I'm tired...I hooked up with this chick a while back and I think she gave me "parenting." It causes fatigue, irritability and depression. So, short story today.
I remember going on a field trip in high school to the MLK Library downtown. Our class stood outside waiting for the guide to take us in. We were all laughing and joking when this middle aged black guy walked up to us and introduced himself. He told us to settle down and started telling us how we looked like a smart bunch. Then he started telling us the history of the museum and the kinds of things we could expect to see when we got inside. All of us listened, pretending to be interested, and he did the usual tour guide stuff (quoting dates and random facts). We were still outside though, and I was wondering why we hadn't moved inside the building yet. All of us were getting restless and one guy in my class started joking with someone and the tour guide overheard him.
"What the hell is your problem? You don't talk while I'm talking. You don't do that."
Our teacher looked a little concerned because the guy cursed at a student plus he looked a little agitated like he was really taking it personal. Then he continued...
"Do you know who I am? Do you know where you are? I am the motherfucking president of the goddamn Federal Bureau of Investigations of the motherfucking United States of Goddamn America. I will have your black ass locked up!"
That's when the real tour guide showed up and shooed the guy away. It turns out he was one of the cleaner homeless people who hang out in front of the library. I don't know if he had a "moment" and started reliving his days as a tour guide, but it was funny because everything he said was accurate up until the part about being president of the FBI.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Movie Night
I read an article entitled 13 Things A Movie Theater Employee Won't Tell You. My very first paying job was at the now defunct Pentagon City Theatres in Pentagon City Mall back in the 11th grade. Between high school and college I worked at four different theaters, so the article piqued my interest. It was spot on, but it failed to mention half the things that I expected to see. Two of the theaters shut down and the other two were bought by another company, so I don't think I can be sued. I'll just leave out the names of the theaters. Here's my list
#1 If you don't see a popcorn kettle, then more than likely the popcorn isn't fresh.
At all but one theater, we used to pop popcorn ahead of time and keep it in the back on shelves. We had to keep at least thirty 13-gallon trash bags up on the shelf at all times. First in, first out. If I popped it on Monday and business was slow all week, then you probably ate it on Friday. You couldn't tell a difference because those display cases have warm air coming out of the bottom. My job in the morning was to fill the bins in the front, turn on the light and turn on the air warmers. Subsequently, my job at night was to empty the bins and put all the unsold popcorn back in a bag and back on the shelf to be reheated and resold tomorrow.
#2 For the love of God, that isn't butter!
One theater required us to correct customers who asked for butter on their popcorn: We have butter-flavored topping. What does that mean? At the beginning of the day, we go back into the storage room and pull out this gallon jug that looks like the same canola oil bottle you'd get from the grocery store except that stuff was chunky and slightly off colored. We dump that into the big butter dispenser bowl and flip the switch that melts it down. It's some kind of oil, but I have no clue which one. And if you get a whiff of it, it smells nothing like butter. And at the end of the day, we did the same thing that we did with the popcorn...pour the leftover butter back in the container and put it back on the shelf.
#3 Yes, you are being ripped off.
You're being ripped off because the theater is being ripped off. Only a small portion of ticket sales goes to the theater. 90% of their profit is from selling food. That large popcorn that you paid $7 for only cost 15 cents to make. If it were not for the high concession prices you would be watching the movie on a folding chair in a closet.
#4 I don't eat here.
The cleanest theater that I ever worked at required us to remove all of the nozzles from the soda dispensers nightly and soak them in solution. We had to spray the popcorn bins with sanitizer and we disassembled the hot dog and slushee machine components and cleaned them off. That's the cleanest theater. The average one I worked for...I didn't even know half of that stuff could come apart and be cleaned. We used to wipe the outside of the popcorn glass to get the fingerprints off and that was it.
Now the dirtiest theater I ever worked for was also one of the most popular ones. During my first week the shift lead asked me if I was afraid of mice. When I told her no, she added throwing away mice traps to my list of duties. The room with the candy and all the popcorn always had two or three mice on the traps daily. We'd assign the boxes of Raisinettes and Goobers to spoilage when we found gnaw marks going through them. We'd discard the popcorn IF we caught the fact that there was a hole in the bag where they'd been eating it. And you don't even wanna know how many times I found rat droppings in the ice bins. You wouldn't even think that rats would go near an ice bin. The only reason we stayed in business was because the state I worked in didn't do random health inspections. Instead they scheduled them and the night before we all had to stay late to clean up. So no, I don't eat movie food.
The list could go on and on, but we're at 750 words and I try to keep these things as far away from 1000 whenever possible.
#1 If you don't see a popcorn kettle, then more than likely the popcorn isn't fresh.
At all but one theater, we used to pop popcorn ahead of time and keep it in the back on shelves. We had to keep at least thirty 13-gallon trash bags up on the shelf at all times. First in, first out. If I popped it on Monday and business was slow all week, then you probably ate it on Friday. You couldn't tell a difference because those display cases have warm air coming out of the bottom. My job in the morning was to fill the bins in the front, turn on the light and turn on the air warmers. Subsequently, my job at night was to empty the bins and put all the unsold popcorn back in a bag and back on the shelf to be reheated and resold tomorrow.
#2 For the love of God, that isn't butter!
One theater required us to correct customers who asked for butter on their popcorn: We have butter-flavored topping. What does that mean? At the beginning of the day, we go back into the storage room and pull out this gallon jug that looks like the same canola oil bottle you'd get from the grocery store except that stuff was chunky and slightly off colored. We dump that into the big butter dispenser bowl and flip the switch that melts it down. It's some kind of oil, but I have no clue which one. And if you get a whiff of it, it smells nothing like butter. And at the end of the day, we did the same thing that we did with the popcorn...pour the leftover butter back in the container and put it back on the shelf.
#3 Yes, you are being ripped off.
You're being ripped off because the theater is being ripped off. Only a small portion of ticket sales goes to the theater. 90% of their profit is from selling food. That large popcorn that you paid $7 for only cost 15 cents to make. If it were not for the high concession prices you would be watching the movie on a folding chair in a closet.
#4 I don't eat here.
The cleanest theater that I ever worked at required us to remove all of the nozzles from the soda dispensers nightly and soak them in solution. We had to spray the popcorn bins with sanitizer and we disassembled the hot dog and slushee machine components and cleaned them off. That's the cleanest theater. The average one I worked for...I didn't even know half of that stuff could come apart and be cleaned. We used to wipe the outside of the popcorn glass to get the fingerprints off and that was it.
Now the dirtiest theater I ever worked for was also one of the most popular ones. During my first week the shift lead asked me if I was afraid of mice. When I told her no, she added throwing away mice traps to my list of duties. The room with the candy and all the popcorn always had two or three mice on the traps daily. We'd assign the boxes of Raisinettes and Goobers to spoilage when we found gnaw marks going through them. We'd discard the popcorn IF we caught the fact that there was a hole in the bag where they'd been eating it. And you don't even wanna know how many times I found rat droppings in the ice bins. You wouldn't even think that rats would go near an ice bin. The only reason we stayed in business was because the state I worked in didn't do random health inspections. Instead they scheduled them and the night before we all had to stay late to clean up. So no, I don't eat movie food.
The list could go on and on, but we're at 750 words and I try to keep these things as far away from 1000 whenever possible.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Random Word Generator
I can't really think of anything to write about today. I'm tired. I don't want to leave you hanging, so I just went to a website that randomly generates words. Whatever word comes up...I'm gonna write about the first memory associated to that word.
Tongue.
Okay. That really is random. Hmmm.
When I was about seven or eight my grandmother asked me to carry a TV upstairs. It was a small 13 inch black and white TV so it technically wasn't "Prince of Egypt...Build My Pyramid...Let My People Go" slave labor. Anyway, I didn't think to wrap up the cord before I picked it up, so of course I tripped on it half way up the stairs. They all came running when they heard me fall (to see if the tv was broken) and when it was determined that the screen wasn't cracked they walked away. I started crying and that brought them back.
Somehow I bit a hole through my tongue...literally. It went straight through and that freaked me out. By now you should know better than to think that this story ends at a doctor's office. My grandmother gave me some salt water and told me to swirl it around for a while...then go lay down. That's the whole story.
That's only 211 words. What else you got, word generator? Wheel of Morality turn, turn, turn. Tell us the lesson that we should learn!
Fence?
Ooookay. I feel like I'm in a memory freestyle battle.
Uh, one day me and my friend were playing basketball on a court that closed after dark. We climbed over the fence to get in because the gate was locked and after we were done we went back the way we came. Now this was in the "welcome to puberty" years when the new "manly" features attracted the ire of the police for no apparent reason. The cops used to stop me for all kinds of random things around the ages of 13-15. I remember one time a cop rode by me, backed up the car and got out to tell me to stand against a wall and prove that I'd purchased the 35 cent CVS Gold Emblem generic Sprite that I was drinking...Or Imma lock your ass up! Um, there's a receipt in my pocket next to a pack of Reese Cups.
Anyway, I remember one of us seeing a cop ride by and thinking they'd try to lock us up for trespassing, so we tried to hurry up and get over that fence. Of course when I got to the top of it and had one leg over it, I slipped. I didn't fall to the ground though because the wiry part of the fence got caught in the crotch of my jeans. I tried to get the other leg over, but I was caught...not just in the fabric of the jeans but in some other place near and dear to my heart.
Now this fence was like eight or nine feet high, and not really made for climbing, so I was trying to wiggle free without tearing anything open and at the same time without falling to the concrete below. In my head the situation was as intense as the scene in Jurassic Park when they're climbing over the electric fence as the lady is turning the power back on.
My friend didn't know why I was working so carefully to free myself and he decided to climb back up to "help" me. Somewhere in his deranged mind he thought that he could just pull my foot or something and that would wiggle my jeans free. I was in too much pain to explain that the jeans weren't the only thing caught, but I just couldn't find the words to explain. Words were coming out, but it was more like an opera performed by an all-Tourette Syndrome cast.
So he made the decision to save himself and run. At that point I was actually hoping it was a cop, because he could call for the fire department and an ambulance. It ended up being a HUD Cop who was parking to go to the store. He didn't pay me any attention. I ended up slipping and falling off completely. Miraculously, I was okay. Slightly perforated, but okay.
Tongue.
Okay. That really is random. Hmmm.
When I was about seven or eight my grandmother asked me to carry a TV upstairs. It was a small 13 inch black and white TV so it technically wasn't "Prince of Egypt...Build My Pyramid...Let My People Go" slave labor. Anyway, I didn't think to wrap up the cord before I picked it up, so of course I tripped on it half way up the stairs. They all came running when they heard me fall (to see if the tv was broken) and when it was determined that the screen wasn't cracked they walked away. I started crying and that brought them back.
Somehow I bit a hole through my tongue...literally. It went straight through and that freaked me out. By now you should know better than to think that this story ends at a doctor's office. My grandmother gave me some salt water and told me to swirl it around for a while...then go lay down. That's the whole story.
That's only 211 words. What else you got, word generator? Wheel of Morality turn, turn, turn. Tell us the lesson that we should learn!
Fence?
Ooookay. I feel like I'm in a memory freestyle battle.
Uh, one day me and my friend were playing basketball on a court that closed after dark. We climbed over the fence to get in because the gate was locked and after we were done we went back the way we came. Now this was in the "welcome to puberty" years when the new "manly" features attracted the ire of the police for no apparent reason. The cops used to stop me for all kinds of random things around the ages of 13-15. I remember one time a cop rode by me, backed up the car and got out to tell me to stand against a wall and prove that I'd purchased the 35 cent CVS Gold Emblem generic Sprite that I was drinking...Or Imma lock your ass up! Um, there's a receipt in my pocket next to a pack of Reese Cups.
Anyway, I remember one of us seeing a cop ride by and thinking they'd try to lock us up for trespassing, so we tried to hurry up and get over that fence. Of course when I got to the top of it and had one leg over it, I slipped. I didn't fall to the ground though because the wiry part of the fence got caught in the crotch of my jeans. I tried to get the other leg over, but I was caught...not just in the fabric of the jeans but in some other place near and dear to my heart.
Now this fence was like eight or nine feet high, and not really made for climbing, so I was trying to wiggle free without tearing anything open and at the same time without falling to the concrete below. In my head the situation was as intense as the scene in Jurassic Park when they're climbing over the electric fence as the lady is turning the power back on.
My friend didn't know why I was working so carefully to free myself and he decided to climb back up to "help" me. Somewhere in his deranged mind he thought that he could just pull my foot or something and that would wiggle my jeans free. I was in too much pain to explain that the jeans weren't the only thing caught, but I just couldn't find the words to explain. Words were coming out, but it was more like an opera performed by an all-Tourette Syndrome cast.
So he made the decision to save himself and run. At that point I was actually hoping it was a cop, because he could call for the fire department and an ambulance. It ended up being a HUD Cop who was parking to go to the store. He didn't pay me any attention. I ended up slipping and falling off completely. Miraculously, I was okay. Slightly perforated, but okay.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Baby on Board
Last night I went to yet another Yelp Elite event. It was at a place called Lime in Columbia Heights. It's like Chipotle with more alcohol and more of an adult crowd. Good food by the way, so there's your free advertising for the day. Anyway, as I said before, I'm trying to find my inner social butterfly, and that thing got loose last night.
So the theme of the evening was high school stereotypes. You could come as a nerd, a jock, or whatever came to mind. I decided to take it someplace I was certain no one else would go. I put on my old backpack from college and tied the straps together in the front. Between those two straps, I placed my daughter's doll baby and carried around a sippy cup. Ladies and gentlemen, I went as a teenage parent (The jackass is strong with this one).
