Between the ages of 11 and 14, my son Carlton had some serious struggles with maintaining any semblance of academic excellence. He could get good grades on a test here, a quiz there, but ultimately, his report cards would have all Cs and Ds on them. I tried various forms of motivation, but none of them worked. But of course my son is now at that age, when material things--more importantly having the money to purchase them--are the one of the most important aspects of his life. So when I found this out, I was able to coax academic excellence out of his lazy ass, by promising sums of money. In fairness to Carlton, I think he's also motivated by the fact that his friends have begun talking about college and he does not want to get left behind. Anyway, he's gotten all As and Bs for two consecutive semester (the second semester of 9th grade and the first semester of 10th), and as a result I initally offered him cash, and then he explained that he wanted Jordans (Concord 11s to be exact).

Now when I was under 18, my dad refused to pay that much money for shoes, and to this day I have never owned a pair of Jordans. Even when I was working and could afford a pair, I just found it difficult to justify that kind of money for shoes I will wear on Friday and Saturday only. Dress shoes are worth spending $100-$300 for, because I will get plenty of mileage out of them. I'm not crazy about Carlton getting Jordans with the little bit of money he earned last semester, and I did my best to tell him how asinine it was to make that purchase, but he stood his ground. He'll learn his lesson the hard way. Before we got off the phone, I told him to send me the shoe he wanted, and the size he wore via email. This is how the email exchange went down:

Carlton: Concord 11

Me: Carlton I have no problem getting you the shoe, because as I said before, you earned this money. But I asked for the name of the shoe and the size. The least you could do is put them both in a complete sentence, instead of you sending me two words, because I don't know if the shoe is called Concord 11, or if it's just called Concord and your size is 11, so please clarify for me.

Carlton: Concord 11 size 10

Me: That's still not a sentence, stop being lazy.

Carlton: The shoes are called the concord 11, and I wear a size 10.

Me: Thank you, I'll order them today



For some reason I feel the need to call my dad and apologize for all the headaches I caused as a teenager.

Here is a quote from Questlove, on why he feels it is important to teach. He's currently teaching a music course at NYU. I dig the quote, and it is why both my sons needed to understand the importance of all types of music:

You’re hoarding all this information, but have you taught someone that this is important?” The mistake we made is that the potent magic of the music I listened to when I was growing up would just somehow transcend mankind through the ages, like throwing a stone in a lake and watching it ripple. Now I realize that we’re the ripple. My goal is simply to teach 24 students how to enjoy music. There’s a wealth of knowledge and information on the internet and a lot of it is overwhelming and there’s too much to process. I just want to point out and say, ‘Hey, try door 36. Try door 513, that’s kind of cool’ then have them decide for themselves.

First off, check out this article regarding the latest and greatest trade by my beloved Washington Wizards. I know you've been waiting with anxiously.

Second, here is young Nyles:

As part of ESPN's massive media push to celebrate the 50th birthday of Michael Jordan, a beautifully-written piece was posted on their website. I won't spoil it by giving out specifics, but it basically showed MJ at his best, worst and most candid. Wright Thompson, who wrote the piece, was granted an unprecedented amount of access to all aspects of MJ's life, and I have no problem admitting that I was/am supremely jealous.

But after reading that piece, and reading about MJ's reluctance to the aging process, my thoughts went to my father. He's going to be 63 soon, and he's told me about how frustrating it is to know there are things he can no longer do. He's also explained to me how scary it is to know that he's closer to death than he ever was--not that he's sick or anything, but the air of invincibility that people(particularly men) have in their 20, 30s and even 40s is all but gone. I mean damn, I'm 38, and I can no longer play ball with the same kind of ferocity I used to play, and I've had two head colds knock me on my ass and keep me from work. I'm not ready to imagine my 50s and 60s. I know I want to live that long and beyond, but I don't know if I'm ready for my powers to be lessened (assuming I don't dabble in HGH or deer antler spray of course).

In a related note, I've decided to run a 5K race in June. I don't workout as much as I used to, so this will serve as a great motivator. That's all for now..I'm trying to write while I'm in bed, and it isn't working out. But speaking of aging, here is an aging, but effective Big Daddy Kane with some new music:

So today is my last day at my current job. Starting tomorrow. I will be relocating from the suburbs of Virginia, back to downtown DC. I will be closer to daycare, closer to my wife, closer to the Verizon Center (where the Wizards play), and most importantly, closer to my house. The job will be more challenging, and my boss definitely seems tough, but fair, but I'm used to that. But that's not why I'm writing this email.

The job I'm leaving today, requires me to supervise 30-40 people, which means all of them have to say goodbye to me in some shape, form or fashion. I have been at this job since June of 2012, and I have varying degrees of closeness with my staff. I am cool with some, stay at arm's length from others, and the rest fall somewhere in the middle. Still, right now it is 3:38, and three members of my staff have left already, and it is hilarious to watch try to say goodbye.

