I think there's something along the lines of a social contract that comes with being a decent person in a relationship. You're obligated to wield your love responsibly. Dogs, skeezers, gold diggers and your run of the mill heartless bastards don't have such responsibilities. Anyone who knowingly falls in love with them is pretty much playing russian roulette. But when it comes to a decent "great find" kinda person (guy or gal) I think you have to be careful who you allow to fall in love with you.
Where's this coming from? Is there trouble on the homefront? Nope. At least, not that I know of. I've been checking my closet and, so far, no R. Kellys trapped in there so I'm guessing we're good. Actually, we just celebrated our ninth "boyfriend-girlfriend" anniversary this week and when you get to nine years it's kind of like an award show. On the one hand you feel all warm and fuzzy as the audience of your peers gives you a standing ovation. You feign a humble smile as you say "It's just an honor to be nominated" while on the inside you're like "Hell yeah I deserve this!" On the other hand, you find yourself playing that depressing "Remembering those we lost" video in your head and you start taking note of all the relationships that began and ended around you over the last ____ years.
This year is particularly peculiar because in the past month I've watched about three couples collapse under the weight of their own love. It's different than before. You don't stay married from 21 years old through 30 without having your share of people giving you unsolicited advice--people whom you would NEVER trade places with in a million years. There are about 10 of them in my rearview mirror standing alone looking stupid wondering how their relationships failed when they were "experts" on relationships. I don't shed too many tears for them, but this year is different. These couples were made up of decent people who loved each other. For whatever reason, it just didn't work. And that LONNNNG introduction brings me to my point.
As town therapist I know everyone's business. I've come to the conclusion that there is nothing worse than two people who love each other breaking up. They have so much in common but for some reason they're just not happy. There's a difference between loving someone and being "in love" with someone. You can dump a person and still be willing to take a bullet for them. In the movies it's so black and white. One person is leeching the others love without the slightest hint of reciprocity. Breaking up is a no brainer.
But what do you do when you love the person but they just don't do it for you anymore? The worst mistake is to fall victim to what economists call the "sunk cost fallacy." Everyone does it at some point. It's when you keep throwing money at something with the sole justification of "I've already spent ____ dollars." Slot machines, broken down cars and money pit houses...everyone does it. In relationships, it's when you say "but we've been together for ____years." You realize you're not happy but you try to throw more love (insincere love) at it. You buy more gifts, go on more trips and hug em even more with the hope that all these sparks will reignite the damps logs. It rarely succeeds.
Instead you make the person think that things are better than ever while you're realizing that it's true what they say, the flame burns brightest near the end. They get blindsided and then they're crushed. You hate yourself for hurting them and everyone's miserable. That's why I say there's a social contract involved. A decent person should slow the vehicle down to a stop the minute they realize there's a brick wall up ahead. Don't speed up. And yes, some of this comes from past relationship experience. Like I said, everyone's been there.
Now that I think about it...that can be my acceptance speech for the "Y'all giving me hope for Black love" Award.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
After School Special
A friend of mine posted a question on Facebook asking if you'd jump in if your friend started a fight and then began losing. It reminded me of a story...
I was about ten years old when my cousin spent the weekend at my house. We went to the playground one day and we were probably there about a half hour before "they" showed up. There was a group of kids in the neighborhood that everyone just assumed would be in jail soon. They used to go around throwing rocks at cars, stealing bikes and kicking down newly planted trees. They were like the anti-planeteers.
I made a living as a kid knowing how to get along with all personality types. I could dumb down for the slow ones and use big words with the sesquipedalians. Most important, however, was knowing how to deal with the future life-in-prison'ers. My cousin was a suburbanite. He didn't have those skills.
There were six of them. Normally when I was alone and they would show up at the playground I knew not to show fear because they were like dogs. They'd pounce and beat the hell outta you. Instead, I always pretended to be nonchalant. I laughed at their stupid jokes, asked questions as if they were the most interesting people I'd ever met and always kept scanning the environment for something large and hard that I could hit the big one with if it came down to it. Then I'd conveniently say I had to go home after about three or four minutes of pointless banter. That's how you deal with idiots and thuglettes. That skill works to this day.
My cousin didn't get the memo. They showed up and right off the bat he went into "After School Special" mode. Rather than follow my lead, he gets the crazy idea that all he has to do is stand up for himself and the bullies will leave him alone. Survey says.....X (buzzer noise)!
First off, these weren't bullies. Bullies are people who may have some insecurity about themselves so they feign a superiority complex that's easily shattered when confronted by someone with actual confidence. They didn't fit that description. No, these little bastards were crazy. Their parents were on drugs, in and out of jail and hardly ever paid attention to them. They grew up doing whatever they wanted whenever they felt like it. They were the people that Alfred was talking about when he said, "Some men just want to watch the world burn."
You don't get in the way of crazy people. You use their insanity to your advantage to make them think you're on their side and then you back away slowly. Over the course of the next five minutes I watched my cousin say such silly things as, "I'll get off the swing when I feel like it." "Unless your mother's name is ___ and she bought you that jacket, I suggest you put it down." "You guys don't scare me."
(Why so serious?)
The kicker for me came when one of them said, "The only reason we aint beat ya ass yet is because you Ordale cousin" to which my cousin said, "I'm not afraid of you, me and Ordale can take all of yall."
(Gooooodnight everybody!)
At that, I picked up my jacket. I put it on, and walked nonchalantly out of the gate and towards my house. I didn't say a word. I looked like one of those people walking out of church early. I rounded the corner and when I was out of sight, I hauled ass full speed to the house. As I was going up the steps I looked back and saw my cousin doing his best Haley's Comet impression...running full speed with a fire trail of kids following him.
Anyone who thinks that two people can fight six deserves to get jumped alone. Fortunately, they just scared him. He got off with the "Cousin of Ordale" discount...but he never went back to the playground.
I was about ten years old when my cousin spent the weekend at my house. We went to the playground one day and we were probably there about a half hour before "they" showed up. There was a group of kids in the neighborhood that everyone just assumed would be in jail soon. They used to go around throwing rocks at cars, stealing bikes and kicking down newly planted trees. They were like the anti-planeteers.
I made a living as a kid knowing how to get along with all personality types. I could dumb down for the slow ones and use big words with the sesquipedalians. Most important, however, was knowing how to deal with the future life-in-prison'ers. My cousin was a suburbanite. He didn't have those skills.
There were six of them. Normally when I was alone and they would show up at the playground I knew not to show fear because they were like dogs. They'd pounce and beat the hell outta you. Instead, I always pretended to be nonchalant. I laughed at their stupid jokes, asked questions as if they were the most interesting people I'd ever met and always kept scanning the environment for something large and hard that I could hit the big one with if it came down to it. Then I'd conveniently say I had to go home after about three or four minutes of pointless banter. That's how you deal with idiots and thuglettes. That skill works to this day.
My cousin didn't get the memo. They showed up and right off the bat he went into "After School Special" mode. Rather than follow my lead, he gets the crazy idea that all he has to do is stand up for himself and the bullies will leave him alone. Survey says.....X (buzzer noise)!
First off, these weren't bullies. Bullies are people who may have some insecurity about themselves so they feign a superiority complex that's easily shattered when confronted by someone with actual confidence. They didn't fit that description. No, these little bastards were crazy. Their parents were on drugs, in and out of jail and hardly ever paid attention to them. They grew up doing whatever they wanted whenever they felt like it. They were the people that Alfred was talking about when he said, "Some men just want to watch the world burn."
You don't get in the way of crazy people. You use their insanity to your advantage to make them think you're on their side and then you back away slowly. Over the course of the next five minutes I watched my cousin say such silly things as, "I'll get off the swing when I feel like it." "Unless your mother's name is ___ and she bought you that jacket, I suggest you put it down." "You guys don't scare me."
(Why so serious?)
The kicker for me came when one of them said, "The only reason we aint beat ya ass yet is because you Ordale cousin" to which my cousin said, "I'm not afraid of you, me and Ordale can take all of yall."
(Gooooodnight everybody!)
At that, I picked up my jacket. I put it on, and walked nonchalantly out of the gate and towards my house. I didn't say a word. I looked like one of those people walking out of church early. I rounded the corner and when I was out of sight, I hauled ass full speed to the house. As I was going up the steps I looked back and saw my cousin doing his best Haley's Comet impression...running full speed with a fire trail of kids following him.
