Thursday, March 22, 2018
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Rickey Henderson is considered to be one of the best--if not the best--base stealer of all time, and it is the main reason why he has a bust in the Cooperstown Baseball Hall of Fame. And if you don't believe me, just ask him, because he has such a big ego, that even Kanye West would say, "damn, bring it down a notch!".
Aside from Rickey's ego, his other attributes were his tremendous speed, his quick reaction time that was out of this world, his ability to climb into the heads of pitchers, and last but certainly not least, he knew exactly how much of a lead (the space between he and the base) he could take without getting caught. To watch him play was my absolute honor:
Why did I spend my first two paragraphs talking about Rickey Henderson, base-stealing and leading? Because there are Rickey Henderson imposters walking around the District of Columbia, but they aren't taking leads off of bases, they are taking leads off of city sidewalks. Allow me to explain.
Have you ever been driving down the road wanting to make a right turn and your ability to do so is impeded by a pedestrian? This pedestrian does not have a "walk" sign and for their safety they really should be keeping their ass on the sidewalk. But instead, this pedestrian takes not one, but two steps into the street and cranes their neck while trying to see if they can safely jaywalk. A little something I like to call a lead.
If you are in a car and attempting to make a right turn while this person is taking a lead in the street, you certainly have some options, but they all have varying consequences.
The first option is to widen the right turn in an effort to avoid the pedestrian completely. This will certainly put the pedestrian at ease because a wide turn will spare all of their body parts from "accidental" contact but this puts the driver at risk, because in order to pull this wide turn, it is virtually impossible not to veer a bit into the opposite lane. By doing wtat, the driver could possibly run into the cars traveling in the opposite direction. Even if you avoid a head-on collision, the driver's side mirror could still graze the mirror of the car passing by, and no one needs that drama or potential for road rage.
The second option is to simply stop the car completely and beep the horn until the passenger either crosses the street or steps back on the sidewalk. These two options are dicey too, because the cars behind you may see your stagnant car and cause a cacophony with a symphony of horns and expletives. If the pedestrian steps back on the sidewalk, then all is well, but if they keep walking, then the other pedestrians may be empowered to jaywalk on your watch as well. Then you have a little something I like to call a Beatles' Abbey Road situation:
The last option is akin to a brushback pitch in baseball. For those unaware of what that is, a brushback pitch is a what a pitcher throws when he thinks the batter is standing too close to the plate. The pitcher wouldn't dare hit the batter (not yet anyway), but he wants to not-so-politely let the batter know that it could indeed get to that point if they don't back the f**k up. Here's an example:
The car equivalent of a brushback pitch is a bit difficult to execute because sans intense concentration, the pedestrian could be struck, which will surely cause a loss of license points, a significant delay, or worse. But if this maneuver is skillfully pulled off, and the driver can pull just close enough to the pedestrian, so that they scurry and run back on the sidewalk like mouse in an alley, then dammit it is a job well done, and that small deed goes a long way in ridding the world of these jackasses who feel the need to lead.
I'm proud to say that I've executed the car brushback many times and it is thing of a beauty. In fact, I am usually so elated that I don't see the middle fingers and curses being thrown in my direction--from the sidewalk of course.
Aside from Rickey's ego, his other attributes were his tremendous speed, his quick reaction time that was out of this world, his ability to climb into the heads of pitchers, and last but certainly not least, he knew exactly how much of a lead (the space between he and the base) he could take without getting caught. To watch him play was my absolute honor:
Why did I spend my first two paragraphs talking about Rickey Henderson, base-stealing and leading? Because there are Rickey Henderson imposters walking around the District of Columbia, but they aren't taking leads off of bases, they are taking leads off of city sidewalks. Allow me to explain.
Have you ever been driving down the road wanting to make a right turn and your ability to do so is impeded by a pedestrian? This pedestrian does not have a "walk" sign and for their safety they really should be keeping their ass on the sidewalk. But instead, this pedestrian takes not one, but two steps into the street and cranes their neck while trying to see if they can safely jaywalk. A little something I like to call a lead.
If you are in a car and attempting to make a right turn while this person is taking a lead in the street, you certainly have some options, but they all have varying consequences.
