I used to be mildly apologetic for my lapses in blog productivity, but that shit is now over and done with. Life has been happening since last I wrote, and for the most part there have been a series of fortunate events.

First off, my wife and I were fortunate enough to get Nyles into one of the schools we chose for him in DC's crazy game of Charter School Lottery. At first, we thought we were going to have to endure yet another year of $800 a month daycare, and then last Friday, we received an email indicating that young Nyles had been selected. It was not as if the daycare where Nyles had been attending was bad or substandard in any way, but it was a church daycare that didn't have the academic structure we wanted. That's not a knock on church daycare in general, and I definitely wasn't knocking the great job the daycare did with Nyles from 3 months to 3 years. But it was time to leave and he did.

The wife and I hyped the new school experience all through Labor Day weekend so that Nyles would be locked in and ready to go on his first day, rather than being super-emotional and whiny as youngsters are wont to do on their first day. Nyles was already going to be starting a week later than the other kids, so it was important that he hit the ground running as much as possible, and he did just that. He didn't cry, he wasn't clingy, and he immediately took a shine to both the teacher and the teacher's aide. His first day was Tuesday, today is Friday, and he STILL has more energy than the 14 other kids in that class. Thank God the teachers have to deal with him all day and not me.

Last night was Back to School Night, and for the first time since my older son's high school graduation in June, I felt old. Me, the wife and Nyles were sitting in the school auditorium with parents, teachers and administrators, listening to upcoming school year events, and it just felt surreal. There's a certain youthfulness that kids bring to their parents, and that's all well and good. But in some respects while I was sitting there, I realized that I'm not a little boy or a young man anymore, I'm a full grown adult with a kid in the military and a younger kid whose life I have to help shape and mold. It isn't a scary thought or one I plan on backing down from, but man I felt every bit of 40 last night. So I drank a healthy dose of wine while I watched football..

Tomorrow, I will tell my Wynton Marsalis story. That's a little something we like to call a tease.

I recently re-bought this on tape for nostalgia's sake, and when it wasn't properly rewound, I realized why I left the tape genre altogether. The music is still great as is this song:

This may seems minor to all of you people, but this morning at Starbucks, I finally got someone to correctly spell my name on my Venti cup of Soy Green Tea Latte. For years I've had to either accept the way the Starbucks barista took their axes out and butchered my name, or I'd have to spell it out painstakingly slow so they heard all six letters. If I didn't coach them on how to spell my name, they would come up Rashaad, Rashed, Rashid, Richard, Rachad, Rashard, and other bastardized versions of my great name (no disrespect to the readers who have those names, but come on, you know my name is better). I can't even chalk these misspellings up to race because black, white, Hispanic, Indian, Ethiopian and Asian Starbucks employees jacked up my name and NEVER spelled it right. That changed today.

Today, this young brother from Bed-Stuy (and I'm assuming he's from Bed-Stuy, NY because he had a big ass tattoo on his neck), took my order, then my name and wrote it on the cup. Now at the time, I couldn't see what he wrote, because my cup was still behind the curtain while my drink was being made. And when I heard the barista say, "Venti Soy Green Tea Latte for Rashad", I fully expected to be viewing yet another destruction of my name. But when I took the cup, my main man from Bed-Stuy Do or Die spelled it correctly. I went back to cash register, stepped in front of a few people (who tried to be mad, but f**k them), I dapped up Bed-Stuy, and I said, "My man!". I almost said "my n**ga", but 1) As much as it seemed appropriate, that's not really my style and 2)There were way too many non-black folks around, and that's just not a good look.

He asked why I was dapping him up and I told him no one at Starbucks had ever spelled it right until now. He laughed, adjusted his Starbucks hat a little and said, "Come on now, it ain't hard to spell Rashad, I watched the Cosby Show!". It's funny his mind went there, because I always reference Phylicia (or Ahmad) Rashad when I'm trying to give folks an idea on how my name is spelled. At this point, the folks in the line were getting restless, so I laughed, gave him an "Alright man", and walked out. I found myself wondering if I had said the "N" word would that have offended folks in the line more or less than the Cosby pill references I wanted to make to Bed-Stuy. I'm glad I said neither and I'm even happier my name was finally spelled right.

I heard this song on VH-1 Soul for the first time last week and I was hooked. I knew nothing about the song or the group (the group is called the Internet) and I decided to buy the album. The album is above average, but this song is the standout in my opinion

I haven't really discussed this in a minute, but I have not been consistently swimming in almost a year. There was a time (five years ago) when swimming every day was part of my workout regimen and I loved it. In January of 2009, I had no clue how to swim and by August of that year, I was doing 1-2 miles every other morning and it felt great. But after marriage (slightly) and kids (greatly) the demands on my time increased as did my fatigue level. Although it may read that I am blaming my wife and child, I am not, I am simply using them as scapegoats as to why I have not been swimming with vigor and regularity. At one point, I discontinued my membership to the Jewish Community Center (JCC) where I did my swimming. The rationale was, why pay $60-70 a month, when I wasn't using their pool, their gym, their b-ball court or the wonderful activities they have.

I got the desire to swim again at the end of June, and I decided to venture out to another pool that was just 2 minutes from my house (the JCC is about 10 minutes). That pool started at four feet and went down to about 11. The pool I was used to swimming started at 4 feet and ended at 6--that's the type of comfort a relatively new swimmer needs. I'm a good swimmer, but I ain't swimming in water that's 12 feet deep, that's just something I will NOT do at this point in my life. I gave up on swimming and decided to get my workout fix via running and skipping rope.

But yesterday, I decided enough was enough, and I re-joined the JCC, and this morning I got back in the pool. The lifeguard, who I made a mixtape for a few years ago told me he missed me and asked how things were going, as did a couple of other people. It was the closest thing to walking into Cheers that I've felt in a long time, and it made me feel like I did the right thing by re-joining. My actual swim sucked big time because my stamina was off, but my form was good...baby steps. I'll be slim and trim in no time...

Next time I blog, I'll review the N.W.A. movie, "Straight Outta Compton". I think I'm the only person who hasn't seen it yet. Oh and today is my father's 65th birthday, and this is his favorite song ever:

I do believe I have cried three times today, and the chances are high it will happen three more times today. My first-born son Carlton turns 18 years old today, which for means old age for me and legality for him. Both are equally scary.

In a little over a week, he will finding his way as a man at Marine bootcamp in South Carolina. He impressed me by getting great grades in high school, and he humored me by filling out college applications and getting into Old Dominion University. But I think he wanted to go to the military all along, and at some point I got tired of fighting him, and I helped him the best way I could. I have family in the military so I know the various fates that meet folks who join the military, and I'm just praying that he'll not only land on his feet, but he'll thrive.

But today, there's a montage of his last 18 years playing in my head. I remember bringing him home from the hospital, I remember the $100 speeding ticket I received driving from D.C. to Hampton when his mother was in labor, I remember feeling scared, clueless, slight regret, awe and lots of love when I saw him. I also remember his bad behavior, smart ass mouth and the ups and downs I went through with his mother. But I suppose every parent with an 18+ year old child can tell similar stories. I'm just happy my story has been positive thus far...and I want it to stay that way which is why I keep getting on his ass about condoms and InstaGram abuse...but at this point he has to learn his own lessons right?

One day I'll show him this blog, so he read just how crazy his dad is. But I digress, I can't even get emotions in check enough to write a smooth, coherent entry....happy birthday son.

I have no official entry today. Just check out this hilarious new Foreign Exchange video entitled, "Asking For A Friend":

The song "Secret Garden" came on my iPod yesterday as I was walking home from work. If you don't remember, the song came out in 1989 on Quincy Jones' "Back on the Block" album (and yes back then they were albums), and the song featured (in order of appearance): Barry White, Al B. Sure, James Ingram and El Debarge. The song used to be a staple during the slow grooves portion of parties I used to attend, and now the song has been relegated to the slow jams portion of your local radio station. Or perhaps people are still using this song to woo the panties (or boxer briefs if I'm being PC) off their mate.

I haven't heard the song in awhile, so I found myself breaking down the song way more than a man should be doing as he's taking a relaxing walk home from work. I will break the song by vocalist and say a bit about the arrangement overall.


Barry White

Big Barry kicks off the song by saying "Tell Me A Secret" in that big booming baritone of his, which used to make the ladies go wild. I will readily admit that if my voice were as lush and deep as Barry's, I'd have wooed women with substantially less effort than I ended up having to use with my regular, gravelly voice. At this point of the song, the music--which consists of a cymbal, a guitar, and some keyboards--are sparse, and off in the distance. This serves as a perfect contrast to Barry's deep voice, and then Al B. Sure comes in and ruins it..