Anyone who thinks that two people can fight six deserves to get jumped alone. Fortunately, they just scared him. He got off with the "Cousin of Ordale" discount...but he never went back to the playground.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Wedge!
Some people would consider me a loner. I started walking around the fair alone when I was nine. I went to my first movie alone when I was ten. Six flags when I was 13. Hell, I even did four days in Disney World alone when I was 18. It's not that I don't enjoy the company of others, I just don't put my life on hold while I wait for others to decide to do something. I wasn't always like this though...
It was 1990. I was eight years old and my school was hosting a ski trip. At the last minute something came up and my mother couldn't go. I asked my grandmother to take her place because I didn't want to go alone. I'd never been before and you never know when you'll need a relative to donate an organ or blood...or something. Back then I wasn't the independent fellow that I am now. No, back then I suffered from what my grandmother called, "sticking up under your mother too much."
Typically independence is taught to children over a lifetime of confidence building experiences. Ever the high achiever, my grandmother aimed to do it in a day. I'd like to say that we had a TGIF moment in the kitchen that day. She knelt down in front of me and. with her hands placed in a reassuring manner on my shoulders, she looked me in the eye and gave me a speech on how I was stronger than I knew while the 80s sitcom music played in the background. I'd like to say that I got a speech like that and emerged from my corner ready to battle all that life could throw at me. But we're not the Tanners, and my house was far from anything you'd see on a Friday night lineup on ABC.
With a Parliament cigarette in her hand she looked at me and said, "I don't know why you so damned fool! You can't keep sticking up under your mother all the damned time. She can't breathe without you asking where she going and when she coming back. You keep waiting around for people to do something and you gonna miss out on everything. The best way to be is by your self. People aint worth a damned and the sooner you figure that out and stop waiting for people to do stuff the better your life is gonna be. You going on that trip and NO, I ain't going with you!"
A few days later I was at Ski Liberty taking ski lessons with a bunch of other kids whose parents didn't love them. Bored out of my mind I asked the woman when we were gonna stop learning to "wedge" and actually learn to ski. She told me that we had about another hour to go and that's when my grandmother's words replayed in my head: "Don't wait for people." It's great how easily a kid can misconstrue what a parent says. I waited for her to turn her back, then pretended that I forgot how to wedge. "Wedge, Ordale! Wedge!" I knew she wouldn't leave 10 other kids to save me. I read something like that in church about a shepherd with 99 sheep and one kid on skis pretending he doesn't hear the instructor.
Suffice to say, I spent the rest of the day skiing on my own without a chaperone, ski instructor or friend. It was the best time I'd ever had in my life up to that point and it began a trend that persists to this day.
It was 1990. I was eight years old and my school was hosting a ski trip. At the last minute something came up and my mother couldn't go. I asked my grandmother to take her place because I didn't want to go alone. I'd never been before and you never know when you'll need a relative to donate an organ or blood...or something. Back then I wasn't the independent fellow that I am now. No, back then I suffered from what my grandmother called, "sticking up under your mother too much."
Typically independence is taught to children over a lifetime of confidence building experiences. Ever the high achiever, my grandmother aimed to do it in a day. I'd like to say that we had a TGIF moment in the kitchen that day. She knelt down in front of me and. with her hands placed in a reassuring manner on my shoulders, she looked me in the eye and gave me a speech on how I was stronger than I knew while the 80s sitcom music played in the background. I'd like to say that I got a speech like that and emerged from my corner ready to battle all that life could throw at me. But we're not the Tanners, and my house was far from anything you'd see on a Friday night lineup on ABC.
With a Parliament cigarette in her hand she looked at me and said, "I don't know why you so damned fool! You can't keep sticking up under your mother all the damned time. She can't breathe without you asking where she going and when she coming back. You keep waiting around for people to do something and you gonna miss out on everything. The best way to be is by your self. People aint worth a damned and the sooner you figure that out and stop waiting for people to do stuff the better your life is gonna be. You going on that trip and NO, I ain't going with you!"
A few days later I was at Ski Liberty taking ski lessons with a bunch of other kids whose parents didn't love them. Bored out of my mind I asked the woman when we were gonna stop learning to "wedge" and actually learn to ski. She told me that we had about another hour to go and that's when my grandmother's words replayed in my head: "Don't wait for people." It's great how easily a kid can misconstrue what a parent says. I waited for her to turn her back, then pretended that I forgot how to wedge. "Wedge, Ordale! Wedge!" I knew she wouldn't leave 10 other kids to save me. I read something like that in church about a shepherd with 99 sheep and one kid on skis pretending he doesn't hear the instructor.
Suffice to say, I spent the rest of the day skiing on my own without a chaperone, ski instructor or friend. It was the best time I'd ever had in my life up to that point and it began a trend that persists to this day.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Kindles(s)
I am officially an ungrateful bastard. (hip hip hooray!)
I was in Best Buy the other day looking at Kindles. I'm a recovering tech junkie and every now and then I relapse and find myself buying stuff I don't need. I read a lot and always see "Buy the kindle e-book for X% cheaper, so I figured "why not." So anyway, I'm in there looking at them and I'm trying to figure out how to turn the thing on. I saw this grayish looking screen and assumed it was the fake plastic screen overlays that they put on electronic devices to simulate the screen. I didn't know that's how the original Kindle screens actually look (It's called e-ink by the way).
So there I was trying to peel off what I thought was a fake screen when I accidentally hit the button on the side and the screen changed. "Oh, that's just how it looks," I thought to myself. It wasn't a deal breaker. After all it's just for reading books, right? You know what was the deal breaker and the thing that made me realize just how ungrateful of a bastard I am? I kept tapping the screen trying to advance to the next page and nothing happened. I thought it was defective so I went to the next display model. I did this for two minutes before it occurred to me…This thing isn't a touch screen. What is this the 1900s?
That's when I realized it. I've forgotten where I came from. I'm snooty. For $80 I can carry around all the free library e-books I rent and all the e-books I care to buy and the thing weighs less than a pound. The battery lasts about a month on just one charge and it's a rechargeable battery. When I was nine I was ecstatic to just get 25 minutes out of the six AA batteries my Game Gear took and yet here I am living in the future where I can carry an entire library around in the palm of my hand and I'm too lazy to push a button.
I disgust me. Hopefully my touch screen iPad has a self-help app. :-)
I was in Best Buy the other day looking at Kindles. I'm a recovering tech junkie and every now and then I relapse and find myself buying stuff I don't need. I read a lot and always see "Buy the kindle e-book for X% cheaper, so I figured "why not." So anyway, I'm in there looking at them and I'm trying to figure out how to turn the thing on. I saw this grayish looking screen and assumed it was the fake plastic screen overlays that they put on electronic devices to simulate the screen. I didn't know that's how the original Kindle screens actually look (It's called e-ink by the way).
So there I was trying to peel off what I thought was a fake screen when I accidentally hit the button on the side and the screen changed. "Oh, that's just how it looks," I thought to myself. It wasn't a deal breaker. After all it's just for reading books, right? You know what was the deal breaker and the thing that made me realize just how ungrateful of a bastard I am? I kept tapping the screen trying to advance to the next page and nothing happened. I thought it was defective so I went to the next display model. I did this for two minutes before it occurred to me…This thing isn't a touch screen. What is this the 1900s?
That's when I realized it. I've forgotten where I came from. I'm snooty. For $80 I can carry around all the free library e-books I rent and all the e-books I care to buy and the thing weighs less than a pound. The battery lasts about a month on just one charge and it's a rechargeable battery. When I was nine I was ecstatic to just get 25 minutes out of the six AA batteries my Game Gear took and yet here I am living in the future where I can carry an entire library around in the palm of my hand and I'm too lazy to push a button.
I disgust me. Hopefully my touch screen iPad has a self-help app. :-)
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
And I Am Telling You
Someone said that if I couldn't post then I should at least explain why. (It's nice having at least one fan who isn't married to me)
There is no post today because everytime I start typing, a small hand comes out of nowhere and hits the keys. Attempts to distract this hand with images of Dora the Explorer or The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse have been unsuccessful. Even that last sentence took a minute to write and I type about 90 words a minute. Now there's a foot on my laptop and giggling in the distance. This is a Macbook Pro and these things are expensive so someone is about to be put up for adoption. (I kid, I kid.)
