the board of education, so they dumped all the inventory. I went and got a janitor's trashcan on wheels and rolled as much of it as I could grab back to my locker. Sold it. I was the only student to volunteer to come back and clean the lockers over the summer. The principal let me have whatever I found. I'd sell people their clothes and stuff back the next year. I had a stash of TI-83 calculators that I was selling for $40 to freshmen. I just had this entrepreneurial spirit.
We'd have pizza parties in homeroom and I'd never chip in. It seemed stupid to put in five bucks for two slices of pizza and a little styrofoam cup of soda. I'd go to the payphone and call in my own order using a "buy one, get one free" coupon. $13 bucks got me two pizzas. I'd eat half of one pizza and sell the remaining slices of that pizza to the people who were still hungry in my homeroom for a dollar a slice. Then I'd turn around and take that second pizza around to the other homerooms that didn't have a pizza party and sell the slices for two bucks. If you do the math...I actually made money:
Pizza #1 had 4 slices left. Each slice sold for $1.... $4 total.
Pizza #2 had 8 slices. Each slice sold for $2....$16 total.
$16 +$4=$20
After you take out the $13 I paid initially, I made $7 on the pizza party.
I think I'll live in infamy for my "School Trip Catering Service." We'd go on these four-day ski trips and college tours. I could barely afford to go on the trip, let alone buy food at our destination. So I just started taking a whole lotta food to eat on over the four days. I had a 22 piece from Popeyes, cereal, snack foods, sandwiches, a frozen gallon of juice and a gallon of water. I started selling the food and before you knew it, it was my thing. I'd show up to the bus with two duffel bags of food. Everyone else had maybe a sandwich or a bag of chips, nobody was thinking that far ahead. As night crept up and stomachs started rumbling..."Hey Ordale, you got any of that chicken left?" (Yep...$4) Four bucks got you a piece of chicken, some chips, a little cup of juice and Little Debbie brownie. I even had Alka-Seltzer and Tylenol. One year I made about $100...profit.
I sell ice in the winter
I sell fire in hell
I am a hustler baby
I'll sell water to a well
They used to call me Hustleman back in high school. I tried to make a profit on everything. I always sold fundraiser candy for twice the price. I figured they weren't getting free labor outta me. The school store was shut down by the board of education, so they dumped all the inventory. I went and got a janitor's trashcan on wheels and rolled as much of it as I could grab back to my locker. Sold it. I was the only student to volunteer to come back and clean the lockers over the summer. The principal let me have whatever I found. I'd sell people their clothes and stuff back the next year. I had a stash of TI-83 calculators that I was selling for $40 to freshmen. I just had this entrepreneurial spirit.
We'd have pizza parties in homeroom and I'd never chip in. It seemed stupid to put in five bucks for two slices of pizza and a little styrofoam cup of soda. I'd go to the payphone and call in my own order using a "buy one, get one free" coupon. $13 bucks got me two pizzas. I'd eat half of one pizza and sell the remaining slices of that pizza to the people who were still hungry in my homeroom for a dollar a slice. Then I'd turn around and take that second pizza around to the other homerooms that didn't have a pizza party and sell the slices for two bucks. If you do the math...I actually made money:
Pizza #1 had 4 slices left. Each slice sold for $1.... $4 total.
Pizza #2 had 8 slices. Each slice sold for $2....$16 total.
$16 +$4=$20
After you take out the $13 I paid initially, I made $7 on the pizza party.
I think I'll live in infamy for my "School Trip Catering Service." We'd go on these four-day ski trips and college tours. I could barely afford to go on the trip, let alone buy food at our destination. So I just started taking a whole lotta food to eat on over the four days. I had a 22 piece from Popeyes, cereal, snack foods, sandwiches, a frozen gallon of juice and a gallon of water. I started selling the food and before you knew it, it was my thing. I'd show up to the bus with two duffel bags of food. Everyone else had maybe a sandwich or a bag of chips, nobody was thinking that far ahead. As night crept up and stomachs started rumbling..."Hey Ordale, you got any of that chicken left?" (Yep...$4) Four bucks got you a piece of chicken, some chips, a little cup of juice and Little Debbie brownie. I even had Alka-Seltzer and Tylenol. One year I made about $100...profit.
I sell ice in the winter
I sell fire in hell
I am a hustler baby
I'll sell water to a well