For Jim Henson So Loved The World...

I went to Sesame Place yesterday and I only have one question for you:

Are you prepared for Elmo's return? 

Usually I have a headache by the time I leave a theme park. The crowds, the noise and the rowdy people usually push me over the edge, but yesterday was a totally different experience. I actually had fun at Sesame Place and that caught me off guard. Let me say that it has nothing, if anything at all, to do with their customer service or company vision. They have one thing going for them and His name is Elmo.

The park's base is 1-5 year olds. Elmo is their God. You put the two together and you basically get the same thing that would happen if Jesus showed up at the Vatican: Complete peace. Anybody with kids can testify to the power of Elmo when it comes to getting kids to stay still at home. Turn on Sesame Street and fast forward to the last 20 minutes when Elmo's World comes on and your kid becomes this docile creature staring at the screen. If you're a new parent then Elmo's World is when you get to take a shower, eat in peace, read a book, weep silently to yourself...whatever.

Now imagine taking your kid to a place where the streets are paved with Elmo's likeness. He's on every wall, every ride, every cup, sign, street lamp and bench in that place. It was the first time ever that my kid just...existed. No whining, no tantrum, no reluctance to do what I say. I didn't have to raise my voice the whole day. We sat in the Temple of Elmo to watch a faux taping of Elmo's World and my daughter acted like the kind of kid that makes you want to run out and have more kids. And the craziest part is that every kid was like that. Usually a room full of toddlers is like a tank full of beta fish. This was more like a commune minus the purple punch.

They could've passed a collection plate at the end of the Elmo's World show and I would've been okay with it. Since they didn't, I went ahead and bought $30 worth of stuff from the gift shop. They can just add it to the building fund.

Dear Comcast

Dear Comcast Cable,

Please excuse the crudeness of this letter. You see, I'm typing this from my cell phone because my cable and internet have been disconnected. The iPhone is great in many ways, but it could use some work with the spacing of its letters. I have fat fingers so I'm prone to make errors.

Having my cable cut off isn't that big of a deal. It is a luxury item after all and I could probably buy a small village of those hungry kids for what I pay in cable/internet fees each month.

No, I'm not mad that you cut my cable off. I'm mad that you cut my cable off even though I'm not a Comcast customer. I have RCN Cable. When was the last time Verizon cut off someone's Sprint service?

Do you realize the tens of fans I have on my blog who are probably worried about me? I was supposed to tell them about my journey to Sesame Place and how I fought Elmo and his minions to preserve my daughter's honor. You've robbed them of that Comcast.

Now I'm spending the last day of my vacation waiting for RCN to show up and Quantum Leap my cable (strive to put right what once went wrong). Even my random analogies don't work through the phone. I need my cable internet back.

In short, you suck.

Pray For Me

To Whom It May Concern,

There will be no new post today. I did not have time to write one last night. No, the saga of the canceled vacation continues as the peril of the ringbearer deepens.

I went from going to Florida to going to Vegas to now finding myself about 30 mins away from Langhorn, PA. What's in Langhorn? Why, the devil himself. We are going to Sesame Place where Elmo sits upon a throne constructed out of the shattered financial dreams of parents everywhere.

Sesame Street may be free but Sesame Place sure as hell isn't. I've already spent 90 on the tickets and 15 in tolls. I can tell you how to get to Sesame Street alright...Start at an ATM machine and keep straight.

Say It Loud

The year is 1987.

Five year old me walks into the kitchen and asks his grandmother if she has any baby powder. She says no. Five year old me goes back upstairs to the bathroom. He climbs up on the sink so that he can see himself in the mirror. He begins to scratch his arms...a lot. He has severely dry skin so the scratch marks are visible. After covering his arms in white scratch marks, he moves downward to his thighs and eventually his calves where he does the same. He goes back downstairs to the kitchen. He opens the lid on the flour and is about to put some on his hands when his grandmother stops him.

"Boy, what the hell are you doing?"
"I wanna be white."

If I were writing a book about my life, that day would be one of those pivotal moments for which I'd dedicate a chapter. I guess you could call it the day that my cultural awareness went online. My grandmother has a house on the outskirts of Capitol Hill. It's a buffer zone neighborhood meaning that if you went one block west towards the capitol then you'd see nothing but white faces. Go one block east and you'd be in the hood. Her street had a mixture of people and the people next door were white. They had two kids, Max and Willie.

I always played with Max and Willie outside, but on this particular day my grandmother lifted her "Don't you go nowhere with nobody" rule and let me go inside their house to play. I was amazed to see that the house directly next door could look so different on the inside. They had a spiral staircase with a chandelier and I remember asking their mom why they had a window on the ceiling. She said, "It's a skylight. Of course you've seen one of those before." Nope. I hadn't seen half the stuff they had in their house...like a washer and dryer in the basement.