I can talk and type about my life all day, but there are forces beyond my comprehension that will not allow me to do so. The force is about three feet tall and expresses itself in loud noises and tears. Perhaps the force feels ignored when I pull out the computer, or maybe it's just influenced by Loki and wants to cause mischief. I don't know. What I do know is that I want my child to live and her health and safety depends on her not putting her foot on my laptop or trying to pour her sippy cup onto the keyboard which she seems to be trying to do at this moment.
I know that some of you are thinking, "Just type when she's asleep." Mischief never sleeps. Now she's bringing the tub of shea butter to me and banging it against my foot. No sooner than I grabbed the shea butter, I hear her in the kitchen opening the cabinet doors. She is so fast that she is both in the kitchen and in the living room AT THE SAME TIME.
Maybe it's a built in safety feature. This baby is neglect-proof. I know people who sit around playing video games while their kids just stare sadly at the floor in the background like, "Daddy, love me." Not this one. She cannot be neglected because she's willed it to not happen. She WILL have my complete attention or she'll tear this entire house apart. Right now she's standing in front of my PS3 with her sippy cup singing Jennifer Holliday...
"And you, and you and you...you're gonna love meeeeeee!"
There is no post today because everytime I start typing, a small hand comes out of nowhere and hits the keys. Attempts to distract this hand with images of Dora the Explorer or The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse have been unsuccessful. Even that last sentence took a minute to write and I type about 90 words a minute. Now there's a foot on my laptop and giggling in the distance. This is a Macbook Pro and these things are expensive so someone is about to be put up for adoption. (I kid, I kid.)
I can talk and type about my life all day, but there are forces beyond my comprehension that will not allow me to do so. The force is about three feet tall and expresses itself in loud noises and tears. Perhaps the force feels ignored when I pull out the computer, or maybe it's just influenced by Loki and wants to cause mischief. I don't know. What I do know is that I want my child to live and her health and safety depends on her not putting her foot on my laptop or trying to pour her sippy cup onto the keyboard which she seems to be trying to do at this moment.
I know that some of you are thinking, "Just type when she's asleep." Mischief never sleeps. Now she's bringing the tub of shea butter to me and banging it against my foot. No sooner than I grabbed the shea butter, I hear her in the kitchen opening the cabinet doors. She is so fast that she is both in the kitchen and in the living room AT THE SAME TIME.
Maybe it's a built in safety feature. This baby is neglect-proof. I know people who sit around playing video games while their kids just stare sadly at the floor in the background like, "Daddy, love me." Not this one. She cannot be neglected because she's willed it to not happen. She WILL have my complete attention or she'll tear this entire house apart. Right now she's standing in front of my PS3 with her sippy cup singing Jennifer Holliday...
"And you, and you and you...you're gonna love meeeeeee!"
Friday, May 18, 2012
Pull Up
I'm so sore right now that my fingernails hurt. Last night I decided that I needed to take my workout to the next level, so after going to the gym and pushing the stroller around town--a distance so far that it would be pointless to measure in miles, so instead we'll measure it in 1960s civil rights marches--I then went on a 20 mile bike ride around town. So that's weight lifting, Montgomery Bus Boycotting and then riding 20 miles on my bike. I'm tired. But you know, I'm kinda proud. This bike riding thing went easily compared to my childhood (cue the flashback music and dissolving screen)
The year was 1990. The place: The since-demolished George Washington Carver Apartments (built solely out of red brick peanuts) near the Shrimp Boat. Me and my friends were riding our bikes around the apartment complex when the new kid decided to go off script and show how cool he was. The complex was about twenty buildings on a big hill connected by a lot of grass and stairs. This guy decided that riding down the sidewalk was too 1989 so he walked his bike up one of those grassy hills, rode down full speed and then when he got to a flight of stairs he used the momentum to jump the stairs.
Like the followers that they were, everybody else did the same thing. "That was bumpin!" the little heathens shouted. "C'mon Ordale. Don't be scared." Normally, peer pressure meant nothing to me, but this particular day she was there. Her name was Tatiana. She was the younger sister of one of my friends and this girl was baaaad. Her "days of the week" barrettes always matched what day it was, she always smelled like "Just For Me" and on this particular day she shared her Now & Laters with me. These were the new red, white and blue Now & Laters--the softer chewier ones--so I knew she was feeling me. I couldn't punk out. I went to the top of the hill, pedaled down really fast and things were looking good.
Now let's have a quick conversation about Physics. An object in motion tends to stay in motion unless it comes into contact with an equal or greater force. In the mind of an eight year old this means that all you have to do is just be going really fast when you get to the top of the stairs. In his undeveloped mind, he believes that inertia will cause you to just glide over the remaining stairs until you reach the ground. He is a fool because he fails to understand that the minute the front wheel leaves the safety of the ground, you immediately come into contact with a greater force...called GRAVITY. Gravity pulls that front wheel downward and...well, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I raced down the hill and got to the stairs. At no point did it occur to me that I needed to pull up on the handlebars and force the bike upward to counter the impending gravitational pull. So instead of doing a mini jump right before I went off the stairs...I did nothing. At about 20 miles an hour, my front wheel glided over the top step for all of 4 nanoseconds before being pulled towards the earth, hitting the second step and thus causing the rest of my bike to flip over in cartoonish fashion for what seemed like an hour and a half while my head, hands, arms, knees, legs, feet, and back made contact (one at a time) with the ten stairs before coming to rest on the ground and then having the bike land on top of me one last time before skidding and coming to rest inches from Tatiana who shouted, "Is he dead?"
In my mind, I stood up unscathed while everyone around me clapped like the end of Cool Runnings. I carried the bike on my shoulders back to the house and returned to the stairs the next day as an equal. In reality, however, I think I started coming to when I heard my friend's mother yell out the window, "Nathaniel, In Living Color's on!" I heard that and "I hope you feel better Ordale" as everyone ran in the house.
"Everybody here is equally kind. What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine. And how do you feel knowing everybody was your friend from thin to thick and through thick and thin and even egotistical trips was put to an end...In living c-c-c-color."
The year was 1990. The place: The since-demolished George Washington Carver Apartments (built solely out of red brick peanuts) near the Shrimp Boat. Me and my friends were riding our bikes around the apartment complex when the new kid decided to go off script and show how cool he was. The complex was about twenty buildings on a big hill connected by a lot of grass and stairs. This guy decided that riding down the sidewalk was too 1989 so he walked his bike up one of those grassy hills, rode down full speed and then when he got to a flight of stairs he used the momentum to jump the stairs.
Like the followers that they were, everybody else did the same thing. "That was bumpin!" the little heathens shouted. "C'mon Ordale. Don't be scared." Normally, peer pressure meant nothing to me, but this particular day she was there. Her name was Tatiana. She was the younger sister of one of my friends and this girl was baaaad. Her "days of the week" barrettes always matched what day it was, she always smelled like "Just For Me" and on this particular day she shared her Now & Laters with me. These were the new red, white and blue Now & Laters--the softer chewier ones--so I knew she was feeling me. I couldn't punk out. I went to the top of the hill, pedaled down really fast and things were looking good.
Now let's have a quick conversation about Physics. An object in motion tends to stay in motion unless it comes into contact with an equal or greater force. In the mind of an eight year old this means that all you have to do is just be going really fast when you get to the top of the stairs. In his undeveloped mind, he believes that inertia will cause you to just glide over the remaining stairs until you reach the ground. He is a fool because he fails to understand that the minute the front wheel leaves the safety of the ground, you immediately come into contact with a greater force...called GRAVITY. Gravity pulls that front wheel downward and...well, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I raced down the hill and got to the stairs. At no point did it occur to me that I needed to pull up on the handlebars and force the bike upward to counter the impending gravitational pull. So instead of doing a mini jump right before I went off the stairs...I did nothing. At about 20 miles an hour, my front wheel glided over the top step for all of 4 nanoseconds before being pulled towards the earth, hitting the second step and thus causing the rest of my bike to flip over in cartoonish fashion for what seemed like an hour and a half while my head, hands, arms, knees, legs, feet, and back made contact (one at a time) with the ten stairs before coming to rest on the ground and then having the bike land on top of me one last time before skidding and coming to rest inches from Tatiana who shouted, "Is he dead?"