The first option is to widen the right turn in an effort to avoid the pedestrian completely. This will certainly put the pedestrian at ease because a wide turn will spare all of their body parts from "accidental" contact but this puts the driver at risk, because in order to pull this wide turn, it is virtually impossible not to veer a bit into the opposite lane. By doing wtat, the driver could possibly run into the cars traveling in the opposite direction. Even if you avoid a head-on collision, the driver's side mirror could still graze the mirror of the car passing by, and no one needs that drama or potential for road rage.
The second option is to simply stop the car completely and beep the horn until the passenger either crosses the street or steps back on the sidewalk. These two options are dicey too, because the cars behind you may see your stagnant car and cause a cacophony with a symphony of horns and expletives. If the pedestrian steps back on the sidewalk, then all is well, but if they keep walking, then the other pedestrians may be empowered to jaywalk on your watch as well. Then you have a little something I like to call a Beatles' Abbey Road situation:
The last option is akin to a brushback pitch in baseball. For those unaware of what that is, a brushback pitch is a what a pitcher throws when he thinks the batter is standing too close to the plate. The pitcher wouldn't dare hit the batter (not yet anyway), but he wants to not-so-politely let the batter know that it could indeed get to that point if they don't back the f**k up. Here's an example:
The car equivalent of a brushback pitch is a bit difficult to execute because sans intense concentration, the pedestrian could be struck, which will surely cause a loss of license points, a significant delay, or worse. But if this maneuver is skillfully pulled off, and the driver can pull just close enough to the pedestrian, so that they scurry and run back on the sidewalk like mouse in an alley, then dammit it is a job well done, and that small deed goes a long way in ridding the world of these jackasses who feel the need to lead.
I'm proud to say that I've executed the car brushback many times and it is thing of a beauty. In fact, I am usually so elated that I don't see the middle fingers and curses being thrown in my direction--from the sidewalk of course.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
When I was in college there was neither Twitter nor facebook to guide me and my peers in terms of figuring out what music was good, bad or legendary. I had to rely on my own ears, a little help from The Source and Vibe magazine, and a big assist from the cars that drove by.
At Hampton--although I'm sure the same thing went on at all colleges and certain neighborhoods--you knew what songs were hot and jammin on the one, by what would you hear playing out of car speakers (back when those were still a thing). In the late summer and early fall of 1994 there were two main artists whose music seemed to be flowing out of every damn car. The Notorious B.I.G. whose death anniversary was just "celebrated" on Friday, March 9th and Craig Mack who passed away yesterday due to heart failure.
"Flava In Your Ear" was the song and every damn body was playing. The band played it at football games, DJ's played it 5 or 6 time at parties, my boy played it in his room while he cut my hair, and I had the maxi-single to play in my Walkman while I trekked around on campus. The beat was sparse yet addictive, the song started with distinctive lyrics (Just. like. Uniblaaaab), Craig's voice was unique as hell, and the way he said, "boyyeeee" made everyone laugh. Those combination of factors alone made the song a classic in my eyes...then came the remix.
I can't remember exactly when the remix came out, I just remember it was out around Howard's homecoming (late October/early November of '94) and that just kicked things up a notch. It started with Biggie, who had already had the biggest album of the summer/fall (his best line was, "You're mad cuz my style you're admiring/don't be mad, UPS is hiring). Craig Mack batted second and his best line to me was (You won't be around next year...). In fact to this day, whenever I want to be dismissive of someone new--whether it is in sports, entertainment, literature or a politician, I use that line has a slight homage to Mr. Mack.
Third on that Flava In Ya Ear remix was a fellow named Rampage, and his verse was not memorable at all, so I won't quote it. Next was LL Cool J, who hadn't done a song of relevance in a few years, so his appearance on there was a welcome surprise. His verse made little to no sense, but it was catchy and on-beat, so he received a pass ( Word to Momma/I tongue kiss a piranha/electrocute a barracuda/I'm here to bring the drama).
Last, but definitely not least on that remix was Busta Rhymes, who from 1992 to around 1996 was on an amazing run of guest appearances, where he'd bring energy and he'd damn near upstage the person who invited him on the track in the first place. This remix was no exception. Busta was screaming and rhyming with boundless energy, and I'm not going to post my favorite lyric of his because it misogynistic as hell, but dammit at 20 I didn't care.
You put all of that together, and you had a song an accompanying remix, that are still impressionable nearly 25 years later. I hadn't really thought about it in this level of detail until I heard that Mr. Mack passed away. He was only 46 and he succumbed to a long battle with heart failure, which is yet another reminder that health is priority number one.
