Sandy is pretty much over and done with. Looking at what happened in New York, they should've called it Hurricane Gozer. Judging by the desperation of the people on the news, I'm guessing it wasn't as bad here in DC as they hyped it up to be. AOL Keyword: DC. The DC "area" gets hit hard in any storm, but DC itself usually doesn't have many problems. I turned on The Weather Channel this morning to see images of submerged buildings and cars. The banner across the screen said "Washington, DC," but the high tension power lines in the shot told me that it was somewhere out in Maryland. "DC AREA" just doesn't have the same ring to it I guess.
During the day I played Jim Cantore. That's when you go out into a storm wearing a weatherproof coat and test the limits of your life insurance. I was bored, so I figured I'd walk down to the grocery store and laugh at the people stocking up on ketchup and tastycakes. There were a few people there, but not enough to really entertain me so I grabbed some chips and Skittles and went home. Last night we popped some popcorn and stood in front of the window watching the tree out front do yoga in the wind. The capped off with a few episodes of The Wire and then we went to bed.
I feel for the people in NY and elsewhere who were seriously affected. I know some parts of DC were damaged, but it wasn't the 100 ft marshmallow man that they promised us.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
One Mic Stand
Tonight's conversation was about Domestic Violence in same sex relationships. Interesting stuff.
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/onemicstand/2012/10/29/when-loves-ones-attack
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/onemicstand/2012/10/29/when-loves-ones-attack
Frankenstorm
Call me a skeptic, but the whole time I was in Target yesterday I couldn't help but stare at the people filling their carts with canned goods, water and batteries and think to myself, "WE MUST PREPARE FOR THE COMING OF GOZER!" It's a storm. Not a "Frankenstorm," not "The Perfect Storm," just a storm. I'm certain that I sound like one of the people laughing at Noah while he was at Home Depot buying lumber, nails and ostrich cages, but I just don't think all of this media coverage is healthy. There's a fine line between warning people and scaring the shit out of people.
[caption id="attachment_2873" align="alignnone" width="604"]
Literally scaring the shit out of people[/caption]
I just think that sometimes the folks from Home Depot slide a little cash to the weather guys and we get Snowpocalypses and Frankenstorms.
Here's my prediction:
It will rain. Wind will blow. Trees will fall. Power will go out. Then...
People who live below sea level will complain about flooding.
People who live near trees will complain about toppled trees.
People with electricity that comes through a "power line" that runs through "trees" will marvel at the large-scale second grade science project when a tree falls on top of a power line and "un-completes" a circuit.
Grocery store and hardware store owners will dance in the streets.
Seriously, I hope no one gets hurt, but don't go insane out there. I saw people stocking up on steaks. That's great if you live in a house with a gas range, but I followed some of those people up the street and into my apartment building where all of us eat off of electric stoves. Maybe they have a table top grill in the trunk of their car like me, but I hope they also have a coal powered fridge.
I stockpiled Chef Boyardee only because I have a two year old who's grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle and expects to eat every single day. As for me and the lady...there's always peanut butter and jelly.
[caption id="attachment_2873" align="alignnone" width="604"]
Literally scaring the shit out of people[/caption]I just think that sometimes the folks from Home Depot slide a little cash to the weather guys and we get Snowpocalypses and Frankenstorms.
Here's my prediction:
It will rain. Wind will blow. Trees will fall. Power will go out. Then...
People who live below sea level will complain about flooding.
People who live near trees will complain about toppled trees.
People with electricity that comes through a "power line" that runs through "trees" will marvel at the large-scale second grade science project when a tree falls on top of a power line and "un-completes" a circuit.
Grocery store and hardware store owners will dance in the streets.
Seriously, I hope no one gets hurt, but don't go insane out there. I saw people stocking up on steaks. That's great if you live in a house with a gas range, but I followed some of those people up the street and into my apartment building where all of us eat off of electric stoves. Maybe they have a table top grill in the trunk of their car like me, but I hope they also have a coal powered fridge.
I stockpiled Chef Boyardee only because I have a two year old who's grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle and expects to eat every single day. As for me and the lady...there's always peanut butter and jelly.
Friday, October 26, 2012
That's All Folks!
Here's a thought I had this morning:
Earlier I tweeted a question asking what Wile E Coyote was eating in the meantime until he actually caught the roadrunner. Someone responded on Facebook saying that maybe it was all in his head. I took that a step further...
What if it's like An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge? What if one morning Wile E. Coyote, Supergenius, went out to the mailbox to find that his Acme flying suit had arrived and he set about to catch himself a roadrunner. He spent the better part of the day climbing a mountain and then, like Icarus and Daedalus, he took to the heavens. He flew after the roadrunner up and down the desert valley before eventually being outsmarted by the roadrunner and flying headfirst into a cliff.
What if everything that happened after that was all in his mind? What if it was an experience akin to his life flashing before his eyes, except it just one fantasy after another of him still chasing that roadrunner? His subconscious couldn't accept the inevitability of death, but his confidence was so dashed that it couldn't play out to see him actually catch the bird. Instead, he just had this seemingly endless cycle of adventures, one after another, where all of his best efforts (sometimes literally) blew up in his face.
Those delusions weren't meant to be taken literally. They were manifestations of his sense of failure. After all, here was a self-proclaimed supergenius. It said so right on the business card that he handed Bugs Bunny in an old episode. Here was a man who placed his entire self worth in academia. What was Chuck Jones trying to say to us about human nature? Far too many of us correlate our accomplishments, our resumes or CV to our sense of self worth. Some of us aren't able to accept failure and we'll chase after our idea of success with reckless abandon, failing to consider that our hunger is leading us over the edge of a cliff.
The coyote was tormented up until the moment of death by endless cycles of coming so close and falling short at the last possible moment. And just when he was ready to dust himself off and try again...
CRACK
He broke his neck flying full speed into the side of that cliff and his lifeless body fell to earth like Icarus, another victim of hubris.
Earlier I tweeted a question asking what Wile E Coyote was eating in the meantime until he actually caught the roadrunner. Someone responded on Facebook saying that maybe it was all in his head. I took that a step further...
What if it's like An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge? What if one morning Wile E. Coyote, Supergenius, went out to the mailbox to find that his Acme flying suit had arrived and he set about to catch himself a roadrunner. He spent the better part of the day climbing a mountain and then, like Icarus and Daedalus, he took to the heavens. He flew after the roadrunner up and down the desert valley before eventually being outsmarted by the roadrunner and flying headfirst into a cliff.
What if everything that happened after that was all in his mind? What if it was an experience akin to his life flashing before his eyes, except it just one fantasy after another of him still chasing that roadrunner? His subconscious couldn't accept the inevitability of death, but his confidence was so dashed that it couldn't play out to see him actually catch the bird. Instead, he just had this seemingly endless cycle of adventures, one after another, where all of his best efforts (sometimes literally) blew up in his face.
Those delusions weren't meant to be taken literally. They were manifestations of his sense of failure. After all, here was a self-proclaimed supergenius. It said so right on the business card that he handed Bugs Bunny in an old episode. Here was a man who placed his entire self worth in academia. What was Chuck Jones trying to say to us about human nature? Far too many of us correlate our accomplishments, our resumes or CV to our sense of self worth. Some of us aren't able to accept failure and we'll chase after our idea of success with reckless abandon, failing to consider that our hunger is leading us over the edge of a cliff.
The coyote was tormented up until the moment of death by endless cycles of coming so close and falling short at the last possible moment. And just when he was ready to dust himself off and try again...
CRACK
He broke his neck flying full speed into the side of that cliff and his lifeless body fell to earth like Icarus, another victim of hubris.
Put It In A Love Song
Ever so often my wife emails me song lyrics usually prefaced with "This reminded me of you." She must really like her job, because she can listen to love songs as she works (not too unlike the seven dwarfs whistling while they work). Her emails always make me feel like a schmuck, not because I usually have to listen to a rap song to keep going (Y'all gon' make me lose my mind up in here, up in here), but because I can never think of anything to send back to her. It's not for lack of trying. I listen to a lot of music, but nothing ever really seems to compare to what I have on my heart to say.
It probably sounds snooty, but I don't think anyone else is qualified to write my feelings. They're too strong, too innumerable. I'd have a better chance finding someone who's counted all the stars in the sky. Now that's not to say that some people haven't come close. I remember putting Stevie Wonder's Overjoyed in a mental placeholder back in high school. It was in a slot labeled, "This Is How I Want To Feel When I Meet The Woman I'm Gonna Marry." And when I first met my wife, I played that song over and over. "Though you don't believe that they do, they do come true, for did my dreams come true when I looked at you."
And around the time we got married, I really started playing it on repeat. People dropped out of the wedding while other people said we were too young (21 years old), or hadn't known each other long enough (3 weeks). Common's "The Light" could've been an equally good choice, "It don't take a whole day to recognize sunshine." But I was on my Stevie Wonder kick and he said, "And though the odds say improbable, what do they know? For in romance all true love needs is a chance. And maybe with a chance you will find, you too, like I, overjoyed, over-loved over you."
But that was nine years ago and my feelings have grown so much that I really don't feel like someone else can get the job done. I know what you're thinking, "Well, write it yourself." I can't sing worth a damn and my poetry sucks. And no, "It isn't the thought that counts." I've seen plenty of tone deaf ex-crackheads get up and sing a song during their testimony in church to thunderous applause that are rife with pity, because the person sounds like a goat going into an epileptic seizure. I won't do it.
Sadly, what usually ends up happening is absolutely nothing. Inaction. While I'm scouring the internet for something--anything--that I can send, too much time elapses and the moment has passed. If I'm lucky I just send back a simple "Duh, I like you too." But if I could just write the concept down and have someone else with talent write it, and then maybe get someone else to sing it...that would be perfect.
My song would talk about how she has the nicest, most unassuming personality. She's so happy and loving that it's almost a stark contrast to my personality. My friends thought she was crazy for marrying me. "He curses everyone out...everyday...just for sport. He's grumpy and pissed off all the time. He has to be in charge of everything and doesn't trust anybody. RUN! Save yourself!" What they didn't get was that she was my base in every sense of the word. She neutralized my acidic personality. She's my foundation. She's a source of refuge where I can feel comfortable being myself. I don't feel guarded all the time or like I have to assert myself. I never felt judged or inconsequential.
She made me feel what all of those saps in the romantic comedies felt. And as cliched as it sounds, she made me want to be a better person. To this day we have never had a loud raucous argument and I have never cursed her out or disparaged her in anyway. I've never respected or admired or trusted or invested myself into anyone (not even myself) the way I have her. I can't explain what causes it. I can't explain what it is about her specifically that unravels me and weaves me back together. All I know is that as egotistical or self concerned as I may have been, I willingly put her wants before my needs.
That's a very long song. I don't know who the hell could possibly write it.
I don't write this sappy kind of stuff often for two reasons. One, it's annoying to constantly hear about someone else's relationship. Two, if you found a diamond mine would you go around telling everybody where it is? I just figure that until I find someone to write that song for me, I gotta do something besides sending an email back with a smiley face in it. "Thank you, :-)"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=faD3YF0zhNg
It probably sounds snooty, but I don't think anyone else is qualified to write my feelings. They're too strong, too innumerable. I'd have a better chance finding someone who's counted all the stars in the sky. Now that's not to say that some people haven't come close. I remember putting Stevie Wonder's Overjoyed in a mental placeholder back in high school. It was in a slot labeled, "This Is How I Want To Feel When I Meet The Woman I'm Gonna Marry." And when I first met my wife, I played that song over and over. "Though you don't believe that they do, they do come true, for did my dreams come true when I looked at you."
And around the time we got married, I really started playing it on repeat. People dropped out of the wedding while other people said we were too young (21 years old), or hadn't known each other long enough (3 weeks). Common's "The Light" could've been an equally good choice, "It don't take a whole day to recognize sunshine." But I was on my Stevie Wonder kick and he said, "And though the odds say improbable, what do they know? For in romance all true love needs is a chance. And maybe with a chance you will find, you too, like I, overjoyed, over-loved over you."