In my mind, I stood up unscathed while everyone around me clapped like the end of Cool Runnings. I carried the bike on my shoulders back to the house and returned to the stairs the next day as an equal. In reality, however, I think I started coming to when I heard my friend's mother yell out the window, "Nathaniel, In Living Color's on!" I heard that and "I hope you feel better Ordale" as everyone ran in the house.
"Everybody here is equally kind. What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine. And how do you feel knowing everybody was your friend from thin to thick and through thick and thin and even egotistical trips was put to an end...In living c-c-c-color."
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Nat(alie) Turner
My daughter started walking on Tax Day 2011 when she was just nine months old. It was a glorious moment for me. Not only did she beat my record of 10 months, but it meant that I now had an entry-level slave. Sure she wouldn't have all the bells and whistles of a teenage slave who can drive to the store to get you stuff, but she could do small tasks that I decided at that moment to become to lazy to do.
The last thirteen months have been awesome: Take this to mommy. Can you give me that off the floor? Put this in the trash. Hand me the remote. There's a new software update available for OS X, go ahead and install that for me.
But all good things must come to an end. Skynet is becoming self aware. She has this old lady thing she does when she wants something off the counter or out of the fridge. She'll walk up to you, grab your hand and say, "Come, come." That means that you're supposed to follow her and she'll lead you to where the thing she wants is located. She'll then hold her arms up which means, "Pick me up, stupid" and she'll grab what she wants. So how does this play into the slaves rebelling?
Yesterday I said, "Put this in the trashcan please." She looked at me, took the paper towel in one hand and then grabbed my hand with the other. She said, "Come, come." I followed her to the kitchen expecting her to ask for an apple out of the fridge or something. Instead she led me to the trashcan, then she pointed at it and said "Trashcan!" I thought we were playing our usual game of "Name that thing." I clapped and in my Gordon-from-Sesame-Street-voice said, "Yes, that's right. That is a trash can." She then handed me the paper towel, pointed at it again and said, "Trashcan!" She held my hand and pulled it over the top of the trash can as if to say "Drop the paper towel inside." I dropped the paper towel and then this child had the audacity to patronize me with a fake clap like I give her and said "Yay!" Then she ran away. I can't be sure but I think I heard her mumble under her breath, "You lazy son of a…"
War is coming.
The last thirteen months have been awesome: Take this to mommy. Can you give me that off the floor? Put this in the trash. Hand me the remote. There's a new software update available for OS X, go ahead and install that for me.
But all good things must come to an end. Skynet is becoming self aware. She has this old lady thing she does when she wants something off the counter or out of the fridge. She'll walk up to you, grab your hand and say, "Come, come." That means that you're supposed to follow her and she'll lead you to where the thing she wants is located. She'll then hold her arms up which means, "Pick me up, stupid" and she'll grab what she wants. So how does this play into the slaves rebelling?
Yesterday I said, "Put this in the trashcan please." She looked at me, took the paper towel in one hand and then grabbed my hand with the other. She said, "Come, come." I followed her to the kitchen expecting her to ask for an apple out of the fridge or something. Instead she led me to the trashcan, then she pointed at it and said "Trashcan!" I thought we were playing our usual game of "Name that thing." I clapped and in my Gordon-from-Sesame-Street-voice said, "Yes, that's right. That is a trash can." She then handed me the paper towel, pointed at it again and said, "Trashcan!" She held my hand and pulled it over the top of the trash can as if to say "Drop the paper towel inside." I dropped the paper towel and then this child had the audacity to patronize me with a fake clap like I give her and said "Yay!" Then she ran away. I can't be sure but I think I heard her mumble under her breath, "You lazy son of a…"
War is coming.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Welcome to DC Part 3: Know Where You're From
This part of the program is called, "Know Where You're From." I was born at GW Hospital in Washington, DC. I went to elementary, middle and high school inside the city lines of Washington, DC. Both of my parents were born and raised here. I, ladies and gentlemen, am a pure-blood Washington Wizard. It hurts my heart when I encounter muggles who pretend to be what I am.
Now this isn't a diss to muggles. Some of my best friends are muggles. I love them and their malls with Snickerdoodles and carnivals in the parking lot, but I don't like when they show no self-pride. Be proud of who you are. Being a muggle means that you grew up in a suburban area like PG County or Montgomery County. It means that you had the option of taking a magic yellow chariot to school every morning while us Washingtonians walked through torrential rains, snow and brimstone.
Your roads are paved with the finest asphalt that STATE taxes can buy. You didn't have to grow up in the city that boasted the worst school system in the nation and simultaneously the highest murder rate. I did. We were labeled geniuses if we could say, "I got shooted." Meanwhile, you all knew that there was at least a state funded college waiting for you if you made it out of high school. The ONLY "in-state" school we have seemed to march down Connecticut Avenue every other week chanting "Save UDC" and begging for their accreditation back.
Half a million people don't commute into your city every single day. You can probably take off of work and go ride around your town with no problem. I'm lucky if I can find a parking spot that isn't a loading zone between 8 and 6 everyday or a rush hour zone between 4 and 7. On the weekends, when normal Americans are on leisure time, you don't have to chant the same mantra over and over again: "Don't hit the throngs of tourists standing in the middle of the street who feel that their life is incomplete if they can't get a picture of the giant stone stick coming out of the ground or the umpteenth statue of a person on a horse whose name they will never remember."
I understand why you do it. Notoriety helps. It's easier to paint a picture of where you live by just saying "I'm from DC" than specifying that you live an hour away (2 in traffic) in Centreville, VA. Maybe you reject your parents who seem bougie to you for working so hard to ensure you didn't have to grow up with a crackhead mayor, people fighting on the bus and girls getting shot in the head for not giving guys their numbers. I'm telling you, you have a good life there. Don't sell yourself short.
Besides I kinda earned those two red stripes on my flag.
[caption id="attachment_2213" align="alignnone" width="388"]
The red represents the Mumbo Sauce. The white represents the chicken bones.[/caption]
Now this isn't a diss to muggles. Some of my best friends are muggles. I love them and their malls with Snickerdoodles and carnivals in the parking lot, but I don't like when they show no self-pride. Be proud of who you are. Being a muggle means that you grew up in a suburban area like PG County or Montgomery County. It means that you had the option of taking a magic yellow chariot to school every morning while us Washingtonians walked through torrential rains, snow and brimstone.
Your roads are paved with the finest asphalt that STATE taxes can buy. You didn't have to grow up in the city that boasted the worst school system in the nation and simultaneously the highest murder rate. I did. We were labeled geniuses if we could say, "I got shooted." Meanwhile, you all knew that there was at least a state funded college waiting for you if you made it out of high school. The ONLY "in-state" school we have seemed to march down Connecticut Avenue every other week chanting "Save UDC" and begging for their accreditation back.
Half a million people don't commute into your city every single day. You can probably take off of work and go ride around your town with no problem. I'm lucky if I can find a parking spot that isn't a loading zone between 8 and 6 everyday or a rush hour zone between 4 and 7. On the weekends, when normal Americans are on leisure time, you don't have to chant the same mantra over and over again: "Don't hit the throngs of tourists standing in the middle of the street who feel that their life is incomplete if they can't get a picture of the giant stone stick coming out of the ground or the umpteenth statue of a person on a horse whose name they will never remember."
I understand why you do it. Notoriety helps. It's easier to paint a picture of where you live by just saying "I'm from DC" than specifying that you live an hour away (2 in traffic) in Centreville, VA. Maybe you reject your parents who seem bougie to you for working so hard to ensure you didn't have to grow up with a crackhead mayor, people fighting on the bus and girls getting shot in the head for not giving guys their numbers. I'm telling you, you have a good life there. Don't sell yourself short.
Besides I kinda earned those two red stripes on my flag.
[caption id="attachment_2213" align="alignnone" width="388"]
The red represents the Mumbo Sauce. The white represents the chicken bones.[/caption]
Monday, May 14, 2012
Another Castle
Okay, now I don't expect a lot of people to really dig what I'm about to say but I don't care. I'm proud of my damned self and I'm gonna have my moment. I'm proud to announce that after 20 freaking years I FINALLY beat Super Mario Bros on the NES!
Hold your applause, I think I hear some people not being as blown away as I would like.