This is one of his songs that my boy used to play in his Geo Tracker, every. single. f**king. day!
At Hampton--although I'm sure the same thing went on at all colleges and certain neighborhoods--you knew what songs were hot and jammin on the one, by what would you hear playing out of car speakers (back when those were still a thing). In the late summer and early fall of 1994 there were two main artists whose music seemed to be flowing out of every damn car. The Notorious B.I.G. whose death anniversary was just "celebrated" on Friday, March 9th and Craig Mack who passed away yesterday due to heart failure.
"Flava In Your Ear" was the song and every damn body was playing. The band played it at football games, DJ's played it 5 or 6 time at parties, my boy played it in his room while he cut my hair, and I had the maxi-single to play in my Walkman while I trekked around on campus. The beat was sparse yet addictive, the song started with distinctive lyrics (Just. like. Uniblaaaab), Craig's voice was unique as hell, and the way he said, "boyyeeee" made everyone laugh. Those combination of factors alone made the song a classic in my eyes...then came the remix.
I can't remember exactly when the remix came out, I just remember it was out around Howard's homecoming (late October/early November of '94) and that just kicked things up a notch. It started with Biggie, who had already had the biggest album of the summer/fall (his best line was, "You're mad cuz my style you're admiring/don't be mad, UPS is hiring). Craig Mack batted second and his best line to me was (You won't be around next year...). In fact to this day, whenever I want to be dismissive of someone new--whether it is in sports, entertainment, literature or a politician, I use that line has a slight homage to Mr. Mack.
Third on that Flava In Ya Ear remix was a fellow named Rampage, and his verse was not memorable at all, so I won't quote it. Next was LL Cool J, who hadn't done a song of relevance in a few years, so his appearance on there was a welcome surprise. His verse made little to no sense, but it was catchy and on-beat, so he received a pass ( Word to Momma/I tongue kiss a piranha/electrocute a barracuda/I'm here to bring the drama).
Last, but definitely not least on that remix was Busta Rhymes, who from 1992 to around 1996 was on an amazing run of guest appearances, where he'd bring energy and he'd damn near upstage the person who invited him on the track in the first place. This remix was no exception. Busta was screaming and rhyming with boundless energy, and I'm not going to post my favorite lyric of his because it misogynistic as hell, but dammit at 20 I didn't care.
You put all of that together, and you had a song an accompanying remix, that are still impressionable nearly 25 years later. I hadn't really thought about it in this level of detail until I heard that Mr. Mack passed away. He was only 46 and he succumbed to a long battle with heart failure, which is yet another reminder that health is priority number one.
This is one of his songs that my boy used to play in his Geo Tracker, every. single. f**king. day!
Sunday, March 11, 2018
I work down the hall from a New England Patriots fan, and she was talking big shit all season about how her team was going to be in the Super Bowl and mine (the Philadelphia Eagles) was not. If I'm being 100% honest, I didn't have much faith that my team was going to make the Super Bowl after Carson Wentz got injured. But lo and behold, at the end of the playoffs, the Eagles and the Patriots were scheduled to meet. This was back on February 4th.
Since my co-worker took it upon herself to talk all that jive during the regular season, I thought it would be mighty black of me to place a wager with her. I didn't know her financial situation, so I suggested something harmless and beneficial: A bottle of wine. I told her that if I won I wanted a Coppola Merlot and she told me what kind of wine she wanted if she won. I didn't even pay attention to what she wanted because unlike during the regular season, I was supremely confident of my team's chances in the biggest game of the year. We shook on the bet the Friday before the Super Bowl and I felt damn good about my chances.
The Eagles won of course, and the next day at work, I just kind of casually dipped my head in her office. My co-worker was still understandably salty about her team's demise, but she told me she would purchase my fine wine by the end of the week. That was on February 5th.
I hadn't seen her for a few weeks until last week when I just so happened to see her in the kitchen, while I was washing my dish after lunch. We exchanged pleasantries, and then she told me that she hadn't forgotten about me, she had just been really busy as of late, and she still was going to get me my wine. I jokingly asked her if she was sure, and she basically said her word was bond---that may be the case, but it damn sure isn't timely.