But that was nine years ago and my feelings have grown so much that I really don't feel like someone else can get the job done. I know what you're thinking, "Well, write it yourself." I can't sing worth a damn and my poetry sucks. And no, "It isn't the thought that counts." I've seen plenty of tone deaf ex-crackheads get up and sing a song during their testimony in church to thunderous applause that are rife with pity, because the person sounds like a goat going into an epileptic seizure. I won't do it.
Sadly, what usually ends up happening is absolutely nothing. Inaction. While I'm scouring the internet for something--anything--that I can send, too much time elapses and the moment has passed. If I'm lucky I just send back a simple "Duh, I like you too." But if I could just write the concept down and have someone else with talent write it, and then maybe get someone else to sing it...that would be perfect.
My song would talk about how she has the nicest, most unassuming personality. She's so happy and loving that it's almost a stark contrast to my personality. My friends thought she was crazy for marrying me. "He curses everyone out...everyday...just for sport. He's grumpy and pissed off all the time. He has to be in charge of everything and doesn't trust anybody. RUN! Save yourself!" What they didn't get was that she was my base in every sense of the word. She neutralized my acidic personality. She's my foundation. She's a source of refuge where I can feel comfortable being myself. I don't feel guarded all the time or like I have to assert myself. I never felt judged or inconsequential.
She made me feel what all of those saps in the romantic comedies felt. And as cliched as it sounds, she made me want to be a better person. To this day we have never had a loud raucous argument and I have never cursed her out or disparaged her in anyway. I've never respected or admired or trusted or invested myself into anyone (not even myself) the way I have her. I can't explain what causes it. I can't explain what it is about her specifically that unravels me and weaves me back together. All I know is that as egotistical or self concerned as I may have been, I willingly put her wants before my needs.
That's a very long song. I don't know who the hell could possibly write it.
I don't write this sappy kind of stuff often for two reasons. One, it's annoying to constantly hear about someone else's relationship. Two, if you found a diamond mine would you go around telling everybody where it is? I just figure that until I find someone to write that song for me, I gotta do something besides sending an email back with a smiley face in it. "Thank you, :-)"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=faD3YF0zhNg
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Stereotype Breaker of the Day
Stereotype Breaker of the Day
As the "first" black person to integrate kayaking I understand how difficult it is to break down stereotypes. Okay, full disclosure: I've heard rumblings that perhaps I am not the Jackie Robinson of kayaking. To those infidels who doubt my power, let me awe you with my CV...
- Integrated kayaking 2012
- Integrated Ice Skating 1997
- Integrated Roller Blading 1993 or circa Mighty Ducks 2 theatrical release
- Integrated Skiing 1990
Are you amazed yet? Did I blow your mind? Good, well let me get on with my blog.
They say that real recognizes real and I just saw someone who looked familiar. Today's Stereotype-Breaking Warrior is a white lady I saw on CNN.com last night. Apparently a masked man tried to rob her store and then a hero came along with the strength to carry on and she cast her fears aside and made sure that she survived.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bSqW_C_8a54
Now she could've easily just handed him the money, but that wouldn't have been gangster. No, she decided to break into a full sprint and leap over the 7 ft wall separating her store from the one next door.
Stereotype #1
Now the video makes it look like her ups weren't exactly where they needed to be, because she ended up tumbling face down toward the ground, but I chalk that up to just pure adrenaline or even Matrix-like concentration. By going head-first, any bullets from her assailant would've hit her in the rear and I'm a firm believer in that a bullet down bottom is much better than one up top.
Her Lambeau leap was enough to get her the award, but what really got me was what happened after she hit the ground. She got right the hell back up. (Did you think I'm crumble? Did you think I'd lay down and die? Oh no, not I. I will survive.) If this were a horror movie she would would've started crawling and maybe thrown a bag of chips in his direction, but not Jackie Joyner. Man, she was on the ground for all of one second before popping back up and returning to a full sprint.
Stereotype #2
Even without this video I knew that wasn't true. Every time I went to a cross country track meet, the winner's circle was nothing but a sea of long blonde and brunette ponytails. Sidebar: You know you're in DC when someone gets stabbed during a cross country track meet. I'll save that story for another time though. I will say, however, that it was during that race when I scored my fastest time ever. I don't think they ever caught that dude.
Anyway, congratulations to today's winner. You are an inspiration to stereotype breakers everywhere!
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
I've Got A Big Ego
I went up to my old elementary school yesterday with my daughter. I don't really know why. Even though I know there's a lottery, I just wanted to go up there to get a head start. I saw one of my old teachers who introduced me to some of the new faces as "one of the most intelligent minds to ever come out of this school." I was very flattered and at the same time I felt this sense of agreement, like "Yep, I sure am."
I can't write something like that and have you believe this next statement: I'm not egotistical. I really wish I had some evidence to support that, but you're just gonna have to take my word for it. Still, yeah I was pretty damned smart as a kid. The problem was that back then I knew I was smart. I was more surprised that she said it than anything else. This was the same woman who led the safety patrols and gave us a lecture one day about something. Whatever it was, she was right. I just remember her saying, "...and if you don't like it then you can leave." I took my patrol belt off, folded it up, handed it to her and walked right out without saying a word. It was fourth grade by the way.
I remember getting answers right in class and then standing up, patting myself on the back while simultaneously taking a bow. Teachers learned quick not to say "Well if you think you know everything then come up here and teach the class" because my indignant ass would walk right up there with the book and start trying to teach. How none of my teachers ever pulled a pistol on me remains one of life's great mysteries. I was an asshole as a kid, but they really couldn't do anything to me. I did my work, I got straight A's and I never went far enough to warrant any disciplinary action. Sure, I got banned from all of my classes in 5th grade, but even with me sitting in homeroom all day for a few months, I still aced the standardized tests. And yeah, maybe I did tell a certain teacher that they were in no position to judge me considering they couldn't teach without the teacher's guide, but those were love taps compared to the bastard I could've been.
I don't know how those people put up with me, but I want to take this time to apologize to each and every one of them. I can't explain how they did it, nor can I explain what changed in me. Perhaps it had to do with going to junior high where the stakes were a little higher, home a little too far away to run and hormones shifting my focus from school to girls. All I know is that by high school I didn't really care to be a jerk anymore. I had found another cause...women and the power of estrogen can humble a man like no other.
I can't write something like that and have you believe this next statement: I'm not egotistical. I really wish I had some evidence to support that, but you're just gonna have to take my word for it. Still, yeah I was pretty damned smart as a kid. The problem was that back then I knew I was smart. I was more surprised that she said it than anything else. This was the same woman who led the safety patrols and gave us a lecture one day about something. Whatever it was, she was right. I just remember her saying, "...and if you don't like it then you can leave." I took my patrol belt off, folded it up, handed it to her and walked right out without saying a word. It was fourth grade by the way.
I remember getting answers right in class and then standing up, patting myself on the back while simultaneously taking a bow. Teachers learned quick not to say "Well if you think you know everything then come up here and teach the class" because my indignant ass would walk right up there with the book and start trying to teach. How none of my teachers ever pulled a pistol on me remains one of life's great mysteries. I was an asshole as a kid, but they really couldn't do anything to me. I did my work, I got straight A's and I never went far enough to warrant any disciplinary action. Sure, I got banned from all of my classes in 5th grade, but even with me sitting in homeroom all day for a few months, I still aced the standardized tests. And yeah, maybe I did tell a certain teacher that they were in no position to judge me considering they couldn't teach without the teacher's guide, but those were love taps compared to the bastard I could've been.
I don't know how those people put up with me, but I want to take this time to apologize to each and every one of them. I can't explain how they did it, nor can I explain what changed in me. Perhaps it had to do with going to junior high where the stakes were a little higher, home a little too far away to run and hormones shifting my focus from school to girls. All I know is that by high school I didn't really care to be a jerk anymore. I had found another cause...women and the power of estrogen can humble a man like no other.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Political Bullet Points
I didn't watch the debate last night for reasons mentioned in a previous post (summary: It's all BS). Nonetheless, I'll give my two cents since everyone else is a political analyst all of a sudden.
- I'm voting for Barack Obama
- I don't think that it is the mission of the Republican Party to destroy black people
- I don't think that Mitt Romney is the devil
- Obama's re-election will not herald the return of Jesus the Christ
- Mitt Romney's election will not end all life as we know it
- There are three branches of government
- A Republican congress, republican president and two new conservative Supreme Court justices will not be the tipping point to drive you to move to Canada
- Canada doesn't just let people move in. Can you even find a company to sponsor you for a work visa?
- Before we talk about abortion and what a woman can do with her body, can we talk about what she can do with her mind? My First Lady has a juris doctor from Harvard and executive management experience yet she has been relegated to talking about school lunches and exercise.
- Abortion, Gun Control, Gay Rights and Unemployment have been discussed already. Would anyone like to talk about education reform or the criminal justice system?
- School loan debt does suck, but how many jobs did you see on Career Day that convinced you to that majoring in Ancient Sumerian Cartoon Drawing was a good idea?
- School loan debt sucks
- School loan debt sucks enough to say it thrice
- Shhh! Sometimes I see both parties' points of view
- I think some people should pay more taxes.
- I also think some people need to get off welfare.
- I would've starved to death in '04 if not for food stamps.
- I know plenty of people who carefully choose which check stub to submit to illegally qualify for food stamps, subsidized daycare and reduced utilities.
- My favorite fruit as a kid was the "welfare" applesauce that came in a white can with black lettering and the big USDA shield.
- I can think of three of you who read my site faithfully that are planning to claim your cousin's kid on your taxes and split the money with them.
- No, I didn't go off on a tangent. I gave personal examples of people who need social safety nets (Democrat) and people who abuse them (Republican). And boom goes the dynamite!
- That's a dated reference
- I saw a Fedex truck delivering to the UPS store today.
- Now that was a tangent
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Early Development
I just read an article that says boys are going through puberty as early as age nine now. This is very disturbing to me. Not only does that shorten the time she has in public school before I lock her up in that tower, but now I have to figure out where I'm gonna get the money to up my payments so that I can get the guard dragon out of layaway in time.
Seriously, I don't know what to say. I'm not really surprised. Little girls have been sprouting grown-up features ahead of schedule for years. I don't know about anybody else, but part two of my "Where Babies Come From" talk came from the behavioral development specialists at the barber shop. "Yo man seriously, check them IDs! These girls be looking grown as shit and they don't even tell you that they're like fourteen. But you'll find out when them cops come knocking on your door. They call that shit rape and when you get to lockup, them niggas don't care that you thought she was grown. You gonna have a hell of a time in jail, man. Trust me, man. I know!"
You get a lot of good advice in the barbershop. Perhaps it was just a tad premature considering that I was only about ten at the time, but that brings the conversation full circle. They thought I was a teenager because I started growing a mustache when I was ten. Some people think that early puberty is caused by hormones in food. When I think back to all of the fatback, potted meat and scrapple sandwiches that my grandmother gave me growing up, I'm inclined to think that there may be some merit to it. I'm gonna go ahead assume that I started puberty sometime during my delivery in the hospital.
I think the best strategy for me is to just expect that every little boy my daughter encounters is a potential predator. And I'm talking the first day of Kindergarten. They're like lion cubs. They're cute, but there's a reason you don't take one home...they grow up. This isn't to say that I'm going to shelter her. I met tooooooo many of them in college. Being sheltered is like getting a bachelors degree in Harlot-ology.
There's the other extreme, which is to be hands off and let her go out and experience life. You know, let her make her own mistakes in hopes that she'll learn from them. I can't even say that with a straight face. Yeah, that one (being my child's friend) is almost certainly going to make me the youngest grandfather at the kindergarten graduation. No I need something in the middle.