We had a washer but no dryer and the washer was like something from the fifties with rollers on top of it to wring out the water from the clothes. When that died we went back to washing clothes in a bucket in the tub. Max and Willie's room had model airplanes hanging from the ceiling along with a model of the solar system. All of their toys were in a toy chest unlike the old Price Club diaper box that I kept mine in and they had Lego men and sets like Lego Forest. I had a million legos but they were free with a kids meal at Chesapeake Bay Seafood House so none of them formed anything other than a giant lego stick.

After about two hours their mom called us downstairs to say that it was time to eat lunch and she said, "We're going to McDonalds." I thanked her for letting me come over and turned to leave when she said, "You don't want McDonalds, Ordale?" First off, I didn't even know I was included in the trip, but, right hand to God, I said, "Oh no, I don't have McDonalds money, so I can't go." She looked baffled like I was speaking another language. "What's McDonalds money?" I had to explain it to her. I told her that I didn't have any money so I couldn't pay for my food which meant that I couldn't go. She looked at me pitifully like I was one of those starving African kids from the commercials. She told me that she was going to pay for everyone.

We piled into their car, got the food and came back to the house to eat. She sat us at their dining table, broke out place mats and cloth napkins and then sat with us to talk about school and what we wanted to be when we grew up. It was weird because that was what teachers did but only because they were paid to do that. Later in the day their dad came home, gave them hugs and played on the floor with us. Then we all watched ET on their huge television. When it was over, I went home and asked my grandmother if we had any baby powder...and that's pretty much where this story started.

At that moment everything started coming together (albeit incorrectly). Race and socio-economic status became one amalgamated pile. White=money. Black=no money. White=mom and dad at home. Black=calling grandma "mommy."  I wanted to be white. When I explained this to my grandmother she had another anti-80s sitcom moment. She looked me in the face and said, "Don't you ever let me hear you say anything like that again. You're black and that's all the hell you're ever gonna be and you keep your ass from over their house."

That Saturday I saw my father and explained it to him and he nearly crashed the car as he pulled over to the side. "You wanna be what!?" He proceeded to give me (a five year old) a lecture on Brown v. The Board of Education, crisis of identity and then reached in the glove compartment, pulled out a cassette and popped it in. He turned the music all the way up and made me sing along for about twenty minutes...
"SAY IT LOUD! I'M BLACK AND I'M PROUD!"

The Wild One

So the Florida trip is canceled. I was a little miffed, but I realized that I actually got off easy thanks to the trip cancellation insurance. Then I decided I'd go to Vegas as a Plan B. Before I could hit "purchase" my grandmother calls me to tell me she had a bad feeling about me going away and to stay "round the area" until next month. For those who don't know, my grandmother was the inspiration for The Oracle from the Matrix. So if she dreams about a chicken riding a Now-and-Later down the street then that means a flood or an earthquake is imminent.

Even though I know that makes no sense whatsoever, I've learned throughout the years to just trust it. So I'm staying home for my vacation. But what the hell am I gonna do around here? For a very brief moment I considered going to Wild World. Yes, I still call it that. As far as I'm concerned, besides a coat of paint and a few rides, there haven't been many improvements to that park. So Adventure World/Six Flags America...whatever you wanna call it. I'm not sure if I want to go there.

For starters, the place is ghetto as hell. And this isn't the Ward 3 in me talking either. I'm speaking strictly as a former Southeast-ian when I say that the place should be called Anacostia Park: The Ride! (Old 1990s Anacostia Park, not the new "Millennium Edition" that comes with White people) Either the rides don't work, or they do work and occasionally throw people out of them. I can't count how many times I've been stuck on a ride there or watched a ride break down while I was in line. Nothing says fun like having an employee hand you bottles of water from the emergency access ladder to keep cool on a roller coaster while they wait for the fire department to come get you off.

One of the perks of growing up in DC is that you become a really dark tour guide. "I remember when ____ got shot right over there." The same goes for Adventure World. "Yeah I remember when that girl fell off the Iron Eagle and died. That joint was closed down for like a year and then the next year they just put a bag over the seat so no one could sit in that one." "I remember when one of the rafts flipped over in the rapid ride."

So if you remember stuff like that, then why are you even considering going?

Because I live in DC. Every day is an adventure. Somebody got shot in the face over an iPhone last week. Every time I turn around they're talking about terrorists blowing something up around here. You would think Metrobus and Metrorail fatalities were like shark attacks with the way they calculate them..."____ deaths for every 100,000 riders." Walking into an amusement park without knowing if you'll be rolled out of it on a stretcher is just a part of the game in this city.

The question is whether or not I feel like playing it.

Florida-1, Ordale-0

I would like to take this time to extend a very sincere and heartfelt "Kiss My Ass" to the entire state of Florida. This doesn't apply to the people of Florida. I'm actually talking about the land mass that lies south of Georgia.

(He's lost his mind.)