One woman just kind of looked at me and said "bye", not knowing whether to hug me or shake my hand, so she did neither. One dude didn't know whether to shake my hand in the traditional sense or to give me the handshake/half hug combo, so we ended up playing rock-paper-scissors. One woman clumsily came up to me and gave me the churchiest of church hugs known to man--and we still have 30 or more awkward confrontations to go. I want to just sneak out the door to avoid this madness, but these people have treated me to lunches, cards, and a bottle of wine over the past couple of days, since learning of my departure. If I were to just walk out, that would be uncivilized right?

By the way, since I started this blog, another lady just got real close to me to say goodbye. No hug, no handshake, just an invasion of personal space. This is awesome.

The wife looked at me about 10 minutes ago, and told me she missed my blog, which is exactly what I've been thinking for a couple of weeks now. I definitely don't have items to report on a daily basis, but there still times, when something is on my mind, and I'd like to put it down--the words of course. So, for the fourth time after ending it, I am back on the blog scene again. We'll see how this goes, although I am not sure anyone is reading anymore.

I participated in basketball-themed holiday wishes column which can be seen by clicking right here (scroll down to the Wizards portion)

I also helped with this and this

From 1984 to 1987, my family lived in Newtown, Connecticut. My mom was working on her dissertation, so she was home all the time. My dad worked at General Foods in White Plains, NY, but he chose to have us live in Newtown, so that he could shield us from the hustle and bustle in New York and the surrounding suburbs. Newtown was quite, earnest and overwhelmingly white, which was a shock to my family's system, since we lived in Cleveland, Ohio before that.

We didn't live there very long, but there were some memorable moments. I skipped 3rd grade, which made me feel like the man for 30 seconds, before I realized that I was about to be socially inadequate--a condition I've yet to recover from to this day. I remember Newtown (and the whole state of Connecticut for that matter) was soccer crazy, and I fell for the sport hard. And I also remember how quiet and peaceful that town was, despite its lack of diversity. I made great friends there while playing soccer, and I was devastated when my dad told me in July of 1987, that we were moving from Connecticut to Potomac, Maryland. I cried and cried the day we got to DC.

The first couple of years after I left, I did my best to keep in touch with Newtown soccer and school friends, but after awhile, I got over them and embraced my new Maryland life. Facebook, that annoying, yet addictive site that apparently has the ability to reunite, allowed to me to re-connect with my old friends during the past few years. In fact one of my friends from back then, just so happens to live five blocks from me here in DC, which is very cool.

All of this makes last Friday's events feel very weird. Prior to Friday’s tragedy, when I told folks I lived in Newtown, I had to use Bruce Jenner (who went to high school in Newtown) as a reference point because people had no idea what or where Newtown was. Sadly, no one will ever wonder where or what it is again. Not only that, I've had to read Facebook status message from people I knew back then, who just can't believe their quaint, little town, has had its innocence ripped away so quickly and violently. It is depressing.

But I refuse to end on a depressing note, so here is a picture that was taken in the spring of 1984 in Newtown, CT, on the front lawn of our house back then. My brother and I in our soccer outfits, with our shorts pulled up as high as the law will allow you to pull them. I'm the taller one by the way...

Wizards/Lakers postgame wrap-up

Nyles is mobile

2 years and counting....

Well at this point I have serious doubts that anyone even still reads this blog. But my cluttered life has taken a break from kicking my ass, which allows me to write a bit. So I'll attempt to fill in the gaps...


First off, my son is rubbing his little johnson against the front of the Bumbo chair, while he's in the bathtub. At first I thought it was pretty funny that at the ripe old age of 11 and a half months, he has already discovered the joys of his own genitalia. But now, when I see the determined look on his face, and how important it is for him to press his junk up against this chair, then smile at me, it has morphed into creepiness. But who am I to deny him a gift that will keep on giving throughout his life?

Second, if you are a fan of Bilal, go download this mixtape. He has his greatest hits on there, but he also covers Stevie Wonder's "Too High", which is just awesome.

Third, I have decided to have a 39th birthday party on Jan 20th (formerly known as Inauguration Day before this year). I will post details later, and all 3 of you who read are invited to come and act your age minus 15.


Fourth, watch this documentary on Boyz N The Hood. My brother sent it to me the other day and it is badass:


And lastly, here is an updated picture of my beloved Nyles:

New Prince

Today is one of those days that I'll hold near and dear to my heart--and you should believe that, because I rarely (read: never)use the expression, "near and dear to my heart". My wife had to work late today, which meant I had the rare opportunity to pick up (as opposed to dropping off) my son from daycare.

When I walked into the church, I could hear my son happily screaming and yelling, and this only kicked up a notch when he actually saw my face. The daycare ladies handed me to him, he laughed and scream even more and we left.