Talk about a great icebreaker. I spoke to more people last night than I have in the last year. Some people were drunk and thought it was a real baby from afar. As they came closer to curse me out, they realized what it was and told me how creative it was. Other people came up to tell me how offensive it was and how that made them like it even more.
The highlight of the night was when the dance floor got going into a pseudo Soul Train line and me and the baby cut a rug. It started with some knockoff electric slide dance and quickly progressed into the running man during You Can't Touch This. About ten minutes later, the baby was high fiving people (literally) and dancing with various people on the floor. The baby and I were also asked to take several photos. The baby may or may not have been holding a bottle of Dos Equis at the time.
Suffice to say, I had a lot of fun.
So the theme of the evening was high school stereotypes. You could come as a nerd, a jock, or whatever came to mind. I decided to take it someplace I was certain no one else would go. I put on my old backpack from college and tied the straps together in the front. Between those two straps, I placed my daughter's doll baby and carried around a sippy cup. Ladies and gentlemen, I went as a teenage parent (The jackass is strong with this one).
Talk about a great icebreaker. I spoke to more people last night than I have in the last year. Some people were drunk and thought it was a real baby from afar. As they came closer to curse me out, they realized what it was and told me how creative it was. Other people came up to tell me how offensive it was and how that made them like it even more.
The highlight of the night was when the dance floor got going into a pseudo Soul Train line and me and the baby cut a rug. It started with some knockoff electric slide dance and quickly progressed into the running man during You Can't Touch This. About ten minutes later, the baby was high fiving people (literally) and dancing with various people on the floor. The baby and I were also asked to take several photos. The baby may or may not have been holding a bottle of Dos Equis at the time.
Suffice to say, I had a lot of fun.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Playtime
Lately I've been trying to get out of my comfort zone and rediscover high school Ordale. That guy was fun. He was in every club and organization. You used to see him walking down the halls talking to everybody and making people laugh. He was the president of the SGA so he used to speak to every single person, especially the ones who looked sad or lonely. You could call him a social butterfly, but he was more like a social dragon. Everybody knew Ordale, even people who didn't go to the school.
That's the guy I'm trying to get in touch with. Somewhere between high school and college, he got kidnapped and locked away in some subconscious cerebral prison. Popularity was fun, but it had its downside. After a stress filled senior year where popularity became more annoying than rewarding, I decided to stay to myself in college. It was never my intention to become antisocial. It just happened.
So fast forward seven years since college and I'm trying to break out of this artificial shell. I've done some Yelp Elite parties and I even integrated kayaking a week ago. This past weekend I went to something called an Adult Playdate. Teams of four compete in field day games that you'd find at an elementary school: tug of war, wheelbarrow, leapfrog, crabwalk and piggyback races, etc.
That shit sounds fun until you actually start doing it. There's a reason grown people don't have playground equipment behind their office buildings...we might die. It didn't help that someone thought it'd be more of a challenge to lump events together. Instead of having a wheelbarrow race be one event, we had to do that and a leapfrog race and a piggyback race and then finish up with a crabwalk up and down a field. And all of that was just one event. There were like fourteen events.
By the time I got to our last event--which only became the last event because it started raining--my legs, arms, and 35% of my internal organs had adopted "cramp" as their official religion. I was in so much pain that my blood hurt. When the uterus that I don't even have started to hurt, that's when I knew it was time for me to go home, so I limped away without hearing the final results. My team won overall and got a bunch of prizes as a result. Sadly, you had to be there to actually claim your prize, so I don't get shit...except an epsom salt bath and coupon good for 50 cents off my next bottle of Ben-Gay.
The moral of today's story is that you're only as old as you feel. I'm dead based on that fact.
That's the guy I'm trying to get in touch with. Somewhere between high school and college, he got kidnapped and locked away in some subconscious cerebral prison. Popularity was fun, but it had its downside. After a stress filled senior year where popularity became more annoying than rewarding, I decided to stay to myself in college. It was never my intention to become antisocial. It just happened.
So fast forward seven years since college and I'm trying to break out of this artificial shell. I've done some Yelp Elite parties and I even integrated kayaking a week ago. This past weekend I went to something called an Adult Playdate. Teams of four compete in field day games that you'd find at an elementary school: tug of war, wheelbarrow, leapfrog, crabwalk and piggyback races, etc.
That shit sounds fun until you actually start doing it. There's a reason grown people don't have playground equipment behind their office buildings...we might die. It didn't help that someone thought it'd be more of a challenge to lump events together. Instead of having a wheelbarrow race be one event, we had to do that and a leapfrog race and a piggyback race and then finish up with a crabwalk up and down a field. And all of that was just one event. There were like fourteen events.
By the time I got to our last event--which only became the last event because it started raining--my legs, arms, and 35% of my internal organs had adopted "cramp" as their official religion. I was in so much pain that my blood hurt. When the uterus that I don't even have started to hurt, that's when I knew it was time for me to go home, so I limped away without hearing the final results. My team won overall and got a bunch of prizes as a result. Sadly, you had to be there to actually claim your prize, so I don't get shit...except an epsom salt bath and coupon good for 50 cents off my next bottle of Ben-Gay.
The moral of today's story is that you're only as old as you feel. I'm dead based on that fact.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Let Me Know
[caption id="attachment_1038" align="alignnone" width="286"]
At your best, you are love[/caption]
Before I head out today to go do whatever it is that Ordales do, I want to give a quick RIP to Aaliyah. It's been eleven years and I still feel some kind of way about her passing. I never met the girl, and honestly I only had one of her albums. Still, there's something to be said about a person who can touch you simply with their absence. Or as Jay-Z put it, Even if my absence, my presence is felt. That's gotta tell you I'm the king if nothing else.
I first really took an interest in her one day when I saw her on Vibe. Not the magazine, the failed TV Show. Yeah, that long ago. I think I was in my room doing pushups or something in my quest to grow up to be He-Man one day. She performed Hot Like Fire and I remember immediately taking my workout up a notch. I started doing sit ups and crunches and all kinds of random exercises thinking, I have to get my ass in shape because I'm gonna marry that girl!
By the end of her performance, I was smitten and also hobbling around the room trying not to wake my grandparents up because my entire abdomen had curled up into a fist. I even had a cramp in my bladder, and I don't even think that's possible. But I got right back to the workout...Aaliyah don't want no punk!
Sadly, I never got the chance to meet her. Ironically, on the day that I walked into my Management class and met my wife I was listening to At Your Best.
At your best, you are love[/caption]Before I head out today to go do whatever it is that Ordales do, I want to give a quick RIP to Aaliyah. It's been eleven years and I still feel some kind of way about her passing. I never met the girl, and honestly I only had one of her albums. Still, there's something to be said about a person who can touch you simply with their absence. Or as Jay-Z put it, Even if my absence, my presence is felt. That's gotta tell you I'm the king if nothing else.
I first really took an interest in her one day when I saw her on Vibe. Not the magazine, the failed TV Show. Yeah, that long ago. I think I was in my room doing pushups or something in my quest to grow up to be He-Man one day. She performed Hot Like Fire and I remember immediately taking my workout up a notch. I started doing sit ups and crunches and all kinds of random exercises thinking, I have to get my ass in shape because I'm gonna marry that girl!
By the end of her performance, I was smitten and also hobbling around the room trying not to wake my grandparents up because my entire abdomen had curled up into a fist. I even had a cramp in my bladder, and I don't even think that's possible. But I got right back to the workout...Aaliyah don't want no punk!
Sadly, I never got the chance to meet her. Ironically, on the day that I walked into my Management class and met my wife I was listening to At Your Best.
12 Months and Counting
There's something seriously wrong with my mind. I'm in here listening to History by Jay-Z and I got to the part...
Now victory is mine, she tastes so sweet
She’s my trophy wife, she's coming with me
We'll have a baby who stutters repeatedly
We'll name him history
He'll repeat after me
He’s my legacy, son of my hard work
Future of my past, he’ll explain who I be
Rank me among the greats
Either 1, 2 or 3, if I ain’t number one
Then I failed you victory
Ain’t in it for the fame, that dies within weeks
Ain’t in it for the money, can’t take it when you leave
I wanna be remembered long after you grieve
Long after I’m gone, long after I breathe
I leave all I am, in the hands of history
That's my last will, testimony
This is much more than a song
It’s a baby shower, I’ve been waiting for this hour
History, you're ours
He rapped this at Obama's inaugural dinner for obvious reasons, and a normal person would probably think about that when they hear this song. I'm not normal. I keep thinking about my daughter's first day of preschool. After all the smoke is gone, and the battle's finally won. Victory is finally ours!
The new school year for DCPS starts next week and that means I have twelve more months before my daughter goes to preschool. And this is a fact that I've been annoying my wife with for the last month or so. She's in mommy-mode and has that whole, My baby is growing up so fast. How can I slow down the hands of time?
Meanwhile on the battlefield...
I'm thinking How many more months before this tour of duty is over and they ship me back to the states? Don't get me wrong, I love, love, love my daughter. I don't say it enough. My wife says that one day she's gonna find this blog and think that I hated her. Nothing could be further from the truth. I joke a lot about her being a gremlin and I share all of the headaches only because I detest those people who dote on their children at the expense of others.
You know the type. The ones who beat you over the head with how intelligent their kids are because they blinked when exposed to light. They're the same ones who equate getting pregnant with curing cancer and are quick to bash someone else for either not having children or not raising them according to their standards. I promised to never be one of those people, so that's why I give you a truth-in-advertising parenting blog.
Life's all about balance. There's heaven and there's hell. You have millions of websites telling you how this is the most rewarding job you'll ever have.I'm here to tell you that you will cry uncontrollably in the shower one day. You will spend all of your hard earned money on toys that they will chuck into a corner in favor of the box the toys came in. You will learn to calculate how much of your money just went down the drain in the form of unconsumed formula, baby food and diapers that you have to change because just a speckle of baby-shit came out and it would be cruel to leave it on them.
Friends without kids will forsake you. The friends whom you secretly consider to be horrible parents will be dumbfounded by your refusal to take their advice. In the end it'll just be you and the kid (and the other parent if they're in the picture). You'll cling to little milestones like didn't take a dump in the tub today, but when something big like preschool comes along...it's different. It's that glimpse of a lighthouse in the distance signaling me through the fog. And like everything else, it represents balance. Heaven and hell.
I only have a little longer to go until I reach land. Heaven. But that means that our journey is coming to an end. Hell. She's growing up, moving on to something new and soon all the things that make me want to pull my hair out will be the memories I cling to as she begins a journey of her own that will ultimately lead her away from me. Now of course, I'm not going anywhere soon, but if the time when I see her 24 hours a day can fly by so fast, then I'm sure the next 16 years before she goes to college--when I only see her in the evenings and even less when she starts hanging out with her friends--will go by even faster. And that brings me back to the song, History.
She's my legacy, daughter of my hard work
Future of my past, she'll explain who I be.
Rank me amongst the greats
Either 1, 2 or 3. If I ain't number one
Then I failed you victory
Ain’t in it for the fame, that dies within weeks
Ain’t in it for the money, can’t take it when you leave
I wanna be remembered long after you grieve
Long after I’m gone, long after I breathe
Maybe she won't be the only one crying on the first day of school.
Now victory is mine, she tastes so sweet
She’s my trophy wife, she's coming with me
We'll have a baby who stutters repeatedly
We'll name him history
He'll repeat after me
He’s my legacy, son of my hard work
Future of my past, he’ll explain who I be
Rank me among the greats
Either 1, 2 or 3, if I ain’t number one
Then I failed you victory
Ain’t in it for the fame, that dies within weeks
Ain’t in it for the money, can’t take it when you leave
I wanna be remembered long after you grieve
Long after I’m gone, long after I breathe
I leave all I am, in the hands of history
That's my last will, testimony
This is much more than a song
It’s a baby shower, I’ve been waiting for this hour
History, you're ours
He rapped this at Obama's inaugural dinner for obvious reasons, and a normal person would probably think about that when they hear this song. I'm not normal. I keep thinking about my daughter's first day of preschool. After all the smoke is gone, and the battle's finally won. Victory is finally ours!
The new school year for DCPS starts next week and that means I have twelve more months before my daughter goes to preschool. And this is a fact that I've been annoying my wife with for the last month or so. She's in mommy-mode and has that whole, My baby is growing up so fast. How can I slow down the hands of time?
Meanwhile on the battlefield...
I'm thinking How many more months before this tour of duty is over and they ship me back to the states? Don't get me wrong, I love, love, love my daughter. I don't say it enough. My wife says that one day she's gonna find this blog and think that I hated her. Nothing could be further from the truth. I joke a lot about her being a gremlin and I share all of the headaches only because I detest those people who dote on their children at the expense of others.
You know the type. The ones who beat you over the head with how intelligent their kids are because they blinked when exposed to light. They're the same ones who equate getting pregnant with curing cancer and are quick to bash someone else for either not having children or not raising them according to their standards. I promised to never be one of those people, so that's why I give you a truth-in-advertising parenting blog.
Life's all about balance. There's heaven and there's hell. You have millions of websites telling you how this is the most rewarding job you'll ever have.I'm here to tell you that you will cry uncontrollably in the shower one day. You will spend all of your hard earned money on toys that they will chuck into a corner in favor of the box the toys came in. You will learn to calculate how much of your money just went down the drain in the form of unconsumed formula, baby food and diapers that you have to change because just a speckle of baby-shit came out and it would be cruel to leave it on them.
Friends without kids will forsake you. The friends whom you secretly consider to be horrible parents will be dumbfounded by your refusal to take their advice. In the end it'll just be you and the kid (and the other parent if they're in the picture). You'll cling to little milestones like didn't take a dump in the tub today, but when something big like preschool comes along...it's different. It's that glimpse of a lighthouse in the distance signaling me through the fog. And like everything else, it represents balance. Heaven and hell.