No I haven't. Maybe I have. I don't know. All I know is that two years ago I helped a woman push out an eight pound baby--a traumatic experience for which I've yet to receive the proper counseling--and I'm tired. I've been working at Daddy Co. for two years now and I've only had one day off.

How this place keeps running without OSHA coming in and shutting it down is a mystery to me. Overtime pay? I don't get regular pay. No breaks, no paid time off, no holidays. A year ago I caught a bug and had to spend a night in the hospital and the kid found me there. It's like the movie, "The Ring." My wife took a pregnancy test, someone from the doctors office called with the results and whispered "nine months" through the phone and from that day forward I've been running from a little girl with dark hair who crawls on the floor from time to time.

So what does any of this rant have to do with Florida? A few weeks ago I wrote a post making fun of Florida for having zombies and a Black guy who thought he found the fire flower from Super Mario Bros. Apparently, Florida took offense and vowed to get even. I FINALLY planned my first vacation in over four years and it was to be a grand ol' time. I was celebrating not only my 30th birthday but the magic of five baby-free days.

I was gonna ball outta control. I'm talking:

• Sleeping until I want to wake up and not having to get up just because a mini-person feels entitled to breakfast every single day.


• Eating my food while it's still hot instead of having to break down the meal into bite sized "I want you to live" chunks.


• Leaving sharp/expensive/breakable items within 36 inches of the floor and not worrying about someone getting to it.

You thought The Hangover was wild. I was gonna do it big.

So what happened?

Florida got its revenge. Tropical Storm Debby is coming through on the exact day I was supposed to go. So far they've had water spouts and tornadoes. Half the places I planned to go are flooded or closed and it hasn't even made landfall yet. So, to Florida, I say this: Cute. Real frakking cute.

I'm About to Blow Up!

The young folks out there won't remember this, but to the older ones in the crowd:

I'm having aMartinmoment. Remember that episode when Martin got the job interview for the TV station? "They called me, Gina. They called ME!"

That's how I'm feeling right now. I was in the newspaper last week and today Ms SimplyNay ofThe One Mic Standinternet radio show gave me a guest spot on her show.

I'm telling you, I'm making moves. I went from humble blog to newspaper to radio. Next week Imma be cutting Obama's hair at the White House. Watch out there now!

You can find the radio show here. Warning: Lots of cursing...you may not want to play this out loud at work...put some headphones on or something.

Victory!

[caption id="attachment_2351" align="alignnone" width="604"] Goal #23 Completed: Get in the newspaper before age 30 for something not related to crime[/caption]

Soooo yesterday a friend posted a message on my Facebook page asking if it was me in the Washington Post Express talking about the Air Kuntas from Adidas. I had no clue what he was talking about, but I did recall writing a blog post about it the day before. It couldn't be me though, because I only get about 30 visitors to this site a day. Plus, I curse waaaay to much to make the newspaper. But then he posted another message saying, "I only know one Ordale J Allen."

It was like the DC Earthquake all over again. My heart started racing, I scooped up the baby and headed for the door...only to turn right back around because I realized that I didn't have any shoes on. I sprinted out the door, down the hall, down the elevator and out the front door to the Express box outside. I sat the baby on top of the newspaper thing and started flipping through it.

Sure as hell, on page 28, was a quote from this very blog and my name underneath. I did the Tiger Woods fist pump thing, the Michael Jordan "just won the championship" leap up in the air and then proceeded to grab every copy out of the box. I ran back in the house and called everyone I could think of and with the exception of my wife, not a single person answered (job-having bastards!). So me and the baby just danced around the house to Prince's "Baby I'm A Star."

Now I know what you're thinking...It was just an excerpt. It was just The Express and that thing is free. All I know is that a year ago I had two daily readers and six months ago that number "shot up" to thirty. Today I was in The Express. If I continue at this pace, I'll finally get to fulfill my childhood dream of guest starring on Arsenio. (You know his new show starts next year, right?)

I don't know who's responsible for putting me in the paper or how you stumbled across my blog in the first place, but if you're reading this...
(in my Jackson Five, Victory Tour singing voice)
"Weeeeeeeeee Thank Yooooooou"

 

 

Misrepresented People

Adidas is catching heat after they announced a shoe that was supposedly "so hot that you'll shackle them to your feet." Basically it was a shoe that came with ankle cuffs.

[caption id="attachment_2344" align="alignnone" width="347"] The Adidas "Air Slaves"[/caption]

I'm not sure who the hell was sitting in that meeting, but they obviously weren't black. Or maybe they were. If I hated the company I worked for then I'd sit by idly as these were unveiled. I wouldn't say, "Don't you realize that these shoes are the equivalent of "letting our powers combine" and summoning Captain Planet Al Sharpton. (Earth, Fire, Racism, Stereotypes, Pissed off Black people...Go SHARPTON!) Al Sharpton was busy putting out a forest fire so his alternate Jessie Jackson stepped in and the shoes have since been scrapped.