When the loser of a bet has to pay, it absolutely has to be done in timely fashion. The person who won the bet, needs that instant gratification of knowing that a) They beat and outsmarted your ass and b) the person who they beat had to endure a bit of inconvenience as a result of their loser ways. I felt good in the few days after the bet, but now my good feelings have been nullified due to her neglect. Furthermore, she has the upper hand, because if I don't say anything, she'll continue to not pay but if I do gently remind her that she owes me a fine bottle of wine, I look petty and pressed as all get out, stressing her about a $12 of wine. She's turned the tables on me.
That being said, I have no problems being petty and I fully plan on getting that wine this week. Delayed gratification is gratification nonetheless. It's just a shame she does not know the proper bet-making-and-paying-up etiquette.
Since my co-worker took it upon herself to talk all that jive during the regular season, I thought it would be mighty black of me to place a wager with her. I didn't know her financial situation, so I suggested something harmless and beneficial: A bottle of wine. I told her that if I won I wanted a Coppola Merlot and she told me what kind of wine she wanted if she won. I didn't even pay attention to what she wanted because unlike during the regular season, I was supremely confident of my team's chances in the biggest game of the year. We shook on the bet the Friday before the Super Bowl and I felt damn good about my chances.
The Eagles won of course, and the next day at work, I just kind of casually dipped my head in her office. My co-worker was still understandably salty about her team's demise, but she told me she would purchase my fine wine by the end of the week. That was on February 5th.
I hadn't seen her for a few weeks until last week when I just so happened to see her in the kitchen, while I was washing my dish after lunch. We exchanged pleasantries, and then she told me that she hadn't forgotten about me, she had just been really busy as of late, and she still was going to get me my wine. I jokingly asked her if she was sure, and she basically said her word was bond---that may be the case, but it damn sure isn't timely.
When the loser of a bet has to pay, it absolutely has to be done in timely fashion. The person who won the bet, needs that instant gratification of knowing that a) They beat and outsmarted your ass and b) the person who they beat had to endure a bit of inconvenience as a result of their loser ways. I felt good in the few days after the bet, but now my good feelings have been nullified due to her neglect. Furthermore, she has the upper hand, because if I don't say anything, she'll continue to not pay but if I do gently remind her that she owes me a fine bottle of wine, I look petty and pressed as all get out, stressing her about a $12 of wine. She's turned the tables on me.
That being said, I have no problems being petty and I fully plan on getting that wine this week. Delayed gratification is gratification nonetheless. It's just a shame she does not know the proper bet-making-and-paying-up etiquette.
Saturday, March 10, 2018
I haven't been inspired to write lately, and then the wife and I sat down to watch the movie, "Midnight in Paris", which centers around the thoughts, comings and goings of a writer. Something about hearing a writer's process, the neurotic way they organize their thoughts, and the quirky routines writers put themselves through to achieve what they think is perfection, just made me want to sit at this damn laptop and start writing. The main character in the movie was working on a novel, I am simply writing a blog entry, so those two things are hardly the same, but humor me please.
Now when the movie started, the wife and I immediately saw two things: The movie was produced by Woody Allen and Harvey Weinstein was affiliated as well. I looked at my wife, my wife looked at me, and we thought we were dead wrong for watching the movie, but we discussed it and decided to keep watching. We've been trying to see this movie for seven damn years, and something always comes up--and that something just so happens to be our son who was born the same year the movie was released (2011).
I shouldn't be supporting Woody Allen, just like I should be boycotting the NFL, burning all of my R Kelly music, and ignoring the Cosby show when the reruns are on television. All of that stuff is rooted in logical thought, but on an emotional level, it is difficult to discard those individuals and some of the fine work they have produced over the years.
The fact is, I like the way Woody Allen writes and constructs movies. He's a chronic overthinker (which is the only similarity he and I have) and that trait is evident in all of his movies. He has a knack for impeccable casting, his movies are usually concise, and they always make me think. There aren't many directors who can check all of those boxes. And yet, I have skipped most of Woody Allen's movies over the past several years, because he clearly has a problem with leaving some underage girls alone. All these creepy scandals over the years have taught me that someone can be brilliantly talented at their craft, while being a royal fuckup in other aspects of their lives.
Yes I should be responsible and distance myself from any and everything these people have created. But damn, why do I have to deprive myself of that good stuff, just because they can't get right? This is the type of dilemma millions of people have endure daily.
And as I am writing this, I imagine there is one person reading my words, and wondering why I haven't mentioned the victims of all the creepy individuals I have described. I am not ignoring them, nor am I downplaying what they may have gone through, I am just being incredibly selfish with this blog entry, which means I am choosing to focus on how their behavior affects me.