Yes I'm almost 30. Yes I got a Nintendo back in 89. No, I didn't beat Mario back then because Super Mario didn't come with my Nintendo. (But it comes with all Nintendos) No it doesn't. When your relative barters "happy pellets" to crackheads in exchange for Nintendos you don't get everything. You gotta make concessions. I didn't care though. I was elated to just be getting the damned thing and when I unwrapped...okay well it didn't exactly come in a box. BUT the cables were wrapped around it and I had to unwrap those to hook it up to my little black and white TV so technically I did unwrap it.
So where was I? Yeah, happy seven year old me got a slightly used Nintendo for his birthday. It didn't come with Mario Bros/Duck Hunt, but that was cool because it didn't come with a gun either...or a manual...or a second controller. But it came with some games. They all said "Property of Erol's Video Store" on them, but, hey, no judgement. I played my five little hot games and was damned thankful for the opportunity.
Now, getting my family to actually buy me a game from the store was one of the 12 labors of Hercules. Straight A's meant jack shit in my family. "That's what you're supposed to do" was the usual response to a report card so getting them to buy me the game that came with the system (or the gun) just wasn't gonna happen. I was relegated to playing it over my stepfather's little sister's house, but then they got divorced and, while I was happy to see him go, I was hurt to have Mario ripped from my life.
It would be several years before I was able to just buy Mario outright and by then I had a Sega and Mario just sat on the shelf collecting dust. I know, it's a really tragic story--a terrible way to start your Monday. But the sun also rises and my denouement involves me finally getting to the castle that the princess is actually in. I'm happy. No, I'm SUPER.
[caption id="attachment_2208" align="alignnone" width="604"]
That's it? Do you know what the hell I went through?[/caption]
Hold your applause, I think I hear some people not being as blown away as I would like.
Yes I'm almost 30. Yes I got a Nintendo back in 89. No, I didn't beat Mario back then because Super Mario didn't come with my Nintendo. (But it comes with all Nintendos) No it doesn't. When your relative barters "happy pellets" to crackheads in exchange for Nintendos you don't get everything. You gotta make concessions. I didn't care though. I was elated to just be getting the damned thing and when I unwrapped...okay well it didn't exactly come in a box. BUT the cables were wrapped around it and I had to unwrap those to hook it up to my little black and white TV so technically I did unwrap it.
So where was I? Yeah, happy seven year old me got a slightly used Nintendo for his birthday. It didn't come with Mario Bros/Duck Hunt, but that was cool because it didn't come with a gun either...or a manual...or a second controller. But it came with some games. They all said "Property of Erol's Video Store" on them, but, hey, no judgement. I played my five little hot games and was damned thankful for the opportunity.
Now, getting my family to actually buy me a game from the store was one of the 12 labors of Hercules. Straight A's meant jack shit in my family. "That's what you're supposed to do" was the usual response to a report card so getting them to buy me the game that came with the system (or the gun) just wasn't gonna happen. I was relegated to playing it over my stepfather's little sister's house, but then they got divorced and, while I was happy to see him go, I was hurt to have Mario ripped from my life.
It would be several years before I was able to just buy Mario outright and by then I had a Sega and Mario just sat on the shelf collecting dust. I know, it's a really tragic story--a terrible way to start your Monday. But the sun also rises and my denouement involves me finally getting to the castle that the princess is actually in. I'm happy. No, I'm SUPER.
[caption id="attachment_2208" align="alignnone" width="604"]
That's it? Do you know what the hell I went through?[/caption]
Friday, May 11, 2012
Web MD
There was no post yesterday because my child was sick. I'm not sure what was wrong with her, but she seems better today. Believe it or not, the vague nature of that statement reflects my growth as a parent over the last 22 months.
After she was born, we kept her in the hospital room with us rather than sending her to the nursery. One night I noticed that she was having difficulty breathing and frantically pressed the emergency button for help. No one arrived within the 30 second window that I was willing to wait so I put her in the little plastic hospital baby cart and ran full speed down the hall to the nursery. I started banging on the door like a lunatic, "Help, help, my baby can't breathe. Do something!" The nurse opened the door, looked at my daughter for all of three seconds and started laughing. Another one walked over to see what the commotion was and in between laughing the nurse relayed my concern, "He says the baby can't breathe." The second nurse looked at my daughter and started laughing too.
I went into CIA mode real quick. I was thinking, "I don't know who these inept, heartless wenches are but I see a sink in the background and a receiving blanket. Someone is getting waterboarded until I get the help my kid needs." The first nurse couldn't stop laughing so the second one put her hand on my shoulder and said, "She has the hiccups, sir" before bursting into laughter again.
Keeping my paranoia under control in the beginning was a challenge to say the least. I didn't get much sleep because I kept waking up to make sure she was still breathing. I found myself playing CSI with her diapers, trying to analyze the liquids (and solids) that came out of her. If she so much as sneezed I was checking the house for pollutants and every time she caught a cold I saw it as a personal failure on my part to protect her from life.
Over time, however, that changes. Your worrying can fire on all cylinders for only so long. Either you burn out or you find yourself earning an honorary doctorate in Pathology thanks to all the calls to the nurses line, trips to the doctor and research on the internet. I'm the latter and I've evolved. If it won't result in a broken bone, lacerations or pregnancy...have fun. The other day she licked the elevator floor and I was like, "Meh, she'll be alright."
After she was born, we kept her in the hospital room with us rather than sending her to the nursery. One night I noticed that she was having difficulty breathing and frantically pressed the emergency button for help. No one arrived within the 30 second window that I was willing to wait so I put her in the little plastic hospital baby cart and ran full speed down the hall to the nursery. I started banging on the door like a lunatic, "Help, help, my baby can't breathe. Do something!" The nurse opened the door, looked at my daughter for all of three seconds and started laughing. Another one walked over to see what the commotion was and in between laughing the nurse relayed my concern, "He says the baby can't breathe." The second nurse looked at my daughter and started laughing too.
I went into CIA mode real quick. I was thinking, "I don't know who these inept, heartless wenches are but I see a sink in the background and a receiving blanket. Someone is getting waterboarded until I get the help my kid needs." The first nurse couldn't stop laughing so the second one put her hand on my shoulder and said, "She has the hiccups, sir" before bursting into laughter again.
Keeping my paranoia under control in the beginning was a challenge to say the least. I didn't get much sleep because I kept waking up to make sure she was still breathing. I found myself playing CSI with her diapers, trying to analyze the liquids (and solids) that came out of her. If she so much as sneezed I was checking the house for pollutants and every time she caught a cold I saw it as a personal failure on my part to protect her from life.
Over time, however, that changes. Your worrying can fire on all cylinders for only so long. Either you burn out or you find yourself earning an honorary doctorate in Pathology thanks to all the calls to the nurses line, trips to the doctor and research on the internet. I'm the latter and I've evolved. If it won't result in a broken bone, lacerations or pregnancy...have fun. The other day she licked the elevator floor and I was like, "Meh, she'll be alright."
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Girl Power
So yesterday I found myself in Toys R Us with my daughter again and it went surprisingly well. The first time I took her in there people just laughed at me like, "What a noob. You don't take kids in a toy store." Back then she was on her "Rose from Titanic" thing trying to jump out of the cart to get back to the Elmo aisle (You jump, I jump). This time, however, I was proud as hell.
I explained to her a long time ago that Elmo, Mickey and everyone else she sees actually live in the toy store and if we were to take them home then it'd be kidnapping. Now I don't know how much of that she actually internalized (more than likely, none of it) but she happily played with every toy I handed her in the cart and as we got close to the register she started handing me toys to put back on the shelf. She even waved goodbye to them. (My parenting DVD will be on sale starting Friday for just $9.99)
Yesterday was a learning experience on all fronts. I went in there for a toy baby stroller so that she could stop pushing the real one around the house. I realized yesterday that I've never actually been down the "girl side" of a toy store before. All of the little kid toys are usually in the unisex preschool section. Toy strollers fall into the doll baby category and things in that category are kept in the Land of Estrogen. It's a world that I never ventured into before.
As a little boy, you stay in the action figure section. Everything is dark and blue and manly. Even things like yo-yo's and rubiks cubes have explosions and guns on the packaging. So when the guy pointed me in the direction of a Barbie endcap, I found myself picking up a Nerf bat for protection.