I'm conflicted. On the one hand I think:

Why is everything selectively racist? It's not like prisoners don't wear shackles. Black people weren't the only slaves in history, although we were the chef's special for a while here in The States. Plus, I'm certain there would be a line of ignorant bastards standing outside the mall to buy them. We need to be upset that they're running around rehashing all of the stereotypes propagated during the Jim Crow era immediately following slavery. They're the ones running around tatted up with ugly gold fronts, dusty wifebeaters, spandex pants and a treasure trove of misplaced values. Our house is collapsing on the inside and we're too busy standing outside raking leaves trying to preserve the exterior facade.

But then I think:

I have enormous respect for Jessie Jackson and Reverend Al, as I wrote in a previous post but sometimes I feel like they're those kids who used to come to the water gun fight with just a cup of water. Yeah, they're effective if they hit you but most times it's a swing and a miss. Still, I understand where they're coming from. They come from an era where Stokely, Martin, Malcolm, Rosa, Huey and the other Superfriends had to fight so that we could do basic shit like walk in the front door. They are all that remain of the warriors who marched forward through the gates of hell to bring hope, equality and choice back home. And now they stand guard protecting it the best that they can. They won't let so much as a gnat get through if it looks like it might be carrying a speck of bacteria that resembles racism.

In the end, I can't blame them for that and I know that they're worried because no one is around to replace them when they're gone and, worst of all, it seems like we're destroying ourselves from within.

Assemble!

I've always been a pretty guarded person. There's an invisible fence that keeps the crazies out. Sometimes it's too effective and I either come off as antisocial or too quiet and serious. Once you get an ID badge and make it inside the perimeter, you'll probably think that I talk too much and liken me to the gremlin who bounced off the walls and came out nutty. Although between you and me, I think he's just discovered the healing power of laughter.

[caption id="attachment_2326" align="alignnone" width="300"] Me: Age 3[/caption]

Anyway, as a general rule I tend to keep about five close friends. Anything more than that is hard to manage and a logistical nightmare. In recent years however, I've had to let some people go. They weren't bad people or anything. They were hard workers and great when we were in the start-up phase, but once we went public (got married) and started having to answer to shareholders (the baby) I found that they just weren't aligned with my vision of where the company was headed. They got a lovely severance package though. Hell, some are like Milton from Office Space and don't even know that they've been fired.

But this leads to a new problem. We're severely short staffed and I've been totally lackadaisical in the hiring process. That's where my wife comes in. She's taken it upon herself to do the recruiting and she's kinda gone Agent Coulson on me. For the non-geeks, that's the guy in the suit in Iron Man, Thor and the Avengers movie. She's set off on her own roaming from place to place looking for people to bring into our organization. Preferably married people with kids under the age of 40.

[caption id="attachment_2327" align="alignnone" width="259"] I promise she looks better than this in real life[/caption]

Well this weekend she discovered Thor's Hammer in the middle of Southeast. Not only did she find a nice interracial couple with a kid (that's like a two for one special because our team is in serious need of diversity), but apparently their kid's mutant power supersedes that of my kid. My daughter knows a few hundred words and is handy with a sniper rifle, but their kid can speak in complete sentences, dance and bend spoons with her mind. Plus she's a few months younger than my daughter.

Now personally I think we should do like they do in Highlander and make the two of them have a sword fight in the middle of Anacostia Park. (In the end there can be only one) But my wife thinks that it would be more logical for me to pull my eye patch and leather coat out of storage and go do my Sam Jackson/Nick Fury routine.

[caption id="attachment_2330" align="alignnone" width="214"] Hey kid, I want to talk to you about The Avengers Initiative[/caption]

It sounds promising, so I think I'll give it a try. If we can't save the Earth, you can be damned sure we'll avenge it.

Man Attacks Child At Bus Stop

Here's a gem of an article that I saw on the news today. A woman was at the bus stop with her three year old when a guy at the bus stop told her to stop the kid from crying. When she didn't, the man punched the kid in the head and then punched the mom when she tried to intervene. He then fled on foot.

That's why you always have to be on guard in this god-forsaken city. You never know what idiot will attack you or your kid. Of course you never know what you'll do until you're in that situation, but I have a few ideas. So let's say it was me. The article would read like this.

Man Attacks Child At Bus Stop

Residents are on guard Friday afternoon after a man punched a 3-year-old child at the bus stop. According to witnesses, the child was crying and the man told the father, "Shut that kid up." The father of the child reportedly responded, "Hello kind sir. I apologize that my child is making too much noise for you. Perhaps thou wouldst prefer the bus stop eighteen fathoms away?"

The man then punched the child in the face. Witnesses provide conflicting accounts of what happened next, however police confirmed that when they arrived on the scene they found the father on top of the man who was unconscious and bleeding profusely. The attacker was rushed to a nearby hospital where he is currently being treated for a fractured skull, broken jaw, dislocated retina, dislocated shoulder, broken wrists, broken arms, stigmata-type wounds to the hands and feet, deep lacerations to the face, neck and upper torso area, as well as second and third degree burns. He is currently in critical condition.