I don't know what it is yet, but I have some ideas that I'm working with. It's a mixture of being a strong male role model, teaching her the "Guy Playbook" without making her hate men altogether, carefully choosing when to look the other way so she can do something mildy stupid and learn from it and making her feel comfortable talking to us about serious stuff all while exercising every legal means of spreading the word around the school system that her daddy is CRAZY. That last part might be helped if I show up to the school randomly dressed as Braveheart or the lead slave from Amistad.
Seriously, I don't know what to say. I'm not really surprised. Little girls have been sprouting grown-up features ahead of schedule for years. I don't know about anybody else, but part two of my "Where Babies Come From" talk came from the behavioral development specialists at the barber shop. "Yo man seriously, check them IDs! These girls be looking grown as shit and they don't even tell you that they're like fourteen. But you'll find out when them cops come knocking on your door. They call that shit rape and when you get to lockup, them niggas don't care that you thought she was grown. You gonna have a hell of a time in jail, man. Trust me, man. I know!"
You get a lot of good advice in the barbershop. Perhaps it was just a tad premature considering that I was only about ten at the time, but that brings the conversation full circle. They thought I was a teenager because I started growing a mustache when I was ten. Some people think that early puberty is caused by hormones in food. When I think back to all of the fatback, potted meat and scrapple sandwiches that my grandmother gave me growing up, I'm inclined to think that there may be some merit to it. I'm gonna go ahead assume that I started puberty sometime during my delivery in the hospital.
I think the best strategy for me is to just expect that every little boy my daughter encounters is a potential predator. And I'm talking the first day of Kindergarten. They're like lion cubs. They're cute, but there's a reason you don't take one home...they grow up. This isn't to say that I'm going to shelter her. I met tooooooo many of them in college. Being sheltered is like getting a bachelors degree in Harlot-ology.
There's the other extreme, which is to be hands off and let her go out and experience life. You know, let her make her own mistakes in hopes that she'll learn from them. I can't even say that with a straight face. Yeah, that one (being my child's friend) is almost certainly going to make me the youngest grandfather at the kindergarten graduation. No I need something in the middle.
I don't know what it is yet, but I have some ideas that I'm working with. It's a mixture of being a strong male role model, teaching her the "Guy Playbook" without making her hate men altogether, carefully choosing when to look the other way so she can do something mildy stupid and learn from it and making her feel comfortable talking to us about serious stuff all while exercising every legal means of spreading the word around the school system that her daddy is CRAZY. That last part might be helped if I show up to the school randomly dressed as Braveheart or the lead slave from Amistad.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Spy vs Spy
Either I'm getting old or this parenting thing has fried my brain. Movies are my thing and for the life of me I can't remember the movie that I want to reference.
There's some movie where the two characters are spies or hitmen or something and they're sitting down having a conversation. On the surface they're trying to be civil, but each one has a gun pointed at the other underneath the table. Neither has the intention to harm the other, but at the same time their instincts won't allow them to let their guard down. (I'm like seriously pissed at myself for not being able to remember the movie. I can't get old man. I just can't.) Well anyway, that's what happened to me at the playground yesterday. Actually, now that I think about it, that's what happens to me at the playground everyday.
It never occurred to me pre-baby that I would have to talk to so many strangers once my daughter was born. My wife says I'm antisocial, but that's just because she's a social moth. My job is to keep her country mouse self away from the flame. What she calls antisocial, I call a survival mechanism. When you grow up in the city the first thing you learn is to not speak to anyone. The moral of every story on the news back in 1980s DC was "Don't talk to strangers."
It didn't matter if it was a kidnapping, murder, rape or gas main explosion. Somewhere in there somebody said hello to someone else and it was curtains for them. That's why if you ever see me on the street, you'll think I'm the angriest person in the world. I have my fists balled up, I walk real fast and I wear a really convincing scowl. I call it my "90 Bus/ Green Line Face." And man, has that thing kept me safe over the years. It's like my favorite jacket or something. Those homeless people selling Street Sense newspapers see it and immediately leave me the hell alone. The same goes for the person talking about how he lost his farecard and needs 60 cents to get to the shelter.
Anyway, now that I have a kid I can't wear my favorite face as much. This is especially true on the playground. The shitty parents plop down on a bench and start playing with their phones. I follow her around like a Secret Service Agent and that brings me back to my original point about the two spies/hitmen/whatever in the restaurant. I'm not the only parent who does this and when that happens, there's always a little dance between me and that other parent.
It begins with a fake smile and a simple hello. In that one exchange, however, I'm sizing that person up. Even if you are a 5'2" middle aged white woman with a limp, I don't trust you. I'm with Wednesday Addams on this one: "Where's your costume little girl? I'm a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else." Everyone is a suspect on the playground as far as I'm concerned. I'm following my daughter around just in case one of those parents is faster than me and has a van waiting around the corner.
You may think I'm paranoid, but those parents are doing the same damned thing. Real recognizes real, you know. You don't really care about where I got her jacket. You know how I know? Because your kid is wearing a Circo sweater which was right next to this jacket in Target. The fact that your kid has on Circo jeans as well, lets me know that you shop there exclusively. Still, we do this little dance to keep up the visage of civility.
Sadly this distrust extends to their kid as well. Spend enough time around kids and you pretty much become The Oracle. I have the gift now, Neo. I can see beyond time. I know that the little bastard who keeps hitting girls, but never tries it with the boys has a 90% chance of being a wifebeater. That kid who keeps coming over to tell my daughter that she's not building the sandcastle correctly is gonna be a manager one day...the kind you hate and pray calls out sick everyday. These are the kids my daughter chooses to hang around. Not because she's innocent and not discerning, but because my daughter, herself, has a bright future as Xena Warrior Princess or the first woman to fight a co-ed boxing match.
For that reason, above all others, I hover around. I'm the Secret Service agent who protects the public from the President. My daughter lost her mind and conjured the spirit of "I wanna go live in foster care" one day and she hit me. I won't lie. It kinda hurt. I had to remind myself, not that I love her and that she's a child, but of how much money I've invested so far in toys, healthcare and her actual birth. I've spent too much to scrap the project and take her out of this world. So, instead I let it go. But I never forget that if she can hurt a grown man, she will probably kill another child.
Maybe the other parent had a similar experience. That's why we're always taking blame when the other kid does something. "Oh no, Johnny let her play with the toy." Even though Johnny had it first, I'm certain that his mom is afraid he's gonna cock back and hit my daughter for taking it. She's trying to prevent a lawsuit. Little does she know, my daughter thinks she's in the battle for Middle Earth everyday. He may hit her, but that hand will never work again.
So me and that mom dance back and forth, pretending to be interested in pointless conversation while constantly keeping an eye on our kid who we hope won't provoke, attack or kill the other.
There's some movie where the two characters are spies or hitmen or something and they're sitting down having a conversation. On the surface they're trying to be civil, but each one has a gun pointed at the other underneath the table. Neither has the intention to harm the other, but at the same time their instincts won't allow them to let their guard down. (I'm like seriously pissed at myself for not being able to remember the movie. I can't get old man. I just can't.) Well anyway, that's what happened to me at the playground yesterday. Actually, now that I think about it, that's what happens to me at the playground everyday.
It never occurred to me pre-baby that I would have to talk to so many strangers once my daughter was born. My wife says I'm antisocial, but that's just because she's a social moth. My job is to keep her country mouse self away from the flame. What she calls antisocial, I call a survival mechanism. When you grow up in the city the first thing you learn is to not speak to anyone. The moral of every story on the news back in 1980s DC was "Don't talk to strangers."
It didn't matter if it was a kidnapping, murder, rape or gas main explosion. Somewhere in there somebody said hello to someone else and it was curtains for them. That's why if you ever see me on the street, you'll think I'm the angriest person in the world. I have my fists balled up, I walk real fast and I wear a really convincing scowl. I call it my "90 Bus/ Green Line Face." And man, has that thing kept me safe over the years. It's like my favorite jacket or something. Those homeless people selling Street Sense newspapers see it and immediately leave me the hell alone. The same goes for the person talking about how he lost his farecard and needs 60 cents to get to the shelter.
Anyway, now that I have a kid I can't wear my favorite face as much. This is especially true on the playground. The shitty parents plop down on a bench and start playing with their phones. I follow her around like a Secret Service Agent and that brings me back to my original point about the two spies/hitmen/whatever in the restaurant. I'm not the only parent who does this and when that happens, there's always a little dance between me and that other parent.
It begins with a fake smile and a simple hello. In that one exchange, however, I'm sizing that person up. Even if you are a 5'2" middle aged white woman with a limp, I don't trust you. I'm with Wednesday Addams on this one: "Where's your costume little girl? I'm a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else." Everyone is a suspect on the playground as far as I'm concerned. I'm following my daughter around just in case one of those parents is faster than me and has a van waiting around the corner.
You may think I'm paranoid, but those parents are doing the same damned thing. Real recognizes real, you know. You don't really care about where I got her jacket. You know how I know? Because your kid is wearing a Circo sweater which was right next to this jacket in Target. The fact that your kid has on Circo jeans as well, lets me know that you shop there exclusively. Still, we do this little dance to keep up the visage of civility.
Sadly this distrust extends to their kid as well. Spend enough time around kids and you pretty much become The Oracle. I have the gift now, Neo. I can see beyond time. I know that the little bastard who keeps hitting girls, but never tries it with the boys has a 90% chance of being a wifebeater. That kid who keeps coming over to tell my daughter that she's not building the sandcastle correctly is gonna be a manager one day...the kind you hate and pray calls out sick everyday. These are the kids my daughter chooses to hang around. Not because she's innocent and not discerning, but because my daughter, herself, has a bright future as Xena Warrior Princess or the first woman to fight a co-ed boxing match.
For that reason, above all others, I hover around. I'm the Secret Service agent who protects the public from the President. My daughter lost her mind and conjured the spirit of "I wanna go live in foster care" one day and she hit me. I won't lie. It kinda hurt. I had to remind myself, not that I love her and that she's a child, but of how much money I've invested so far in toys, healthcare and her actual birth. I've spent too much to scrap the project and take her out of this world. So, instead I let it go. But I never forget that if she can hurt a grown man, she will probably kill another child.
Maybe the other parent had a similar experience. That's why we're always taking blame when the other kid does something. "Oh no, Johnny let her play with the toy." Even though Johnny had it first, I'm certain that his mom is afraid he's gonna cock back and hit my daughter for taking it. She's trying to prevent a lawsuit. Little does she know, my daughter thinks she's in the battle for Middle Earth everyday. He may hit her, but that hand will never work again.
So me and that mom dance back and forth, pretending to be interested in pointless conversation while constantly keeping an eye on our kid who we hope won't provoke, attack or kill the other.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
A Rant About Black Movies
A friend asked me to check out an article in yesterday's Washington Post Express about indie film director Ava DuVernay. I'd never heard of the woman, but the gist of the article is that her movie, Middle of Nowhere, made her the first black woman to win the best director award at the Sundance Film Festival. It touched on the point that the movie was well received by white audiences in Utah despite having an all-black cast. My friend wanted to get my thoughts on it because I have been very outspoken against black movies in the last decade or so. All of this was too long for a text message, so here's your reply, buddy:
Yes, this is exactly the direction that I'd like to see black movies go. I feel bad, because I have been shouting to the heavens to give us a movie like this, yet I have no interest in watching it. The subject matter and plot just don't interest me. I'm all drama'd out right now. Still, it's a step in the right direction. For the record, I am not anti-black movies! I'm anti-shitty black movies. Every movie does not have to be about black people. And yes, there is a difference between having black actors and a movie about black people.
Take Samuel L Jackson for example. His character in Die Hard With a Vengeance was clearly written to express his blackness. On the other hand, his character in Pulp Fiction or The Long Kiss Goodnight could've been any race honestly. The same goes for Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop or 48 Hours versus Eddie Murphy in Harlem Nights or Boomerang. I'm not saying these were cinematic masterpieces. I'm just saying that it is possible to make a movie with black people and not have the crux of the movie be their race and culture.