That's all for now.
Now when the movie started, the wife and I immediately saw two things: The movie was produced by Woody Allen and Harvey Weinstein was affiliated as well. I looked at my wife, my wife looked at me, and we thought we were dead wrong for watching the movie, but we discussed it and decided to keep watching. We've been trying to see this movie for seven damn years, and something always comes up--and that something just so happens to be our son who was born the same year the movie was released (2011).
I shouldn't be supporting Woody Allen, just like I should be boycotting the NFL, burning all of my R Kelly music, and ignoring the Cosby show when the reruns are on television. All of that stuff is rooted in logical thought, but on an emotional level, it is difficult to discard those individuals and some of the fine work they have produced over the years.
The fact is, I like the way Woody Allen writes and constructs movies. He's a chronic overthinker (which is the only similarity he and I have) and that trait is evident in all of his movies. He has a knack for impeccable casting, his movies are usually concise, and they always make me think. There aren't many directors who can check all of those boxes. And yet, I have skipped most of Woody Allen's movies over the past several years, because he clearly has a problem with leaving some underage girls alone. All these creepy scandals over the years have taught me that someone can be brilliantly talented at their craft, while being a royal fuckup in other aspects of their lives.
Yes I should be responsible and distance myself from any and everything these people have created. But damn, why do I have to deprive myself of that good stuff, just because they can't get right? This is the type of dilemma millions of people have endure daily.
And as I am writing this, I imagine there is one person reading my words, and wondering why I haven't mentioned the victims of all the creepy individuals I have described. I am not ignoring them, nor am I downplaying what they may have gone through, I am just being incredibly selfish with this blog entry, which means I am choosing to focus on how their behavior affects me.
That's all for now.
Thursday, March 01, 2018
John Coltrane was born in 1926, Michael Jackson was born in 1958, Rakim wss born in 1968 and I was born in 1975.
I discovered Michael Jackson as a four year old when Off the Wall came out. I was introduced to John Coltrane by my father in 1985 when he played My Favorite Things for me on vinyl. And I discovered Rakim in 1988 during an episode of Yo! MTV Raps.
Michael Jackson is my favorite performer ever, John Coltrane is my favorite jazz musician and Rakim doubles as my favorite rapper and the greatest of all time.
I'm sure all three of those statements can be both argued and challenged, but not within the confines of this blog. Those are my statements and I stand firmly by all of them. Why do I mention these things?
In the past two weeks, I have discovered a couple pieces of information that link all three of my favorite musicians--a bizarro Kevin Bacon game if you will.
Two weeks ago Quincy Jones went on a bit of a media rampage, and started snitching by telling stories about various celebrities he had hobnobbed with over the course of his sprawling career. As much I doubt the accuracy of some of these statements, I really can't hate on Quincy, because he's doing exactly what 80+ year old men tend to do: Talk a lot of shit.
That being said, there was one particular passage, which I found quite interesting. I had seen this in an article a few years ago, but I hadn't been able to find it. Luckily for me, Quincy reiterated it for Vulture Magazine:
Michael Jackson's "Baby Be Mine" is usually viewed as the weakest link on "Thriller" and with good reason:
Well now you have a reason to love "Baby Be Mine" because the chord changes you hear at certain point of this song are akin the chord changes all through Coltrane's "Baby Steps". Don't believe me? Listen to the Coltrane song starting at the 26 second mark and continuing through the rest of the song...
Now, listen to MJ's Baby Be Mine right around the 3:30 mark, and check out the chord changes there. It happens two other times after this point, but that's the first time.
That may not be a big deal to you, but it made me giddy. Quincy is a fan of jazz music but more importantly he used to play and compose jazz music, so knows what he's talking about. The fact that he brought a bit of Coltrane to MJ, and they are BOTH in my personal pantheon of great musicians, is a big elfin deal to me. But there's more.
Today, I was listening to Toure's podcast with Rakim. Toure asked Rakim about how he wrote rhymes and who influenced his cadence, and Rakim named....you guessed it...John Coltane.
Rakim's mother used to play Coltrane records and one day his mother played "My Favorite Things" and Rakim was blown away at how Coltrane seemingly played two notes at once and how off-the-charts his improvisation was. From there Rakim started discussing how he would hear songs, and decide to cater his approach to rapping/writing to how Coltrane approached his solos.