The child was treated on the scene and taken to a local hospital as a precautionary measure, but was released shortly after. The father is not being charged with any crime as witnesses corroborated his claim that it was self defense.

Father's Day

The movie Parenthood (1989) always sticks with me. The movie starts off with the child version of Steve Martin's character being left alone at a baseball game by his father. It flashes forward to the present where you see grown-up Steve Martin at the game with his own kids and carrying an armful of souvenirs and barely able to make it to the car.

[caption id="attachment_2320" align="alignnone" width="460"] That's basically me[/caption]

Everyone has their own list of things that they feel their parents did wrong. It's one of the fringe benefits of being a kid, you have 18 years to jot down notes that you plan to read aloud as you thrust their wheelchairs full speed through the entrance of the retirement home. Even though I have my own list, I don't have "bitter child syndrome." Everyone knows a person who finds a way to turn the most arbitrary statements into a segue about their childhood.

Me: "I just made some lemonade."
Person: "My mother once sold my little sister for a jar of lemonade."
Me: "???"

While I think that there is definitely a phone book full of talking points regarding my upbringing, I recognize that there were a lot of success points. I never had to hold a teddy bear to show a judge where someone touched me. No one ever beat me for shits and giggles and to my knowledge (assuming this is my real family) I've never been sold for rocks. So I'd call my childhood a success.

Still, I'll always remember those "talking points" and, like Steve Martin's character in the movie, I'm just trying to do better. And also like him I'll probably overdo it. When I was little we never really went anywhere except the shopping mall. So today we went bike riding down the Mt. Vernon Trail. We rode to the airport and watched the planes take off while my daughter "chased them." We went over the bridge to the Jefferson Memorial where I let her do her Rocky thing and run up and down the stairs until she was tired. Then we stopped and had a picnic under a tree near the water. I fed her Gerber Spaghetti while she waterboarded me with her sippy cup. Then we came home, shared a popsicle and watched Sesame Street until she fell asleep.

I'm tired as hell now, but I only have 16 more years to go before she'll be done with her list. And if I play my cards right then hopefully the worst thing on the list will be, "When I have kids of my own I'm gonna give them some space!"

Ovation.

Since the good ones don't get enough recognition...here ya go.

Superdad

It's an article about a single dad who took his one year old daughter to college with him. Meanwhile I'm still typing today's post.

Give Us Free!

June 13, 2000

It's hard to believe that I graduated from high school 12 years ago today. Sadly, there's no fascinating story attached to that day. I hated high school, so that day was more like getting out of prison than anything else. It's kinda funny though, because whenever I replay that day in my head I always see it play out with the same fanfare as when Nelson Mandela got out of prison.

In my head there's a big crowd gathered in front of the Cramton Auditorium at Howard University all chanting my name. The news choppers are circling the area while in a small shanty some old woman is clutching a bible with tears welling up in her eyes as the camera pans out to show a church full of people all singing Amazing Grace. At the bottom of the screen a banner reads "Ordale Allen Freed!"

Yeah, I hated high school. It was a sanctuary for nerds that advertised itself like Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. It was to be a place where all of the kids who'd ever been bullied for being smart could come and express their own individual genius free from intimidation from lesser minds. It wasn't until after you got there that you realized it was a concentration camp. They worked the hell out of us to the point that there wasn't room for a band or a football team or a homecoming or anything not book related.

I managed to have some fun. I took full advantage of the whole "no one will judge you" thing. When we had Spirit Week, I always went all out. For Bamma Day (mismatch day) I came as "Homeless Man" wearing a dress, safety patrol belt, sweat pants, mismatched Timberlands and a towel around my neck for a cape. For Multicultural Day I dressed in army fatigues, carried my little sister's Barbie walkie talkie and a Super Soaker. I told everyone I was an Iraqi Terrorist. (This was a joke you could get away with pre-911) I even "kidnapped" my girlfriend from one of her classes. For 70s day I put on one of my grandfather's suits, some thick brown rimmed glasses with bifocals and a fedora. I put a pocketbook strap around a stuffed dog and dragged it around the school saying "Heel Duke! Down boy!" I told people I thought it was 70s Day as in "70-year old people" day. My girlfriend took the cake though. She came in a bonnet with a worn out dress and walked around school barefoot with a broom. She said that since they weren't specific, she was celebrating 1770s Day and was a slave.

Maybe it wasn't so bad after all. Who the hell am I kidding. It was horrible. I'm glad to be out!

Father Kills Man Sexually Abusing His Daughter

Article here.