Don't get me wrong. I like movies about black culture, but not every goddamn movie has to be like that. Most of them aren't executed properly and they perpetuate negative stereotypes while conveniently hiding behind the guise of entertainment. Yes, I'm talking about you Tyler Perry. "Why do you hate Tyler Perry so much? He's the only person hiring Black actors right now." That's the problem. When there is only one game in town it kills creativity and competition.
There are far too many instances where the main character is some woman whose life is fixed by finding a man. Most of the time the alternative archetype is the sassy ignorant overweight black woman. The problems are usually wrapped up in some deus ex machina that screams bad writing. All of that is fine sometimes, but when it's the only thing available it becomes the representation for our culture and that is the problem that I have with that man's work. I don't blame him. He's trying to do something positive, but I blame society for letting that be the only thing we get.
When we were growing up we had shows like In Living Color which received its share of criticism for seeming to strive towards being offensive for the sake of being offensive, but it was balanced against shows like Roc, which starred classically trained theatre actors. A show like Martin which, despite how much I love it, did rely heavily on buffoonery came on in the era of The Cosby Show and A Different World.
I give Will Smith a lot of credit because he was able to get himself in roles that could've been written for anybody. I don't look at Enemy of the State and say, Oh look a black guy is being chased by the government! He continued what Eddie Murphy started, but sadly it seems to have come at the expense of Eddie Murphy (Norbit anyone?). This film by DuVernay seems to be a step in the right direction. Truly achieving equality, at least in my opinion, isn't getting more black movies, but movies where the cast just happens to be black.
And stop remaking white movies with black casts just because you can!!! I'm talking to you Steel Magnolias and Death at a Funeral. If you don't have anything to add then just leave it alone. That's lazy. It's like a song. Unless you're gonna do what Whitney did with I Will Always Love You then stop!
Yes, this is exactly the direction that I'd like to see black movies go. I feel bad, because I have been shouting to the heavens to give us a movie like this, yet I have no interest in watching it. The subject matter and plot just don't interest me. I'm all drama'd out right now. Still, it's a step in the right direction. For the record, I am not anti-black movies! I'm anti-shitty black movies. Every movie does not have to be about black people. And yes, there is a difference between having black actors and a movie about black people.
Take Samuel L Jackson for example. His character in Die Hard With a Vengeance was clearly written to express his blackness. On the other hand, his character in Pulp Fiction or The Long Kiss Goodnight could've been any race honestly. The same goes for Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop or 48 Hours versus Eddie Murphy in Harlem Nights or Boomerang. I'm not saying these were cinematic masterpieces. I'm just saying that it is possible to make a movie with black people and not have the crux of the movie be their race and culture.
Don't get me wrong. I like movies about black culture, but not every goddamn movie has to be like that. Most of them aren't executed properly and they perpetuate negative stereotypes while conveniently hiding behind the guise of entertainment. Yes, I'm talking about you Tyler Perry. "Why do you hate Tyler Perry so much? He's the only person hiring Black actors right now." That's the problem. When there is only one game in town it kills creativity and competition.
There are far too many instances where the main character is some woman whose life is fixed by finding a man. Most of the time the alternative archetype is the sassy ignorant overweight black woman. The problems are usually wrapped up in some deus ex machina that screams bad writing. All of that is fine sometimes, but when it's the only thing available it becomes the representation for our culture and that is the problem that I have with that man's work. I don't blame him. He's trying to do something positive, but I blame society for letting that be the only thing we get.
When we were growing up we had shows like In Living Color which received its share of criticism for seeming to strive towards being offensive for the sake of being offensive, but it was balanced against shows like Roc, which starred classically trained theatre actors. A show like Martin which, despite how much I love it, did rely heavily on buffoonery came on in the era of The Cosby Show and A Different World.
I give Will Smith a lot of credit because he was able to get himself in roles that could've been written for anybody. I don't look at Enemy of the State and say, Oh look a black guy is being chased by the government! He continued what Eddie Murphy started, but sadly it seems to have come at the expense of Eddie Murphy (Norbit anyone?). This film by DuVernay seems to be a step in the right direction. Truly achieving equality, at least in my opinion, isn't getting more black movies, but movies where the cast just happens to be black.
And stop remaking white movies with black casts just because you can!!! I'm talking to you Steel Magnolias and Death at a Funeral. If you don't have anything to add then just leave it alone. That's lazy. It's like a song. Unless you're gonna do what Whitney did with I Will Always Love You then stop!
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Once Again, Yelp Review of the Day
Wow. I made the cut again...
I'm a missionary for Horace and Dickies. I'm talking knocking on doors and handing out pamphlets. I went to Fish in the Hood solely because it's closer to my house and gas costs a pint of blood per gallon.
As soon as I walked in and saw that you have to order by the pound instead of a flat rate for a sandwich I was like, "This will be my last time coming here." 30 minutes later and I gotta tell you (Like Red Foxx in Harlem Nights) "That's some good [fish] to make a man change gods.
You order by the pound because they actually fry it fresh. It's like the grocery store. There's a glass with fish sitting on ice and they weigh the fish on a scale before frying it at the other counter. They have whiting, trout, shrimp, crab cakes and the sides...oh my God, the sides!
"Best macaroni and cheese" gets thrown around a lot these days, but my two year old reached into the bowl to grab a piece and I almost safe dropped her at a fire station. I don't know who makes it, I don't care. If there's bits of heroin in it, that's cool with me. All I know is that it was (curse word, curse word, curse word) delicious!
Monday, October 15, 2012
5AM Tangent
It is 5:16 in the morning and insomnia has decided that I shouldn't sleep at all today, so here I am. I initially came on to put up that Gremlin picture which is my new default "I Aint Write Nothin" placeholder, but then I said to myself, "Well, you can write something. Pick anything." Two things about writing when you're sleepy. It's either boring as hell, or long as hell. If you go back through some of my old posts, I'm certain you can determine which were written on a full tank, and which were a cry for Ambien.
So honestly, you can stop reading now. Go on about your day. Earn that paycheck! Maybe you're not at work yet. You could be reading this from your phone on the subway. To that I say, "Are you out of your damned mind? You do know that they're robbing people on the train, right?"
Speaking of trains...Remember the dudes who used to sell stuff on the train? It was always batteries and deodorant. I don't know where the hell they were getting them from. It'd be some big ass 59-batteries-in-a-pack box and the dude would say, "Well I can let you have it for three dollars." They were always knock off duracells. "Powercell!" If not that, then there was that black dude that used to walk around Gallery Place with the camouflage backpack selling Backyard P.A. tapes. "What's up Young. I got dat 9-15 Back or the 9-12 Junk. Five dollars."
Nobody had it on lock like the metro queen who used to sell those damned M&Ms for her church. It was a heavyset lady in a coat and hat who was always selling them. I remember trying to sell some Snickers for my track team and she walked up like she was about to shoot my ass for being on her turf.
So yeah, back to the train. What's up with the people who think they can surf the train? Packed train. Rush hour. There's always that one person who thinks that they don't need to hold on to anything. They'll just ride the wave of the train. Then the train jerks to a stop, they almost fall, and the person they bump into looks like they're debating whter or not to slap em. But not slap em as bad as you wanna slap the people who get on and try to put their bag in the seat beside them during rush hour and then act like they don't hear you when you ask them to move it. The Southeast Secret is to just flop down real hard on their purse and hope to crack anything fragile inside.
Speaking of fragile. Tourists, please hold your kid's hand when you get inside the subway. It used to bother me, but I've pretty much become numb to the sight of a four year old kid standing on the edge of the platform looking down into the trackbed. I'm at the point now where I wanna yell out, "That's where part of you will land when the train comes through and hits your bad ass."
It is now 5:33 and I have no idea what in the hell I am talking about. If you're still reading this...wow. Must be a slow day at work. It is Monday. That's the day when most people do their best pretending. You half type a document and leave it up so that you can click on it if somebody important comes by. Well, that's what most people do. There's always those unfortunate folks who sit right next to their supervisor or they're on the aisle where people walk by, so they have to always look busy.
Back to this train thing. Why in the hell is Metro charging a dollar for paper farecards now? Y'all can't even manage to go a weekend without having to shut down five or six stations for "track maintenance" and yet you have the audacity to ask me for extra money.
Final thoughts?
I secretly root for the train doors to close before that person full of hope gets to the bottom of the elevator.
I often have to talk myself out of bulldozing the tourists standing on the left side of the elevator.
Instead of putting a bag beside me, I try to look menacing, or crazy (pretend to talk to myself) so that no one will sit next to me.
I get really excited inside whenever I successfully guess where the doors are going to stop on the platform, yet I play it off like it didn't mean anything to me.
Final final thought?
It is 5:43. I'm going to sleep.
So honestly, you can stop reading now. Go on about your day. Earn that paycheck! Maybe you're not at work yet. You could be reading this from your phone on the subway. To that I say, "Are you out of your damned mind? You do know that they're robbing people on the train, right?"
Speaking of trains...Remember the dudes who used to sell stuff on the train? It was always batteries and deodorant. I don't know where the hell they were getting them from. It'd be some big ass 59-batteries-in-a-pack box and the dude would say, "Well I can let you have it for three dollars." They were always knock off duracells. "Powercell!" If not that, then there was that black dude that used to walk around Gallery Place with the camouflage backpack selling Backyard P.A. tapes. "What's up Young. I got dat 9-15 Back or the 9-12 Junk. Five dollars."
Nobody had it on lock like the metro queen who used to sell those damned M&Ms for her church. It was a heavyset lady in a coat and hat who was always selling them. I remember trying to sell some Snickers for my track team and she walked up like she was about to shoot my ass for being on her turf.
So yeah, back to the train. What's up with the people who think they can surf the train? Packed train. Rush hour. There's always that one person who thinks that they don't need to hold on to anything. They'll just ride the wave of the train. Then the train jerks to a stop, they almost fall, and the person they bump into looks like they're debating whter or not to slap em. But not slap em as bad as you wanna slap the people who get on and try to put their bag in the seat beside them during rush hour and then act like they don't hear you when you ask them to move it. The Southeast Secret is to just flop down real hard on their purse and hope to crack anything fragile inside.
Speaking of fragile. Tourists, please hold your kid's hand when you get inside the subway. It used to bother me, but I've pretty much become numb to the sight of a four year old kid standing on the edge of the platform looking down into the trackbed. I'm at the point now where I wanna yell out, "That's where part of you will land when the train comes through and hits your bad ass."
It is now 5:33 and I have no idea what in the hell I am talking about. If you're still reading this...wow. Must be a slow day at work. It is Monday. That's the day when most people do their best pretending. You half type a document and leave it up so that you can click on it if somebody important comes by. Well, that's what most people do. There's always those unfortunate folks who sit right next to their supervisor or they're on the aisle where people walk by, so they have to always look busy.
Back to this train thing. Why in the hell is Metro charging a dollar for paper farecards now? Y'all can't even manage to go a weekend without having to shut down five or six stations for "track maintenance" and yet you have the audacity to ask me for extra money.
Final thoughts?
I secretly root for the train doors to close before that person full of hope gets to the bottom of the elevator.
I often have to talk myself out of bulldozing the tourists standing on the left side of the elevator.
Instead of putting a bag beside me, I try to look menacing, or crazy (pretend to talk to myself) so that no one will sit next to me.
I get really excited inside whenever I successfully guess where the doors are going to stop on the platform, yet I play it off like it didn't mean anything to me.
Final final thought?
It is 5:43. I'm going to sleep.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
As I Was Saying
And this is why no one respects out of state tags. If you can't even park, then how am I to believe that you can drive?