I only have a little longer to go until I reach land. Heaven. But that means that our journey is coming to an end. Hell. She's growing up, moving on to something new and soon all the things that make me want to pull my hair out will be the memories I cling to as she begins a journey of her own that will ultimately lead her away from me. Now of course, I'm not going anywhere soon, but if the time when I see her 24 hours a day can fly by so fast, then I'm sure the next 16 years before she goes to college--when I only see her in the evenings and even less when she starts hanging out with her friends--will go by even faster. And that brings me back to the song, History.
She's my legacy, daughter of my hard work
Future of my past, she'll explain who I be.
Rank me amongst the greats
Either 1, 2 or 3. If I ain't number one
Then I failed you victory
Ain’t in it for the fame, that dies within weeks
Ain’t in it for the money, can’t take it when you leave
I wanna be remembered long after you grieve
Long after I’m gone, long after I breathe
Maybe she won't be the only one crying on the first day of school.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Hug
Lately I've been doing a best of the best list in my head. I can't remember where I got the idea, but I find that it's so easy to think about things that piss me off so I wanted to see how hard it would be to do the opposite. What's the best meal I've ever eaten? What's the best movie I've ever seen? What's the hardest I've ever laughed? With it being back to school season, I started wondering who's the best teacher I've ever had. The jury is still out on that one, but I know who wins best principal.
As I get older and look back over my life through more mature lenses, I realize that my academic career was often affected by some of the things going on at home. Throughout elementary and junior high it seemed to be intermittent. I always got good grades in core subjects, but that citizenship grade was always iffy. Someone could've made a fortune by making a talks too much in class rubber stamp. But high school was a different story.
Maybe it's a little bit whiny now, but around Ninth Grade I went through the emotional equivalent of World War III outside of school. Whereas I'd always been a little angry growing up, I progressed into full on hatred. Truth be told, I was in a lot of pain, but I'd developed this mentality as little kid that anger was more useful than sadness. So despite how I truly devastated I felt about things going on in my personal life, anger was the offense that's the best defense. I lashed out at everyone. I cursed out teachers, administrators and students, because--as weird as it sounds--it felt like the right thing to do. I couldn't let anyone run over me. I had to stand up for myself.
The fact that I was in a magnet school that posed the first academic challenge in my life didn't help. I'd never gotten so much as a C before, so getting Fs really didn't go over well with me. I think that was the final straw that caused me to go over the deep end. I went into full on depression. The idea of killing myself started swirling around in my head, but I wasn't quite there yet. Subconsciously, I think I started self-sabotaging so that I could get there. I did even less in school, cursed out even more people and just stopped caring about everything. I wanted to get expelled.
So what does this have to do with my selection for best principal? Within the first few months of school I was probably sent to the office about a dozen times. Usually the principal was busy and I ended up talking to the Dean of Students or the Vice Principal. On one particular day I got sent to the actual principal. I let her have it. I said enough to get myself expelled from every school in the country. This was pre-9/11 when anger used to excuse people saying stuff like, I'll burn this motherfucker down!
When I had nothing left to say, I waited for her to give me the get out speech. She stood up, walked over to me and gave me a really tight hug. In the calmest voice in the world--and I will never forget it--she said, I love you. This was in the fall of '96 a year or two before Good Will Hunting came out, so I don't know where she got the idea from, but it had the same result. She hugged me and said:
I love you. I don't know what you're going through to make you feel like this and I know you think that no one else in the world cares about you, but I love you. I know what you're trying to do. You think that if you act out and keep coming in this office that I'll expel you. That's not going to happen because I love you too much to give up on you or to let you give up on yourself.
I don't know what possessed her to do that, but I cried like everything I'd ever cared about died at the same time. That lady's shoulders had to have been soaked by the time she let me go. Then she handed me some tissue and told me to get myself together and go back to class. She never spoke of it again, and I don't think I ever told anyone else about it. I won't lie and say that all of my problems went away, but I don't think I ever cursed anybody else out after that. Don't get me wrong, I expressed my opinion A LOT up until I graduated, but not like I did before. Something changed that day. I can't explain what it was, but I was different after that.
My only regret in the last few years is that I didn't go to my high school reunion, because she was there. She's retired now, so I'll probably never see her again. But if she ever stumbles across this...
Thank you Ms Linette Adams. You might have actually saved my life that day.
As I get older and look back over my life through more mature lenses, I realize that my academic career was often affected by some of the things going on at home. Throughout elementary and junior high it seemed to be intermittent. I always got good grades in core subjects, but that citizenship grade was always iffy. Someone could've made a fortune by making a talks too much in class rubber stamp. But high school was a different story.
Maybe it's a little bit whiny now, but around Ninth Grade I went through the emotional equivalent of World War III outside of school. Whereas I'd always been a little angry growing up, I progressed into full on hatred. Truth be told, I was in a lot of pain, but I'd developed this mentality as little kid that anger was more useful than sadness. So despite how I truly devastated I felt about things going on in my personal life, anger was the offense that's the best defense. I lashed out at everyone. I cursed out teachers, administrators and students, because--as weird as it sounds--it felt like the right thing to do. I couldn't let anyone run over me. I had to stand up for myself.
The fact that I was in a magnet school that posed the first academic challenge in my life didn't help. I'd never gotten so much as a C before, so getting Fs really didn't go over well with me. I think that was the final straw that caused me to go over the deep end. I went into full on depression. The idea of killing myself started swirling around in my head, but I wasn't quite there yet. Subconsciously, I think I started self-sabotaging so that I could get there. I did even less in school, cursed out even more people and just stopped caring about everything. I wanted to get expelled.
So what does this have to do with my selection for best principal? Within the first few months of school I was probably sent to the office about a dozen times. Usually the principal was busy and I ended up talking to the Dean of Students or the Vice Principal. On one particular day I got sent to the actual principal. I let her have it. I said enough to get myself expelled from every school in the country. This was pre-9/11 when anger used to excuse people saying stuff like, I'll burn this motherfucker down!
When I had nothing left to say, I waited for her to give me the get out speech. She stood up, walked over to me and gave me a really tight hug. In the calmest voice in the world--and I will never forget it--she said, I love you. This was in the fall of '96 a year or two before Good Will Hunting came out, so I don't know where she got the idea from, but it had the same result. She hugged me and said:
I love you. I don't know what you're going through to make you feel like this and I know you think that no one else in the world cares about you, but I love you. I know what you're trying to do. You think that if you act out and keep coming in this office that I'll expel you. That's not going to happen because I love you too much to give up on you or to let you give up on yourself.
I don't know what possessed her to do that, but I cried like everything I'd ever cared about died at the same time. That lady's shoulders had to have been soaked by the time she let me go. Then she handed me some tissue and told me to get myself together and go back to class. She never spoke of it again, and I don't think I ever told anyone else about it. I won't lie and say that all of my problems went away, but I don't think I ever cursed anybody else out after that. Don't get me wrong, I expressed my opinion A LOT up until I graduated, but not like I did before. Something changed that day. I can't explain what it was, but I was different after that.
My only regret in the last few years is that I didn't go to my high school reunion, because she was there. She's retired now, so I'll probably never see her again. But if she ever stumbles across this...
Thank you Ms Linette Adams. You might have actually saved my life that day.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Hot Air LeBrons
Call me bitter. Call me old fashioned. Say I don't have fashion sense or any sense of style. Call me whatever you want, but there is nothing in this world or the next that could convince me to spend $315 on a pair of tennis shoes. If you get paid hourly and, worse yet, you get paid with a physical check that you have to pick up from your job every two weeks, and you go out and buy these tennis shoes...
You deserve to get your ass whooped in the parking lot on your way back to your "car-note-having" car.
So far Hakeem Olajuwon is the only basketball player who gets my respect with his tennis shoes. For those who don't remember, back in the mid 90s Olajuwon decided to endorse some $35 Spalding tennis shoes saying:
"A mother with four children can't afford to spend $400 on shoes that will wear out in a couple of months...Parents must teach their kids a sense of value. Paying more doesn't mean it's better. That's not value."
Lebron James is just upping the ante on the exploitation that Michael Jordan perfected. It's not that the shoes cost upwards of $300. Actual designer shoes cost twice that. My beef is with the market they're geared towards. They're not going for the upper-upper middle class. They're going for the working or looking-for-work class.
If I play devil's advocate I guess I would have to say that if people are willing to buy them then I shouldn't knock the hustle. I just wish someone would endorse a textbook or damned health insurance plan.
SMH
I'm not even gonna dignify those shoes by posting a picture of them. Enjoy this instead...
[caption id="attachment_2645" align="alignnone" width="447"]
The true cost of being in style for some people[/caption]
You deserve to get your ass whooped in the parking lot on your way back to your "car-note-having" car.
So far Hakeem Olajuwon is the only basketball player who gets my respect with his tennis shoes. For those who don't remember, back in the mid 90s Olajuwon decided to endorse some $35 Spalding tennis shoes saying:
"A mother with four children can't afford to spend $400 on shoes that will wear out in a couple of months...Parents must teach their kids a sense of value. Paying more doesn't mean it's better. That's not value."
Lebron James is just upping the ante on the exploitation that Michael Jordan perfected. It's not that the shoes cost upwards of $300. Actual designer shoes cost twice that. My beef is with the market they're geared towards. They're not going for the upper-upper middle class. They're going for the working or looking-for-work class.
If I play devil's advocate I guess I would have to say that if people are willing to buy them then I shouldn't knock the hustle. I just wish someone would endorse a textbook or damned health insurance plan.
SMH
I'm not even gonna dignify those shoes by posting a picture of them. Enjoy this instead...
[caption id="attachment_2645" align="alignnone" width="447"]
The true cost of being in style for some people[/caption]
Men Lie, Women Lie, Numbers Don't
So this past Sunday I was invited back once again to The One Mic Stand radio show with Simply Nay, where I will be henceforth and forevermore (or until the government shuts us down) a guest a la J. Anthony Brown to her Tom Joyner. The main topic was Slutwalk DC, but we dabbled in a few other topics prior to that, namely the state of Black affairs. In that vein we were talking about some black lady on one of those reality shows who misspelled bitch and whether or not there was a responsibility of the producer (who is also a black woman) to edit or reshoot that scene. The idea being that we have a responsibility to protect our image. I voted no, the host thought I'd lost my mind and a discussion ensued. But that's not the topic of today's article. You can follow the link to hear that. No, today I want to talk about what happened after the show was over.
I went to the website of DC's ABC affiliate, WJLA, where I read an article about the unfortunate soul who was severely beaten and placed into a coma this weekend following a robbery that occurred while he was walking home from a bar. Normally I avoid the comments section of their site, because a lot of it is just racist drivel. Some sites now require people to register using their Facebook accounts to cut down on the He-Man complex that comes from anonymity. WJLA does not require this so people post things that even offend me and I have very thick skin.
For whatever reason, I found myself scrolling through one racist comment after another. They always amount to the basic ideology that Black people are violent and if they were removed from DC then the crime rate would go down. Someone suggested that there is evidence to support the claim that black people are the more violent race. It's been my position in the past to not even dignify such things with a response, but I figured why not.
I sought out this mythical data and found myself on the FBI's Uniform Crime Report site. You can read it for yourself here, but I'll summarize it for you: I'm done. That's my summary. I joked about this back in (what was it?) 07? Whenever Three 6 Mafia won that Oscar for It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp I said that I was done with the Black race. I was cutting up my Black card and entering the Race Draft. After reading those numbers, I couldn't do anything but shake my damn head.
Of all murders in this country during 2009, slightly more than half were committed by a Black person. Considering that we make up about 13% of the population, that's a damned shame. The only other major crime that we seem to lead in is robbery. For just about everything else on the list of approximately thirty crimes, we come in second. Now that's nothing to be proud of at all. Take aggravated assault for example: 64% White vs 34% Black. Remember, we make up 13% of the population! Why are we committing more than a third of the crime?
What confounds me even more is that Hispanics and Latinos aren't carved out in this data, so I'm thinking that they're being lumped into the White category. That skews things even more because the White category includes two races worth of crime yet we still beat the cumulative efforts of both for murder.
Don't get me wrong. I don't hate my race. I'm not Uncle Ruckus. You won't see me running around talking about I have reverse-vitiligo, but I'm done trying to defend it. Yeah I could go down the route of talking about the systemic economic and educational disparity between the races that modern crime theory attributes to the seemingly one-sided crime rate in major urban areas. We could get historical and look at the WTF handling of Reconstruction following the Emancipation and how that laid the foundation for the plight of our people. But I'm not doing that today! Because the truth of the matter is, if a Black person hurts someone close to me today, the last thing I'm going to do is try to understand how the system made them this way.
I don't care what caused the cancer, I just want it gone. I'm certain someone will take offense to this. Somebody out there has a degree in African American studies and thinks I've sold out or lost my mind. Fine. Whatever. It's annoying walking down the street and having half the people you pass cross to the other side or clutch their purse. It's even more annoying when I look at crime statistics that make me understand why. If you told me that there's a 1 in 3 chance that the car I'm riding in might explode, I wouldn't trust it either.
I went to the website of DC's ABC affiliate, WJLA, where I read an article about the unfortunate soul who was severely beaten and placed into a coma this weekend following a robbery that occurred while he was walking home from a bar. Normally I avoid the comments section of their site, because a lot of it is just racist drivel. Some sites now require people to register using their Facebook accounts to cut down on the He-Man complex that comes from anonymity. WJLA does not require this so people post things that even offend me and I have very thick skin.