Part of me says that I shouldn't post this because it makes me seem like I'm applauding murder. Maybe one day in the future I'll apply for a job, they'll google me and see this post and use it as justification for not hiring me. Perhaps one day I'll realize how much the world needs me and I'll decide to save it from itself by running for political office. Then someone will point to this as a blemish on my character.

The other part of me says, "You have a two year old daughter and you see creepy men staring at her from time to time with their hands in their pants pockets." Then I'm reminded of all the girls I've met over the years who are scarred from something bad that happened to them when their parents turned their backs for just a second.

I've had my fair share of chance encounters with women in high school and college that could've gone one way  but instead turned into "Ordale J. Allen: Grief Counselor" therapy sessions. Some were just skeezers, but an overwhelming majority of the girls I've met over the years have a skeleton in their closet of some family member or friend of the family doing something to them.

That's part of the reason why I sat in the doctor's office on D-Day with my head in my hands when they said "and those specks right there are the lips of the vagina." I promised myself that day that even if I couldn't protect her from everything, I'd die trying. And that's why you better go through a f*cking Congressional vetting session before you even consider asking to babysit my kid.

So my heart goes out to this guy. Killing his kid's attacker won't undo the damage. That's there for life. And while I'm not advocating murdering someone, in the word's of Chris Rock, "I'm not saying he should've killed [him]....BUT I UNDERSTAND!"

The Sunshine State

Okay.

(Deep breath)

I don't even know where to begin.

(confused stare)

I...(pause and exhale)

What the fuck is wrong with Florida?

It started with the Trayvon Martin thing. Then the lady got 20 years for firing a warning shot at her husband. Then Black-Pac-Man ate a bath-salt power pellet and decided that stripping naked would make him more aerodynamic as he chased down homeless people to eat. Then today I read this article about a woman getting chased around a 7-Eleven gas station by her knife-wielding son's father who thinks he's Jason Voorhees. He yanks her outta the store and then douses her with gas and sets her on fire.

So again, what... the fuck... is wrong with Florida?

You see, not too long ago I booked my vacation to Florida. I had this crazy idea of going somewhere peaceful to escape the insanity of DC life.

HA!

At least crime up here makes sense. Oh you stood in line for 5 hours to buy some ugly ass tennis shoes? Well there's a 57% chance you'll get shot for your shoes. You live in Southeast? There's a 74% chance you'll either commit, witness, or be a victim of a crime before you get to the end of this sentence. But Florida? I don't know how the hell to prepare for that.

Back when I planned the trip, the only thing in the news was Trayvon Martin. We have discrimination up here. I was ready for that. I was just gonna put on my Captain (African) America shield and do my Chris Evans impression (albeit a shorter, darker version).

I didn't really settle on a plan if I was invited to play Hungry Hungry Negro. It couldn't be that difficult, though. I hear that bath salts give you superhuman strength, but you gotta catch me first. I don't give a damn if I'm in line at McDonalds, the first Floridian I see who looks hungry is getting punched in the throat. And if it turns out that the "zombies" can run like on 28 Days Later, then I'm up for that too. I have three (count 'em, three) medals from running track in high school and a lifetime of running for dear life once the ni-gras start shooting at the carnival, movies, Unifest, church, etc. A goddamned velociraptor couldn't catch me.

But this whole 7-Eleven thing with "Jason Voorhees: Off-duty Fireman" has me concerned. It takes a special blend of crazy to try and set someone on fire at a gas station. That's going all in with your crazy chips.

I'm starting to think that Florida is too rich for my blood.

 

 

 

Bag Lady

I just read an article about the owner of a 7-Eleven who accidentally left the bank deposit bag on top of his car and then drove off down the highway. When he realized what he did, he doubled back and found a bunch of people on the side of the highway who'd found some of it. That's just...odd.

When I worked at the bank we used to have dozens of retail shops deposit their money with us. At no point did any of them seem comfortable enough with that responsibility that they could just forget the money on top of the car. Half the time they were trying their best to get to us as fast as humanly possible without getting robbed.

Some weren't the brightest lights on the tree. They'd actually walk to the bank in their fast food uniform carrying a bag full of money that basically said "Rob Me!" on the side of it. The seasoned vets knew better. One manager of a fast food place acted like he was making a heroin run across the border. He used to come in there wearing the bummiest street clothes while carrying a soda and what appeared to be a bag of food. Inside the bag, underneath two sandwiches was a Ziploc bag with the money and deposit slip. That's depositing "like a sir" right there.

Still, the craziest was the lady from the gas station down the street. She actually got robbed in front of our bank on her way in the door. I guess they'd been watching her and timing when she made her deposits. After that she would only come to the drive thru and, even then, wouldn't stay still long enough to get a receipt. She'd shove a brown paper bag through the window with her information on it and drive off. We'd hold the receipt until the next drop. I can't blame her though. Fear is fear.

 

 

 

Roar Roar, Like A Dungeon Dragon

I've got nothing to write about today, so I'll do something different. I'm gonna give out a rose. You know how they say you should give people their roses while they can still smell them, so here's one for my grandmother.