Al B. Sure

Al B. Sure is the Randy Jackson of this particular group. Normally when people want to heavily downplay the importance of someone's accomplishments they like to invoke the name of Tito Jackson, but that's some bullshit. Tito is a great guitar player and well after the Jacksons stopped performing, he had a second career as a studio musician. Randy Jackson was a freeloader. You don't believe me? Look at this clip and notice how he chose to do some foolish dance, as opposed to singing "We Are The World" with everyone else.

Anyway, the only reason Al B. Sure was invited to sing on this song was the fact the he was the "hot" guy at the time. "In Effect Mode" had been released one year earlier, and Al B. was tearing up the charts (and the acid washed jeans he frequently wore) with hit after hit. Quincy Jones probably felt like the other three gentlemen did not appeal to the younger crowd, so Al B. was called in to save the day. During his brief appearance on this classic song, he had two effeminate "Ohhhs", he tried to overly use vibrato which clearly was not his strength, and he ended up being a supreme waste of time. Unlike the other three vocalists whose voice could be heard even when they weren't singing lead parts, Al B. was on for about 40 seconds and then he was not to be heard from again. Good riddance buddy.

James Ingram

Mr. James Ingram is a professional singer. He's done duets with Linda Ronstadt, Anita Baker and Patti Austin. He sang background on MJ's "PYT", and he's been the closing vocalist on songs as well (see that same We Are the World clip I linked earlier). Whenever Quincy Jones makes an album, he makes it his business to include Ingram in some way, shape or form, and this song is no different.

I remember Johnny Gill telling a story about his appearance on New Edition's song "Boys to Men", and he said that he tried his hardest to sing his ass off on that song, because he wasn't given very many parts to sing on the "NE Heartbreak" album. And if you listen to Johnny on that "Boys to Men" song you know he was not lying. Well James Ingram sang verses on "Secret Garden", like he was an American Idol contestant trying to get to Hollywood He started soft, hit the high notes, had a few impressive runs, and just made the song even more adult than Barry White had done with his voice. He also successfully washed the nasty taste of Al B. Sure right out of the listener's mouths (yes I'm aware of everything wrong with that sentence).

El Debarge aka "The Debarge" as Black Thought called him in this song

El's appearance as a lead vocalist on this song was just as brief as Al B's, except he actually left you wanting more. El's vocals are smooth, not overdone, and you just picture him swooping in and stealing the girlfriend/wife of any man at that moment. Granted, El's background vocals are strewn all over the damn song, and he blends perfectly with Al B., Barry White and James Ingram, so the listeners don't feel totally shortchanged, but still, I wanted more.

El ends his verse by saying, "I can keep you satisfied..make it alright...all night", and then it is as if there is a 3some going on, and he tags out, and tags Barry White back into the mix. Again, Quincy got it right by contrasting the light voice of El with the strong masculine voice of Barry.

Barry White (again).

Barry's first appearance was simply him doing the "Barry White", which is to use his deep baritone to woo the ladies. In his second appearance, Barry actually got a chance to croon. He's on old-school singer and most of his lines involve him doing that old school singers always promise to do. "I'll take care of you", "I'll do it all night", "Let me get you in the mood". If anyone else was saying these things, it could easily be labeled as corny. But Barry's the deep-voiced crooner, so he can get away with it. Plus, right when you think you've had enough of his deep-voiced begging, El Debarge comes back in to sing the chorus

The rest of the song goes like this: El Debarge sings and ends every sentence with Barry White's famous phrase, "Sho' you right". Barry White continues to talk that non-sensical crap in that sexy voice of his, and James Ingram presides over it all with his infamous closing runs. It is a great song and the co-writing credits go to Quincy Jones, El Debarge, Siedah Garrett (co-writer of MJ's Man in the Mirror and co-singer in MJ's "I Can't Stop Loving You) and a little someone I like to call Rod Temperton who wrote Rock With You, Thriller, Off The Wall, Lady In My Life, Tamia's You Put A Move On My Heart and George Benson's "Give me the Night". All that star power (even Al B. Sure) in one song and it is awesome. Please get yourself reacquainted with this beautiful song:

Every now and then I feel guilty that my wife and I will not be giving Nyles another sibling (he technically has my older son Carlton, but they are 14 years and 180 miles apart). As I'm quite sure I have chronicled in earlier blog entries, the wife had a difficult time with her pregnancy with Nyles, and we knew that we were going to be one and done, but I suppose we could have pushed the issue or even adopted a child, but ultimately we decided that young Nyles was quite enough. So naturally, we have given some serious though to getting a dog, which is the logical progression from wanting another child right?

The plan is to get him a dog around four or five, so the dog will ideally live until he's 18 and gone off to college. This will give him and the dog a good strong 14 years of memories, good times and growth and when the dog inevitably dies while he's in college, Nyles will have his studies and maybe a loose woman or two to assuage the loss of man's best friend. I don't want the dog dying while he's still living at home, because then I'd have to buy another one, which means my wife and I would be stuck doing heavy lifting, scooping and eventually grieving when the dog dies while my wife and I are in our 50s and already terrified of our own deaths. Who wants that kind of convoluted existence in their glory years?

I never had a dog growing up, because my dad shut that all the way down from birth to 18. My wife had a dog when she was young, but her dog was killed when according to her father, a pack of wild dogs attacked their family dog. That is the funniest and most asinine story I've ever heard, but my wife, her dad and everyone else involved swears by it. There's no such thing as a wild dog. There are wolves, foxes, and dingos, and none of those were in Maryland where my wife grew up. Someone shot that dog accidentally and tried to clean it up real nice and hide the truth like a Waller County cop. I digress.

The point of this rambling blog entry is to say that this morning as I completed my 6-mile run at 5:30am, I saw a man who looked to be around 35 years old with his dog. The dog had just ventured into the grass to do his duty (pun intended), and the man could not find the magic spot where it had all gone down. He did his best to look with his naked eyes, then this grown ass man activated the light on his cell phone to locate the pile of greatness the dog had left behind. Once he found the spot, he kept the phone light on, laid the phone down, got out his plastic bag, and delicately placed the mess in the bag. I was laughing at how determined this man was, and the dog was looking at his owner as if to say, "Better you than me champ!". I love my son, and I love my dog, but if you think I'm going on a poo scavenger hunt on public grass at 5:30 am, you have me all the way f**ked up. Fish make good pets too.

This video I'm about to post is some serious nerd sh*t that I searched for one night when I couldn't sleep. It is Michael and Janet Jackson's background vocals from the song Scream. Now these aren't just background vocals from the entire whole song, these are the background vocals you can faintly hear during the chorus. It is Janet and Michael singing together beautifully and I love it. The vocals start at the 1:56 mark and they repeat intermittently throughout this video. Once you listen to that over and over, then go listen to the real song and hear how they were worked into the song. It's beautiful thing.





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My son Nyles, the playground, and the other kids who play there have had a great relationship the past couple of years. There are plenty of toys, cars and trucks at the playground, there's a slide, a jungle gym, swings, and most importantly a sprinkler which is activated when someone--usually a kid--puts his handprint on a small column, which allows the water to shoot everywhere (it is actually quite thrilling to watch). Occasionally kids who are too old or young will show up and try to take over the playground and every now and then, there are adults who unlawfully consume adult beverages while their kids are playing, but for the most part it is a lovely experience.

The wife and I usually take Nyles there for about 30 minutes, which is enough time for him to get the excess energy out of his system, interact with his peer group, and then work up the necessary hunger it takes for him to eat lunch/dinner before taking the type of nap that even hibernating bears would envy. I'll admit it doesn't always work out that neat and tidy, but that's the plan each and every time. My wife talks to the other parents at the playground trying to make new friends, and I usually keep my distance myself from that bullshit, while keeping keen eyes Nyles, who pulls five or six daredevil moves per playground visit.

Anyway, this past Sunday, Nyles was busying himself with this fancy truck, when this kid came up to him and tried to take it. Nyles politely, but forcefully took the toy back, and then this kid slapped Nyles in the face. It didn't hurt Nyles and it didn't knock him back, but it damn sure startled him. He said "Ow", and started to hit back, but the kid's mom swooped in, made the kid apologize, and then I begrudgingly stepped in and told Nyles to accept the apology. Nyles kept saying he hit me, and he had the look of a boy with revenge on his mind, but in a civilized kid's society, revenge is supposed to give way to constructive lessons to be applied going forward. I know that, the kid's mom knew that, and eventually the kids will understand it.