For whatever reason, I found myself scrolling through one racist comment after another. They always amount to the basic ideology that Black people are violent and if they were removed from DC then the crime rate would go down. Someone suggested that there is evidence to support the claim that black people are the more violent race. It's been my position in the past to not even dignify such things with a response, but I figured why not.
I sought out this mythical data and found myself on the FBI's Uniform Crime Report site. You can read it for yourself here, but I'll summarize it for you: I'm done. That's my summary. I joked about this back in (what was it?) 07? Whenever Three 6 Mafia won that Oscar for It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp I said that I was done with the Black race. I was cutting up my Black card and entering the Race Draft. After reading those numbers, I couldn't do anything but shake my damn head.
Of all murders in this country during 2009, slightly more than half were committed by a Black person. Considering that we make up about 13% of the population, that's a damned shame. The only other major crime that we seem to lead in is robbery. For just about everything else on the list of approximately thirty crimes, we come in second. Now that's nothing to be proud of at all. Take aggravated assault for example: 64% White vs 34% Black. Remember, we make up 13% of the population! Why are we committing more than a third of the crime?
What confounds me even more is that Hispanics and Latinos aren't carved out in this data, so I'm thinking that they're being lumped into the White category. That skews things even more because the White category includes two races worth of crime yet we still beat the cumulative efforts of both for murder.
Don't get me wrong. I don't hate my race. I'm not Uncle Ruckus. You won't see me running around talking about I have reverse-vitiligo, but I'm done trying to defend it. Yeah I could go down the route of talking about the systemic economic and educational disparity between the races that modern crime theory attributes to the seemingly one-sided crime rate in major urban areas. We could get historical and look at the WTF handling of Reconstruction following the Emancipation and how that laid the foundation for the plight of our people. But I'm not doing that today! Because the truth of the matter is, if a Black person hurts someone close to me today, the last thing I'm going to do is try to understand how the system made them this way.
I don't care what caused the cancer, I just want it gone. I'm certain someone will take offense to this. Somebody out there has a degree in African American studies and thinks I've sold out or lost my mind. Fine. Whatever. It's annoying walking down the street and having half the people you pass cross to the other side or clutch their purse. It's even more annoying when I look at crime statistics that make me understand why. If you told me that there's a 1 in 3 chance that the car I'm riding in might explode, I wouldn't trust it either.
Monday, August 20, 2012
NKL Negro Kayaking League
Oh man, what an adventure I've had this weekend!
Lately I've been thinking about my own mortality--not as much the dying part as the I'm getting old part. Watching the finale of House a few months ago didn't help. At the end of the episode they played the Louis Prima cover of Enjoy Yourself, so that's been stuck in my head all summer. It's later than you think! Enjoy yourself while you're still in the pink. The years go by as quickly as a wink. Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, it's later than you think. I've been trying to cram in a bunch offuture memories via new experiences. So what did I do this weekend?
I went kayaking!
That's right, you're looking at the world's first Black kayaker. It doesn't matter that I saw four other Black people out there. I didn't see them when I put my kayak in the water, so I choose to believe that they saw me from the harbor and were inspired by my courage. That makes me Jackie Robinson and they're everybody else. And now that I have integrated the sport, I'm retiring.
That shit scared the holy hell out of me. I don't do water. I've written numerous posts about it. Up until I was about ten years old, I took showers with my back to the shower head for fear of drowning if water went in my face and up my nose. Laugh if you want. I don't care. I don't do water. That's why my integration of kayaking is so significant. If I die before the year is up, please make sure they mention that part during Black History Month. Fearful of drowning, and water in general, Ordale Jackie Robinson Allen got in his kayak, The Proud Mary.
I don't know what possessed me to go kayaking. I'll blame it on The Olympics. They make everybody think they can do something that they can't. I watched that little Gabby Douglass flip off that balance beam and almost broke my damned neck trying to show my daughter how to do a cartwheel. And because she's the beneficiary on my life insurance policy, she just stood there egging me on. When you're two and haven't quite mastered the English language, Dad-dy! Dad-dy! sounds a lot like Die,Die! Die, Die!
The motivation is irrelevant. What matters is that I went down to Thompson Boat Center and before my nerves gave out I jumped in that little yellow boat and drifted down the bacteria infested waters of the Potomac. The first thing I noticed is that there's a lot of water in the Potomac River. You don't really notice it from the street, but it's almost like an ocean's worth of water. Lot of room to drown there.
Kayaks also give off an optical illusion to passersby on the street. From the vantage point near the Kennedy Center (which is where I was when I made the decision to get in one of those damned things) it looks like you sit up kinda high. I mean, I didn't expect to feel like I was in a single person clipper ship or anything, but I felt more like I was riding some lawn furniture from Cuba to Florida more than I felt like I was in a professionally crafted boat.
With that in mind, you can imagine how terrified I was when a real boat went by me with it's engine roaring (insensitive bastard) and created this huge wake that made my little refugee raft bop up and down violently. It might have been nothing to an experienced kayaker, but it was a tidal wave to me. In the raging sea, I lost someone dear to me: My chapstick. I have a waterproof case on my phone, so I decided it was a good idea to pull out the phone and turn on my Runkeeper app which has a GPS map on it. That way, in the event my kayak went Titanic on me, they'd know where to find me floating on my large piece of wood.
Eventually, my fear subsided and I started enjoying myself. At no point did I acknowledge that I was enjoying it for fear of Poseidon or whatever swamp mutant lives in (and has dominion over) the Potomac River smiting me for my hubris. I stayed out there for two hours and by the time that I ran into those other Black people that I mentioned earlier, I looked like a pro. One of them almost crashed into me and I dipped my paddle in the water and made my boat turn out of the way. The lady yelled out to me, I'm sorry. This is my first time and I don't know how to turn. Like the Olympic Kayaker that I am, I yelled back, It's okay. Eventually you'll get the hang of it. Everyone struggles their first time.
Lately I've been thinking about my own mortality--not as much the dying part as the I'm getting old part. Watching the finale of House a few months ago didn't help. At the end of the episode they played the Louis Prima cover of Enjoy Yourself, so that's been stuck in my head all summer. It's later than you think! Enjoy yourself while you're still in the pink. The years go by as quickly as a wink. Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, it's later than you think. I've been trying to cram in a bunch offuture memories via new experiences. So what did I do this weekend?
I went kayaking!
That's right, you're looking at the world's first Black kayaker. It doesn't matter that I saw four other Black people out there. I didn't see them when I put my kayak in the water, so I choose to believe that they saw me from the harbor and were inspired by my courage. That makes me Jackie Robinson and they're everybody else. And now that I have integrated the sport, I'm retiring.
That shit scared the holy hell out of me. I don't do water. I've written numerous posts about it. Up until I was about ten years old, I took showers with my back to the shower head for fear of drowning if water went in my face and up my nose. Laugh if you want. I don't care. I don't do water. That's why my integration of kayaking is so significant. If I die before the year is up, please make sure they mention that part during Black History Month. Fearful of drowning, and water in general, Ordale Jackie Robinson Allen got in his kayak, The Proud Mary.
I don't know what possessed me to go kayaking. I'll blame it on The Olympics. They make everybody think they can do something that they can't. I watched that little Gabby Douglass flip off that balance beam and almost broke my damned neck trying to show my daughter how to do a cartwheel. And because she's the beneficiary on my life insurance policy, she just stood there egging me on. When you're two and haven't quite mastered the English language, Dad-dy! Dad-dy! sounds a lot like Die,Die! Die, Die!
The motivation is irrelevant. What matters is that I went down to Thompson Boat Center and before my nerves gave out I jumped in that little yellow boat and drifted down the bacteria infested waters of the Potomac. The first thing I noticed is that there's a lot of water in the Potomac River. You don't really notice it from the street, but it's almost like an ocean's worth of water. Lot of room to drown there.
Kayaks also give off an optical illusion to passersby on the street. From the vantage point near the Kennedy Center (which is where I was when I made the decision to get in one of those damned things) it looks like you sit up kinda high. I mean, I didn't expect to feel like I was in a single person clipper ship or anything, but I felt more like I was riding some lawn furniture from Cuba to Florida more than I felt like I was in a professionally crafted boat.
With that in mind, you can imagine how terrified I was when a real boat went by me with it's engine roaring (insensitive bastard) and created this huge wake that made my little refugee raft bop up and down violently. It might have been nothing to an experienced kayaker, but it was a tidal wave to me. In the raging sea, I lost someone dear to me: My chapstick. I have a waterproof case on my phone, so I decided it was a good idea to pull out the phone and turn on my Runkeeper app which has a GPS map on it. That way, in the event my kayak went Titanic on me, they'd know where to find me floating on my large piece of wood.
Eventually, my fear subsided and I started enjoying myself. At no point did I acknowledge that I was enjoying it for fear of Poseidon or whatever swamp mutant lives in (and has dominion over) the Potomac River smiting me for my hubris. I stayed out there for two hours and by the time that I ran into those other Black people that I mentioned earlier, I looked like a pro. One of them almost crashed into me and I dipped my paddle in the water and made my boat turn out of the way. The lady yelled out to me, I'm sorry. This is my first time and I don't know how to turn. Like the Olympic Kayaker that I am, I yelled back, It's okay. Eventually you'll get the hang of it. Everyone struggles their first time.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Knockoff
One weekend back in the mid 80s my mother and I housesat for one of her friends. Her son and I were the same age, but worlds apart financially. Stepping into his room was like walking into Toys R Us. There was something on his dresser--something I'd never seen before--that caught my eye. It was a Nintendo. I was probably five or six and was the master of all things Atari, but this was some new sorcery. I played that game all weekend long, only stopping to use the bathroom and beg my mother to buy me one when we got home.
For the next few months leading up to my birthday that's all I talked about. I tried to discreetly drop hints like, "Do you think Santa Claus knows that I got all A's on my report card? Should I send him another letter asking about my Nintendo?" Either that or, "Hey Mommy, did you know that Zaire's (Ames) sells Nintendos too? I thought only K.B Toy Store, Toys R Us, Lionel Kiddie City and Children's Palace sold them, but they sell them at the Zaire's on Rhode Island Avenue."
Finally, my birthday came. I wanted two things, a real Ghostbuster Proton Pack (like one that shoots actual electron beams) or a Nintendo. I awoke to find this:
[caption id="attachment_2631" align="alignnone" width="315"]
The word of the day, boys and girls, is asshole. Do you know any assholes? I bet you do![/caption]
You should know by now that I have a great memory, but seeing this box was so traumatic to me that I don't remember who gave it to me. I opened the box on my birthday in '88, a voice said "You wanted Super Mario, right?" and the next thing I knew it was 1989. Everything else is a blur.
The same thing happened several years later in high school. Personally, I never gave a damn about brand name clothes, but the girls in my school did. For most of junior high I got clowned for wearing JC Penny's finest and because no one had any cut cards, a random "tag inspection" was common. I had this shirt that looked like Polo, but one day someone pulled the tag and read it out loud "What the fuck is King's Court?" That's when everyone noticed that the man on my shirt wasn't holding a polo club, rather a jousting lance. Do you know how hard it was to live that down? That's why I was so good at joaning (cutting, the dozens, etc) on people. The best defense is a strong offense.
In 9th grade I said that I didn't care if it meant I could only have two shirts for the whole year, I wanted something brand name. So, I went out to Landover Mall and the mysterious person whom trauma has erased from my mind took me inside this store where I was told everything was dirt cheap for some reason. "Must be because they get it wholesale." I saw two shirts, one was a Polo shirt and the other was a Tommy Hilfiger shirt. I bought them both.
The first thing I noticed was that they were kinda itchy, but maybe my ghetto skin just wasn't accustomed to wearing brand names. So one day I'm in school and I start joaning on this girl that I liked. It was playful for the most part, but we drew the interest of other people in the class. I made a joke offering her some lotion for her ashy black jeans and the next thing I know she said, "I know you not talking with that fake ass Tommy Hilfiger shirt!"
What?
"Fake? Man you better check my fucking tag. This joint is all real!" She just started laughing like some kinda cartoon villain. "No boo-boo. I aint gotta check the tag. I can fucking spell. T-O-M-M-4-E-V-E-R. What's that, your Wheel of Fortune shirt? I'd like to buy a 'Y!'" The confused look on my face made her laugh even more. "Oh shit, you didn't know!"
(Attention passengers, we're losing cabin pressure)
I looked down at my shirt and realized that I was a dumb ass. It was written all over my shirt in big letters and I never noticed the 'Y' was missing. The brain sees what it wants to see I guess. At least my other shirt was real.
"And didn't you have on some fake ass Polo shirt the other day too? POLOGAME? Ralph Lauren makes Polo, Ordale, not POLOGAME as one word."
Just as it was with the Super Mario handheld, everything after that is a blur. The next thing I remember is that it was summer after 9th grade and I was standing at the register in Hechts in Wheaton Mall asking the cashier how he could be sure that my new shirt was actually made by Nautica and what their return policy was if I determined later that it wasn't.
For the next few months leading up to my birthday that's all I talked about. I tried to discreetly drop hints like, "Do you think Santa Claus knows that I got all A's on my report card? Should I send him another letter asking about my Nintendo?" Either that or, "Hey Mommy, did you know that Zaire's (Ames) sells Nintendos too? I thought only K.B Toy Store, Toys R Us, Lionel Kiddie City and Children's Palace sold them, but they sell them at the Zaire's on Rhode Island Avenue."
Finally, my birthday came. I wanted two things, a real Ghostbuster Proton Pack (like one that shoots actual electron beams) or a Nintendo. I awoke to find this:
- The word of the day, boys and girls, is asshole. Do you know any assholes? I bet you do!
