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.