Two minutes after the one-sided fight, my son was pushing his truck around the playground with reckless abandon as he's wont to do. I usually tell him to slow down so he does not run over the feet of an adult or a child, but when I saw that his path seemed to be leading directly to the kid who hit him, I decided to stay out of the way, and see how this played out. Much to my delight, Nyles ran right over this kid's feet, then stopped the truck, stood straight up, and said, "Sorry" to the kid. The kid went running and crying to his mom, and I looked at the mom with a smirk on my face, gave her a shrug and then I also apologized. They left shortly thereafter.

I told Nyles not to run over anyone's feet anymore unless they hit him first. Thank God my wife wasn't there, because I may not have gotten the satisfaction of manipulating some of the variables the way I did. It's the little things that bring me joy...

I really wish people would shut the hell up about Donald Trump and the things that flow so fluidly out of his mouth. This is what he does. He's an older, white and rich Kim Kardashian. He's the equivalent of a bus driver who drives to the stop, waits until the kids get right near the door, and then says to no one in particular, "Watch this!", as he drives up one more block to make the kids run, because he knows they need him. I won't say that it is 100-percent impossible for him to become president, but it is highly unlikely that we will ever have to say President Trump.

The Republicans don't like him, but they won't renounce him (save for a McCain diss) because he keeps the pressure off of all of them. The Democrats can't stand him, but they have to be careful with how flagrant they are with their vitriol, because then Trump will come after them. And then the media--who look absolutely foolish in all of this--keep interviewing and reporting Trump's every speech, tweet and Facebook post. If folks left him alone, it would drive him crazy how little attention he was getting, and he would fade into Bolivian as the great Mike Tyson said.. People should just stop feeding the animal, and let him go.

One more thing, when I turned 16 and got my driver's license, my father sat me down and had a speech with me about the police. He told me that I was smart, bright, articulate, blessed with a decent sense of humor, but I was also very much a black (young) man. We were living in the affluent Potomac, Maryland at the time, and he told me that a young, black man driving around those streets could be a target. He told me that if I ever got pulled over that I needed to act like the cop was my father. He told me say "sir", look the cop in the eye, don't joke or make small talk unless it was initiated by the cop, and for me to keep all personal commentaries to myself. I told him that felt an awful lot like selling out, and he said it wasn't about that, they were simply survival tactics. I made a mental note.

Sure enough, I got pulled over twice in the first month of driving, and only one reason was legit. The first time, the cop said my rear light was out, but when I got home I had my father check and it was fine. The second time, I left the Kemp Mill Records (on Rockville Pike for those you in the DC area) without my lights on and the cop pulled me over, but only gave me a warning. Both times I took my father's advice, even though in the back of my mind, I wanted to say some smart sh*t. I never forgot that advice my dad gave me. I used it five years later when I got pulled over trying to make it to Hampton (from D.C.) to see my oldest son's birth, and I used back in December when I got pulled over twice in an hour span (once in Maryland the second time in PA) for speeding. In that instance the PA cop was mean as hell, kept his hand on his heat during the whole stop, and looked like he would have loved to stir it up with me, despite the fact that my wife, son, brother, sister-in-law and nephew were in the car. I remained calm, and drove away.

Now I'm not foolish enough to believe that talking "perfect" would keep me from getting killed, beat or tasered, but I am about the law of averages, and I figure if I do my part, the risk isn't non-existent, it is simply lowered. So when I saw the tape of Sandra Bland talking to the cop, I cringed a little. She was clearly irritated and the cop was being a dick with the whole cigarette request, but I was wishing she had suppressed the smart mouth and just danced long enough for her to drive away, call her girls to complain, and maybe file a complaint in hindsight. She didn't deserved to be roughed up and she didn't deserve to die or be killed (I suspect it was the latter, but the Duke lacrosse rape case has taught me never to be sure), I just wish I'd have been in the car with her, so she would have had a fighting chance. Most cops are good, some are bad, and others snap at the drop of a hat, and use the weapons they were issued which work in tandem with any temper or anger issues they may have. We all have tempers, but when you're a cop with power, a badge and guns, things get real. It is a bad combo, and it is my job to lay low.

I said this to close friends, and I'm blogging about it here, but I know some folks disagree or will say, "It doesn't matter how she acted, she doesn't deserve to die or beat", and obviously that is the case. All I'm saying is that there was a point when she could have danced, and she chose not to, and I wish she hadn't. Now she's dead, and no cops--not the one who beat her or the ones who allegedly killed her--will be brought to justice. It is impossible to have nuanced discussions sometimes, but I am trying anyway. We can be justifiably mad over the way cops are killing, beating and harassing brown folks. We can also do our best to teach our kids (and adults) some survival tactics. Perhaps I'm wrong, but while you're reading my blog you're trapped in between the lines, and you'll escape, when you finish my lines..

That was heavy..

So yesterday young Nyles and I were in the car on our way home from daycare, and Kendrick Lamar's "Alright" came on my iPod. My son loves the chorus of this song, and since I'm all about keeping the boy happy in between daycare departure and bedtime, I let him listen to the song. Unfortunately, the only way he can hear this song is if I play God with the volume. When Kendrick is rapping his verses, I keep the volume low enough for only me to hear, and then when the chorus comes I blast it as loud as Nyles' three and a half year ears can take, but there's only one problem. The chorus to that song contains a quick, but very noticeable "nigga":

Nigga, we gon' be alright
Nigga, we gon' be alright
We gon' be alright
Do you hear me, do you feel me? We gon' be alright
Nigga, we gon' be alright
Huh? We gon' be alright
Nigga, we gon' be alright
Do you hear me, do you feel me? We gon' be alright

Now Nyles has no earthly idea what that word is right now, plus all he sings is, "We gon' be alRIGHT" (and yes he puts extra emphasis on the "right"). Still, I feel like a substandard parent by dangling "nigga" all up in the car (Suge Knight voice) which is basically daring him to regurgitate it in the most inappropriate of settings. I don't even use the word that much, so I damn sure can't pass it down. The solution, and man is it a depressing one, is that I am going to have to buy and/or play via Spotify, the clean version of Kendrick's album.

Now way back in 2000, I dated a woman who had a son around the age of 12, and she used to buy clean, Wal-Mart version of every rap CD, and I used to chastise her. I used to tell her that she should either buy the dirty version or not buy it at all, because even with the clean version you can clearly guess what curse word what should have been uttered. She insisted that wasn't true and that her conscience was a lot clearer knowing that if her kids picked up the cursing habit, it would not be because she let anything go language-wise in her car. Silly 25 year old me did not get that, but 40 year old me hears that logic loud and clear. Nyles doesn't know curse words, nor can he decipher what would have been said, he just wants to sing, "We gon be alRIGHT", and far be it from me to block his blessings. My oldest son's mother did no such thing, which may be part of the reason why he's posting questionable rap lyrics on his InstaGram page...or maybe that's just a function of him being 18 who knows. I digress.

Lost in all this fuss is that "Alright" is damn good song. It's like this year's profane, rap version of Pharrell's "Happy". Yeah he mentions guns, hostility due to police brutality and frustration, but he ends every verse with the affirmation that everything will be alRIGHT. The song surely isn't a panacea for all that's going wrong right now, but it is a start.

Last night I was sitting in the living room with my wife, when she asked me if I knew my son was leaving Marine boot camp this weekend. She just happened to be on Instagram, and noticed that my son had told his Instagram friends that if they wanted to talk to him, they had to do it by this weekend, because he was going to be gone for 13 weeks. Harmless enough right? Wrong. Wrong.

Granted, ever since my son's graduation from high school last month, I knew that magical boot camp date was coming. So at least twice a week for the past several weeks, I've been asking Carlton if he had a date, and every time, he'd tell me "not yet Dad" or "I'm still waiting". I felt bad for pestering him, but I know how forgetful and negligent he can be at times, so I kept asking anyway. So imagine my disgust when I get this magical date via my wife looking at his Instagram page (I hope it is as ridiculous to read as it was to type). I immediately texted my son to ask him why he'd forsaken me, and his response was something Theo Huxtable would say to his dad, "I just found out earlier in the day while I was playing basketball."

Now when I reached out to him it was 11:25pm, which means he found out at least four to five hours prior, and he STILL decided to type that heartfelt Instagram message before informing the very person who has been on his ass about it the last few weeks. I want to punch him in his mouth before he goes to boot camp--and I actually told my wife I was going to do as much last night--but this morning I realize that was just misplaced anger on my part. I was more upset about yet another Instagram post where my son quoted a rap song and said, "He f**ked b**ches". Such a classy young man. Boot camp will straighten up some of that filth I hope. I still wish he had gone to college, but oh well. He has to find his own way.