Friday, October 12, 2012
Pootie Tang Politics
I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that I can't possibly be the only person who watches the debates just to avoid feeling left out when the "smart people" talk about them later on. When it comes to what's being said, I couldn't care less.
It's not that I'm willfully ignorant when it comes to politics, but quite the opposite. Ignorance is bliss, and what I feel when I think about the political machine in this country is anything but that. No, I'm very much abreast on what's going on, but I just don't care.
There's less than a month to go before the election. Who is this mythological person that I keep hearing about who still doesn't know who they're going to vote for after all of this time? Where the hell have you been for the past year? It's not even that hard to choose. You've read half the book already. You know who Obama is, because he's been President for the last four years. All you really need to do is read the cliffnotes on Romney and go from there.
You'd probably get more definitive information from cliffnotes than an actual debate anyway. "First Question. What is your name?"
"Well it's great to be here in this random city in a swing state. It's an honor to be moderated by you, random person that we only see every four years. Hello to the American people. My favorite Ninja Turtle is Leonardo. Thank you."
The talking heads on the post-debate show would have you believe that it was a strategy for them to dodge all of those questions, but I met quite a few politicians when I interned at the US Capitol one summer. They talk like that normally.
"Good Morning Senator ____."
"Triangle!"
"Uh. Okay. Which floor can I press for you?"
"Picture frame."
"I'm gonna go ahead and push four."
No one is gonna tell you what they're gonna do, because they don't even know. We're not electing a king. We're electing a President and his word means jack shit if Congress doesn't go along with it. And since we're in a two-party system where everyone is either a Blood or a Crip (with a few neutral "My mama said I can't join a gang" Independents scattered about), all we get is a constantly rotating circle of people vying for re-election by doing as little as possible outside of their comfort zone.
That's why I kinda miss Herman Cain. I wouldn't have voted for him, but I liked his relatability. He looked like he was one cholesterol pill away from leaving this Earth, and didn't have time to talk in circles. "Ubeky-beky-stan-stan" will go down in history as the best way to say, "I don't know."
It sure beats the hell out of the Pootie Tang answers we're certain to get over the next few weeks.
Wa-da-tah and Sa-da-tay!
It's not that I'm willfully ignorant when it comes to politics, but quite the opposite. Ignorance is bliss, and what I feel when I think about the political machine in this country is anything but that. No, I'm very much abreast on what's going on, but I just don't care.
There's less than a month to go before the election. Who is this mythological person that I keep hearing about who still doesn't know who they're going to vote for after all of this time? Where the hell have you been for the past year? It's not even that hard to choose. You've read half the book already. You know who Obama is, because he's been President for the last four years. All you really need to do is read the cliffnotes on Romney and go from there.
You'd probably get more definitive information from cliffnotes than an actual debate anyway. "First Question. What is your name?"
"Well it's great to be here in this random city in a swing state. It's an honor to be moderated by you, random person that we only see every four years. Hello to the American people. My favorite Ninja Turtle is Leonardo. Thank you."
The talking heads on the post-debate show would have you believe that it was a strategy for them to dodge all of those questions, but I met quite a few politicians when I interned at the US Capitol one summer. They talk like that normally.
"Good Morning Senator ____."
"Triangle!"
"Uh. Okay. Which floor can I press for you?"
"Picture frame."
"I'm gonna go ahead and push four."
No one is gonna tell you what they're gonna do, because they don't even know. We're not electing a king. We're electing a President and his word means jack shit if Congress doesn't go along with it. And since we're in a two-party system where everyone is either a Blood or a Crip (with a few neutral "My mama said I can't join a gang" Independents scattered about), all we get is a constantly rotating circle of people vying for re-election by doing as little as possible outside of their comfort zone.
That's why I kinda miss Herman Cain. I wouldn't have voted for him, but I liked his relatability. He looked like he was one cholesterol pill away from leaving this Earth, and didn't have time to talk in circles. "Ubeky-beky-stan-stan" will go down in history as the best way to say, "I don't know."
It sure beats the hell out of the Pootie Tang answers we're certain to get over the next few weeks.
Wa-da-tah and Sa-da-tay!
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Father of the Year
I was at the playground the other day where I took part in the saddest father-son moment I've ever seen. I can only describe it as the sound of one hand clapping. When I got to the playground I saw this suspicious looking guy standing far off in the corner smoking a cigarette...on the playground. There were no other kids around, or so I thought. As we got inside the gate I saw this little kid on the swings by himself.
He was about three years old, which meant he was too little to swing himself so he just sat there kinda rocking back and forth. His little face was filled with hope that somehow that was the magic formula for swinging...leaning back and forward and moving all of two inches in each direction. He saw me and my daughter come in and before I knew it he was standing on the edge of the sandbox staring at us like the serial killer he is sure to become thanks to his neglectful father.
"Will you play with me?" I thought he was talking to my daughter. Unfortunately, he was talking to me. "Sir, will you play with me?" I love kids, but if I've learned anything from Michael Jackson, it's Leave Little Kids (Especially Boys) The Hell Alone. "Uh, is that your dad over there?" He shook his head. "I think you should probably go play with him. He looks lonely over there (slowly developing lung cancer)." He shrugged and released a depressing sigh. "You could play with my daughter here in the sandbox."
He eagerly jumped in the sandbox, grabbed a shovel and started digging. A few minutes later Wonderdad appeared. "Hey." I said hey back and he just stood there as if he was learning how to be a dad by watching us. Then his son grabbed my daughter's hand and said, "Girl, come watch me go down the slide." My daughter snatched her hand away and gave him the "did you just touch me" look. "Mister. Make girl go watch me go down the slide." I looked at his father like, "Jump in here whenever you want" but he just stood there.
"Come on, let's go get on the slide." My daughter begrudgingly went down the slide one time and immediately returned to the sandbox. "Girl, I'm not finished. Come back and watch me." I started painting a picture of what his home life was like. "We're gonna get in the sandbox, because that's her favorite thing, but you're welcomed to come with us or keep sliding." He started crying at the top of the slide and his father just looked at me like, "What do I do now?" I walked away and left him to figure it out.
Eventually he came back to the sandbox and his father plopped him down beside us. We talked about absolutely nothing for two full minutes, then he sat there in awkward silence for another minute before standing up and walking away. Literally. He got up, walked to the gate and left the playground. I thought that he was possibly going to his car to get something. No, dude walked to the corner, crossed the street and kept going.
I thought to myself (maybe I even said it out loud), "Did he just safe drop this little boy with me at the playground?" The little boy didn't even seem fazed. I tried to justify it. "Maybe he went to the house to get something." After twenty minutes, I ran out of ideas. "This dude just abandoned his child."
It's a sad indicator of the type of world we live in, because my immediate thought was self preservation. My conscience was like, "He's a little kid. He says he's only three. You should call the police." Then the inner Black man who's seen some things in his life and whose only job is to keep me outta jail said, "You really plan on taking a little white boy off the playground and to your house in THIS neighborhood? Guilty!"
I hung around for another ten minutes while kinda watching his kid, but not really. I kept an eye on him to make sure he didn't high dive off the slide onto the concrete, but at the same time, I didn't get too close to him in case his absentee father returned and wondered "Why is this guy so close to my kid."
His father showed up just as the little boy was playing hide and go seek by himself and he walked up to me a little too casually, "Hey, have you seen my kid? He's like this tall and had on a blue shirt." I was thinking to myself, "There were no other kids on the playground when you left him and there are no other kids now. Why do you feel the need to describe him to me? Are you reminding yourself of what he looks like?" Instead I just said, "He's over there behind that tree."
Then the guy starts telling me how he feels so fortunate to finally be able to spend some time with him since he got divorced and only sees him once a month. (Thinking to myself) "Wow. This is your version of spending time. How did your ex let a keeper like you get away?" We talked for a few more minutes while his son went back to rocking back and forth on the swing. Other kids showed up and his dad pulled out another cigarette...on the playground.
"Well it's been fun. Gotta go."
"Yeah, we should hang out some time."
"Uh huh. Bye."
He was about three years old, which meant he was too little to swing himself so he just sat there kinda rocking back and forth. His little face was filled with hope that somehow that was the magic formula for swinging...leaning back and forward and moving all of two inches in each direction. He saw me and my daughter come in and before I knew it he was standing on the edge of the sandbox staring at us like the serial killer he is sure to become thanks to his neglectful father.
"Will you play with me?" I thought he was talking to my daughter. Unfortunately, he was talking to me. "Sir, will you play with me?" I love kids, but if I've learned anything from Michael Jackson, it's Leave Little Kids (Especially Boys) The Hell Alone. "Uh, is that your dad over there?" He shook his head. "I think you should probably go play with him. He looks lonely over there (slowly developing lung cancer)." He shrugged and released a depressing sigh. "You could play with my daughter here in the sandbox."
He eagerly jumped in the sandbox, grabbed a shovel and started digging. A few minutes later Wonderdad appeared. "Hey." I said hey back and he just stood there as if he was learning how to be a dad by watching us. Then his son grabbed my daughter's hand and said, "Girl, come watch me go down the slide." My daughter snatched her hand away and gave him the "did you just touch me" look. "Mister. Make girl go watch me go down the slide." I looked at his father like, "Jump in here whenever you want" but he just stood there.
"Come on, let's go get on the slide." My daughter begrudgingly went down the slide one time and immediately returned to the sandbox. "Girl, I'm not finished. Come back and watch me." I started painting a picture of what his home life was like. "We're gonna get in the sandbox, because that's her favorite thing, but you're welcomed to come with us or keep sliding." He started crying at the top of the slide and his father just looked at me like, "What do I do now?" I walked away and left him to figure it out.
Eventually he came back to the sandbox and his father plopped him down beside us. We talked about absolutely nothing for two full minutes, then he sat there in awkward silence for another minute before standing up and walking away. Literally. He got up, walked to the gate and left the playground. I thought that he was possibly going to his car to get something. No, dude walked to the corner, crossed the street and kept going.
I thought to myself (maybe I even said it out loud), "Did he just safe drop this little boy with me at the playground?" The little boy didn't even seem fazed. I tried to justify it. "Maybe he went to the house to get something." After twenty minutes, I ran out of ideas. "This dude just abandoned his child."
It's a sad indicator of the type of world we live in, because my immediate thought was self preservation. My conscience was like, "He's a little kid. He says he's only three. You should call the police." Then the inner Black man who's seen some things in his life and whose only job is to keep me outta jail said, "You really plan on taking a little white boy off the playground and to your house in THIS neighborhood? Guilty!"
I hung around for another ten minutes while kinda watching his kid, but not really. I kept an eye on him to make sure he didn't high dive off the slide onto the concrete, but at the same time, I didn't get too close to him in case his absentee father returned and wondered "Why is this guy so close to my kid."
His father showed up just as the little boy was playing hide and go seek by himself and he walked up to me a little too casually, "Hey, have you seen my kid? He's like this tall and had on a blue shirt." I was thinking to myself, "There were no other kids on the playground when you left him and there are no other kids now. Why do you feel the need to describe him to me? Are you reminding yourself of what he looks like?" Instead I just said, "He's over there behind that tree."
Then the guy starts telling me how he feels so fortunate to finally be able to spend some time with him since he got divorced and only sees him once a month. (Thinking to myself) "Wow. This is your version of spending time. How did your ex let a keeper like you get away?" We talked for a few more minutes while his son went back to rocking back and forth on the swing. Other kids showed up and his dad pulled out another cigarette...on the playground.
"Well it's been fun. Gotta go."
"Yeah, we should hang out some time."
"Uh huh. Bye."
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Drive!
The thought occurred to me today that I should write this handy guide. Yelling at, and holding imaginary lectures with the people driving around me is pointless. If I'm not a part of the solution, then I must be a part of the problem. So here it is...
The Idiot's Guide to Driving in DC
First and foremost, don't drive a vehicle with out of state tags (exception: MD and VA). Everybody is going to assume you can't drive. When you see four cars lined up in the right lane just to avoid being behind the guy with Arkansas tags in the left, then you know that what I'm saying is legit.