When I heard him say that, I instantly though of Rakim's flow in "Lyrics of Fury"---specifically at the 32-second mark, starting with the line, "Haven't you ever heard of an MC murderer"
Notice the syncopation and how he starts a little after the "1", and then continues flowing rapid fire similar to Coltrane on the horn. It is beautiful, poetic and an homage to his favorite musician.
I like Coltrane, MJ and Rakim because of their talent, the way they sound and how much of an appreciation they have for their craft. But now that I know that they are all intertwined in some weird way, makes me extremely happy. And it should make you happy too goddammit.
I discovered Michael Jackson as a four year old when Off the Wall came out. I was introduced to John Coltrane by my father in 1985 when he played My Favorite Things for me on vinyl. And I discovered Rakim in 1988 during an episode of Yo! MTV Raps.
Michael Jackson is my favorite performer ever, John Coltrane is my favorite jazz musician and Rakim doubles as my favorite rapper and the greatest of all time.
I'm sure all three of those statements can be both argued and challenged, but not within the confines of this blog. Those are my statements and I stand firmly by all of them. Why do I mention these things?
In the past two weeks, I have discovered a couple pieces of information that link all three of my favorite musicians--a bizarro Kevin Bacon game if you will.
Two weeks ago Quincy Jones went on a bit of a media rampage, and started snitching by telling stories about various celebrities he had hobnobbed with over the course of his sprawling career. As much I doubt the accuracy of some of these statements, I really can't hate on Quincy, because he's doing exactly what 80+ year old men tend to do: Talk a lot of shit.
That being said, there was one particular passage, which I found quite interesting. I had seen this in an article a few years ago, but I hadn't been able to find it. Luckily for me, Quincy reiterated it for Vulture Magazine:
Michael Jackson's "Baby Be Mine" is usually viewed as the weakest link on "Thriller" and with good reason:
1) Wanna Be Startin Something has the African Chant at the end
2)The Girl Is Mine has a Beatle as the co-star
3) Thriller has Vincent Price as the guest star and is accompanied by the best video of all time
4) Beat It has the Eddie Van Halen guitar solo
5) Billie Jean is arguably the best pop single of all time
6)Human Nature is unlike any song you've ever, and it was written by the 80s pop group Toto,
7) PYT has Janet Jackson, James Ingram and LaToya Jackson on background vocals, plus it has the "na na na/UHH" breakdown
8) Lady in my Life is the ONLY song MJ has ever begged on.
Well now you have a reason to love "Baby Be Mine" because the chord changes you hear at certain point of this song are akin the chord changes all through Coltrane's "Baby Steps". Don't believe me? Listen to the Coltrane song starting at the 26 second mark and continuing through the rest of the song...
Now, listen to MJ's Baby Be Mine right around the 3:30 mark, and check out the chord changes there. It happens two other times after this point, but that's the first time.
That may not be a big deal to you, but it made me giddy. Quincy is a fan of jazz music but more importantly he used to play and compose jazz music, so knows what he's talking about. The fact that he brought a bit of Coltrane to MJ, and they are BOTH in my personal pantheon of great musicians, is a big elfin deal to me. But there's more.
Today, I was listening to Toure's podcast with Rakim. Toure asked Rakim about how he wrote rhymes and who influenced his cadence, and Rakim named....you guessed it...John Coltane.
Rakim's mother used to play Coltrane records and one day his mother played "My Favorite Things" and Rakim was blown away at how Coltrane seemingly played two notes at once and how off-the-charts his improvisation was. From there Rakim started discussing how he would hear songs, and decide to cater his approach to rapping/writing to how Coltrane approached his solos.
When I heard him say that, I instantly though of Rakim's flow in "Lyrics of Fury"---specifically at the 32-second mark, starting with the line, "Haven't you ever heard of an MC murderer"
Notice the syncopation and how he starts a little after the "1", and then continues flowing rapid fire similar to Coltrane on the horn. It is beautiful, poetic and an homage to his favorite musician.
I like Coltrane, MJ and Rakim because of their talent, the way they sound and how much of an appreciation they have for their craft. But now that I know that they are all intertwined in some weird way, makes me extremely happy. And it should make you happy too goddammit.
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
In my last blog entry I did a bit of bellyaching over my slightly advanced age and the tangential consequences that I now suffer as a result--like losing my keys. This morning I had a different type of issue that had nothing to do with age, and everything to do with stubbornness and laziness.