When I typed Theo Huxtable, I almost decided to type a few words about Bill Cosby, but I don't have the heart. He's a brilliant man who entertained me for years, and has been a great advocate for education, kids, etc. But he's a creepy f**k, and that part of his life has now made it into the first paragraph of his bio/obituary (sounds mean, but if you think every major newspaper hasn't started and edited Bill's obit, you are crazy). It is sad, but I don't feel sorry for him at all. He's had a full life that is ending badly.


Go buy that new Bilal. It is called "In Another Life". The wife and I went to see him in concert last week, and he was amazing.

So late Saturday night, I had the house to myself, and I was watching a boxing match on my laptop (NBC-4 kept interrupting the match to discuss the stormy weather, so I opted for the uninterrupted online feed), while sipping on an IPA beer. I got up off the couch to order some pizza, when I dropped my phone on the floor. It was slightly cracked but still functional so I proceeded to order food, text my wife, etc. An hour later, I looked at the phone and it would not work at all. The little light would flash indicating that I had a text/email, but I couldn't see anything else on the phone. I turned it off, turned it back on, but nothing worked.

Now I was angry for two main reasons. One, the next day was Father's day, which meant without my phone I would miss out on all the wonderful Father's Day calls and texts that feed my fragile ego. Plus it would stop me from calling my dad, my brother, etc. But second and most importantly, I hate being without my phone even for a few hours. I text, I get on the Twitter, I play Words with Friends and Scrabble, I look up things on google to prove my wife wrong, and I take pictures of my son Nyles to share on Instagram and all that. Perhaps it isn't good for me to be that dependent on my phone, but hey, I'm conditioned to be that way. Even my condition is conditioned...

Sunday morning, I headed to the playground with my main man Nyles, and I noticed that I was much more attentive to him. I wasn't looking for a photo op depending on what he was doing, I didn't zone out and start fiddling with my phone when he starting playing with other kids. I halfway talked to other parents (ok not really), and I really didn't miss my phone at all. Still, that afternoon, I headed to the Sprint store by house to get a new one. They told me I had to wait until Wednesday, I said that was bull, and they said I could try my hand at the corporate store--in Silver Spring, just 15 minutes away. Mind you, I initially left the house without showering with a T-shirt, basketball shorts and no drawers on, thinking I'd run down the street, get a phone and go back home. No such luck.

So I got in the car, and drove to Silver Spring smelling like the outdoors with my junk swinging and bouncing around like kids in a moon bounce. I walked in the Silver Spring store, explained my issue, and they took my phone to see if they could repair it, and told me to come back in an hour. So now, I decided to venture to a bar down the street, and I was careful to sit alone so that I wouldn't call attention to my attire. I didn't have my phone, so I had no f**king clue when an hour had elapsed without asking the bartender what time it was. After 90 minutes, I went back to the Sprint store, only to have them tell me that my phone couldn't be repaired and I had to order another one, which wouldn't arrive until Wednesday--the same b.s. I heard at the store five minutes away from my house. I ordered the phone, and took my ass home.

When I got home I went on Facebook where most of my friends and family are, and wrote the following message:

I broke my phone and the new one won't be here until Wed. So if you contacted me to wish me a Happy Father's Day, if you called to say hello, or if you just called to moan and make suggestive sex noises in my ear, just hold out a few days.

For those not on Facebook, I emailed them, I used my wife's phone or I got on the iPad and used FaceTime. I was proud at my resourcefulness, but I was still hella pissed to be phoneless. The "inconvenience" continued on Monday when I couldn't use my Starbucks app to get me a Monday-morning beverage. The sad part is that now on Tuesday morning, I'm (almost) used to being phoneless--except I have family in town and trying to coordinate with them is a pain. I say all this to say that I am woefully dependent on my cellphone, and it is a sad sight to see...

First off, please read the article my colleagues and I collaborated on to create. I realize basketball season is over now, but there are topics to be discussed. Check it out here.

Second, not in importance but rather the second thing I am choosing to mention, is that my son Carlton graduated with honors from high school last Saturday. In attendance was me, his mother, his mother's ex-boyfriend, his mother's ex-husband (who helped raise him), his aunt, his grandmother and his cousin. I was the only person there representing my side of the family, which was fine, because Carlton got to handpick who received one of the 10 tickets he was given. I did not want to pressure him by insisting I get more tickets, because I went through that during my college graduation ceremony. I thought it was going to be an awkward affair, but everyone--except Carlton's grandfather on his mother's side, who chose to go play golf rather than face me and his emotions about his grandson graduating--behaved like the adults they claim to be. This day was about Carlton walking across that stage with honors, and him seeing the people who love him.

I was emotional but surprisingly I did not cry. I took he and his mother to breakfast prior to graduation, and I explained to him how proud I was, and what my expectations of him are going forward. He decided against attending Old Dominion University and has opted to join the Marines, which I definitely have mixed feelings about. It is his choice and I support it, but in lieu of all that's gone in this country the past several months, I'd feel more comfortable if he went to college now, instead of after the military. That being said, he will be the best Marine that institution has ever seen. That's assuming my son doesn't get himself in trouble on Instagram.

Last night, he posted a video of he and his friends drinking at some party, which infuriated me. 12 hours prior, I warned my son about the content he chose to post on a very public forum. I told him that nothing is private, and each post he puts up is a small part of the collage, which can be interpreted as a personal profile he could be judged upon. In the past week, he's posted explicit sex pics, profane videos and then yesterday's alcohol pic. I told him that his behavior could get him kicked out the Marines, arrested, and it could also prevent him from getting a job down the line. Billionaire Mark Cuban recently made this exact same point. I'm not saying I didn't do dumb shit when I was Carlton's age (17) but I did it away from the white hot lights of social media. That doesn't make it better, but it damn sure made it more private.

And finally, two of my favorite artists, Robert Glasper and Kurt Elling have new releases. Go buy them.



I promise I'm not as chubby in this picture as I look. In fact, just focus on my son...

I have been walking around with my mother's will in my pocket for nine days now. Before she went to Black Images in Art Conference in Florence, Italy last week (and yes for now I'm going to bury the lead). My mother gets paranoid whenever she travels and that paranoia gets ramped up 1000 levels when she goes out of the country. Still, it caught me off guard when she re-did her will last week before she left out of town. I immediately asked her if she was hiding a terrible illness from me, and she said no.

After a little more prodding, she told me she had not re-done her will since her parents passed away in 2013 (her dad) and 2014 (her mom), and those deaths had her forced her to be face to face with her own mortality. I totally got that because when I looked at my grandparents in their respective caskets, all I could think about was death. I thought about how (un)prepared I was to deal with my parents' affairs should either one of them meet an untimely demise. Then I thought about whether my wife and I were prepared should either one of us leave this Earth in a premature fashion. Conversations like this are as uncomfortable as watching a sex scene with your parents, but they are so necessary (the conversation not the sex scenes).

Anyway, my mother came to visit me before she left for Italy, and I ended up leaving the house before she did. When I got back home from work, her new and improved will was right there on my kitchen table, and I was asked to give a copy to my brother and the executor. I made a mental note to do both of those things, and then I stuffed the will in my bag--and after that I forgot about it. I would remember whenever I removed my lunch or my book of rhymes from my work bag, but then I'd close the bag and forget, because I seem to have the memory of a man twice my age. Then today, while I was re-loading my bag with lunch and other various items, I took the will out and looked at it. I ignored the details, and oddly enough I focused on the level of detail my mother went to make sure everything was taken care of, and it made me smile. It is an odd way to receive yet another validation of my mother's love for me, but that's what happened. That could very well be a fleeting emotion that fades my lunch time (when I will re-open my will-less bag) but for now, I'm on the ninth cloud.

So I'm in the middle of teaching my three-year old son Nyles how to get dressed without my help. Either he will be starting school this Fall or he will graduate to the pre-school room at his current daycare--either way, he will need to be autonomous in the getting dressed department.

I started with the socks, and it took him a good three weeks to get completely comfortable. He refused to use two hands, which led to his shit constantly being lopsided, but eventually he powered through and mastered it. He still struggles with tighter socks, but it isn't his fault his parents are too packrat-ish to throw them all away in favor of the newer looser ones. Next we moved on to the underwear, pants/shorts and shirts. He breezed right through the underwear for the most part, although he still gives himself the occasionally accidental wedgie, which is as disgusting and troubling as it sounds. The putting on of the pants/shorts were mastered and conquered within a week, which brings us to the shirts.

Nyles chooses to watch me while he's putting his shirts on, which invariably leads to him putting his arms where his head should go, which is just one, big ass mess. I have put my shirts on in front of him so he'll get it, and I will even politely guide his arms in the proper direction, but he refuses to focus on his own. Right around the time his focus starts to fade is when I get loud, frustrated and borderline condescending towards him, and I don't need you to judge me, because I know good and goddamn well that type of behavior on my part is one big bag of wrong. But that's why I'm here confessing under the guise of a blogspot post.