Diplomatic tags mean that something stupid is about to happen. Keep a safe distance if you're behind one of those cars because they're likely to just stop for no reason whatsoever...or keep going through red lights, crosswalks, schoolbus stops, buildings, etc.
Cab drivers are mentally challenged. Not all, but most. They act like they're playing a game of Mario Kart and have those three red turtle shells floating around them. I can't tell you how many times I've had to slam on my brakes thanks to a cab driver who spotted a fare. They're so crazy that the city put up signs that exempt them from normal rules. "NO LEFT TURN...except taxicabs because y'all are gonna do it anyway!"
Expect at least one tourist to try to lay down his life in front of your car in the name of taking a picture. I don't know what land these people come from where that bright orange "Don't Walk" hand means "Hey, if you think you can make it..." They're worse than deer on a dark road. They just dart out in the middle of the street with their Decepticon-looking strollers and then stare at you as they cross the street as slow as humanly possible.
If you don't hit a tourist then you're probably about to hit a person on a bike. There's a bitter civil war brewing between cyclists and motorists. I ride my bike as much as I drive so I'm neutral. I can understand the motorist's beef. You're still paying the note on that Elantra and you wanna get to work on time. The guy ahead of you pedaling up the hill at 3 miles an hour on a Huffy is probably gonna make you late. At the same time, however, the cyclist probably pays taxes too and is entitled to ride his bike. It's not like the sidewalks are clear during rush hour. Until every street gets a bike lane, no one is gonna be happy.
For the love of God, please pull forward into the intersection to make your left turn. If the light turns red, you can turn if you've already advanced into the intersection. If you pull up far enough, the person behind you can go too. If you have DC tags and are one of those people who just sit there hoping the opposing traffic will all stop and wait for you...you need to be slapped.
The Idiot's Guide to Driving in DC
First and foremost, don't drive a vehicle with out of state tags (exception: MD and VA). Everybody is going to assume you can't drive. When you see four cars lined up in the right lane just to avoid being behind the guy with Arkansas tags in the left, then you know that what I'm saying is legit.
Diplomatic tags mean that something stupid is about to happen. Keep a safe distance if you're behind one of those cars because they're likely to just stop for no reason whatsoever...or keep going through red lights, crosswalks, schoolbus stops, buildings, etc.
Cab drivers are mentally challenged. Not all, but most. They act like they're playing a game of Mario Kart and have those three red turtle shells floating around them. I can't tell you how many times I've had to slam on my brakes thanks to a cab driver who spotted a fare. They're so crazy that the city put up signs that exempt them from normal rules. "NO LEFT TURN...except taxicabs because y'all are gonna do it anyway!"
Expect at least one tourist to try to lay down his life in front of your car in the name of taking a picture. I don't know what land these people come from where that bright orange "Don't Walk" hand means "Hey, if you think you can make it..." They're worse than deer on a dark road. They just dart out in the middle of the street with their Decepticon-looking strollers and then stare at you as they cross the street as slow as humanly possible.
If you don't hit a tourist then you're probably about to hit a person on a bike. There's a bitter civil war brewing between cyclists and motorists. I ride my bike as much as I drive so I'm neutral. I can understand the motorist's beef. You're still paying the note on that Elantra and you wanna get to work on time. The guy ahead of you pedaling up the hill at 3 miles an hour on a Huffy is probably gonna make you late. At the same time, however, the cyclist probably pays taxes too and is entitled to ride his bike. It's not like the sidewalks are clear during rush hour. Until every street gets a bike lane, no one is gonna be happy.
For the love of God, please pull forward into the intersection to make your left turn. If the light turns red, you can turn if you've already advanced into the intersection. If you pull up far enough, the person behind you can go too. If you have DC tags and are one of those people who just sit there hoping the opposing traffic will all stop and wait for you...you need to be slapped.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Give Credit Where Credit Is Due
I was riding around with someone a while ago who pointed out some of the changes in DC and said, "They're fixing this shit up for white people." I was with a different person the other day who said, "Yeah, that's a good school now. Ever since those white people moved over there, they been fixing that school up."
Why is it that in DC, white=money? I understand how gentrification works, and, having studied poverty for several years at the undergraduate and graduate level, I know enough about income disparity between races to understand this point of view. Still, I lived in NC, and down in Durham my neighbors were black, white and latino in both good and bad areas. It seems to be only up here where I can't seem to find a predominantly white neighborhood that's below the poverty line.
It's not racially motivated that someone put in a street light or built a playground. I think it comes down to just getting enough signatures (that matter) to get the stuff done. Still, I feel the effects of gentrification like everyone else. I was over my grandmother's house a lot this week and Lord knows I got some mean stares from the new neighbors. My grandmother seems hell bent on being the last person standing from the old neighborhood. Most of the families I grew up around are long gone. These new people don't know me. They see me walking around and immediately assume I'm out of place.
While I don't care what they think per se, it is a little bit of a downer to have to go through that. I feel like I paid my dues and deserve to be treated with respect when I sit out on my grandmother's porch, not stared at through curtains. This isn't my usual "Black man's saga" post. When I say "respect" I don't mean as a human being. I mean I deserve to be respected (revered, even) like some kind of folk hero. Do you know the shit I had to put up with?
I remember them sending me to the liquor store with a note and a ten dollar bill and the Korean lady at the liquor store handing me a brown paper bag and peering over the counter and into my soul as she said, "You take this and you run straight home. Don't open it and whatever you do, don't drop it." I ran home like I was carrying launch codes for a missile or something while the winos in front of the store stared at me like I was carrying the last bottle of hope.
I remember when Maury Elementary wasn't the nice pristine little school that it is now. I see children's bikes parked in front now and they have a website and PTA support. I remember they used to pimp us to sell gift wrap like the lights and water were gonna get cut off if we didn't raise enough money. Grown men used to hang out on the basketball court in the evenings so you couldn't go over there to play, because they'd be over there drinking and smoking.
Hell, half of my childhood is filled with memories of learning which streets I could walk down and which ones required me to take the long way around the block. Now I see the liquor stores have been demolished and apartments and townhomes put up in their place. There's a Capital Bikeshare up near Lincoln Park. Constitution Avenue is now punctuated with Stop signs whereas back when I was growing up it was a freeway that turned into a one-way rush hour road during the morning. Even when a little girl got hit so hard by a car that her shoes were thrown down the block, they didn't bother repainting the crosswalk.
I'm not saying that I grew up in some ravaged African nation where I had to become a child soldier, but I deserve a little more respect than just a perturbed glance as you pass by the house that I grew up in. To be honest, the only reason you got to live in the house you're going into is because I was up late one night and happened to notice smoke coming out of the house that you now call home. The previous owner was out of town, so I called 911 and saved the little place from burning to the ground.
Show a little respect.
Why is it that in DC, white=money? I understand how gentrification works, and, having studied poverty for several years at the undergraduate and graduate level, I know enough about income disparity between races to understand this point of view. Still, I lived in NC, and down in Durham my neighbors were black, white and latino in both good and bad areas. It seems to be only up here where I can't seem to find a predominantly white neighborhood that's below the poverty line.
It's not racially motivated that someone put in a street light or built a playground. I think it comes down to just getting enough signatures (that matter) to get the stuff done. Still, I feel the effects of gentrification like everyone else. I was over my grandmother's house a lot this week and Lord knows I got some mean stares from the new neighbors. My grandmother seems hell bent on being the last person standing from the old neighborhood. Most of the families I grew up around are long gone. These new people don't know me. They see me walking around and immediately assume I'm out of place.
While I don't care what they think per se, it is a little bit of a downer to have to go through that. I feel like I paid my dues and deserve to be treated with respect when I sit out on my grandmother's porch, not stared at through curtains. This isn't my usual "Black man's saga" post. When I say "respect" I don't mean as a human being. I mean I deserve to be respected (revered, even) like some kind of folk hero. Do you know the shit I had to put up with?
I remember them sending me to the liquor store with a note and a ten dollar bill and the Korean lady at the liquor store handing me a brown paper bag and peering over the counter and into my soul as she said, "You take this and you run straight home. Don't open it and whatever you do, don't drop it." I ran home like I was carrying launch codes for a missile or something while the winos in front of the store stared at me like I was carrying the last bottle of hope.
I remember when Maury Elementary wasn't the nice pristine little school that it is now. I see children's bikes parked in front now and they have a website and PTA support. I remember they used to pimp us to sell gift wrap like the lights and water were gonna get cut off if we didn't raise enough money. Grown men used to hang out on the basketball court in the evenings so you couldn't go over there to play, because they'd be over there drinking and smoking.
Hell, half of my childhood is filled with memories of learning which streets I could walk down and which ones required me to take the long way around the block. Now I see the liquor stores have been demolished and apartments and townhomes put up in their place. There's a Capital Bikeshare up near Lincoln Park. Constitution Avenue is now punctuated with Stop signs whereas back when I was growing up it was a freeway that turned into a one-way rush hour road during the morning. Even when a little girl got hit so hard by a car that her shoes were thrown down the block, they didn't bother repainting the crosswalk.
I'm not saying that I grew up in some ravaged African nation where I had to become a child soldier, but I deserve a little more respect than just a perturbed glance as you pass by the house that I grew up in. To be honest, the only reason you got to live in the house you're going into is because I was up late one night and happened to notice smoke coming out of the house that you now call home. The previous owner was out of town, so I called 911 and saved the little place from burning to the ground.
Show a little respect.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Revelations
So the reason I've been so stressed lately and these posts have been kinda shitty is because my grandmother was in the hospital. Frequent readers should know just how important she is to me and understand why I kinda put this on the back burner. I've spent the last (I don't know how many) days going to the hospital. My wife thinks I was devoid of all emotion and she basically just stood back waiting for me to explode. In the Men of Brewster Place (Yes, there was a male version), Gloria Naylor wrote something along the lines of: Men cry on the inside. It's only after every single space has been filled that the tears rise up and over the lids of their eyes and stream down their faces.
It sounded better when she said it, but you get the point. It bothered me a great deal, but my grandmother doesn't make it easy to feel bad. Don't misinterpret that as her being exceptionally jovial and good natured. Far from that. This is the same woman who saw me being chased by a dog and told me to run the other way so that it wouldn't chase her too. She spent most of the time cursing each of her children out. It was when she started telling me not to worry about her and listing possessions that she wanted me to give to different people that I found myself sitting in the parking lot crying the hardest. But after five minutes in the room and hearing her say:
"I've been laying up here looking at you and I just don't understand how it is that you can be as old as you are and aint gotten no taller than you were when you were a little boy. It just don't make no sense. Why the hell are you so short? And then for you to go out and find someone to marry that's even shorter than you. It just seems silly. At least if you married somebody tall, you might have a chance of your child being regular height."
And people wonder where my "sparkling" personality comes from. Suffice to say, she's getting closer to being her regular self. And that's a scary thought. Now she'll probably slice my throat for saying this, but...she had a kidney infection that sent her into septic shock during the operation and, while recovering from that, she got pneumonia in the hospital and a day later had a heart attack. A day and a half later they discharged her from the hospital. My grandmother is immortal.
And she isn't one of those wimpy ass Twilight vampires either. She is the thing that goes bump in the night. (She is the one who knocks) When she found out that she had to spend the night in the hospital after the first surgery (because her kind are totally fine having surgery and going home the same day) she cursed every nurse out and said (Direct quote here) "I'm not staying in this hospital. I don't care if there's police watching the door or not. They gonna have to put bullets in me and shoot me down dead, because that's the only way I'm staying in this hospital tonight. These people keep treating me like I'm some kind of trash off the street. Call down to my church and ask about me, then you'll know who you're dealing with."
In my head I'm thinking, "Just open a bible. There's a whole book about her at the end."