I went to Benjamin Banneker High School. Back when I was there, it was one of the best public schools in the city. I know it sounds like an exaggeration but they worked us like rented mules. I'm talking homework every night in just about every class. Unlike the little "bastardlings" of DC who went to high school each morning carrying a spiral notebook and a crayon, we had to take home every textbook every day. You could easily spot a Banneker Achiever by looking for the kids with scoliosis carrying home a 40 pound backpack.

Backpacks have a lifespan of about six months at that school and mine was no different. The straps ripped off one day while I was running for the bus and over the course of the next week I found myself sewing them back in place everyday. It was all for naught, because at the end of that week the entire bottom of my backpack ripped open, spewing all of my stuff on the platform of the metro. I needed a new backpack.

Now this was during the winter of our discontent...literally. Our gas, heat and hot water was off due to "budgeting irregularities" so a new "good quality" backpack was at the bottom of my family's wish list. My mother said she was broke and told me to "just carry my books." I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and say that because I didn't live with her, she thought I was exaggerating when I said I had 40 lbs of books. So that left my grandmother who was on a fixed income and who told me in a calm reassuring voice, "I aint got no damn money."

For the next week I carried my History, English, Spanish, Algebra II/Trig, Chemistry and Health textbooks along with my TI-83, Spiral Notebooks, 3-ring binder, lunch and track practice clothes in several plastic grocery store bags. I looked so pathetic that my friends started taking up a collection to buy me a new backpack.

So one day I'm sitting in homeroom about twenty minutes before school lets out and I get called into the office. Sitting on the counter was a new backpack. The dungeon dragon who ran the office told me, "Your grandmother came up here right before lunch with that thing for you. She wanted me to call you to the office but I told her that we don't interrupt classes and upset the learning process just because a family member wants to see a student. If it isn't an emergency then she'll just have to wait. So she left."

Not wanting to curse the dungeon dragon out (again) I took the bag and went back to my homeroom. I was already on the verge of tearing up, because I knew my grandmother didn't have any money. I knew that the only way she was able to buy it was to skimp on paying some bill. I kept it all inside though. I opened it up to put my books in it and that's when I saw that she'd put a two piece meal from Popeyes inside. I lost it.

I ran out the classroom tears streaming out of my eyes and went to the payphone to call home. The dean of students asked why I was in the hall and I walked around her like she wasn't even there. I call home and my grandmother answers and tells me that she JUST got home. In the interest of time, I'll just tell you what happened in classic Scooby Doo fashion.

She had 45 dollars. She spent 40 on the backpack and the bus fare to get up to my school. She had $5 left to get back home  but that's when she thought about the rough week I'd had and wanted to do something nice for me. She used the last $5 to buy me some Popeyes and planned to get a dollar from me to get back home on the bus but because the dungeon dragon wouldn't call me out of class she had no way to get home, so she walked all the way home from my school which is across from Howard University all the way back to her house near RFK Stadium which is almost a two hour walk.

I thanked her repeatedly. I hung up the phone, cried a little bit inside the phone booth and then wiped my eyes and headed directly into the office where I proceeded to slay the dungeon dragon in what is probably, by far, the best "cuss out" ever delivered. It was so effective that after that me and the dragon became friends.

It may not seem like much to other people, but that happened during one of the most tumultuous periods of my life and that seemingly small gesture remains, to this day, the most sincere display of love I've ever felt. And for that...I thank you.

 

 

Stop Mailing These To Me

I know this is random, but this irks me...

[caption id="attachment_2275" align="alignnone" width="300"] Novice Parent: "Hey, that might come in handy!"[/caption]

Every time I get one of these in the mail I want to punch Geoffrey the Giraffe in the throat. I fell for that coupon back when I was a parenting apprentice. I'm a master level, Six Sigma black belt parent now. I know the back of this coupon by heart:

[caption id="attachment_2276" align="alignnone" width="604"] So basically I can get a soda.[/caption]

This is just another clever Jedi mind trick.

Next Friday

"Wow, she's so big. How old is she?"
"She'll be two next month?"
"Uh oh! Get ready for those terrible twos."

Get ready? That's like saying "It's gonna be hot this summer" on a 95 degree day in May. Lady, I'm already there. Six months ago things made sense. The child would ask for something, I'd give it to her and all of the creatures of Narnia enjoyed a peaceful coexistence. Now? HA!

"Me, Apple. Me, Apple." (That means "Father, if it pleases you, I would enjoy a small apple from the icebox."
"Here you go baby." (She takes the apple, starts screaming and shotputs it across the kitchen.)

Did I miss something?

"Don't throw stuff baby. What do you want. Show Daddy what you want."
"Cheese. Me, cheese. Cheese."
"Okay, that's all you had to do. Use your words. Here you go."
(Throws cheese onto floor, stomps her feet and runs away screaming.)