My wife, god bless her heart, hears me berating our son when it comes time for the shirt portion of the morning/evening, and she does her best to stay the f**k out of my way. But today, after a particularly frustrating session with Nyles, I asked her if she thought I was being too harsh, and she very diplomatically said yes. Now I have to figure out a way to take my foot off the gas, without messing with the slight momentum we've made as of late. I want my son to be tough and to learn how to be self-sufficient, but nothing everything has to be hard-fought lesson I suppose. Plus when he looks at me with those sad ass Puss and Boots eyes, I can't maintain my anger. And I haven't even mentioned how maddening it is to watch him attempt to take this shirt off. But again, he's three years old, it isn't his fault his dad is a wanna-be tyrant.

This blog post has no real point except to say that my son and my lack of patience are winning this particular round of childhood. I will be back. In the meantime, listen to my latest song obsession called "Make A Smile For Me" by Mr. Bill Withers:

Earlier this morning one of my Facebook friends posted that her father passed away last night. She kept her post short and sweet, because as is to be expected, she was full of shock and sadness. On one hand you really don't want to get online and share that type of grief before you've figured out how to reconcile it your damn self, but on the other hand--with some exceptions--the people who you Facebook with represent your circle of friends. It's a Catch-22.

Anyway, this person's friends starting posting their thoughts, prayers and condolences and then the dreaded phrase reared its incorrect head, "Sorry for your lost".

Now before I saw "sorry for your lost", I was fully prepared to post my own message which would have said something about condolences, prayers and thoughts. That's the mature side of me. But immediately upon seeing that incorrect phrase, the immature side of me took over, and I just thought of a laundry list of jokes and inappropriate things to type. I won't list them here, but the best one I came up with was, "YOU FIND THAT DEAD MAN!". Again, I know that is wrong and immature, but come on, how can full grown adults be unable to discern between "loss" and "lost"? The person who experienced the loss is probably too crestfallen to say anything, and I damn sure want to, but I won't. I tell you this much though, if I ever post about a death in my family, and someone puts "sorry for your lost" on my page, I'm pressing pause on the grief, and I am "going in on them" as the kids say. Believe that.

I ended up not leaving a comment on my friend's Facebook page, and I opted to come here and blog about it. I will get around to sending my grammatically correct condolences eventually.

First and foremost, please read my semi-depressing article on the abrupt, heartbreaking end to the Washington Wizards' season. I was there and as a fan in attendance, it was even more agonizing than it looked on television. As a writer, it gave me a chance to capture the mood. Here it is.

So today, I took advantage of the warm weather and the wife and kid being gone, to go for a nice 5-mile run in the middle of the day. My seven year old ipod was going in and out of consciousness, so it wasn't as smooth of a run as I would have liked, but I broke a sweat and felt the burn.

Towards the end of the run, I found myself having to stop at a red light, and I just so happened to share the curb with some high school girls. They were part of larger group, but the rest of their group had made it across the street, while the remaining 10-15 girls were with me. These girls were about as annoying as you would expect 14-17 year old girls to be. They were laughing, talking jibberish, texting on their phone, and just being the very antithesis of what I wanted to see and hear on my tranquil, disjointed run. I just turned the volume up on my headphones and kept it moving.

Now it just so happens that when I turned up the volume, the song that was on my ipod was Boogie Down Production's, "Criminal Minded", which came out in 1987. The beat isn't ideal for running, but I know all the words, and it distracts me from any pain I may be experiencing while I am trying to complete my run. In this instance, I could not run because of the insanely-long red light, so I jogged in place. Well if you're familiar with the song, you know there are lyrics (which are sung, not rapped), which go:

The girls look so good, but their brain is not ready, I don't know
I'd rather talk to a woman because her mind is so steady, so here we go

Those particular two lines were also the main chorus of a Chi-Ali song back in 1991 called, "Age Ain't Nothin But A Number". Anyway, I sang that first line pretty loud, and then it occurred to me that I was loudly singing that song around underaged girls. I quickly shut up before the second line, but the damage was already done because two of the girls looked at me in that creepy way they should like at shady old men. Luckily for me, the light turned green, and I ran twice as fast as I probably should have, just to avoid being summoned by Chris Hansen.

But still, what were the odds right?

Chi-Ali:


BDP:

Here is my take on the Mayweather/Pacquiao fight. Mayweather was and still is the champion and every damn body--from casual fans to professional boxers--knows exactly what Floyd does. He fights like Uncle Miltie.

**sidebar**Uncle Miltie, aka Milton Berle, allegedly had a large phallus, and the story goes that other men would try to "challenge" Uncle Miltie by pulling out their phallus to see how they "sized up". Uncle Miltie would never take it all out, he'd take just enough out to win. **sidebar off**.

Mayweather does not always pull all of his tools out like other great fighters have done in the past (Hagler, Hearns, the Sugar Rays, Ali, Marciano, etc), because he's all about self-preservation and working smarter, not harder. It was Pacquiao's job to come up with a game plan that would force Mayweather to be taken out of his comfort zone, and he failed miserably. Yes Mayweather is boring, but he's the undefeated champion, which means the challenger has to do more than average to take that from him. End of story. Yes Mayweather is a bad person outside of the ring, and it would be nice if he used his oversized platform, temporarily checked that even larger sized ego, and actually addressed both his past domestic violence issues, and the issue as a whole. But we'll see if that happens. For now, he won a boring fight convincingly, and that's a victory that no one can take from him.

Oh and the Wizards won, read my take right here.

So many good things have happened since I last took the time to write a blog entry. I've gotten two full-time jobs--one is a part time writing gig for a literary publication, and the other is a full-time gig writing proposals. Both jobs promise to be challenging and hopefully fulfilling, and more importantly they make me extremely happy. I made no secret in this blog and to friends and family around me, that I was not happy at my old job (I say its my old job but my last day is officially May 14th). I didn't see eye to eye with my boss, I was passed over for a promotion, and it just felt like my services were no longer appreciated or wanted. It took a while, but I'm now free.

There has also been some good news with one of my existing jobs, which is covering the Washington Wizards--something I have done for seven years now which is hard to believe. For the second year in a row, the Wizards are in the second round of the playoffs, which means more exposure, more chances to cover games with purpose, and an outside chance that the Wizards will make the NBA Finals (not bloody likely). If you have not been reading my (and everyone else too) articles over at Truth About It, please fix that ASAP.

In a bit of disappointing news, my son has decided NOT to attend Old Dominion University, but instead he's chosen to join the military. He's scheduled to attend boot camp in July. I want him to attend college and take the academic route, but he's sure that he doesn't want that right now. It's frustrating as hell, but he'll be 18 in three months, so he's the one who will have to directly live with the consequences. But I'll be worried as hell until he returns.

Oh and I'm going to lose 20-25 lbs this summer. I'm not really overweight, I just want to be leaner and tighter (that's what she said).

My son and my wife were at a playground in Dupont Circle yesterday. Dupont Circle is an affluent, gay-friendly part of the city, and this particular playground is a reflection of that environment. It isn't unusual to see two moms or two dads at the playground, and it isn't unusual to see a wide variety of nationalities playing together. It is however very unusual to see black or brown babies playing on these playgrounds. I don't make the rules, that's simply how it is.

So yesterday, my son Nyles was playing a non-brown/black kid and the following conversation went down:

The kid: Come here boy
Nyles: My name is Nyles
The kid" Come here boy
Nyles: No, my name is Nyles

After my son's second name declaration, the kids went to play together sans incident..for the most part. My wife later told me that in an unrelated incident, my son pushed this other little kid, but quickly apologized, and they resumed playing. But that part is irrelevant to me right now.

I seriously doubt that kid--who had to have been around three or four years old--was intentionally trying to talk down to my son in a condescending, racially-tinged way. I also seriously doubt that my son meant to be militant by ignoring the boy and telling this kid who the hell he was. Kids at that age get the benefit of the doubt. They are learning all things gender related, and they enjoy pointing out who is a boy and who is a girl, and sometimes that happens with common, not proper nouns. But I did find it interesting that this kid's dad, who my wife told me was within earshot, did coach his kid in the moment, and tell him that wasn't cool. If I heard Nyles referring to another kid by simply "girl" or "boy", I would coach him up and tell him that wasn't polite--especially if he said "boy". And when he gets a little older, I will give him a mini-history lesson on why that word (among others) has historically been offensive to black and brown folks.