It sounded better when she said it, but you get the point. It bothered me a great deal, but my grandmother doesn't make it easy to feel bad. Don't misinterpret that as her being exceptionally jovial and good natured. Far from that. This is the same woman who saw me being chased by a dog and told me to run the other way so that it wouldn't chase her too. She spent most of the time cursing each of her children out. It was when she started telling me not to worry about her and listing possessions that she wanted me to give to different people that I found myself sitting in the parking lot crying the hardest. But after five minutes in the room and hearing her say:
"I've been laying up here looking at you and I just don't understand how it is that you can be as old as you are and aint gotten no taller than you were when you were a little boy. It just don't make no sense. Why the hell are you so short? And then for you to go out and find someone to marry that's even shorter than you. It just seems silly. At least if you married somebody tall, you might have a chance of your child being regular height."
And people wonder where my "sparkling" personality comes from. Suffice to say, she's getting closer to being her regular self. And that's a scary thought. Now she'll probably slice my throat for saying this, but...she had a kidney infection that sent her into septic shock during the operation and, while recovering from that, she got pneumonia in the hospital and a day later had a heart attack. A day and a half later they discharged her from the hospital. My grandmother is immortal.
And she isn't one of those wimpy ass Twilight vampires either. She is the thing that goes bump in the night. (She is the one who knocks) When she found out that she had to spend the night in the hospital after the first surgery (because her kind are totally fine having surgery and going home the same day) she cursed every nurse out and said (Direct quote here) "I'm not staying in this hospital. I don't care if there's police watching the door or not. They gonna have to put bullets in me and shoot me down dead, because that's the only way I'm staying in this hospital tonight. These people keep treating me like I'm some kind of trash off the street. Call down to my church and ask about me, then you'll know who you're dealing with."
In my head I'm thinking, "Just open a bible. There's a whole book about her at the end."
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Vote!
The first debate was last night, so ladies and gentlemen it is officially election season! For the next month, everyone and their mother will be reminding you to vote. I'm gonna take it a step further and encourage you to look up who else is running BEFORE you get to the polls. Half the time you get so caught up in the main event that you don't pay attention to the lightweight fights before the fight. Okay, let's be real...the MAJORITY of the time you don't even know you're supposed to vote for those other positions until you get in front and someone hands you a flyer.
The first time I ever voted was in the 2000 Presidential Election. I was so excited to be grown that I walked in the booth like I was hot shit. "Bush or Gore, Bush or Gore?" For P.C.'s sake (and to help get a job one day in the future) let's just pretend I was torn between the two. I got in that little booth and was taken aback, "Hold up, you can vote for the NC Commissioner of Insurance? There's a Secretary of State...for the state?" I did what I later learned that a lot of people do in that situation...."Bartholomew Winchester III or Leroy Johnson? Leroy sounds Black. Imma go with him. Becky Ryan or Lakeisha Williams? Keisha sounds ghetto. I don't trust her to be Treasurer. I think I did see a poster for a guy named Terrence. He looked crooked in those pictures, so Imma vote for the Cedric." So with all that said...do your homework ahead of time.
I won't lie and say that this election doesn't slightly depress me. You see, I'm getting closer to 35, the minimum age to be President. I think it's safe to say that judging by my credit history and some of the things I can't possibly write about on this blog and still hope to get a job one day, I don't think I'm gonna grow up to be President after all. I feel so bad letting down all those people from high school who voted me "Most Likely to be President." I know you guys had your little seventeen year old hearts set on it. A handful of people still refer to me as Mr President on Facebook. They'll probably take it the hardest. Lotta suicide risks floating around now. Sigh.
Confidence is a hell of a thing, but so is chance. I was nervous as hell to go to high school. A nerd of the highest order, I just knew I was gonna end up at one of DC's many versions of East Side High (Lean on Me) where I'd promptly have to pull a Sophia from The Color Purple ("All my life I had to fight!). As fate would have it, I ended up at the nerd school. It was like the X-Men school but for nerds. In this place I was class president 11th and 12th grade as well as school president 12th grade as well.
The funny thing is that I never planned to do any of that. They dragged us all to the cafeteria in 11th grade and told us we were gonna hold elections, so line up if you want to give a speech. I wanted something to put on my college application, so I got up for treasurer. Fifty people ran for that ahead of me so I changed it to secretary. Another fifty people. By the time I got to the front the only thing left was VP and President. There was a girl that I liked running for VP and she really wanted it, so I figured I'd run for President just for kicks. Plus I was this close to hooking up with another girl who happened to be in the cafeteria and you know nerd girls love a man in power.
I jotted down some points on a paper towel that I thought were BS in someone else's speech. I got up and said that I was the unlikely candidate because I had a horrible GPA and I lived in the office because I kept cursing teachers out. "That's what makes me the right choice! Do you want someone who's afraid to speak their mind because it'll show up on their report card or do you want a guy with a proven track record for speaking up? You know my track record. I have nothing to lose, so I'm willing to fight for you. And by the way, all that stuff the other people said was BS. This is class president not school superintendent. You can't change the lunches or shorten the school day."
I won by over 70 percent...and I got the girl! (Hell yeah!) The next year I was ready to give a similar speech for school president, but I ran unopposed. The moral of the story...Don't forget to vote...but pick someone not in it for the money, fame or women. Good luck with that.
The first time I ever voted was in the 2000 Presidential Election. I was so excited to be grown that I walked in the booth like I was hot shit. "Bush or Gore, Bush or Gore?" For P.C.'s sake (and to help get a job one day in the future) let's just pretend I was torn between the two. I got in that little booth and was taken aback, "Hold up, you can vote for the NC Commissioner of Insurance? There's a Secretary of State...for the state?" I did what I later learned that a lot of people do in that situation...."Bartholomew Winchester III or Leroy Johnson? Leroy sounds Black. Imma go with him. Becky Ryan or Lakeisha Williams? Keisha sounds ghetto. I don't trust her to be Treasurer. I think I did see a poster for a guy named Terrence. He looked crooked in those pictures, so Imma vote for the Cedric." So with all that said...do your homework ahead of time.
I won't lie and say that this election doesn't slightly depress me. You see, I'm getting closer to 35, the minimum age to be President. I think it's safe to say that judging by my credit history and some of the things I can't possibly write about on this blog and still hope to get a job one day, I don't think I'm gonna grow up to be President after all. I feel so bad letting down all those people from high school who voted me "Most Likely to be President." I know you guys had your little seventeen year old hearts set on it. A handful of people still refer to me as Mr President on Facebook. They'll probably take it the hardest. Lotta suicide risks floating around now. Sigh.
Confidence is a hell of a thing, but so is chance. I was nervous as hell to go to high school. A nerd of the highest order, I just knew I was gonna end up at one of DC's many versions of East Side High (Lean on Me) where I'd promptly have to pull a Sophia from The Color Purple ("All my life I had to fight!). As fate would have it, I ended up at the nerd school. It was like the X-Men school but for nerds. In this place I was class president 11th and 12th grade as well as school president 12th grade as well.
The funny thing is that I never planned to do any of that. They dragged us all to the cafeteria in 11th grade and told us we were gonna hold elections, so line up if you want to give a speech. I wanted something to put on my college application, so I got up for treasurer. Fifty people ran for that ahead of me so I changed it to secretary. Another fifty people. By the time I got to the front the only thing left was VP and President. There was a girl that I liked running for VP and she really wanted it, so I figured I'd run for President just for kicks. Plus I was this close to hooking up with another girl who happened to be in the cafeteria and you know nerd girls love a man in power.
I jotted down some points on a paper towel that I thought were BS in someone else's speech. I got up and said that I was the unlikely candidate because I had a horrible GPA and I lived in the office because I kept cursing teachers out. "That's what makes me the right choice! Do you want someone who's afraid to speak their mind because it'll show up on their report card or do you want a guy with a proven track record for speaking up? You know my track record. I have nothing to lose, so I'm willing to fight for you. And by the way, all that stuff the other people said was BS. This is class president not school superintendent. You can't change the lunches or shorten the school day."
I won by over 70 percent...and I got the girl! (Hell yeah!) The next year I was ready to give a similar speech for school president, but I ran unopposed. The moral of the story...Don't forget to vote...but pick someone not in it for the money, fame or women. Good luck with that.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Three Years Later...Still Alive!
Well, it's October and thus time for me to do my annual "I'm Still Alive" celebration. I've written about this many times before, but that's the whole point. You don't really appreciate life until you have a near-death experience. The problem is that gradually over time that appreciation begins to fade. So that's the whole point of writing the same story every year. I don't ever wanna forget.
The weird thing is that I've had several near-death experiences. Most of them were my own fault. Electrocuting myself once a week as a kid while trying to create a flux capacitor is just one example. Then the time I got that chemistry set from a yard sale without any instructions. Fun times...waking up twenty minutes later on the floor of the basement after mixing random chemicals together and then smelling the smoke coming out of the tube. And don't even get me started on the time I got hit by the same van twice in one week during two really intense games of roller skate tag (on a hill, no less).
But no, today's story is different. This one had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with a doctor who had the absolute worst bedside manner in the history of medicine. It's a simple story. I applied to be a cop. Figuring that I'd need to be in top physical condition if I was gonna catch bullets with my teeth like Bruce Leeroy, I got in shape. I lost 50 lbs in about five to six weeks. No weight loss pills, just a lot of running, bike riding and my patented Unemployment Diet. Can't eat what you ain't got! (That's copyrighted, too)
The cop physical revealed a heart defect which was quickly remedied by an 8 hour surgery during which my heart rate shot up to about 200 beats a minute. I woke up unable to breathe because they accidentally burned a little of my lung during the surgery, but that didn't stop me from taking advantage of the painkillers and singing to the nurses in between quoting The Godfather and eventually getting up and doing the Thriller dance...until the meds wore off and I fell back to the bed.
Not even getting turned down by every cab outside the hospital could kill my mood. I was just happy to be alive. I caught the Metro home after heart surgery and walked two miles to my house from the train with a little pep in my limp. But I'll tell you what did kill my mood: Getting a call saying that the blood work from the physical revealed abnormalities with my liver function. What sucked even more was the world's worst doctor calling me and leaving a message that said:
"Hey Mr Allen, this is ____ from the hospital. I looked over the scan and your liver is fine, but there appears to be a fairly large mass on your pancreas. I don't want to alarm you. It could be cancerous or it could be nothing, but we really won't know until we get you in for a CT Scan. I think you should get one of those right away so that we can get to the bottom of this. It's 4:55 Friday and I won't be back in until Monday, so call me Monday morning and we can discuss setting up a scan. Have a good weekend!"
That's kinda hard to shake off. I decided to just keep that one to myself. The wife cried enough before and after the heart surgery that you'd think I died on the table. So for the next week I just walked around wondering if I was gonna die. It was around the beginning of October that I got the news that I was fine. (knock on wood)
I just like to bring it up every once in a while to remind myself that half of this stuff really doesn't matter.
The weird thing is that I've had several near-death experiences. Most of them were my own fault. Electrocuting myself once a week as a kid while trying to create a flux capacitor is just one example. Then the time I got that chemistry set from a yard sale without any instructions. Fun times...waking up twenty minutes later on the floor of the basement after mixing random chemicals together and then smelling the smoke coming out of the tube. And don't even get me started on the time I got hit by the same van twice in one week during two really intense games of roller skate tag (on a hill, no less).
But no, today's story is different. This one had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with a doctor who had the absolute worst bedside manner in the history of medicine. It's a simple story. I applied to be a cop. Figuring that I'd need to be in top physical condition if I was gonna catch bullets with my teeth like Bruce Leeroy, I got in shape. I lost 50 lbs in about five to six weeks. No weight loss pills, just a lot of running, bike riding and my patented Unemployment Diet. Can't eat what you ain't got! (That's copyrighted, too)
The cop physical revealed a heart defect which was quickly remedied by an 8 hour surgery during which my heart rate shot up to about 200 beats a minute. I woke up unable to breathe because they accidentally burned a little of my lung during the surgery, but that didn't stop me from taking advantage of the painkillers and singing to the nurses in between quoting The Godfather and eventually getting up and doing the Thriller dance...until the meds wore off and I fell back to the bed.