At this point my Blackness will no longer allow a child to throw stuff in my house. In my head I have all sorts of Braveheart speeches prepared on how I'm gonna beat the hell outta her. The ones that go, "It's kids in Africa wishing they had someone to send them 28 cents a day so they could eat this cheese. Before I even start talking my brain realizes that the only time I've actually hit her is when she tried to lick the surge protector (It's a long story). Even then she just "Debo'd" me like, "You want some of this old man?"

Wait a minute. Now that I think about it she's Pinky from Next Friday.

[caption id="attachment_2271" align="alignnone" width="300"] Who sent you? I'm tryin' to tell... SHUT UP![/caption]

Endure

For the last seven minutes and forty three seconds I lay on the floor staring up at the ceiling, tears in my eyes, as I writhed in excruciating pain. Then it hit me, no one should be forced to endure this agony. To my left stood a six foot tall wooden DVD shelf that I constructed by hand. If I could somehow pull that on top of myself, the weight of the shelf alone would be enough to kill me. In battle they call it a mercy kill.

I made my peace with God and outstretched my hand, but then I thought of my wife and daughter. I couldn't move on to the next realm knowing that for the rest of their lives they'd wonder "why?" I love them too much to not leave a note. After two minutes of rocking left and right I managed to roll over onto my stomach. Using just my left arm and the limited function of my right leg, I managed to crawl over to the bar where my laptop sits. It took a while, but eventually I was able to pull myself up on the bar stool and eventually grab the laptop.

As I began writing my goodbye letter, a wave of emotion befell me. In that moment I realized just how much determination it took to make it from the floor to the computer. If I could make it this far, then certainly I could press on. No, I wouldn't kill myself today. Instead, I would exact revenge on the person who put me in this situation in the first place.

Evil has a name and it is Tony Horton, inventor of the P90X. It is because of him and his Ab Ripper X that I found myself strewn out on the floor while chants of "take a break if you need" taunted me from the television screen. Yeah, "anyone can do it" my ass! This from the man who probably runs the Boston Marathon as a cooldown lap from his job of picking up cars for a living.

I will find him. I will burn his home to the ground and I will salt the earth so that no other evil can grow there again. But first...."Wiggle your big toe."

[caption id="attachment_2266" align="alignnone" width="600"] Dramatic re-enactment of what I'm going through right now[/caption]

Singing in the Rain

I slept about about 64 minutes last night so I'm feeling really..."random" right now. In that spirit, here's a random story that falls into the category of "You have the strangest experiences, Ordale."

One  day in college I found myself driving my girlfriend to work in her car ("her car"--Important detail. Make a note. It will be on the test.). We were on this little two-lane, winding back road beset by trees on both sides. Out of nowhere, an argument erupted. I can't remember what it was about, but I know it was small. For the sake of being thorough let's just say it was about whether Prego really beats Ragu in a blind taste test.

I was so into my Johnny Cochran'ing that I failed to notice that the car up ahead and come to a complete stop. She didn't, and she let out a shriek. Maybe it was the arguing that occurred just moments before, but my synapses were firing on all cylinders. I got this Peter Parker spider sense. In one blink I determined that slamming on the brakes wouldn't do much good because the road was still wet from the earlier shower and we'd skid. I couldn't veer into the other lane because another car was coming and nothing makes you lose an argument like a head-on collision. There were trees to our right but a small enough stretch of dirt that I could possibly go around the car. I chose that option.

No sooner than I swerved to the right did I notice a pointless sign (Slippery When Wet) that was now directly in our path.  Somehow I managed to swerve around the car, slam on the brakes to Tokyo Drift between the car and the sign and get back on the road while coming within inches of the oncoming car. Whatever we were arguing about just ceased to matter after that. At the very next light, a car ran the light and almost hit us. We pulled into the parking lot of her job and I got out and handed her the keys. "I've had enough near death experiences in this car for one day. You keep it. I'll catch the bus back."

After 30 minutes of waiting, I gave up on the bus and decided to walk the five miles back to campus. I figured it'd help my nerves. Funny thing about Durham, NC. Most roads don't have sidewalks, so I found myself walking in muddy grass half the time. My shoes were soaked, my feet were wet and to make things worse it started pouring down raining. I now felt like an idiot. Then the bus that I'd been waiting for flew by me and ran over a big ass puddle completely showering me with pothole water.

It's at that point that I did what the song says, "Have a little talk with Je-sus. Tell Him about your trou-ble." I looked up at the sky and said, "God, can I PLEASE catch a break!" Then I tripped on a rock. I looked down and realized it wasn't a rock. It was some kind of folder or portfolio. I picked it up, unzipped it and inside was someone's day planner. As I was putting it back on the ground where I found it, a 20 dollar bill fell out. That caught my attention. I flipped through the pages and 13 more $20 bills fell out.

For the next two miles I was Gene Kelly singing in the rain.