I don't know if the stuff I saw was new or something they've been selling for years but there are a lot of "women of the night" play kits in those aisles. There's makeup and fake fingernails, Hello Kitty hooker galoshes and even realistic looking doll babies. I saw one that potty trains and pees. No wonder girls are more mature. That would be like GI Joe coming with an amputation kit and a coffin draped with a miniature American flag. What the hell man?
I wasn't alone in my confusion. I saw two men on separate aisles looking just as disturbed and lost as I was. Both of them were looking at a piece of paper which lets me know that some little girl gave them a list of what they wanted and they have no clue what or where the hell it is. I found the stroller I was looking for and followed my bread crumb trail back to civilization.
[caption id="attachment_2196" align="alignnone" width="604"]
I dropped my masculinity in there somewhere, but I'm too afraid to go back and get it.[/caption]
I explained to her a long time ago that Elmo, Mickey and everyone else she sees actually live in the toy store and if we were to take them home then it'd be kidnapping. Now I don't know how much of that she actually internalized (more than likely, none of it) but she happily played with every toy I handed her in the cart and as we got close to the register she started handing me toys to put back on the shelf. She even waved goodbye to them. (My parenting DVD will be on sale starting Friday for just $9.99)
Yesterday was a learning experience on all fronts. I went in there for a toy baby stroller so that she could stop pushing the real one around the house. I realized yesterday that I've never actually been down the "girl side" of a toy store before. All of the little kid toys are usually in the unisex preschool section. Toy strollers fall into the doll baby category and things in that category are kept in the Land of Estrogen. It's a world that I never ventured into before.
As a little boy, you stay in the action figure section. Everything is dark and blue and manly. Even things like yo-yo's and rubiks cubes have explosions and guns on the packaging. So when the guy pointed me in the direction of a Barbie endcap, I found myself picking up a Nerf bat for protection.
I don't know if the stuff I saw was new or something they've been selling for years but there are a lot of "women of the night" play kits in those aisles. There's makeup and fake fingernails, Hello Kitty hooker galoshes and even realistic looking doll babies. I saw one that potty trains and pees. No wonder girls are more mature. That would be like GI Joe coming with an amputation kit and a coffin draped with a miniature American flag. What the hell man?
I wasn't alone in my confusion. I saw two men on separate aisles looking just as disturbed and lost as I was. Both of them were looking at a piece of paper which lets me know that some little girl gave them a list of what they wanted and they have no clue what or where the hell it is. I found the stroller I was looking for and followed my bread crumb trail back to civilization.
[caption id="attachment_2196" align="alignnone" width="604"]
I dropped my masculinity in there somewhere, but I'm too afraid to go back and get it.[/caption]
Monday, May 7, 2012
Welcome to DC Part 2: The Metro
For those just tuning in, we're talking about what I love about DC that caused me to move back here. A lot of my out of town friends are considering moving here and often ask me to sell this place to them. At the same time a lot of people I grew up with who moved away are considering moving back and want to know if it's still home sweet home. So here we go...The Metro.
The company that runs the transit system is called WMATA (pronounced: Meh-trow-fuh-kin-sux). Still, most of us just refer to the whole system as "Metro." Metro can be described like a 1990 Nissan Z. Back in 1990 it was a good car. In 2012, however, it sucks and you're lucky if you make it to your destination alive. The system is 30 years old, underfunded, mismanaged and thus not able to live up to it's former glory from the time before I went to college. But, I'll get to what went wrong later. Let's focus on our tourist brethren.
There are five lines Blue, Orange, Green, Yellow and Red. It's a common misconception that the Green Line is the Middle Passage for ghetto Black people in this city. Let me be the first to dispel that hateful, ignorant and insensitive myth. ALL of the lines are the Middle Passage for ghetto Black people depending on where you get on them. Here's a map:
[caption id="attachment_2186" align="alignnone" width="604"]
Warning: Staring at this in the station will get you robbed.[/caption]
Okay here's what you need to know for your own safety:
This concludes our focus on tourists. This last part is for the original DC folks. Metro sucks now. Where it used to cost $2 to get from Anacostia to the ends of the Earth, you're now lucky if two dollars will get you down the elevator to the platform. They do trackwork every weekend now so they single track or shut down complete stations. During the week, it's not uncommon for trains to break down and people to get stranded. We don't even refer to them as "escalators" anymore. They're just metal staircases because they never work. There's no such thing as A/C on the trains anymore and they raise fares whenever the hell they feel like it. The new fare increase will now assess a $1 surcharge for anyone using a paper farecard. So yeah...they suck now. You have a better chance doing what my wife said...saddle up a squirrel and ride that shit to work.
As for the bus...it really isn't that bad. Nothing has changed much. You're safe as long as you're on it and not in front of it. They tend to hit people, run lights and crash into cars on occasion, but what else is new?
The company that runs the transit system is called WMATA (pronounced: Meh-trow-fuh-kin-sux). Still, most of us just refer to the whole system as "Metro." Metro can be described like a 1990 Nissan Z. Back in 1990 it was a good car. In 2012, however, it sucks and you're lucky if you make it to your destination alive. The system is 30 years old, underfunded, mismanaged and thus not able to live up to it's former glory from the time before I went to college. But, I'll get to what went wrong later. Let's focus on our tourist brethren.
There are five lines Blue, Orange, Green, Yellow and Red. It's a common misconception that the Green Line is the Middle Passage for ghetto Black people in this city. Let me be the first to dispel that hateful, ignorant and insensitive myth. ALL of the lines are the Middle Passage for ghetto Black people depending on where you get on them. Here's a map:
[caption id="attachment_2186" align="alignnone" width="604"]
Warning: Staring at this in the station will get you robbed.[/caption]Okay here's what you need to know for your own safety:
- As a tourist, you belong at the Smithsonian Station and Woodley Park Zoo. Stay away from any other places. They're not all bad, but you'll just get lost or get in the way of people trying to get to work on time. For the love of God, if you do end up somewhere else please remember "LEFT SIDE WALK, RIGHT SIDE STAND." That means that you don't get to stand next to your loved ones on the escalator. You'll meet them again when the ride is over. Heaven forbid you have to turn your neck around to them standing behind you to continue your conversation.
- L'enfant Plaza heading South on the Green Line is the point of no return. I don't care how lost you are, get off!!! If you find yourself missing that stop, put on your angriest face. Talk to yourself, drool, do something to make you look crazy and then get off at Waterfront and run to catch the train going back the opposite way. If one isn't there, then drop into the trackbed and just run on foot.
- The same goes for the Blue and Orange lines heading East once you get to Stadium Armory. There may be a few friendly faces, but they know better than to help you if things go south.
- If you want to study race and socio-economic class, then I invite you to catch the Red line. From the "right side" of the map you'll find a lot of Black people. From Silver Spring to Gallery Place it's mostly negroes. 70% will get off at Gallery Place to get on the aforementioned Green line. Then you'll arrive at Metro Center where things get really interesting. The train is gonna get a lot brighter as just about all of the remaining Black people get off at Metro Center to catch the Blue and Orange lines while an endless sea of White people get on from that point. There will be a handful of Black people peppered throughout the train but 9 times outta 10 they're on their way to UDC.
- Finally, as a tourist it is your duty to stay off the metro during rush hour. We want to get to work on time. We don't have time for you to lollygag as the train pulls up because you don't know the rules of "GET ON! or GET THE HELL OFF!" You also don't understand that your Autobot sized stroller doesn't belong in the middle of the aisle during this "transition period." Standing near the door without a sense of purpose will get you mowed down by an angry mob of people in khakis and business-casual, so just chill in the hotel room until after 9:00.
This concludes our focus on tourists. This last part is for the original DC folks. Metro sucks now. Where it used to cost $2 to get from Anacostia to the ends of the Earth, you're now lucky if two dollars will get you down the elevator to the platform. They do trackwork every weekend now so they single track or shut down complete stations. During the week, it's not uncommon for trains to break down and people to get stranded. We don't even refer to them as "escalators" anymore. They're just metal staircases because they never work. There's no such thing as A/C on the trains anymore and they raise fares whenever the hell they feel like it. The new fare increase will now assess a $1 surcharge for anyone using a paper farecard. So yeah...they suck now. You have a better chance doing what my wife said...saddle up a squirrel and ride that shit to work.