Not even getting turned down by every cab outside the hospital could kill my mood. I was just happy to be alive. I caught the Metro home after heart surgery and walked two miles to my house from the train with a little pep in my limp. But I'll tell you what did kill my mood: Getting a call saying that the blood work from the physical revealed abnormalities with my liver function. What sucked even more was the world's worst doctor calling me and leaving a message that said:
"Hey Mr Allen, this is ____ from the hospital. I looked over the scan and your liver is fine, but there appears to be a fairly large mass on your pancreas. I don't want to alarm you. It could be cancerous or it could be nothing, but we really won't know until we get you in for a CT Scan. I think you should get one of those right away so that we can get to the bottom of this. It's 4:55 Friday and I won't be back in until Monday, so call me Monday morning and we can discuss setting up a scan. Have a good weekend!"
That's kinda hard to shake off. I decided to just keep that one to myself. The wife cried enough before and after the heart surgery that you'd think I died on the table. So for the next week I just walked around wondering if I was gonna die. It was around the beginning of October that I got the news that I was fine. (knock on wood)
I just like to bring it up every once in a while to remind myself that half of this stuff really doesn't matter.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Cat and Mouse
A long time ago I wrote a post about my worst nightmare as a Black man…a White woman walking alone at night. Well, here it is again. We've come full circle. If you haven't figured out by now, I write these posts the night before, so it's actually 10PM. I had to run to the computer and jot this down while the situation is still fresh in my mind.
About twenty minutes ago I decided to run to CVS before they closed. I left my apartment and threw on my jacket. I like my little Weatherproof coat. It has what I call the Batman compartment. It's a little hidden zipper in the front of the jacket. That's where I keep my phone. I walked out the front door and headed toward the store, just then I remembered that I had a CVS Extrabuck ($1 coupon) in my car. I'm parked around the corner on a poorly lit, dark, "rob me" street.
CVS was about ten minutes away from closing, so I was trying to hurry. I was walking fast and I turned the corner onto the dark street where I saw a White lady coming my way. She immediately clutched her purse (which I'm used to and have learned to ignore) and she did that thing that some women do when they walk alone at night where they speed toward the curb as if they're a rocket ship trying to avoid being sucked into an approaching planet's orbit. It's hard to explain, but imagine that you're walking down the street and notice someone walking toward you. For the majority of their time on that block they've been walking in a straight line, then they see you and all of a sudden they are compelled to not only speed up, but walk in an arc as they go near you. It's a survival thing, so whatever. I don't blame them, but being an extra foot away from someone isn't gonna do jack-shit if they really wanna get to you.
So anyway, she does her dark side of the moon thing and I purposely pull out my keys and hold them in a really awkward and completely nonfunctional way so that she can see them and I even unlock my car so that the cabin lights will cut on and she can see that I'm going to the car. I reach in the glove compartment and grab the coupon and then scurry along to get to CVS. What's the first thing I see? Xena, warrior chick, is meandering about like a lost gazelle and looking over her shoulder back at me.
I think to myself, "Please turn and go into that apartment building. The last thing I need is for you to be going the same direction as me." What does she do? Keep walking straight. FUCK! Now I have to figure out a way to get to CVS on time without scaring the hell out of her. I can't speed up or start running because she's now clutching her little keychain of mace and I will beat the hell out of her if she sprays me for no reason. I can't walk slow because then it looks like I'm following her and I am NOT gonna miss this store.
I decide to just hang back far enough to make her feel like she could outrun me if she needed to (she probably couldn't). She gets caught at a light, so I end up catching up to her. She spends about ten seconds looking at me out of the corner of her eye while switching her purse to the opposite shoulder and trying to act like she's not afraid. I went ahead and jaywalked to get away from her. I went to CVS, bought my stuff and, just as the guy is handing me my receipt, who do I see?
My new friend is walking out the front door with a bag from the pharmacy. She turns around and sees me walking out and now she's freaked. I didn't feel like playing her game anymore, so I walked my normal pace and after two blocks I realized where she was going. Apparently she lives in my building.
I feel for this woman. I really do. I found it annoying initially, but when I saw how relieved she looked when she made it to "her building" without being attacked and then saw the sheer terror on her face when she saw me walking right behind her toward the building…I know she lost some years off her life. It didn't help that the guy working the front desk buzzed her in without her having to use her key fob and then did the same to me. Without seeing me actually pull out keys to get in she couldn't tell if I lived here or the guy downstairs had just condemned her to death.
She pretended to look for something in her purse and I got on the elevator. She's probably still downstairs wondering if I'm lurking on her floor.
About twenty minutes ago I decided to run to CVS before they closed. I left my apartment and threw on my jacket. I like my little Weatherproof coat. It has what I call the Batman compartment. It's a little hidden zipper in the front of the jacket. That's where I keep my phone. I walked out the front door and headed toward the store, just then I remembered that I had a CVS Extrabuck ($1 coupon) in my car. I'm parked around the corner on a poorly lit, dark, "rob me" street.
CVS was about ten minutes away from closing, so I was trying to hurry. I was walking fast and I turned the corner onto the dark street where I saw a White lady coming my way. She immediately clutched her purse (which I'm used to and have learned to ignore) and she did that thing that some women do when they walk alone at night where they speed toward the curb as if they're a rocket ship trying to avoid being sucked into an approaching planet's orbit. It's hard to explain, but imagine that you're walking down the street and notice someone walking toward you. For the majority of their time on that block they've been walking in a straight line, then they see you and all of a sudden they are compelled to not only speed up, but walk in an arc as they go near you. It's a survival thing, so whatever. I don't blame them, but being an extra foot away from someone isn't gonna do jack-shit if they really wanna get to you.
So anyway, she does her dark side of the moon thing and I purposely pull out my keys and hold them in a really awkward and completely nonfunctional way so that she can see them and I even unlock my car so that the cabin lights will cut on and she can see that I'm going to the car. I reach in the glove compartment and grab the coupon and then scurry along to get to CVS. What's the first thing I see? Xena, warrior chick, is meandering about like a lost gazelle and looking over her shoulder back at me.
I think to myself, "Please turn and go into that apartment building. The last thing I need is for you to be going the same direction as me." What does she do? Keep walking straight. FUCK! Now I have to figure out a way to get to CVS on time without scaring the hell out of her. I can't speed up or start running because she's now clutching her little keychain of mace and I will beat the hell out of her if she sprays me for no reason. I can't walk slow because then it looks like I'm following her and I am NOT gonna miss this store.
I decide to just hang back far enough to make her feel like she could outrun me if she needed to (she probably couldn't). She gets caught at a light, so I end up catching up to her. She spends about ten seconds looking at me out of the corner of her eye while switching her purse to the opposite shoulder and trying to act like she's not afraid. I went ahead and jaywalked to get away from her. I went to CVS, bought my stuff and, just as the guy is handing me my receipt, who do I see?
My new friend is walking out the front door with a bag from the pharmacy. She turns around and sees me walking out and now she's freaked. I didn't feel like playing her game anymore, so I walked my normal pace and after two blocks I realized where she was going. Apparently she lives in my building.
I feel for this woman. I really do. I found it annoying initially, but when I saw how relieved she looked when she made it to "her building" without being attacked and then saw the sheer terror on her face when she saw me walking right behind her toward the building…I know she lost some years off her life. It didn't help that the guy working the front desk buzzed her in without her having to use her key fob and then did the same to me. Without seeing me actually pull out keys to get in she couldn't tell if I lived here or the guy downstairs had just condemned her to death.
She pretended to look for something in her purse and I got on the elevator. She's probably still downstairs wondering if I'm lurking on her floor.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Hospitals
To Whom It May Concern,
Please add Washington Hospital Center to the list of hospitals that I gave you a while back. I'm not sure of the exact date that I gave you that list, but I remember writing in bold letters "Under No Circumstances Shall You Take Me To The Following Hospitals!"
I've been going up to WHC all week and I think I've seen enough to put them on the list. Please remember that the list is not ranked. The now closed Greater Southeast Community Hospital was at the top, but that doesn't mean that Howard Hospital (#2 on the list) was any safer. That list is like a terror watch list. All of them are not cleared for flying. What does that mean?
First let me say that this is not an indictment of any one particular doctor or nurse at those hospitals. If you work there, please don't get offended because I may not be talking about you. It's the collective synergy of those people that scares me. So now that I've gotten that out of the way...what do I mean by "under no circumstance?"
Let's say I'm standing in front of Washington Hospital Center when all of a sudden I get shot (A possibility in DC just about everywhere you go). I'm now laying on the ground bleeding heavily. Two feet away from me is a herd of doctors standing there with stretchers and surgical equipment and someone holding the Emergency Room doors open. In that completely plausible situation I expect you to run over to me and slip a Smarttrip card in between my teeth and cheer me on as I army crawl down Michigan Avenue to Brookland Metro Station. Bloodied and bruised, I'll crawl up the broken escalators and lie there on the platform, slowly bleeding to death, as I wait for the single-tracking red line train to finally show up.
I'll roll myself into the crowded car where zero people will offer me a seat. One day the train will make it to Metro Center and I'll continue my slow crawl toward the white lights of the Blue/Orange Line and when I've finally arrived at Foggy Bottom, I'll ascend the also-broken escalator up to the front door of GW Hospital where they seem to actually want people to survive.
If for whatever reason you think that's too unrealistic and you're good nature gets the best of you, then just hand me a plastic knife from the cafeteria and squeeze into a cup some of that hand sanitizer that they have on all the walls. I'll do the rest. I don't need a doctor, but I will take an Advil if you have one, because removing my own bullets will probably give me a cramp in my hands or wrists.
Please add Washington Hospital Center to the list of hospitals that I gave you a while back. I'm not sure of the exact date that I gave you that list, but I remember writing in bold letters "Under No Circumstances Shall You Take Me To The Following Hospitals!"
I've been going up to WHC all week and I think I've seen enough to put them on the list. Please remember that the list is not ranked. The now closed Greater Southeast Community Hospital was at the top, but that doesn't mean that Howard Hospital (#2 on the list) was any safer. That list is like a terror watch list. All of them are not cleared for flying. What does that mean?
First let me say that this is not an indictment of any one particular doctor or nurse at those hospitals. If you work there, please don't get offended because I may not be talking about you. It's the collective synergy of those people that scares me. So now that I've gotten that out of the way...what do I mean by "under no circumstance?"
Let's say I'm standing in front of Washington Hospital Center when all of a sudden I get shot (A possibility in DC just about everywhere you go). I'm now laying on the ground bleeding heavily. Two feet away from me is a herd of doctors standing there with stretchers and surgical equipment and someone holding the Emergency Room doors open. In that completely plausible situation I expect you to run over to me and slip a Smarttrip card in between my teeth and cheer me on as I army crawl down Michigan Avenue to Brookland Metro Station. Bloodied and bruised, I'll crawl up the broken escalators and lie there on the platform, slowly bleeding to death, as I wait for the single-tracking red line train to finally show up.
I'll roll myself into the crowded car where zero people will offer me a seat. One day the train will make it to Metro Center and I'll continue my slow crawl toward the white lights of the Blue/Orange Line and when I've finally arrived at Foggy Bottom, I'll ascend the also-broken escalator up to the front door of GW Hospital where they seem to actually want people to survive.
If for whatever reason you think that's too unrealistic and you're good nature gets the best of you, then just hand me a plastic knife from the cafeteria and squeeze into a cup some of that hand sanitizer that they have on all the walls. I'll do the rest. I don't need a doctor, but I will take an Advil if you have one, because removing my own bullets will probably give me a cramp in my hands or wrists.
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