I don't know if these lessons are taught in other households, but it sure as hell would help nip some injustices in the bud earlier rather than later. You don't have to be a bleeding heart liberal to teach your kids a little history so they know right from wrong. Then again, you have to actually know this history to be able to teach it right? I'm rambling...but there's a smart point somewhere in this entry I hope.

Speaking of Nyles...

Nyles is ready for Washington Wizards playoff basketball.

A photo posted by Rashad (@rashad2075) on Apr 12, 2015 at 5:39am PDT

My son is napping, and I am sitting here sipping Blue Moon beer trying to halfway watch a documentary on the great, misunderstood Sonny Liston. Unfortunately, my unfocused mind went back to earlier this week when I meant to write about the annoying usage of emoticons. The mind wants what it wants, so I will humor it.

Earlier in the week, one of my former co-workers hit me up on gchat, and let me know that she was on the prowl for a new job, and she was going to use me as a reference. I told her to I would be happy to oblige, but I needed her to send me both the description of this job and her latest resume. She didn't say "ok", "will do" or anything, she just sent me an thumbs-up emoticon which annoyed the shit out of me. You want to use me as a reference, which means at some point I will have to spend at least 10-15 minutes of my life talking about how great you are/were, but you don't think I'm worthy of words? That's no good, but she's not the only offender.

On a daily basis, I am subjected to smiley faces, thumbs, pictures of poo with smiley faces, HBD(instead of happy birthday), IJS (I'm just sayin'), and countless other abbreviations and emoticons. I brought this up to one friend of me, and she said to me, "Not everyone is an English major and good with words like you" but that's some lazy bullshit. English majors don't have a monopoly on words at all. In fact my three-year old son is perfectly capable of using the very words other people choose to truncate or animate via corny ass pictures. Words have sincerity and they show me you put some thought behind what you say to me. Hunting and pecking for emoticons does not make me feel special. And yes I expect people I am corresponding with to make me feel special to some degree. Don't judge me. Is that so wrong?

I have actually sat next to people who type "lol", when in fact they did not laugh, smile, smirk or even chuckle. They were as devoid of emotion as killer drones in Star Wars, but they misled the people they were chatting with into believing some laughter had taken place. As I am typing this, I realize that no one gives a good goddamn about this except me, so I will shut up now. I promise you people I am neither a snob nor an anal person, I just like a bit of structure, because without it, we will certainly have a Chinua Achebe situation on our hands, and no one wants that.

The new season of Mad Men starts on April 5th, which means I'm doing my best to catch up on and each and every past episode (even though technically, I only need to watch the first half of the last season to air.) Last night I was watching, and came to the episode called, "Shut the Door and Have a Seat". In that episode Betty and Don Draper (the two main characters) are in the midst of splitting up, and they come to the scene where they have to explain to their children why they are splitting up (go to the 21:17 mark and stop at 24:03):






I have watched that scene at least four times since it initially aired back in 2009, and it makes me cry each and every time. I know having my son Nyles has made me significantly softer in the emotion department, but these tears were legitimate. My parents had that exact same speech with my brother and I in December of 1991. I was 16, and my brother was 13, so we were older than the kids in this clip, but it was equally as painful. I was a senior in high school and I had yet to hear from any colleges, so the prospect of my parents divorcing scared me because I didn't know where I'd live if I didn't get into school. And then in my head I thought if I did get into college, how would I decided which parent to spend time with, which one to shun, and would I let them down (something I still deal with to this day)? But most of all I worried that my foundation (to that point) was crumbling and I would never be the same again (which in some ways I'm really not).

My brother had a different set of concerns to tackle with the impending split of his parents. Not only was his big brother leaving for college soon (maybe), and not only was he starting high school a few months later, which meant he'd be bullied by kids who did not like his older brother, but now he would be forced to shuttle in between two parents (my mother stayed in Maryland, my dad moved to Cleveland) without ever truly feeling like he had a place to call home. That type of arrangement was an inconvenience for me, but it was traumatizing for my brother.

But just the raw emotion, shock and sadness of hearing your parents say that have to split, was just a sad occasion, and I will never, ever forget it. My mom was crying, my brother was crying, my dad was compassionate towards us but indifferent toward my mother, and I was just too shocked to react properly. My wife was also a product of divorce, and we both agree that you never truly get over it. You go to therapy, you move on and you deal with the new reality, because that's what adults do. But it is never the same as it was...and that's a tough pill to swallow.

I was watching my son in the barbershop this morning, and I was amazed at how friendly and innocent he was. Even at 9am, there are some hard looking dudes in the barbershop, and no one was feeling particularly chatty and up to chatting with an effusive three year old. Yet there was Nyles speaking to everyone, asking how they were, what they were doing, and the other rhetorical questions that kids have in their endless arsenal. No matter how young, or old the person was, they temporarily put aside their own problems or thoughts, and gave Nyles a smile, or a high-five or some type of acknowledging gesture. It was sweet, innocent and very unlike me. I don't speak to people unless I absolutely have to, and even then, I do it begrudgingly.

But Nyles' behavior in the barbershop got me to thinking about me and when I lost that child-like innocence. I'm a bit crotchety these days, and I have been that way for quite a long time. But in my younger days I was young, engaging and most importantly innocent. I think that ended when my parents divorced in 1994 when I was 19. I was still friendly on the inside, but when my parents split up, and then when my dad got engaged a few months after that, it just took me to a dark, withdrawn place. I became an introvert and I decided that it was easier to keep folks away (with some exceptions). I thought I'd change in 1997 when I had my first son, but his personality mirrored mine (post-divorce) so there was really no need to change anything. Even now at age 17, my son and I have the same personality--which probably means I'm immature and need to grow up a bit. I've gotten some wonderful things with the version of me, but I need to progress.

Nyles has the same personality as my wife. He's outgoing, he's chatty, he likes to interact with people, and he has the amazing ability to put me in situations which are way out of my comfort zone. He'll see another kid his age and start speaking to the kid and the parents, which means I have to do the same, which starts a bullshit conversation that doesn't end as quickly as I need it to. I noticed that while I'm talking to other adults, Nyles stares at me and my mannerisms, and I realized he probably is taking in everything I do and say--which he should do considering I'm his father.

All of this rambling, combined with some other events which have gone down at work, have made me think that at age 40, it is time to make some mild tweaks to the way I interact with other adults. There will still be some curmudgeonly ways, but I need to start peppering in some of the normal behaviors which adults display in normal interpersonal relationships. Who knows how long this will last, but I will give it a try..

So as I alluded to in my previous post, my son Carlton is headed to Old Dominion University in the Fall. I wanted him to attend Hampton University, but it always seemed like I wanted it way more than he did, which is fine. He wanted to attend George Mason University so he could be closer to his girlfriend (she lives in Woodbridge, he lives in Hampton) but his refusal to let me help him with his college essay, led to him receiving a rejection letter. He had three more schools he applied to, but ODU was his first choice and that is where he's headed. Now the wonderful financial aid, scholarship money game begins just as the child support part wraps up in August. It never ends, but this is the deal you make when you have kids right? You support them until they are 22 (give or take a few years) and then when you get old, they either take care of you or throw in a nursing home and willingly pay money for to go away. Win-win right?

But on a serious note, I could not be happier for my son given what he has gone through--both because of his parents and because of his own stubbornness. His mother and I were never married, and I've never had full custody of Carlton, so our relationship has primarily gone down via email, the phone, and visits that vary from a weekend to two weeks. We made it work with varying degrees of success. When his mother got re-married and moved to Japan, I was relegated to letters, the phone and the occasional phone call and that was tough. As he's gotten older and moved back to Hampton (and his mother getting divorced help) we have been able to talk and see each other much more, and as a result our relationship has improved tenfold. I doubt we'll be as close as me and young Nyles will be, but Nyles lives with me so that's to be expected.

Carlton also had some years between grades six and nine when he basically waved the white flag where academics were concerned. I tried to get him to see the short and long term consequences of his actions, but he was hell-bent on being cool and defiant. I do think the lack of a father in the home, as well his mother's numerous moves played a huge part in his lack of academic success, but ultimately, his work ethic sucked. Something clicked the second semester of his ninth grade year and he's been consistently rolling ever since, which lead to last week's good news. Now the challenge will be to keep him school. I know too many people who got in college, and then flunked out after one or two years. We can't have that and we won't.

For more of my views on fatherhood listen to this podcast right here. It features me, my main man Joe, and my main Jamal.

My first born son Carlton will be attending Old Dominion University in the Fall. I should and probably will write more, but for now, I'd like to let that sentence sit for a minute.

There are two birthdays today. One I care about, the other I don't. I'm going to write about the one I don't care about. Sorry Janelle.