Two weeks ago I noticed that the heel of my shoe was slightly loose. I don't wear real cheap shoes, but these aren't exactly $700 shoes either. They are good solid black shoes that I wear to work, and they have served me just fine for about two years now. BUT, I also walk about two miles to and from work every day and that--combined with the fact that I'm not one of those dudes who wears tennis shoes to work and changes to dress shoes when I arrive--has caused a bit of wear and tear on my shoe. Thus the loose heel.
When I saw the loose heel, I took a long look at it, and used my non-existent loose-heel experience to make the determination that I could get a few more weeks out of it. In hindsight, I should have just bought new shoes during my lunch break that very day, rather than chance a tragic accident. But I do not like shopping for clothes, food, my son, or any of that. The only time I have patience for shopping is when I'm buying records, but that's only because I consider that to be a borderline, orgasmic experience. Clothes/shoe shopping? Not so much.
Anyway, I was walking into work while listening to the Tony Kornheiser Podcast, when I tripped over a loose brick in the sidewalk (why sidewalks are made out of brick, I do not know). I was a bit embarrassed about how hard I tripped, but I was determined not to linger too long in that spot, so I attempted to keep walking, and that's when I knew the heel was even more damaged. When I looked down at my shoe, I noticed the heel was 80-percent detached from the rest of the shoe, and I had to make a decision: 1)Do I walk slow with a damaged heel? 2) Do I rip the heel off and walk lopsided 3) Do I call an uber home and just forget this day altogether. I chose option #1.
I walked about 20 feet (no pun intended) and I realized that I wasn't going anywhere fast. The heel was flopping around which made it nearly impossible to have any semblance of a cool gait, but I kept trying to walk while simultaneously trying to make sure no one was walking behind me or looking at my feet. I can't begin to communicate how uncomfortable I was, and even though the door to my job was just 500 feet away, it felt like 500 miles, and all I wanted to do was comfortably sit down, work and eat my breakfast.
Finally the heel fell off completely and I just did the lopsided walk into my door. Luckily for me, there weren't many people around, and I was able to make a beeline to my desk. As I type this pitiful entry, I am sitting at my desk sans shoes, but I still have to figure out how I'm getting home to change, and eventually out to get more shoes. This is pitiful I know.
Two weeks ago I noticed that the heel of my shoe was slightly loose. I don't wear real cheap shoes, but these aren't exactly $700 shoes either. They are good solid black shoes that I wear to work, and they have served me just fine for about two years now. BUT, I also walk about two miles to and from work every day and that--combined with the fact that I'm not one of those dudes who wears tennis shoes to work and changes to dress shoes when I arrive--has caused a bit of wear and tear on my shoe. Thus the loose heel.
When I saw the loose heel, I took a long look at it, and used my non-existent loose-heel experience to make the determination that I could get a few more weeks out of it. In hindsight, I should have just bought new shoes during my lunch break that very day, rather than chance a tragic accident. But I do not like shopping for clothes, food, my son, or any of that. The only time I have patience for shopping is when I'm buying records, but that's only because I consider that to be a borderline, orgasmic experience. Clothes/shoe shopping? Not so much.
Anyway, I was walking into work while listening to the Tony Kornheiser Podcast, when I tripped over a loose brick in the sidewalk (why sidewalks are made out of brick, I do not know). I was a bit embarrassed about how hard I tripped, but I was determined not to linger too long in that spot, so I attempted to keep walking, and that's when I knew the heel was even more damaged. When I looked down at my shoe, I noticed the heel was 80-percent detached from the rest of the shoe, and I had to make a decision: 1)Do I walk slow with a damaged heel? 2) Do I rip the heel off and walk lopsided 3) Do I call an uber home and just forget this day altogether. I chose option #1.
I walked about 20 feet (no pun intended) and I realized that I wasn't going anywhere fast. The heel was flopping around which made it nearly impossible to have any semblance of a cool gait, but I kept trying to walk while simultaneously trying to make sure no one was walking behind me or looking at my feet. I can't begin to communicate how uncomfortable I was, and even though the door to my job was just 500 feet away, it felt like 500 miles, and all I wanted to do was comfortably sit down, work and eat my breakfast.
Finally the heel fell off completely and I just did the lopsided walk into my door. Luckily for me, there weren't many people around, and I was able to make a beeline to my desk. As I type this pitiful entry, I am sitting at my desk sans shoes, but I still have to figure out how I'm getting home to change, and eventually out to get more shoes. This is pitiful I know.