As for the bus...it really isn't that bad. Nothing has changed much. You're safe as long as you're on it and not in front of it. They tend to hit people, run lights and crash into cars on occasion, but what else is new?
Friday, May 4, 2012
Welcome to DC: Part 1-The Carryout
DC seems to be a hotspot lately and I must be its ambassador. I have a few friend from high school who are considering moving back and then I have friends that I met in NC who are considering moving here for the first time. All of them ask me the same question: Should I do it? Why or why not? Someone even asked me why the hometown love is absent from this blog. Today we're gonna tackle life's greatest mystery...
Why would an otherwise happy man choose to move to this godforsaken place?
First off, even though I constantly down it and post stories of the craziest things going on here, I love this city. As a matter of fact, anyone who knew me between 2000 and 2008 probably got sick of hearing me talk about how great DC is. I even had a miniature DC flag posted up in my cubicle right beside a Rock Creek Soda label and a Full Yum's Carryout Menu.
It's hard to say off the bat what I love about this place. Much the same way that we don't recognize how strong our love was for a person until they're gone from our lives, so was the case with DC. During my eight years in NC I managed to compile a list of things absent from my life and I'm gonna share em with ya. So today marks the beginning of the "Welcome to DC" series. For our first entry, we're gonna talk about the lifeblood of Washington, DC and no, it's not the Metro. We're talking about The Carryout.
I went to college in NC and the first thing I noticed was that there were no carryouts. There were places that sold Chinese food but that's not a carryout. Per Roget's Dictionary:
carryout- (noun) A semi-rundown establishment located on every third corner within a city wherein the staff serves such a bountiful selection of items that it is implausible that they turn a profit. Selections include, but are not limited to: Chinese Food, Pizza, Rib tips, rotisserie chickens, hot and cold sub sandwiches, fried and steamed seafood, gyros, hamburgers, mozzarella sticks and last, but not least, chicken wings with mumbo sauce.
You could go into any carryout right now within the DC area (I'm typing this at 11:59 pm on a Thursday) and not only are they still open, but they can cook everything I just listed and have it all ready in 10 minutes. I could call and order a poached pigeon breast filet in a white wine and three-eyed Potomac River fish reduction sauce and at most they'd tell me it'd take an extra five minutes to procure the fish.
And they don't stop at just normal food items either. A decent carryout also sells sodas, candy, Mystics and Everfresh are the official sports drink of the DC carryout. They have cigarettes (loose and whole packs), blunts, Black and Milds, cheesecake and carrot cake slices. I used to go to one that sold knit caps with Redskins and Cowboys logos, t-shirts and even went to one that did passport photos.
And to secure all of these items, they take precautions. For starters they're behind two inches of bulletproof glass. Whatever business you can't transact by talking through a little slit in the glass or food that you can't receive through a bulletproof turnstile just isn't that important.
Now I'm not gonna pretend the food is healthy. I'm offering ten dollars to the person who can provide photographic evidence of a delivery truck dropping food off at a carryout. I'm not racist nor ignorant enough to perpetuate the rumor that it's cats and dogs. That's just an ignorant thing to say, but I'm not gonna lie and say those are real chicken wings. I know pterodactyl when I see it. You ain't never seen a chickenthatbig in your life. It could be a penguin wing for all I care. As long as it's still $4 for four wings and mumbo sauce then I'm good.
And finally...mumbo sauce. The origin of mumbo sauce is probably something that would be told with the same visual grace and dynamic storytelling as the intro to the first Lord of the Rings movie. I'm sure some recipe was forged in the fires of Mt. Doom and half was given to the elves while some were given to the dwarves and finally the race of man. Sadly, no one knows that story by heart so all of us respond the same way when asked what the hell it is:I don't know.My theory is that it's a mixture of ketchup, BBQ and sweet and sour sauce, but what do I know? It could be the blood of those pterodactyls where they're getting the wings. All I know is that a chicken wing isn't a chicken wing unless it's drowned in mumbo sauce.
Why would an otherwise happy man choose to move to this godforsaken place?
First off, even though I constantly down it and post stories of the craziest things going on here, I love this city. As a matter of fact, anyone who knew me between 2000 and 2008 probably got sick of hearing me talk about how great DC is. I even had a miniature DC flag posted up in my cubicle right beside a Rock Creek Soda label and a Full Yum's Carryout Menu.
It's hard to say off the bat what I love about this place. Much the same way that we don't recognize how strong our love was for a person until they're gone from our lives, so was the case with DC. During my eight years in NC I managed to compile a list of things absent from my life and I'm gonna share em with ya. So today marks the beginning of the "Welcome to DC" series. For our first entry, we're gonna talk about the lifeblood of Washington, DC and no, it's not the Metro. We're talking about The Carryout.
I went to college in NC and the first thing I noticed was that there were no carryouts. There were places that sold Chinese food but that's not a carryout. Per Roget's Dictionary:
carryout- (noun) A semi-rundown establishment located on every third corner within a city wherein the staff serves such a bountiful selection of items that it is implausible that they turn a profit. Selections include, but are not limited to: Chinese Food, Pizza, Rib tips, rotisserie chickens, hot and cold sub sandwiches, fried and steamed seafood, gyros, hamburgers, mozzarella sticks and last, but not least, chicken wings with mumbo sauce.
You could go into any carryout right now within the DC area (I'm typing this at 11:59 pm on a Thursday) and not only are they still open, but they can cook everything I just listed and have it all ready in 10 minutes. I could call and order a poached pigeon breast filet in a white wine and three-eyed Potomac River fish reduction sauce and at most they'd tell me it'd take an extra five minutes to procure the fish.
And they don't stop at just normal food items either. A decent carryout also sells sodas, candy, Mystics and Everfresh are the official sports drink of the DC carryout. They have cigarettes (loose and whole packs), blunts, Black and Milds, cheesecake and carrot cake slices. I used to go to one that sold knit caps with Redskins and Cowboys logos, t-shirts and even went to one that did passport photos.
And to secure all of these items, they take precautions. For starters they're behind two inches of bulletproof glass. Whatever business you can't transact by talking through a little slit in the glass or food that you can't receive through a bulletproof turnstile just isn't that important.
Now I'm not gonna pretend the food is healthy. I'm offering ten dollars to the person who can provide photographic evidence of a delivery truck dropping food off at a carryout. I'm not racist nor ignorant enough to perpetuate the rumor that it's cats and dogs. That's just an ignorant thing to say, but I'm not gonna lie and say those are real chicken wings. I know pterodactyl when I see it. You ain't never seen a chickenthatbig in your life. It could be a penguin wing for all I care. As long as it's still $4 for four wings and mumbo sauce then I'm good.
And finally...mumbo sauce. The origin of mumbo sauce is probably something that would be told with the same visual grace and dynamic storytelling as the intro to the first Lord of the Rings movie. I'm sure some recipe was forged in the fires of Mt. Doom and half was given to the elves while some were given to the dwarves and finally the race of man. Sadly, no one knows that story by heart so all of us respond the same way when asked what the hell it is:I don't know.My theory is that it's a mixture of ketchup, BBQ and sweet and sour sauce, but what do I know? It could be the blood of those pterodactyls where they're getting the wings. All I know is that a chicken wing isn't a chicken wing unless it's drowned in mumbo sauce.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Avengers Assemble
The Avengers comes out at midnight tonight and I'll be first in line to see it. It's like two and a half hours long so I won't get home until like three, but it's cool. I don't mind missing out on sleep if the movie is as good as people say it is.
I'm sorry, where are my manners? I meant to italicize the above statement. That's what the "me" in an alternate universe is saying right now to his friends. You remember that guy, right? I wrote about him a while back. It's "Childless Me" who has the superpower of doing whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants (He's not as powerful as "Wifeless Me" from Parallel Universe #3, but I digress).
Yeah, I'm sure that guy's gonna have a great time tonight. He'll probably be there with all his non-diaper/non-Gerber/non-baby's-health-insurance-premium appropriated money buying out the concession stand like the baller that he is. Meanwhile in this world, our hero will be donning his unibomber hoodie lined with chips, a Sprite, Wildberry Skittles and Reeses Pieces as he goes to the matinee on Sunday when the movie is only six dollars.