***sidebar*** When the daycare ladies initially handled Nyles to me, I noticed that his diaper was not right, and I frowned my nose. The ladies promptly whisked Nyles away, changed and disposed of his diaper, and then handed him back to me. It made me think back to a couple months ago, when Nyles left the house with a clean diaper, but during our travels to daycare, he did some dirty things. I felt guilty about handing over a dirty diaper child..to me it is the equivalent of a woman showing up to work with a run in her stockings. You knew it was jacked up when you arrived, but you were hoping you could slide. I'm ranting. sidebar off. But when I tried to change Nyles, the daycare ladies said no, and they changed him, and I left with a clear conscience. How cool is t that?***

Anyway, Nyles and I went from daycare to the doctor's office, where he got the second half of his flu shot. As you can imagine, that doctor's appointment was not smooth at all, and he was cranky all evening until I put him to bed about 20 minute ago (7:30).

In about an hour, once the wife gets home, I'll be headed to Union Station to meet my 15 year old, who is coming for the weekend. The fact that I can pickup both of my sons today makes me so damn happy. Great times.

Shout out to my lovely wife who dry snitched me on Twitter earlier tonight. Click here.

This song came on my ipod, and I forgot how much I enjoy it:

So my guilty pleasure song of the moment is Keyshia Cole's, Enough of No Love. I don't think that Keyshia can sing, and I think Lil Wayne's rap is uninspired and superfluous, but for some reason I cannot get the song out of my head. Actually, I've never heard the song on the radio, I just see the video at least twice a day(yes I still watch videos from time to time..ok everyday).

Two days ago I decided enough was enough, and I downloaded the song off itunes. I muted Monday Night Football, and I listened to the song while I was playing with young Nyles, so I really didn't listen to the words carefully--only the addictive chorus. Today, while I was commuting into work, I heard the words to the song. I heard Keyshia's curse words, and I heard Lil Wayne's overly sexist lyrics, and I got offended (which isn't easy to do). The video version had all but shielded me from this profanity, so to hear it was a shock to my system. I sat there on the train and said to myself, "Man, f**k this when I get home, I'm downloading the clean version."

Two seconds after I muttered that phrase to myself, I was ashamed. For years I laughed at clean versions of songs, and I attached a certain degree of prudeness to them--especially when I found out Wal-Mart sold clean versions in bulk. I wore my ability to recite copious amounts of profanity like a badge of honor..or flair if you will. Now during my train ride to work, industry powerhouses Keyshia Cole and Lil Wayne were suddently able to blow up my whole operation, sending me on a downward spiral towards the prude folks. I'm hoping this is an isolated incident.

That's all I have for now..except for my latest article of course.

First off, please read this article and then this one.

Then watch this commercial and realize that the wall with all the records is something I need in my 37-going-on-38 life..

My Dad, Nyles and the Ceiling Fan

Number one, please read the latest article I contributed to right here.

Second, I'm tired of explaining why I don't blog as much. My job is demanding, basketball season is here, I have familial obligations, football season is also here, and as a result, I simply cannot keep the pace I used to maintain in terms of blogging.

But I can offer pictures of Nyles as an olive branch..if you care of course

So today I overheard a conversation on the train between two young people (late 20's, early 30s) and they were talking about the Presidential debates earlier this week. One woman said that she just didn't like Mitt Romney because he came off as entitled and detached, and the other woman was harping on the "binders of women" comment (which was funny, but wrong). There was little to no discussion about policies or substance, only the likability of Obama and the opposite emotion regarding Romney. This reminded me of my old basketball coach, Wilbert.

Wilbert was loud, mean, abrasive, offensive, and he yelled at the best and worst players with the same amount of ferociousness. He had a certain way he wanted his players to play (fast and smart) and any failure to adhere to his rules provoked yelling, screaming and eventually a seat on the bench--not next to him, but on the other end. You were out of sight, out of mind. And given that we hadn't lost a single game all year, it was hard to argue with his methods. His assistant coach was the opposite. He wanted the plays to be run correctly, but he was the friend of all the players. Instead of yelling, he'd throw a gentle "come on man" or "get it together" at the players, and because of that, he was the team favorite.

So one time Wilbert had to miss a game, which meant the assistant was thrust into the role of head coach. Everyone was motivated to play hard for him in the beginning, but when we started to get behind, all the players started to shun team basketball, and take matters into their hands (something coaches call "hero ball"). The assistant coach called a timeout, went to his tried and true method of saying "come on man", and a bunch of other gentle, tender and benign phrases, but it did not work. The team wasn't motivated, the quality of play did not improve, and we were blown out. Even back then as a 14 year old, I knew that our assistant coach, as nice and gentle as he was, had neither the demeanor nor the bite, to lead young men to victory.

Now, I'm not saying you have to mean and assholish to run a basketball team or a country, but I am saying that personality has little to nothing to do with the price of tea of China. Politics, much like sports, is a results-based business. And whether you're rich and arrogant like Romney, or you have no money worries and you're seemingly humble like Obama, it really does not matter. What matters is can you run the country in an effective manner.

That was my official 2012 presidential election preview. I hope you enjoyed it.