One of the few co-workers I can actually stand is having a birthday. His name is Victor, he's from El Salvador and he is an easy-going guy who in the past year has gotten promoted and lost a ton of weight. I like him because he knows a little about all sports, which is rare in my office, and he takes an interest in my Wizards-related articles. Some of our colleagues decided to go out and buy a birthday card for Victor, and thank God it hasn't come to me, because I wouldn't sign it. I'm against accepting or giving out birthday cards that basically are just slathered with signatures and corny phrases. My mother says that makes me ungrateful, I just think it makes me a snob, which isn't bad. You want to give me a card? Put some f**king thought behind and write words from the heart. I don't care if they are grammatically correct (actually I do) or how eloquent they are, I just want words with feeling. Is that so difficult?

Anyway, the guy whose office is next to mine was getting ready to sign the card, when he noticed some offensive things in the card. I'll remind you that Victor is from El Salvador:

Now, maybe there's an inside joke involved and those closest to him know that he loves Corona and tequila at the same damn time. Maybe Victor keeps a stash of both in his desk drawer, I don't know. But if that's a private joke, it should be shared on a separate card that is delivered privately. That card should NOT be passed around for signatures all around the damn office. Sadly, Victor is so nice and deferential, he probably will laugh it off. Perhaps I should ratchet up some anger for him.

Now you know what would have been a funnier joke? If they had given him this card:

Now that's funny..to me at least

So my wife has this woman she has worked with (we'll call her Amy), the past few years. They became close because Amy has a son who is around the same age of our son Nyles. Nyles and her son have played together, my wife and Amy have had extended play dates, and I even got in on the action, when they hosted a couples play date at some point last year*


*Sidebar*: That play date was the most awkward sh*t I've ever attended and that's saying a lot. The women and children got along just fine, as was to be expected. The guys were not put in a position to succeed at all. There was a TV in the living room, but it stayed off, which meant there was no basketball, no ESPN, no soccer, no nothing. Just crazy kids running around and meaningless chatter about b.s. (the weather, the what-do-you-do-for-a-living question, etc). The only thing that kept this event from being an absolute disaster was the presence of alcohol. I downed one mimosa and 5 beers in a 10 minute span hoping it would set things off, but it was still awkward. When you throw in the fact that I was the only black guy there, it just made for a weird time. I will never allow my wife to convince me to attend such an event. Not on those terms at least **sidebar over***


Anyway I have been in Amy's home, I've talked to Amy while she was with my wife at work, and I have had at least 5-10 face-to-face conversations with her. Not to mention, my son looks exactly like me, so she's played with and been exposed to mini-me as well. I also should mention here that Amy, my wife and I all work on the same block (different buildings).

I have walked by Amy at least 20 times since we've worked near each other. When this happens my wife is not around and neither is Nyles, it is just me and Amy, and she walks RIGHT by me. I say good morning to her, and she looks at me, then she keeps walking like she doesn't know who the hell I am. Just this morning, she and I stood next to each other in Starbucks for seven minutes (I timed it). I said good morning, and she gave me the I-don't-know-you-but-I'm-speaking-anyway greeting, but she had no clue it was me. I'm not exactly the most socially-adjusted dude on the face of the Earth, and God knows I hate small-talk, but I put all that aside where my wife's friends are concerned. Plus, this woman has spent quality time with me and my son, so I'm almost obligated to speak. Apparently that's a one-way street.

Now in fairness, my wife tells me that Amy has endured some serious personal tragedies over the last year, which means she is prone to random periods of zoning out and not paying attention to her surroundings. I do understand that, but I'm not asking for a full-on conversation. I just want some acknowledgement that we know each other, our kids play, and how the hell are you?

I would be remiss if I didn't mention that this has been happening to me for years with white people I work with. While I'm at the job, they speak, they talk to me, we share playful jokes, but then outside of work, they treat me like I do not exist. Just a few months back I saw one of my co-workers--a woman who sits right next to me--at the Safeway. I said hello Alyssa, and she looked at me, took her headphones off, and said, "I'm sorry, have we met?". I thought she was joking, and when I realized she wasn't I had to tell her my name, where I worked, and where I sat, and then she said, "Oh hey Rashad, OMG I didn't recognize you!". I was not wearing a hat, a fake beard, or a disguise. I wasn't in work attire at all, but damn. Variations of that same scenario have happened several times during my 20 year work career. I don't understand it. It doesn't happen with all of white co-workers, but it never happens with any of my black ones.

God bless the life of Clark Terry

The creation of this blog hasn't really gotten me laid, it hasn't made me any money, and while it basically allowed me to be in a position to cover the NBA, it hasn't brought me a sustained amount of notoriety which is fine. I simply started this blog to remove the thoughts from my head, and put them on paper, or online.

However, one of the best parts of this blog is connecting with people who I may have otherwise never had the pleasure of meeting. One of those people is my main man jazzbrew aka Eric Brewington. He doesn't blog as much as he used to (and frankly neither do I) but he has his hands full with marriage, a kid, a step-kid, a new instrument (hello bass, goodbye trumpet) and his 9-to-5. He's a jazz head (probably even moreso than I am) like me, and I have had the pleasure of trading emails with him about jazz, family, Tiger Woods, and other subjects that shall remain confidential.

My main man Jamal--who I met in 1999 via the wonderful site Okayplayer, has started a podcast dedicated to fatherhood entitled, Your Mark - A Series About All Things Fatherhood and jazzbrew is the first featured guest. I highly recommend to listen to this episode to learn more about jazzbrew, and keep listening going forward, because eventually I will be featured on here as well.

Thanks for listening...

Right now I have four books that are currently laughing and staring at me, wondering when I will stop procrastinating and finally find the time to give them the attention they deserve. They books are as follows:

Bob Ryan - Scribe

Al Michaels - You Can't Make This Up

Jim Boeheim and Jack McCallum - Bleeding Orange

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar - Streeball Crew 2 Stealing The Game

All four books are advances I got from various publishing companies, with the expectation that I would read, review them and prepare to interview the authors. Realistically speaking, I was not going to finish the first three books in time to be able to talk to the authors (they give you a tight turnaround period with which to finish the book) but for the Kareem book, I was determined to finish so I could interview him a second time.

I didn't finish reading the book, but I skimmed it with purpose, so I could get the main idea of the book. The key for me was to know enough about the book so he'd respect me and talk freely about the the writing process and the contents of the book, but I also wanted to ask him some sports and social related questions, because I know he's a versatile dude. I tried to get an interview through the publisher and through Kareem's PR folks since I've had dealings with them before. I traded emails, promises were made but nothing tangible has happened yet, which is disappointing. Not to be totally morbid or depressing, but Kareem will be 68 this year, and who knows how much time he has left. Selfishly speaking, I want a lucid Kareem at my disposal...I digress.

I used to be able to rip through books like it was nothing--at least one a month. Now I start books, and then I leave them on the side of the road (bookcase) not knowing when the hell they will be picked up again. My walk to work is 5 minutes, so its not like I can be on the train reading, and at home there are demands on my time. Perhaps I should join or start a book club, but that's not realistic time-wise..

I guess I need to improve on my time management...

I was passed over for a promotion today at my job, because the person in charge of hiring felt that I lacked the ability to motivate and inspire. The person who got the job--who I respect tremendously--is an outgoing woman with an outgoing personality, and it is much easier to see results with someone with a learning style like that. My managerial style, actually my entire style, is all about being understated, subtle, but equally as effective and my results were and are just as impactful as hers (well not JUST as impactful otherwise I would have gotten the fucking job). But just as closed mouths don't get fed, I suppose the same can be said for reserved ones, so this is my fault. It certainly doesn't lessen the hurt and irritation. I'll come up with a Plan B in a couple of days. But to get dealt that type of a blow not even a week after my 40th birthday definitely makes a mark on my psyche. I have to do better.

Speaking of birthdays, my mother turns 63 today, and she celebrated by asking a male friend of hers (she claims they are not dating) to accompany her to dinner. My mother and this class act of a gentleman have dinner together, and when the bill comes, he not only does not offer to pay, but he makes it his business to tell my mother, "I don't have any money, if you wanted me to pay, you should have given me a heads up". And no I'm not fabricating this story.

First off, I have plenty of female friends who I'm not interested in, who I would willingly come out of my pocket for on their birthday. It is just the honorable and polite thing to do for someone on their birthday, and it speaks volumes about one's character when the type of gesture is extended, just like it speaks volumes about one's lack of character when those actions are not taken. Second what grown man comes out of the house with no money, eats a full mean like this is a scene out of the movie Soul Food, and the boldly makes a declaration of poverty on a full stomach. To quote one of my favorite ushers at the Wizards' games, "Where they do that at?"