It's not just about the money though. I can make peace with spending it on a good movie. I can't stand to part ways with the more valuable commodity...sleep! Every morning as the sun comes up and the wife gets ready to leave me with the child I find myself laying in bed thinking about all the organs I'd be willing to sell for just two more hours of sleep. I can't bring myself to give up 3 hours of sleep just to watch a movie. I can't do it...at least not in this world. Darkwing Baby (the terror that flaps in the night) would kill me the next day.
So I raise my glass to all those people who can... in this world and the next.
I'm sorry, where are my manners? I meant to italicize the above statement. That's what the "me" in an alternate universe is saying right now to his friends. You remember that guy, right? I wrote about him a while back. It's "Childless Me" who has the superpower of doing whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants (He's not as powerful as "Wifeless Me" from Parallel Universe #3, but I digress).
Yeah, I'm sure that guy's gonna have a great time tonight. He'll probably be there with all his non-diaper/non-Gerber/non-baby's-health-insurance-premium appropriated money buying out the concession stand like the baller that he is. Meanwhile in this world, our hero will be donning his unibomber hoodie lined with chips, a Sprite, Wildberry Skittles and Reeses Pieces as he goes to the matinee on Sunday when the movie is only six dollars.
It's not just about the money though. I can make peace with spending it on a good movie. I can't stand to part ways with the more valuable commodity...sleep! Every morning as the sun comes up and the wife gets ready to leave me with the child I find myself laying in bed thinking about all the organs I'd be willing to sell for just two more hours of sleep. I can't bring myself to give up 3 hours of sleep just to watch a movie. I can't do it...at least not in this world. Darkwing Baby (the terror that flaps in the night) would kill me the next day.
So I raise my glass to all those people who can... in this world and the next.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Energizer
Daddy's Log 5.2.12
Nuclear powered children. I scoffed at the idea when it was first suggested to me years ago. Newborns sleep 18 hours a day. You expect me to believe that two years from now this person will outrun the sun? I was so young back then and my naivety was surpassed only by my lack of preparation for this moment. This child doesn't sleep. Put her to bed at 9pm and she'll be up at midnight doing lines of No-Doz.
At one point when I was at my lowest, I actually considered this an honor. People stand in absurdly long lines for a cellphone that boasts the best battery life and here I am with a child who can get 18 hours on one charge. Snap out of it. She must be stopped. It would be a colossal failure on my part, were she to end up in the hands of government scientists. I must prove to them and the world once and for all that she is not "Unbreakable."
Yesterday I conducted an experiment with the scientists from The University of Me. Our hypothesis: The child will sleep if the appropriate energy discharge station is found. I took her on an 10 mile bike ride in her trailer. I then stopped at Gravelly Point Park and let her run up and down the field for an hour. We then went to the park where we played with her bouncy ball and blew bubbles that we chased around the park. This lasted for another hour. She then began to show signs of fatigue so I tricked her into thinking she could sleep in her stroller. As a sign of mercy I allowed her to take an 8 minute power nap as I walked from the park to the playground where I woke her up and let her play for another hour.
By the end of the 3 hour exercise, my wife had made it home. She bathed the child and fed her. We both donned smug grins as we watched the child's eyes grow heavy and her head start to do that "wobbly thing" that precedes sleep. It was 7pm. Two minutes later, the child was asleep. Two minutes after that, the child was awake again and would remain so until 11pm. The experiment was a failure. The child awoke at 7 this morning humming the theme from Gremlins.
[caption id="attachment_2168" align="alignnone" width="364" caption="I'll get you Gadget, next time. Next time!"]
[/caption]
Nuclear powered children. I scoffed at the idea when it was first suggested to me years ago. Newborns sleep 18 hours a day. You expect me to believe that two years from now this person will outrun the sun? I was so young back then and my naivety was surpassed only by my lack of preparation for this moment. This child doesn't sleep. Put her to bed at 9pm and she'll be up at midnight doing lines of No-Doz.
At one point when I was at my lowest, I actually considered this an honor. People stand in absurdly long lines for a cellphone that boasts the best battery life and here I am with a child who can get 18 hours on one charge. Snap out of it. She must be stopped. It would be a colossal failure on my part, were she to end up in the hands of government scientists. I must prove to them and the world once and for all that she is not "Unbreakable."
Yesterday I conducted an experiment with the scientists from The University of Me. Our hypothesis: The child will sleep if the appropriate energy discharge station is found. I took her on an 10 mile bike ride in her trailer. I then stopped at Gravelly Point Park and let her run up and down the field for an hour. We then went to the park where we played with her bouncy ball and blew bubbles that we chased around the park. This lasted for another hour. She then began to show signs of fatigue so I tricked her into thinking she could sleep in her stroller. As a sign of mercy I allowed her to take an 8 minute power nap as I walked from the park to the playground where I woke her up and let her play for another hour.
By the end of the 3 hour exercise, my wife had made it home. She bathed the child and fed her. We both donned smug grins as we watched the child's eyes grow heavy and her head start to do that "wobbly thing" that precedes sleep. It was 7pm. Two minutes later, the child was asleep. Two minutes after that, the child was awake again and would remain so until 11pm. The experiment was a failure. The child awoke at 7 this morning humming the theme from Gremlins.
[caption id="attachment_2168" align="alignnone" width="364" caption="I'll get you Gadget, next time. Next time!"]
[/caption]
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
State of the Union
Daddy's Log 5.1.12
You would think Mickey Mouse was Hezekiah Walker or something considering the way that this child jumps, convulses and shouts at the screen whenever The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse comes on. Because she only knows about fifty words, everything she says sounds like she's speaking in tongues anyway. What happened to the kid that I could just prop up on the couch with a Boppy and leave a flashlight pointed at the ceiling to entertain? Someone is plotting on me.
You could say I'm going crazy. 664 continuous days of 4-6 hours of sleep each night while tending to a 2 foot tall tyrannical dictator each day would drive someone insane. Or maybe that's just what they want you to think. It's easier to say I'm nuts than to admit the truth: There is something supernatural at play. It seems like each day she grows stronger while I grow weaker. Her powers of influence eclipse my own and whereas I once bent others to my will through my gift of debate and logical persuasion, she can move mountains and make men do her bidding with a simple wail--an endless, shrieking, forceful and thunderous wail.The devil's hands have truly been busy.
I have remained the same height for over ten years, yet in just a year's time her size has nearly doubled. She calls my peek-a-boo ruse and raises me one "I'll run away from you and hide in the store. Now, 'where's baby?'" She's been here before. She lords over her toys. I find scores of Elmos following me with their eyes. Toys peer at me through half closed closet doors, and she taunts me while I'm in the bath by standing, staring and grasping an iPhone as if to say, "This could be a toaster. You've been warned."
Message received.
A civil war looms on the horizon. I can delay it maybe another 12-13 years, but something tells me that when this child turns 16, no one in this house will be safe.
You would think Mickey Mouse was Hezekiah Walker or something considering the way that this child jumps, convulses and shouts at the screen whenever The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse comes on. Because she only knows about fifty words, everything she says sounds like she's speaking in tongues anyway. What happened to the kid that I could just prop up on the couch with a Boppy and leave a flashlight pointed at the ceiling to entertain? Someone is plotting on me.
You could say I'm going crazy. 664 continuous days of 4-6 hours of sleep each night while tending to a 2 foot tall tyrannical dictator each day would drive someone insane. Or maybe that's just what they want you to think. It's easier to say I'm nuts than to admit the truth: There is something supernatural at play. It seems like each day she grows stronger while I grow weaker. Her powers of influence eclipse my own and whereas I once bent others to my will through my gift of debate and logical persuasion, she can move mountains and make men do her bidding with a simple wail--an endless, shrieking, forceful and thunderous wail.The devil's hands have truly been busy.
I have remained the same height for over ten years, yet in just a year's time her size has nearly doubled. She calls my peek-a-boo ruse and raises me one "I'll run away from you and hide in the store. Now, 'where's baby?'" She's been here before. She lords over her toys. I find scores of Elmos following me with their eyes. Toys peer at me through half closed closet doors, and she taunts me while I'm in the bath by standing, staring and grasping an iPhone as if to say, "This could be a toaster. You've been warned."
Message received.
A civil war looms on the horizon. I can delay it maybe another 12-13 years, but something tells me that when this child turns 16, no one in this house will be safe.
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