[caption id="attachment_2631" align="alignnone" width="315"]
The word of the day, boys and girls, is asshole. Do you know any assholes? I bet you do![/caption]You should know by now that I have a great memory, but seeing this box was so traumatic to me that I don't remember who gave it to me. I opened the box on my birthday in '88, a voice said "You wanted Super Mario, right?" and the next thing I knew it was 1989. Everything else is a blur.
The same thing happened several years later in high school. Personally, I never gave a damn about brand name clothes, but the girls in my school did. For most of junior high I got clowned for wearing JC Penny's finest and because no one had any cut cards, a random "tag inspection" was common. I had this shirt that looked like Polo, but one day someone pulled the tag and read it out loud "What the fuck is King's Court?" That's when everyone noticed that the man on my shirt wasn't holding a polo club, rather a jousting lance. Do you know how hard it was to live that down? That's why I was so good at joaning (cutting, the dozens, etc) on people. The best defense is a strong offense.
In 9th grade I said that I didn't care if it meant I could only have two shirts for the whole year, I wanted something brand name. So, I went out to Landover Mall and the mysterious person whom trauma has erased from my mind took me inside this store where I was told everything was dirt cheap for some reason. "Must be because they get it wholesale." I saw two shirts, one was a Polo shirt and the other was a Tommy Hilfiger shirt. I bought them both.
The first thing I noticed was that they were kinda itchy, but maybe my ghetto skin just wasn't accustomed to wearing brand names. So one day I'm in school and I start joaning on this girl that I liked. It was playful for the most part, but we drew the interest of other people in the class. I made a joke offering her some lotion for her ashy black jeans and the next thing I know she said, "I know you not talking with that fake ass Tommy Hilfiger shirt!"
What?
"Fake? Man you better check my fucking tag. This joint is all real!" She just started laughing like some kinda cartoon villain. "No boo-boo. I aint gotta check the tag. I can fucking spell. T-O-M-M-4-E-V-E-R. What's that, your Wheel of Fortune shirt? I'd like to buy a 'Y!'" The confused look on my face made her laugh even more. "Oh shit, you didn't know!"
(Attention passengers, we're losing cabin pressure)
I looked down at my shirt and realized that I was a dumb ass. It was written all over my shirt in big letters and I never noticed the 'Y' was missing. The brain sees what it wants to see I guess. At least my other shirt was real.
"And didn't you have on some fake ass Polo shirt the other day too? POLOGAME? Ralph Lauren makes Polo, Ordale, not POLOGAME as one word."
Just as it was with the Super Mario handheld, everything after that is a blur. The next thing I remember is that it was summer after 9th grade and I was standing at the register in Hechts in Wheaton Mall asking the cashier how he could be sure that my new shirt was actually made by Nautica and what their return policy was if I determined later that it wasn't.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Dear Bill Collectors
Dear Verizon, RCN, Student Loan People, Et al,
Today is the 15th which is Bill Day in my house. All of you should have received money from me, most of it you don't deserve. We've been going through this for a while and I feel that I know you all well enough to speak candidly. Even if we aren't that close, you have enough of my money that I feel comfortable, and entitled, to speak candidly.
Please stop bullshitting me with the "Go Paperless" thing. Every single one of you has something pop up online when I try to pay my bill saying that I can save the environment "and the hassle" by going paperless. Let's get something straight. You don't give two damns about the environment, nor do you give a fraction of a damn about the "hassle" I go through lifting that half an ounce envelope from the mailbox every month and using a team of oxen to carry it back to my apartment. You care about money.
You see, the only reason I've had money to give to you people the last few years is because I had a job. One of the perks of being a powerless mid-level manager in a thankless capacity is that I got to sit in on meetings where people who did have power complained about how much was being spent on administrative costs. Buying paper, printing a bill on it, stuffing it into an envelope and putting it in the mail falls under administrative costs. By signing up for paperless billing, I cut some of your costs. What do I get from this though? Not a damned thing. Until you start offering to reduce my bill by whatever miniscule amount I'm saving you, then you better cut down every tree, bush and shrub to send me a bill every month. I don't care if I'm just saving a tenth of a cent. You better cut up a penny and mail me my part.
And while we're having this heart to heart, please stop asking me about automatic bill pay. If I let you tell it, people "forget" that they have to pay bills each month. Trust me, no one in the working class forgets that they owe people money. Bills are why we get up each day and go to work. You think I woke up one morning as a child and said, "When I grow up I want to sit in a cubicle and listen to people complain all damned day." That wasn't a part of career day.
No, people don't forget that they owe money. They just don't pay you when you want them to pay you. I went to business school. I understand opportunity costs: Money today is worth more than money tomorrow. It works both ways. On an irresponsible person's end, opportunity cost means that this might be the last time I get to buy that shiny thing over there or go see ____ in concert and that will make me really happy vs waiting down the road to do it, so screw (Insert company name), I'll do a payment arrangement. That doesn't work for you, so you want people to pay you as soon as the bill is due or as soon as they get paid. It's a valid argument, but I fall into a different group.
I'm very responsible with money. Always have been. I'm fortunate and thank whatever deity guides my life for the fact that (so far) I have your money the day you send the bill. I'm still not paying you until the last minute though. Why? Because my group is called the "kiss my ass" group. You want your money when you want it. I want my cable to work every single day. I don't get what I want, so neither do you. You want me to pay the first day. I want someone to answer my call in the first minute. Until you start doing what I want, I'm not doing what you want.
Finally, stop acting like you care about me. You don't. You write these heartfelt letters to me like there's some guy named Verizon T. Johnson sitting at a desk made out of telephone pole wood writing these heartfelt memos to me hoping that I enjoy the effort he's put into personally connecting each one of my calls, but the truth is that you're just a corporation whose goal is to make money. I know this, because I own some of your stock. Stop pandering to me. Just give me my service and I'll send you your money.
We're in bed together, but we're not lovers. When it's all over, the money's on the nightstand. Please get up and leave. And don't give me that "I care about you" crap, because you knew what this was when we started.
Today is the 15th which is Bill Day in my house. All of you should have received money from me, most of it you don't deserve. We've been going through this for a while and I feel that I know you all well enough to speak candidly. Even if we aren't that close, you have enough of my money that I feel comfortable, and entitled, to speak candidly.
Please stop bullshitting me with the "Go Paperless" thing. Every single one of you has something pop up online when I try to pay my bill saying that I can save the environment "and the hassle" by going paperless. Let's get something straight. You don't give two damns about the environment, nor do you give a fraction of a damn about the "hassle" I go through lifting that half an ounce envelope from the mailbox every month and using a team of oxen to carry it back to my apartment. You care about money.
You see, the only reason I've had money to give to you people the last few years is because I had a job. One of the perks of being a powerless mid-level manager in a thankless capacity is that I got to sit in on meetings where people who did have power complained about how much was being spent on administrative costs. Buying paper, printing a bill on it, stuffing it into an envelope and putting it in the mail falls under administrative costs. By signing up for paperless billing, I cut some of your costs. What do I get from this though? Not a damned thing. Until you start offering to reduce my bill by whatever miniscule amount I'm saving you, then you better cut down every tree, bush and shrub to send me a bill every month. I don't care if I'm just saving a tenth of a cent. You better cut up a penny and mail me my part.
And while we're having this heart to heart, please stop asking me about automatic bill pay. If I let you tell it, people "forget" that they have to pay bills each month. Trust me, no one in the working class forgets that they owe people money. Bills are why we get up each day and go to work. You think I woke up one morning as a child and said, "When I grow up I want to sit in a cubicle and listen to people complain all damned day." That wasn't a part of career day.
No, people don't forget that they owe money. They just don't pay you when you want them to pay you. I went to business school. I understand opportunity costs: Money today is worth more than money tomorrow. It works both ways. On an irresponsible person's end, opportunity cost means that this might be the last time I get to buy that shiny thing over there or go see ____ in concert and that will make me really happy vs waiting down the road to do it, so screw (Insert company name), I'll do a payment arrangement. That doesn't work for you, so you want people to pay you as soon as the bill is due or as soon as they get paid. It's a valid argument, but I fall into a different group.
I'm very responsible with money. Always have been. I'm fortunate and thank whatever deity guides my life for the fact that (so far) I have your money the day you send the bill. I'm still not paying you until the last minute though. Why? Because my group is called the "kiss my ass" group. You want your money when you want it. I want my cable to work every single day. I don't get what I want, so neither do you. You want me to pay the first day. I want someone to answer my call in the first minute. Until you start doing what I want, I'm not doing what you want.
Finally, stop acting like you care about me. You don't. You write these heartfelt letters to me like there's some guy named Verizon T. Johnson sitting at a desk made out of telephone pole wood writing these heartfelt memos to me hoping that I enjoy the effort he's put into personally connecting each one of my calls, but the truth is that you're just a corporation whose goal is to make money. I know this, because I own some of your stock. Stop pandering to me. Just give me my service and I'll send you your money.
We're in bed together, but we're not lovers. When it's all over, the money's on the nightstand. Please get up and leave. And don't give me that "I care about you" crap, because you knew what this was when we started.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Eye of the Tiger
Well, the Olympics are finally over. Good riddance! The Games always bring back painful memories. I don't usually like talking about this, but I guess I can share it with you since it's just me and you... I was supposed to go to the Olympics. Yes, that's right. You've been in the presence of an Olympian all this time.
The year was 1994 and 11 year old me had a huge crush on this girl in my class. She didn't know any better at the time, so she didn't like me either. I asked her to level with me and tell me why. I remember what she said verbatim, "Blah, blah, blah nerd. Blah, blah, poor. Blah, blah, dress like a bamma. Blah, Blah, short. Blah, blah, fat." You know me. I channeled the spirit of Jay-Z before he even came out: On to the next one, on to the next one.
I asked the next two top girls in the class "for a chance" and I got similar responses. Finally it was my best friend, my home girl, my ace who put me on the level. "You are kinda annoying and nerdy and you do dress like a bamma but you can't help that because you're poor and then you are fat but that's just because you're short but I'm sure it's a girl out there somewhere who is shorter than you." The mind hears what it wants to hear. These girls don't like me because I'm fat. Cue the Rocky music.
Like, seriously. Cue the Rocky music. It came on TV that weekend. I don't know how I managed to never see any of the Rocky movies until '94, but that famous montage inspired me. Sixth grade was almost over and I'd be moving on to middle school, but I swore that things would be different in seventh grade.
I got up one morning and ate a raw egg. After that came back up I went for a "run" and I use that term very loosely. Blockbuster was about a mile and a half from my house, so I decided to run there to take some movies back. Ten minutes and two mild heart attacks later, I was about four blocks from my house. I started to think that maybe Sylvester Stallone lied to me.
Pushups and situps were a little better. I could do five of those at a time, which I thought was great until I read an article in Sports Illustrated for Kids that told me I sucked. I also started to notice that pushups did absolutely nothing to build muscle. Someone told me that I needed to lift weights, but where the hell was I gonna find some of those? (Light bulb!) I took all my old encyclopedias and stuffed as many as I could into an old backpack. I put it on the scale and it topped out at 20 lbs.
I took my shirt off to let the bird (chest) out its cage and started lifting "weights" in the mirror. I wanted to watch as the muscles exploded out of my chest. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. If I couldn't do five pushups, imagine what happened after two reps. My arms locked up, I got a cramp in my side and my chest started to spasm. As I lie on the floor writhing in pain, I imagined all the girls I was doing this for. Women (or parts thereof) are a hell of a motivation. I got right back up.
By the end of the summer I was skinny. I'm sure puberty helped with that, but the ability to do about 50 pushups and situps in a row, run a six minute mile and lift my ghetto-fabulous backpack weight was all me. What does any of this have to do with the Olympics? Two years later in '96, I watched Michael Johnson run the 200 and 400 and decided that if I could go from the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man that I was in elementary school to the iron man competitor that I'd become, then I could do that too.
All I needed was motivation. And then Rocky came on TV again...
The year was 1994 and 11 year old me had a huge crush on this girl in my class. She didn't know any better at the time, so she didn't like me either. I asked her to level with me and tell me why. I remember what she said verbatim, "Blah, blah, blah nerd. Blah, blah, poor. Blah, blah, dress like a bamma. Blah, Blah, short. Blah, blah, fat." You know me. I channeled the spirit of Jay-Z before he even came out: On to the next one, on to the next one.
I asked the next two top girls in the class "for a chance" and I got similar responses. Finally it was my best friend, my home girl, my ace who put me on the level. "You are kinda annoying and nerdy and you do dress like a bamma but you can't help that because you're poor and then you are fat but that's just because you're short but I'm sure it's a girl out there somewhere who is shorter than you." The mind hears what it wants to hear. These girls don't like me because I'm fat. Cue the Rocky music.
Like, seriously. Cue the Rocky music. It came on TV that weekend. I don't know how I managed to never see any of the Rocky movies until '94, but that famous montage inspired me. Sixth grade was almost over and I'd be moving on to middle school, but I swore that things would be different in seventh grade.
I got up one morning and ate a raw egg. After that came back up I went for a "run" and I use that term very loosely. Blockbuster was about a mile and a half from my house, so I decided to run there to take some movies back. Ten minutes and two mild heart attacks later, I was about four blocks from my house. I started to think that maybe Sylvester Stallone lied to me.
Pushups and situps were a little better. I could do five of those at a time, which I thought was great until I read an article in Sports Illustrated for Kids that told me I sucked. I also started to notice that pushups did absolutely nothing to build muscle. Someone told me that I needed to lift weights, but where the hell was I gonna find some of those? (Light bulb!) I took all my old encyclopedias and stuffed as many as I could into an old backpack. I put it on the scale and it topped out at 20 lbs.