I hear stories from women my age and younger, about how some dudes are lazy and don't want to properly woo a woman, but I've never heard a 60-plus year old man do something that egregious. My mother (and other ladies) deserves better on her birthday.

"So what do you do?"

I don't know why this question annoys me so damn much, but it does. I didn't like that question when I was dating, and the girl's friends/parents would ask me that question, and I don't like it when it comes up in happy hours, Christmas parties, and other functions.

It isn't like I'm ashamed of either one of my jobs. By day I'm a project supervisor for the 9-11 Victims Compensation Fund, and by night I write for the ESPN True Hoop blog, Truth About It. Both jobs spark plenty of conversation with someone I deem worthy to share it with, but I just resent that question being acceptable fodder for public settings. Plus half the time I think it is an excuse for someone to a)judge or b) barely pay attention to your answer, so they can hurry up and tell you what the hell they do.

For example, this past Thursday I attended a happy hour with co-workers, and some friends of some of my co-workers decided to show. Initially everything was going lovely. Drinks were consumed, hookah were smoked and meaningless conversation about sports, politics and the weather flowed as easily as the alcohol. Then one of the women asked the dreaded question and the following conversation went down:

Her: So Rashad what do you do?
Me: I'm a Project Supervisor and I'm a sportswriter
Her (pausing): Oh, so you're not an attorney (she was, and so are some of my co-workers)
Me: I am not
Her: Oh, well I'm an attorney
Me: So Whoopty Damn Do (I didn't really say that)

After she realized I was not an attorney, there was the most awkward of silences, and she abandoned me to talk to someone else, and I kept on imbibing and smoking. She didn't ask me more questions, or try to strike up some common ground banter, it just was awkward. Although if I'm being honest, even if she had started asking me legitimate, pointed questions about my professions, I probably would have shut her ass down and walked away. If I'm drinking and smoking, I want to have mindless time, not thing about work.

I told my wife that the next time we go out, and someone asks me that, I'm going to just tell everyone I'm a high school janitor, and just roll with that all night. That ought to go over great...or at the very least produce yet another exciting blog.

So last week I did this diet with my wife called, "The Military Diet". The wife lost 15-20 lbs last year doing this diet, and she looks fantastic, and she's been asking me to join in on the fun with her, but I had refused for the longest time. I respect the power of diets, but I much prefer to run, swim, skip rope and basically do a triathlon to get my excess weight off. I don't get too many chances to flex my athletic prowess anymore, so I rely on my workouts to fill that void. But last week I decided to give in and make the magic happen. The diet is all about depriving yourself with as little food as possible, and as a result of all this malnourishment, I was cranky as hell for the three days (ok two and a half) I had to the diet. The worst part of the diet was eating a grapefruit.

Now, I'm a huge fan of grapefruit juice. My late grandmother kept her some grapefruit juice in the fridge, and despite its occasionally bitter taste, I drank it like a champ because she did. I've also tasted the Ruby Red grapefruit juice, but that's cheating because they sweeten up way more than is necessary. Natural grapefruit juice does the trick as well. But in my 39 years of living on this Earth, I had never eaten a grapefruit, and now this diet was completely taking me out of my comfort zone and forcing me to tackle this unknown monster.

Before I left the house, I got a brief tutorial from the wife on how to eat it...the grapefruit that is. She said to take a knife and cut all the way to create about 7 or 8 different sections, and then to take that same knife and cut in a circle which would allow me to scoop up the pieces of grapefruit. It sounded easy enough, so I got to work and sat down, I tried this method and all hell broke loose. I cut the grapefruit in sections, and in the process, it squirted all over my good work clothes. Still, I thought that was just part of the risk involved when eating this fruit, so I pressed on and went to step two of the plan. I took a knife around the edges of the fruit, and more squirting went down. On top of that, I was unable to dislodge the grapefruit from the skin, so I started slicing and dicing everything in sight with the knife. All that resulted in was more squirting and frustration.

So at this point, I picked up the fruit, and just sucked all the damn juice I could out of it. I literally treated the fruit like it was a juice box, turned it upside down, and drank that sh*t like a champ. Mind you, I had co-workers walking by my desk periodically, so I had to be as smooth and discreet as possible. I have a (work) image to uphold. So here I was, holding a juiceless grapefruit, trying to figure out how the hell to get the mangled pieces of grapefruit out without looking like a complete savage at my place of employment. Finally, I looked left, then right, picked up the grapefruit, and ate it like Little Black Sambo. It was pitiful, and I'm quite sure I set the race way back, but I conquered the grapefruit like a champ. Needless to say, I will not ever eat that thing again. The grapefruit I mean...

Being a father has taken a little starch out of the militant stances I've taken in the past. My son (as all kids do), gravitates towards boys and girls of all colors and races, which means I have to interact with the parents of all these wonderful flavors of kids. I have no problems with interacting with parents of all races (which sounds just like "all my best friends are black"), but interacting with other adults leads to awkward pauses, extended silence and even more extended conversations about kid-related things which is not my deal. This is not why I am inserting race into this particular conversation.

After taking in a steady diet of kiddie movies and television shows, I am noticing that this line of kid programming---which shouldn't surprise me given what adult programming is looking like these days--is disproportionately white. I guess I don't notice it as much with my shows, because thanks to Netflix, Hulu, and other apps designed to compartmentalize my life, I'm able to play God with what I do and do not watch. But kiddie programming is much more limited, especially considering his dayc is multiracial and perhaps not as conscious of what a little black kid as I am. But from Toy Story, to Frozen, to Cars, Sprout TV all these movies and shows have lots of white people and white voices. Sesame Street, Madagascar and Shrek provide some relief, but even those contain voices and not young black faces on the television, that my little black kid can see and relate to on a daily basis.

The only two cartoons that young Nyles can view and feel like he's looking at someone who looks like him are Little Bill (not exactly the most popular of cartoons right now given Bill Cosby's clusterfuck of a personal life and Franklin from Charlie Brown. In fact when Nyles saw Franklin on tv during Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving special, he walked right up to the television, pointed at Franklin, and said, "That's Nyles". It made me smile that he felt that way, but it also broke my heart, that he saw so few brown folks on television, that he enthusiastically gravitated towards the first one. It was bittersweet.

Again, I get that kids and adults need to interact with all races, because that's an important skill to perfect the older one gets. But damn if it isn't equally as rewarding for a brown kid to see some brown people as affirmation that his people matter. That was one of the great benefits of Obama being elected president. Whether he was good, bad or mediocre, every damn day of the week, there would be lovers, haters and everything in between, discussing this man on all kind of media outlets every damn day. And for the most part, he's always referenced as the President. While I'm at it, that's what made the Cosby Show so damn good in the 80s. Here was a black family who was rich, close, cultured and articulate. I want my son to have a President, a dad and a multitude of television characters to watch when I chose to let him look at the television

For the second consecutive day I have been called out to do something greater, although this time it was one of my co-workers. She explained that I seemed to have gotten complacent at work, and that she sees much greater things out of me given my intelligence, but my work ethic lately leaves much to be desired. She went on to add that she feels like we've worked together long enough for her to be able to say the things that she did. I didn't disagree with a single word she said, and given that my father basically did the same thing to me the day before, I get the point. I can do more, and I will.

My wife took what I consider to be a great, great picture of my son and I laying on the couch yesterday. I want this framed and put on my desk at work. It shows love, trust, love and a genuine closeness between father and son. It also demonstrates that I have a reason to get off my ass and do better in all aspects of my life.

This morning I called my dad to talk about the sad and premature death of Stuart Scott, when he started running down the list of writing projects I started and never finished. He kept saying "whatever happen to this" and "where are you on that", and I just felt like a little kid who didn't turn in my homework. I gave him the tried and true company line about being overwhelmed with being a father and a husband and having to juggle my paying job, my Wizards job and everything in between. He told me he certainly understood how I could get bogged down with all of those things, and then he said something that justifiably game me pause:

Rashad, you have a unique voice and there are people who want to hear you

Now I know my father is unbelievably biased when it comes to his son, and he has to say things to pump, me up. But he is on to something, because I have not been very good in following through with any of my writing projects--including this blog. And my attempts to restart this blog are literally well-documented, but my father's words resonated with me, so I will try yet again. It reminds me of the words of the late, great Ralph Wiley who wrote in the first sentence of his last column before he died, "All a man has is the integrity of his work".

My responsibilities will continue to increase, and it will continue to be a chore for me to blog, write meaningful articles about the Wizards, and do other things, but I have to do it. After all, I will turn 40 on January 20th, and I need to start cementing my legacy. There's no time like the present right?