I took my shirt off to let the bird (chest) out its cage and started lifting "weights" in the mirror. I wanted to watch as the muscles exploded out of my chest. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. If I couldn't do five pushups, imagine what happened after two reps. My arms locked up, I got a cramp in my side and my chest started to spasm. As I lie on the floor writhing in pain, I imagined all the girls I was doing this for. Women (or parts thereof) are a hell of a motivation. I got right back up.
By the end of the summer I was skinny. I'm sure puberty helped with that, but the ability to do about 50 pushups and situps in a row, run a six minute mile and lift my ghetto-fabulous backpack weight was all me. What does any of this have to do with the Olympics? Two years later in '96, I watched Michael Johnson run the 200 and 400 and decided that if I could go from the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man that I was in elementary school to the iron man competitor that I'd become, then I could do that too.
All I needed was motivation. And then Rocky came on TV again...
Friday, August 10, 2012
Licensed to Drive
It was this day in history that I got my drivers license. Fourteen years goes by fast.
I remember studying that little stupid book like it was gospel. On my 16th birthday I went down to the main DMV office and got my learners permit. A part of me was expecting them to note my perfect score on the permit like, "We got a genius over here." They could care less and, judging by how most people drive in this city, I can see why. Nonetheless, I had my permit and was ready to go out and do some "learner-ing."
And for the next three weeks not a damned thing happened.
No one took me driving. No one even offered to discuss the rules of the road with me. Everyone who owned a car got ghost. So what did my crazy ass do? I went over to the carnival, bought one of those unlimited rides wristbands and practiced on the bumper cars. People looked at me like I was crazy riding around the joint trying not to get hit. I even parallel parked the thing in the corner before it cut off each time.
It was about a week before the test when my aunt came by and I asked her to take me out to Forestville Mall so I could practice driving on Crusin USA at the Time-Out Arcade. That was enough to earn her pity and she took me out driving. We crammed an entire Driver's Ed course into a few days. That following Monday I went to the Brentwood location to take the road test.
I think they had a quota for how many people they were supposed to fail each day, because they didn't even bother tallying up stuff. They just failed you as soon as you made your first mistake. Don't stop at that first stop sign when you leave the parking lot AND stop before you cross over the sidewalk...They pull the emergency brake. Cross over that bold white lane divider line at the top of the hill...They pull the emergency brake. If you've ever driven in DC then you know the least of your concerns is someone switching lanes at the last minute. They need to have something like, "Crater-Depth-Pothole avoidance" or "Distracted tourist collision maneuvers."
Half of my friends failed before me, so I kept a mental record of everything not to do. First and foremost was "Don't get the mean lady with the bush." Her whole purpose in life was to fail people, so I made sure to let the girl behind me go ahead of me when I saw her standing there. I knew I needed a strategy, so I played the same card I used to get into R-rated movies: Old people relatability.
I got in the car, turned down the stereo, checked my mirrors and then asked the guy if he wouldn't mind double checking to make sure his seat belt was taut. I think he was about to call bullshit on that one, so I brought out the big gun. I closed my eyes and prayed over the vehicle and our safety. Then we were off and running. I made idle conversation, played up the whole "I'm a nerd that goes to Banneker" thing and how my license is going to allow me to take my grandmother to Bible Study. By the time we got back I think that man was so tired of hearing me talk that he passed me just so he'd never have to see me again.
It doesn't matter what I had to do to get the license. All that matters is that I got it. It was August 10, 1998 and 16 year old Ordale J Allen was now a licensed driver. Not that it's saying much, but DC believed I was ready to drive alone and that's exactly what I was planning to do.
And for the next few months...not a damned thing happened.
I remember studying that little stupid book like it was gospel. On my 16th birthday I went down to the main DMV office and got my learners permit. A part of me was expecting them to note my perfect score on the permit like, "We got a genius over here." They could care less and, judging by how most people drive in this city, I can see why. Nonetheless, I had my permit and was ready to go out and do some "learner-ing."
And for the next three weeks not a damned thing happened.
No one took me driving. No one even offered to discuss the rules of the road with me. Everyone who owned a car got ghost. So what did my crazy ass do? I went over to the carnival, bought one of those unlimited rides wristbands and practiced on the bumper cars. People looked at me like I was crazy riding around the joint trying not to get hit. I even parallel parked the thing in the corner before it cut off each time.
It was about a week before the test when my aunt came by and I asked her to take me out to Forestville Mall so I could practice driving on Crusin USA at the Time-Out Arcade. That was enough to earn her pity and she took me out driving. We crammed an entire Driver's Ed course into a few days. That following Monday I went to the Brentwood location to take the road test.
I think they had a quota for how many people they were supposed to fail each day, because they didn't even bother tallying up stuff. They just failed you as soon as you made your first mistake. Don't stop at that first stop sign when you leave the parking lot AND stop before you cross over the sidewalk...They pull the emergency brake. Cross over that bold white lane divider line at the top of the hill...They pull the emergency brake. If you've ever driven in DC then you know the least of your concerns is someone switching lanes at the last minute. They need to have something like, "Crater-Depth-Pothole avoidance" or "Distracted tourist collision maneuvers."
Half of my friends failed before me, so I kept a mental record of everything not to do. First and foremost was "Don't get the mean lady with the bush." Her whole purpose in life was to fail people, so I made sure to let the girl behind me go ahead of me when I saw her standing there. I knew I needed a strategy, so I played the same card I used to get into R-rated movies: Old people relatability.
I got in the car, turned down the stereo, checked my mirrors and then asked the guy if he wouldn't mind double checking to make sure his seat belt was taut. I think he was about to call bullshit on that one, so I brought out the big gun. I closed my eyes and prayed over the vehicle and our safety. Then we were off and running. I made idle conversation, played up the whole "I'm a nerd that goes to Banneker" thing and how my license is going to allow me to take my grandmother to Bible Study. By the time we got back I think that man was so tired of hearing me talk that he passed me just so he'd never have to see me again.
It doesn't matter what I had to do to get the license. All that matters is that I got it. It was August 10, 1998 and 16 year old Ordale J Allen was now a licensed driver. Not that it's saying much, but DC believed I was ready to drive alone and that's exactly what I was planning to do.
And for the next few months...not a damned thing happened.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Citius, Altius, Fortius
I'm watching the Olympics and there are sports being played that I don't think should be sports. Let me say ahead of time that I am a nobody and I haven't competed in anything at all since the 11th grade. Still, I'm entitled to my opinion so this what I think:
First I don't know who the hell came up with water polo, but anywhere else that shit would be called attempted murder. How the hell they get people to sign up for sanctioned drownings is a mystery to me, but you won't catch me doing it.
Second, I was extremely disappointed by the shooting competition. I've always been fascinated with guns ever since I was a little kid and I guess I was expecting more of an "urban" version of the competition. I can understand that there may be some liability issues with having them shoot at each other, but I think that would be much more entertaining. I don't know what I was expecting, but the uber-nerd standing there with the glasses with the blinders on and all the mess hooked up to the gun to help them just seemed extra. I would've rather seen them just stand there and play Area 51 or Time Crisis.
Judo was disappointing, more like wrestling.
Indoor Cycling is pretty interesting. I can't figure out who the hell came up with that, nor do I truly understand what I witnessed in the "Pursuit cycling," but it was fun. Seems like something a poor person made up who couldn't go outside to play.
Let's see, in the "That's an Olympic sport?" category we have Badminton and Table Tennis.
Archery gets absolutely no respect from me. I was expecting something more along the lines of Lord of the Rings or Robin Hood, not those rifle looking bows with guides and sights on them. Seems like cheating. Legolas could hit that target by just throwing the arrow.
How did I not know that jumping on a trampoline was an Olympic event? I would've trained for that shit years ago. I would've put so many miles on this Sealy Posturepedic. And you know fat people would have an advantage. I might not ever come back down.
Equestrian and fencing are severely outdated. They should either make the horses race or scrap them in favor of a street race with cars. Fencing should switch to machetes or meat cleavers, something a little more risky. They can tie their arms together and make em fight to the tune of "Beat It" for all I care. I just feel like if you're having a blade fight, getting cut should be a possibility.
And then I have my own Olympic Event in mind. I've been saying this for years and I may have even written it on this very blog in the past. I think there should be an event where they take eight of the world's fastest and strongest and give them backpacks full of money. Let's say a cool million in cash. Then they should dump them in the worst part of town of the host city and tell everyone where they are and what they look like. The first one to make it back to Olympic Stadium with the money gets a gold medal.
First I don't know who the hell came up with water polo, but anywhere else that shit would be called attempted murder. How the hell they get people to sign up for sanctioned drownings is a mystery to me, but you won't catch me doing it.
Second, I was extremely disappointed by the shooting competition. I've always been fascinated with guns ever since I was a little kid and I guess I was expecting more of an "urban" version of the competition. I can understand that there may be some liability issues with having them shoot at each other, but I think that would be much more entertaining. I don't know what I was expecting, but the uber-nerd standing there with the glasses with the blinders on and all the mess hooked up to the gun to help them just seemed extra. I would've rather seen them just stand there and play Area 51 or Time Crisis.
Judo was disappointing, more like wrestling.
Indoor Cycling is pretty interesting. I can't figure out who the hell came up with that, nor do I truly understand what I witnessed in the "Pursuit cycling," but it was fun. Seems like something a poor person made up who couldn't go outside to play.
Let's see, in the "That's an Olympic sport?" category we have Badminton and Table Tennis.
Archery gets absolutely no respect from me. I was expecting something more along the lines of Lord of the Rings or Robin Hood, not those rifle looking bows with guides and sights on them. Seems like cheating. Legolas could hit that target by just throwing the arrow.
How did I not know that jumping on a trampoline was an Olympic event? I would've trained for that shit years ago. I would've put so many miles on this Sealy Posturepedic. And you know fat people would have an advantage. I might not ever come back down.
Equestrian and fencing are severely outdated. They should either make the horses race or scrap them in favor of a street race with cars. Fencing should switch to machetes or meat cleavers, something a little more risky. They can tie their arms together and make em fight to the tune of "Beat It" for all I care. I just feel like if you're having a blade fight, getting cut should be a possibility.
And then I have my own Olympic Event in mind. I've been saying this for years and I may have even written it on this very blog in the past. I think there should be an event where they take eight of the world's fastest and strongest and give them backpacks full of money. Let's say a cool million in cash. Then they should dump them in the worst part of town of the host city and tell everyone where they are and what they look like. The first one to make it back to Olympic Stadium with the money gets a gold medal.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
You Are Not Alone
I just left Giant where I saw a guy with two little girls. One was about four and the other was about two. He was parked beside me and his open door was blocking me from putting my daughter in the car. He was completely oblivious to my presence as I stood there for about four minutes watching him battle his younger child to get her out of the car.
He tried everything and that little girl screamed "no" at the top of her lungs each time. He offered her stuff, he tried the daddy "bass" voice thing and nothing worked. The older one saw me and must have told him that I was there because he emerged like he was ready to fight a potential kidnapper. When he saw me holding my daughter, he just gave me this look. I can't put it into words, but an entire conversation was held in that one look that we exchanged. He didn't have to apologize for blocking me in, I wasn't judging him for not being able to control his child and I had his back if the children banded together and tried a mutiny.
Eventually he got them both out and walked toward the store where another struggle began. That little one began slapping the hell out of him as he tried to put her in the shopping cart. After he got her in the cart he just put his head down on the handle of the cart. He didn't say anything to either one of them and he didn't move for a good thirty seconds. I think he had a mild breakdown. It made me smile. Not because I like to see other people suffer, but because it is comforting to realize that I'm not alone out here.
Sometimes you feel like you're failing this gig. It seems like no matter how much you read and plan and try to give your best, you just keep fucking up left and right. But when you see another person out there with kids have a small nervous breakdown in the parking lot, you realize that you're still par for the course. And that is very reassuring. I'm starting to realize that if you aren't stressed the hell out from time to time, then you're not trying hard enough.
He tried everything and that little girl screamed "no" at the top of her lungs each time. He offered her stuff, he tried the daddy "bass" voice thing and nothing worked. The older one saw me and must have told him that I was there because he emerged like he was ready to fight a potential kidnapper. When he saw me holding my daughter, he just gave me this look. I can't put it into words, but an entire conversation was held in that one look that we exchanged. He didn't have to apologize for blocking me in, I wasn't judging him for not being able to control his child and I had his back if the children banded together and tried a mutiny.
Eventually he got them both out and walked toward the store where another struggle began. That little one began slapping the hell out of him as he tried to put her in the shopping cart. After he got her in the cart he just put his head down on the handle of the cart. He didn't say anything to either one of them and he didn't move for a good thirty seconds. I think he had a mild breakdown. It made me smile. Not because I like to see other people suffer, but because it is comforting to realize that I'm not alone out here.
Sometimes you feel like you're failing this gig. It seems like no matter how much you read and plan and try to give your best, you just keep fucking up left and right. But when you see another person out there with kids have a small nervous breakdown in the parking lot, you realize that you're still par for the course. And that is very reassuring. I'm starting to realize that if you aren't stressed the hell out from time to time, then you're not trying hard enough.
When Israel Was in Egypt's Land
Random Parenting Thoughts
As always, this post is being written from a place of extreme fatigue, paranoia and mild depression. Nothing is wrong with me, I'm just learning that it's all a part of parenting. I could look back over my previous posts to see if I'm just writing the same thing twice, but I don't have the energy, so just give me a pass if any of this is repetitive.
The terrible twos are kicking my ass. I brushed my teeth with lotion this morning. I'm that out of it. For some reason the bottle was sitting on the sink and I just squeezed some out onto the toothbrush as if that was normal. I'm tired. I thought a weekend away was going to rejuvenate and recharge, but instead it just confused me. I imagine it's what prisoners feel when they go out to pick up trash on the side of the highway. A taste of freedom isn't healthy. So now I'm giving "freedom" the same speech Denzel gave his wife/girlfriend in The Hurricane. "Don't come back here anymore. I won't accept your visit. It's tough enough trying to do the time." That's probably not what he said exactly, but that's what my mind remembers and again, I'm too tired to google it.
I have 12 months and a couple of weeks until the 2013 school year starts and guess who's going to preschool. The wife will cry and take a bunch of pictures, but I'm gonna be up at 5:30 in the morning packing a lunch, a sleeping bag and a suitcase in case she likes it enough to spend the night. The wife said something blasphemous not too long ago about, "DC says it's not mandatory for them to go to school until they're five and go to kindergarten." I replied with, "I rebuke you, Satan!" She's getting the hell outta here. If I don't win the DCPS lottery and all the slots are filled then we're moving a mile up the street to Maryland and she's going to school there.
I went on a parenting blog today and wrote out a simple question:
"Is this normal: My child throws tantrums for no reason, falls out on the floor in public and screams at the top of her lungs. She won't do anything I say anymore and the simplest tasks become power struggles. This all started about a month ago."
I got about 30 responses in under ten minutes. All of them said yes. Some were just "LOLs" and a few were "You aint seen nothing yet." One lady wrote something that made me think. She asked me to think back to every time I've gone out in public and to try and remember how many 2-3 year olds I saw. She made a great point. I see babies everywhere. I can't go two aisles without almost being run over by a stroller, but I hardly ever see a two year old. I see kindergarteners and maybe a very well behaved 3-4 year old, but I rarely see a two year old. The lady finished her post with, "Anyone with a two year old is currently being held hostage in a house somewhere." That lady's post was a burning bush. I know what I must do now. I'm going out to get a stick and I'm gonna find my daughter and shout:
Pharaoh, let my people go!
As always, this post is being written from a place of extreme fatigue, paranoia and mild depression. Nothing is wrong with me, I'm just learning that it's all a part of parenting. I could look back over my previous posts to see if I'm just writing the same thing twice, but I don't have the energy, so just give me a pass if any of this is repetitive.
The terrible twos are kicking my ass. I brushed my teeth with lotion this morning. I'm that out of it. For some reason the bottle was sitting on the sink and I just squeezed some out onto the toothbrush as if that was normal. I'm tired. I thought a weekend away was going to rejuvenate and recharge, but instead it just confused me. I imagine it's what prisoners feel when they go out to pick up trash on the side of the highway. A taste of freedom isn't healthy. So now I'm giving "freedom" the same speech Denzel gave his wife/girlfriend in The Hurricane. "Don't come back here anymore. I won't accept your visit. It's tough enough trying to do the time." That's probably not what he said exactly, but that's what my mind remembers and again, I'm too tired to google it.
I have 12 months and a couple of weeks until the 2013 school year starts and guess who's going to preschool. The wife will cry and take a bunch of pictures, but I'm gonna be up at 5:30 in the morning packing a lunch, a sleeping bag and a suitcase in case she likes it enough to spend the night. The wife said something blasphemous not too long ago about, "DC says it's not mandatory for them to go to school until they're five and go to kindergarten." I replied with, "I rebuke you, Satan!" She's getting the hell outta here. If I don't win the DCPS lottery and all the slots are filled then we're moving a mile up the street to Maryland and she's going to school there.
I went on a parenting blog today and wrote out a simple question:
"Is this normal: My child throws tantrums for no reason, falls out on the floor in public and screams at the top of her lungs. She won't do anything I say anymore and the simplest tasks become power struggles. This all started about a month ago."
I got about 30 responses in under ten minutes. All of them said yes. Some were just "LOLs" and a few were "You aint seen nothing yet." One lady wrote something that made me think. She asked me to think back to every time I've gone out in public and to try and remember how many 2-3 year olds I saw. She made a great point. I see babies everywhere. I can't go two aisles without almost being run over by a stroller, but I hardly ever see a two year old. I see kindergarteners and maybe a very well behaved 3-4 year old, but I rarely see a two year old. The lady finished her post with, "Anyone with a two year old is currently being held hostage in a house somewhere." That lady's post was a burning bush. I know what I must do now. I'm going out to get a stick and I'm gonna find my daughter and shout:
Pharaoh, let my people go!
Monday, August 6, 2012
Mini Vacation
I went to North Carolina over the weekend for some much needed R&R. No baby, no midnight beatings and unexplainable bruises appearing on my body. Just a man, his thoughts and a hotel bed that I was scared to sleep in (more on that later).
Durham, I owe you an apology. When I lived down there I used to say that it was a great place to go to die. By die, I mean natural death like old age, not to be confused with getting killed, which seems to be DC's claim to fame. Durham is quiet, serene and full of friendly people who smile, hold doors and are quick to let the other car go first at a stop sign. Being a young person from DC, I couldn't really appreciate it back then. I still can't see myself living there before I start collecting social security, but it was exactly what I needed for a stress-free weekend.
The air smelled like the perfect blend of nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide. Almost immediately I noticed the absence of Homeless Person Essence #4, Potomac River vapor and Metrorail Sidewalk Grate steam. The water, oh God, the water. I haven't had nonflammable water in so long. People always compliment my smile and I tell them that it's because of DC water. It has the perfect blend of chlorine, lead and Anacostia River Extract to burn off tartar, plaque and the gum disease gingivitis.
Everything wasn't perfect though. I was on a budget so I picked a hotel that used to be nice when I was in college. AOL Keywords: used to be. I flopped down on the bed and the mattress stood up in protest. Apparently the frame was loose or something, so I got down on the floor to investigate and locked eyes with the Trojan Man. It was still in the wrapper, so I left it there with the intent on taking it to the lost and found once I found some hazmat gloves. Things just went downhill from there, but let's just say I turned the A/C off and slept in my clothes with no blanket, sheet or anything else provided by the hotel. Now I know why they charged (not authorized...charged!) the room up front and had a no refund policy.
The rest of the trip was great though. It's a good weekend when it feels like you've been gone for 4-5 days. Of course DC welcomed me back with open arms this morning. I got cut off by a cyclist who thinks his bike has a force field around it and an off duty cop gave me the finger when he tried to get over without signaling and I blew the horn so he wouldn't side swipe me.
Welcome home. (Deep inhale) Is that Eau De Mumbo Sauce in the air?
Durham, I owe you an apology. When I lived down there I used to say that it was a great place to go to die. By die, I mean natural death like old age, not to be confused with getting killed, which seems to be DC's claim to fame. Durham is quiet, serene and full of friendly people who smile, hold doors and are quick to let the other car go first at a stop sign. Being a young person from DC, I couldn't really appreciate it back then. I still can't see myself living there before I start collecting social security, but it was exactly what I needed for a stress-free weekend.
The air smelled like the perfect blend of nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide. Almost immediately I noticed the absence of Homeless Person Essence #4, Potomac River vapor and Metrorail Sidewalk Grate steam. The water, oh God, the water. I haven't had nonflammable water in so long. People always compliment my smile and I tell them that it's because of DC water. It has the perfect blend of chlorine, lead and Anacostia River Extract to burn off tartar, plaque and the gum disease gingivitis.
Everything wasn't perfect though. I was on a budget so I picked a hotel that used to be nice when I was in college. AOL Keywords: used to be. I flopped down on the bed and the mattress stood up in protest. Apparently the frame was loose or something, so I got down on the floor to investigate and locked eyes with the Trojan Man. It was still in the wrapper, so I left it there with the intent on taking it to the lost and found once I found some hazmat gloves. Things just went downhill from there, but let's just say I turned the A/C off and slept in my clothes with no blanket, sheet or anything else provided by the hotel. Now I know why they charged (not authorized...charged!) the room up front and had a no refund policy.
The rest of the trip was great though. It's a good weekend when it feels like you've been gone for 4-5 days. Of course DC welcomed me back with open arms this morning. I got cut off by a cyclist who thinks his bike has a force field around it and an off duty cop gave me the finger when he tried to get over without signaling and I blew the horn so he wouldn't side swipe me.
Welcome home. (Deep inhale) Is that Eau De Mumbo Sauce in the air?
Friday, August 3, 2012
Freedom Aint Free
Previously on Ordale's Life: Crazy roommates and shitty housing led our hero to move off campus. And now the conclusion...
I didn't know the first thing about getting an apartment. For that expertise, I turned to my mother. She wasn't cosigning nor was she gonna chip in on the rent, but I knew that she could at least point me in the right direction. I was in DC for the summer so I couldn't apartment shop the right way. You know, actually go see the place first. This was in the days before apartments put up in walk-through tours online. Back then you just got a couple of pictures and you had to hope for the best. This was also before Google Maps and Streetview, so you didn't get a true-to-life picture of the area.
We get down to NC and as we're driving up I realize that it's in a shady part of town I'd never been to before. The buildings started looking progressively worse. I kept thinking, Please don't let it be that one. Oh no God, it can be that one just don't let it be this one. Never mind, don't let it be any on this street at all. It wasn't.
We pulled up to a building that looked pretty decent compared to the rest and I was somewhat relieved. It had a security gate and everything. We went inside the rental office and the lady had the lease ready. I look back on that day and realize that things went way too smoothly. 30-year-old-me now knows that anytime signing a contract is that easy then something is wrong. What I mean is...I assumed that my mother had faxed over my paycheck stubs, sent a deposit, and filled out an application so that they could do a background check on me. Nope.
None of that happened because this wasn't the kind of place that does that. They didn't ask where I worked, because they didn't care how their residents made money. As long as those singles and crack-stained bills were converted to a money order before the 5th of each month, they were happy. Grown up me also knows that any time you move somewhere and the rent is $400 a month for a one bedroom AND you get 5 months free on a 12 month lease then something is definitely wrong.
Have you ever seen The Little Mermaid? I was watching that with my daughter the other day. Right after Ariel signs the contract with the Sea Witch, the witch goes into this maniacal laughter. The same thing happened in the rental office. I asked the lady if my unit was in that same building or one of the ones next to it and she went Ursula the Sea Witch on me. She explained that they owned several complexes in the area, but they all shared one rental office. You poor unfortunate soul, you're not in this complex. Go out the gate, head to the corner and keep going until you get to the dead end street. It's the last one on the right next to the dumpster.
Picture any motel from a horror movie and that's what my building looked like. There were about seven units on both floors and the doors were side by side with a narrow walkway just like a motel. The mail area was a metal post next to the dumpster with about fourteen cubby holes with each apartment number labeled with a glittery sticker. There was no door, no lock or anything to keep your mail from blowing away in the wind. It was wide enough to fit one letter if you bent or rolled it up first.
I went inside and it looked like the kind of place you go to die. There were two windows in the whole apartment. The one in the living room had a view of the equally depressing apartment across the street and the one in the bedroom had a view of...wait for it...wait for it......A cemetery.
I don't mean that I could see one in the distance. No, I could jump out my window and into my own grave if I wanted to. The closest headstone was about fifteen feet from my window. I told my mother straight up, I can't stay here. The neighborhood isn't safe and I'm in front of a cemetery. This is the same woman who made me go back outside to fight when 15 kids in the neighborhood chased me home. The same woman who gave me a stick to take to the playground when I told her I saw a bunch of dudes drinking and selling drugs on the playground. In not so many words she told me to stop being a bitch. She told me to just put a chair up against the door at night and I'd be okay.
I lasted four months in that apartment before I moved out. At the time of my move I had the distinct honor of being one of two units that hadn't been robbed that Christmas season. Some happened while the people were still home. They just tied them up and kept it moving. The lady underneath me was raped during her robbery. It appeared that they were making their way sequentially through the building. I went to the rental office to see if they were hiring some security or something and the woman looked at me sincerely and told me, I'm not supposed to talk about it, but for your own safety I want you to move out of your unit. I'll waive the rest of your lease and I can even transfer you to a different complex if you like, but I think you need to get out.
A week later I was completely moved in to a new apartment. Campus wasn't looking so bad after all.
I didn't know the first thing about getting an apartment. For that expertise, I turned to my mother. She wasn't cosigning nor was she gonna chip in on the rent, but I knew that she could at least point me in the right direction. I was in DC for the summer so I couldn't apartment shop the right way. You know, actually go see the place first. This was in the days before apartments put up in walk-through tours online. Back then you just got a couple of pictures and you had to hope for the best. This was also before Google Maps and Streetview, so you didn't get a true-to-life picture of the area.
We get down to NC and as we're driving up I realize that it's in a shady part of town I'd never been to before. The buildings started looking progressively worse. I kept thinking, Please don't let it be that one. Oh no God, it can be that one just don't let it be this one. Never mind, don't let it be any on this street at all. It wasn't.
We pulled up to a building that looked pretty decent compared to the rest and I was somewhat relieved. It had a security gate and everything. We went inside the rental office and the lady had the lease ready. I look back on that day and realize that things went way too smoothly. 30-year-old-me now knows that anytime signing a contract is that easy then something is wrong. What I mean is...I assumed that my mother had faxed over my paycheck stubs, sent a deposit, and filled out an application so that they could do a background check on me. Nope.
None of that happened because this wasn't the kind of place that does that. They didn't ask where I worked, because they didn't care how their residents made money. As long as those singles and crack-stained bills were converted to a money order before the 5th of each month, they were happy. Grown up me also knows that any time you move somewhere and the rent is $400 a month for a one bedroom AND you get 5 months free on a 12 month lease then something is definitely wrong.
Have you ever seen The Little Mermaid? I was watching that with my daughter the other day. Right after Ariel signs the contract with the Sea Witch, the witch goes into this maniacal laughter. The same thing happened in the rental office. I asked the lady if my unit was in that same building or one of the ones next to it and she went Ursula the Sea Witch on me. She explained that they owned several complexes in the area, but they all shared one rental office. You poor unfortunate soul, you're not in this complex. Go out the gate, head to the corner and keep going until you get to the dead end street. It's the last one on the right next to the dumpster.
Picture any motel from a horror movie and that's what my building looked like. There were about seven units on both floors and the doors were side by side with a narrow walkway just like a motel. The mail area was a metal post next to the dumpster with about fourteen cubby holes with each apartment number labeled with a glittery sticker. There was no door, no lock or anything to keep your mail from blowing away in the wind. It was wide enough to fit one letter if you bent or rolled it up first.
I went inside and it looked like the kind of place you go to die. There were two windows in the whole apartment. The one in the living room had a view of the equally depressing apartment across the street and the one in the bedroom had a view of...wait for it...wait for it......A cemetery.
I don't mean that I could see one in the distance. No, I could jump out my window and into my own grave if I wanted to. The closest headstone was about fifteen feet from my window. I told my mother straight up, I can't stay here. The neighborhood isn't safe and I'm in front of a cemetery. This is the same woman who made me go back outside to fight when 15 kids in the neighborhood chased me home. The same woman who gave me a stick to take to the playground when I told her I saw a bunch of dudes drinking and selling drugs on the playground. In not so many words she told me to stop being a bitch. She told me to just put a chair up against the door at night and I'd be okay.
I lasted four months in that apartment before I moved out. At the time of my move I had the distinct honor of being one of two units that hadn't been robbed that Christmas season. Some happened while the people were still home. They just tied them up and kept it moving. The lady underneath me was raped during her robbery. It appeared that they were making their way sequentially through the building. I went to the rental office to see if they were hiring some security or something and the woman looked at me sincerely and told me, I'm not supposed to talk about it, but for your own safety I want you to move out of your unit. I'll waive the rest of your lease and I can even transfer you to a different complex if you like, but I think you need to get out.
A week later I was completely moved in to a new apartment. Campus wasn't looking so bad after all.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Paroled
August 2, 2002
It was this day ten years ago when I got my very first apartment. It was the summer before my junior year of college and I was desperate to get the hell off campus. Up until then I was the most financially responsible person you'd meet in your life. I could tell you the serial numbers on every dollar I ever spent, because each one was near and dear to my heart. But my campus experience was so bad that I was willing to break a few of my "don't end up a statistic" rules and take some chances with my credit. I wrote about the crazy roommates. Well here's the other half of my decision to leave:
Freshman year I lived in a dorm called Chidley Hall. It's where they bred Spartans to go fight with the 300. If you can make it in Chidley then no weapon formed against you shall prosper, no bacterial spore or biological agent can harm you and your body becomes numb to the peril of abject poverty. It was, by far, the worst place I've ever lived and that includes the high rise building I grew up in where someone got shot in the elevator, people peed in the stairwells and the security guards broke in our apartment and stole all our stuff.
The winter of my discontent all started when I visited my friends over at Duke. We all went to high school together but they actually studied, so they went to a better school. The first thing that bothered me was that I didn't have to sign in when I got to their dorm. No person in the lobby taking IDs and their vending machines had food in them. No one had flipped it over or kicked in the glass to steal the stuff.
Second, their dorm was not only co-ed but boys and girls lived on the same floor. My HBCU subscribed to the theory that women can only get pregnant between midnight and 9AM which is why we weren't allowed to have co-ed visitation between those hours. Even the co-ed dorms are split by floor and intermingling was prohibited. In fact, I was taken "into custody" by campus police because the night patrol guy heard a fully dressed girl laugh in my dorm at 12:15 at night. I was issued a citation and then forced to go to a tribunal in front of the dorm director to beg for mercy so that they wouldn't kick me off campus in the middle of the semester. My "plea" sounded eerily similar to Morgan Freeman's parole hearing speech in The Shawshank Redemption.
Those things plus the horrible, horrible food in the cafeteria annoyed me, but what really pushed me over the edge...There's not enough memory on your computer or space on the internet to tell you but.......
Highlights include:
I could go on, but that's the stuff I remember from the first semester. My sophomore year was better because I was in a newer building cleverly named New Residence Hall I. Besides the crazy roommate, it wasn't too bad except I kept waking up with nosebleeds and headaches. Also, I kept asking about this black stuff growing on my air vent and they told me it was just dust. The entire ceiling in the trash room was covered in this "dust," but no one paid me any attention. A couple of years later they shut down the whole dorm and put the students in hotels because the place was infested with mold.
Each year you had to stand in this long FEMA-esque line to put in a bid for the dorm you wanted the following year. I had tests that day so by the time I got there they only had rooms left in Chidley. Like most prisoners, I vowed to never go back. I signed my first lease with no cosigner and haven't looked back...but Lord if that first place wasn't a challenge.
To be continued
It was this day ten years ago when I got my very first apartment. It was the summer before my junior year of college and I was desperate to get the hell off campus. Up until then I was the most financially responsible person you'd meet in your life. I could tell you the serial numbers on every dollar I ever spent, because each one was near and dear to my heart. But my campus experience was so bad that I was willing to break a few of my "don't end up a statistic" rules and take some chances with my credit. I wrote about the crazy roommates. Well here's the other half of my decision to leave:
Freshman year I lived in a dorm called Chidley Hall. It's where they bred Spartans to go fight with the 300. If you can make it in Chidley then no weapon formed against you shall prosper, no bacterial spore or biological agent can harm you and your body becomes numb to the peril of abject poverty. It was, by far, the worst place I've ever lived and that includes the high rise building I grew up in where someone got shot in the elevator, people peed in the stairwells and the security guards broke in our apartment and stole all our stuff.
The winter of my discontent all started when I visited my friends over at Duke. We all went to high school together but they actually studied, so they went to a better school. The first thing that bothered me was that I didn't have to sign in when I got to their dorm. No person in the lobby taking IDs and their vending machines had food in them. No one had flipped it over or kicked in the glass to steal the stuff.
Second, their dorm was not only co-ed but boys and girls lived on the same floor. My HBCU subscribed to the theory that women can only get pregnant between midnight and 9AM which is why we weren't allowed to have co-ed visitation between those hours. Even the co-ed dorms are split by floor and intermingling was prohibited. In fact, I was taken "into custody" by campus police because the night patrol guy heard a fully dressed girl laugh in my dorm at 12:15 at night. I was issued a citation and then forced to go to a tribunal in front of the dorm director to beg for mercy so that they wouldn't kick me off campus in the middle of the semester. My "plea" sounded eerily similar to Morgan Freeman's parole hearing speech in The Shawshank Redemption.
Those things plus the horrible, horrible food in the cafeteria annoyed me, but what really pushed me over the edge...There's not enough memory on your computer or space on the internet to tell you but.......
Highlights include:
- People spraying Lysol on the toilet seats and setting them on fire
- Pouring food down the bathroom sinks as if they had garbage disposals
- Flushing rolls of toilet paper causing a backup and a river of shit to flow down the hall
- Gigantic Mega Cockroaches flying around the shower stalls like bats in the batcave
- A dozen or so rapes in a month as girls snuck out of our dorm after visiting hours
- Pulling the fire alarm every night at one in the morning for three weeks straight
- The Bloods from the projects down the street kicking in our security door and beating the hell outta some guy
- Breaking in people's rooms on the first floor by removing the A/C unit from the window
- Some days no hot water. Other days no cold water.
- Peeing in the dryers in the laundry rooms with the clothes still in them.
I could go on, but that's the stuff I remember from the first semester. My sophomore year was better because I was in a newer building cleverly named New Residence Hall I. Besides the crazy roommate, it wasn't too bad except I kept waking up with nosebleeds and headaches. Also, I kept asking about this black stuff growing on my air vent and they told me it was just dust. The entire ceiling in the trash room was covered in this "dust," but no one paid me any attention. A couple of years later they shut down the whole dorm and put the students in hotels because the place was infested with mold.
Each year you had to stand in this long FEMA-esque line to put in a bid for the dorm you wanted the following year. I had tests that day so by the time I got there they only had rooms left in Chidley. Like most prisoners, I vowed to never go back. I signed my first lease with no cosigner and haven't looked back...but Lord if that first place wasn't a challenge.
To be continued
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Eat, Drink and...
Me and Alcohol aren't friends. We met in college, went out once or twice and just didn't hit it off. It could be because my first time drinking was with a group of friends who wanted to see my plastered. I'm funny so for some reason people always want to see me drunk or high. I guess they think I'll turn into an Animaniac or something. Anyway, they gave me a 16 oz cup of Everclear to start me off and I drank it because I didn't know any better. They waited a few minutes and when nothing happened they gave me another cup full of E&J.
That did it. I was tore up, but they didn't get the show they were hoping for. Apparently I'm a very boring drunk. I sat there the whole night thinking about life. Then I started writing out a theory I had that blinking somehow makes you heavier. I thought that the force of your eyelids moving downward made you heavier kinda like flapping your arms on a scale. That was it. No loud rants, no cursing, no stumbling around. I didn't even throw up or have a hangover the next day. I didn't like the way it made me feel so I wrote it off the same way I did cigarettes.
People always said I just needed to try something else and on a few occasions I did. I still didn't like it so for the last ten years I've pretty much shied away from drinking. And of course my friends laugh because there's always a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in the back of my fridge that I keep as an emergency "really shitty day" bottle. The fact that something with 5% alcohol does it for me just amuses them.
So anyway, I went to a Yelp Elite event a couple of weeks ago and as usual there was an open bar. One of the perks of being a Yelp superuser is that you get invited to all kinds of free events at new restaurants. It's like a movie critic being invited to a free screening, except this is free food and all you can drink liquor. I figured "what the hell" and decided to have a drink made my a real bartender instead of my wannabe friends. I had rum punch, which I'm gonna go out on a limb and say had rum in it.
The first mistake I made was drinking it like it was a wine cooler. As I gobbled up free food at the bar, I'd take another cup. I went through three in about four or five minutes. I couldn't taste any alcohol, so I assumed it was a watered down free version. A friend would later tell me that rum doesn't have a taste, but I figured that out on my own. Let's just say the picture in the Yelp photo album has me standing there grinning like the Cheshire Cat with a carnival hat on, a pair of red sunglasses and a scantly clad carnival dancer on each arm.
Then the other night I went to another event where they greeted you at the door with a large glass of wine. I took that and decided to drink it slow throughout the night, but I started choking on a piece of steak and ended up downing that. It was downhill from there because they had nothing but cocktails, beer and more wine. I drank three "somethings" and realized it was time to go when I found myself in a conversation with two women and a voice inside my head said "Look with your sober eye." I swear to God that I could feel my pupils spinning around like a camera lens and my new vision revealed to me that I wasn't talking to two women. One was a guy who kinda had the Prince androgynous thing going.
Time to go. Oh shit, I drove.
I walked around downtown for about an hour waiting for it to wear off. I started giving myself field sobriety tests in front of the Post Office Pavilion. Walk only on these bricks in a straight line. Z,Y,X,Q? No, not Q. I knew I was sober again when what I was doing began to feel stupid. Also, when the homeless people started smelling homeless again I knew I was ready to go.
I'm done with alcohol once and for all. There is another Yelp event next month, however.
That did it. I was tore up, but they didn't get the show they were hoping for. Apparently I'm a very boring drunk. I sat there the whole night thinking about life. Then I started writing out a theory I had that blinking somehow makes you heavier. I thought that the force of your eyelids moving downward made you heavier kinda like flapping your arms on a scale. That was it. No loud rants, no cursing, no stumbling around. I didn't even throw up or have a hangover the next day. I didn't like the way it made me feel so I wrote it off the same way I did cigarettes.
People always said I just needed to try something else and on a few occasions I did. I still didn't like it so for the last ten years I've pretty much shied away from drinking. And of course my friends laugh because there's always a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in the back of my fridge that I keep as an emergency "really shitty day" bottle. The fact that something with 5% alcohol does it for me just amuses them.
So anyway, I went to a Yelp Elite event a couple of weeks ago and as usual there was an open bar. One of the perks of being a Yelp superuser is that you get invited to all kinds of free events at new restaurants. It's like a movie critic being invited to a free screening, except this is free food and all you can drink liquor. I figured "what the hell" and decided to have a drink made my a real bartender instead of my wannabe friends. I had rum punch, which I'm gonna go out on a limb and say had rum in it.
The first mistake I made was drinking it like it was a wine cooler. As I gobbled up free food at the bar, I'd take another cup. I went through three in about four or five minutes. I couldn't taste any alcohol, so I assumed it was a watered down free version. A friend would later tell me that rum doesn't have a taste, but I figured that out on my own. Let's just say the picture in the Yelp photo album has me standing there grinning like the Cheshire Cat with a carnival hat on, a pair of red sunglasses and a scantly clad carnival dancer on each arm.
Then the other night I went to another event where they greeted you at the door with a large glass of wine. I took that and decided to drink it slow throughout the night, but I started choking on a piece of steak and ended up downing that. It was downhill from there because they had nothing but cocktails, beer and more wine. I drank three "somethings" and realized it was time to go when I found myself in a conversation with two women and a voice inside my head said "Look with your sober eye." I swear to God that I could feel my pupils spinning around like a camera lens and my new vision revealed to me that I wasn't talking to two women. One was a guy who kinda had the Prince androgynous thing going.
Time to go. Oh shit, I drove.
I walked around downtown for about an hour waiting for it to wear off. I started giving myself field sobriety tests in front of the Post Office Pavilion. Walk only on these bricks in a straight line. Z,Y,X,Q? No, not Q. I knew I was sober again when what I was doing began to feel stupid. Also, when the homeless people started smelling homeless again I knew I was ready to go.
I'm done with alcohol once and for all. There is another Yelp event next month, however.