Saturday, February 24, 2018
I'm getting older and that is starting to rear it's unwanted head in the oddest phases of my life. Today, it was key misplacement.
It is a rainy day today here in DC, and all I really wanted to do is lay on my ass and watch Tiger Woods play, but that is nearly impossible to do when you have a six year old with endless energy and the need to ask the question, "So what are we doing today Daddy?". So I got off my ass and took my son to Dave & Buster's--the indoor amusement park for both kids and adults.
My son and I played games for nearly 90 minutes and the day was filled with fun and whimsy. I didn't check my phone and he didn't ask "so what are we doing next daddy?", we just played and played hard. After the game portion of the afternoon, we went over and had lunch at Chik-fil-A, and then we headed back to the car. I confidently walked to the car, reached in my pocket, and I noticed that my car keys were missing. And hell yes I panicked.
I took my wedding ring off while my son and I were in Dave & Buster's (I always take my ring off when I play basketball or skeeball) and so instantly I thought that maybe I accidentally dropped my keys there while reaching in my pocket to put my ring back on my finger. I went to D&B and talked to the manager, who radioed his staff and asked if keys had been found, but nothing was found.
From there, I went back to the Chik-fil-A to see if a manager/cleaning lady had possibly seen my keys on the table, by the trash or on the floor, but after 15 minutes, they couldn't locate my keys either. My next move was to stop a police officer and a security guard to see if they or one of their colleagues had been alerted about missing car keys. Still nothing.
I headed back to D&B to look around in there myself, instead of relying on the manager/security. Before I could get in there, the manager saw that I had bottled water in my hand, and he told me I could not play on the games with outside food or drink. I explained to him that my visit was far from a leisurely one, I was just headed in with my son to look for my keys and I proceeded to keep walking in the place. The manager put his whole hand on my shoulder and impeded my process.
I couldn't curse because my son was with me, but in hushed tones I politely asked the manager to get his hands off of me before I f**ked his ass up, and he called security--the very same security guard I had already spoken to regarding my keys. The security guard saw me, dapped me up and asked what the problem was, and I explained it, and he told the D&B manager to let me in with my water, because these were extenuating circumstances. I gave the D&B manager a look of disdain and tried to locate my keys, but I still came up empty.
At this point, I had to call my wife to come get my son and me, because she had the spare key. I felt defeated and hella old but I couldn't really pout because my energetic son still needed to be entertained. 45 minutes later, the wife arrived with the spare key and we all walked towards the car. Just as I getting ready to get in the car, I noticed something in my windshield wiper---something that had not been there when I walked to the car earlier. I must have dropped my keys in the parking lot somewhere, and someone was nice enough to discreetly put them in my windshield wiper. I'm amazed someone didn't steal my car, but I'm thankful they didn't.
But damn, what if dropping and fake losing keys is the first step in the long, winding road towards senility. I'm mainly writing about this because I'm a blogger/writer, but part of me wanted to do something meaningful to prove that I still have some modicum of intelligence in an attempt to restore a little order in my life.
It is a rainy day today here in DC, and all I really wanted to do is lay on my ass and watch Tiger Woods play, but that is nearly impossible to do when you have a six year old with endless energy and the need to ask the question, "So what are we doing today Daddy?". So I got off my ass and took my son to Dave & Buster's--the indoor amusement park for both kids and adults.
My son and I played games for nearly 90 minutes and the day was filled with fun and whimsy. I didn't check my phone and he didn't ask "so what are we doing next daddy?", we just played and played hard. After the game portion of the afternoon, we went over and had lunch at Chik-fil-A, and then we headed back to the car. I confidently walked to the car, reached in my pocket, and I noticed that my car keys were missing. And hell yes I panicked.
I took my wedding ring off while my son and I were in Dave & Buster's (I always take my ring off when I play basketball or skeeball) and so instantly I thought that maybe I accidentally dropped my keys there while reaching in my pocket to put my ring back on my finger. I went to D&B and talked to the manager, who radioed his staff and asked if keys had been found, but nothing was found.
From there, I went back to the Chik-fil-A to see if a manager/cleaning lady had possibly seen my keys on the table, by the trash or on the floor, but after 15 minutes, they couldn't locate my keys either. My next move was to stop a police officer and a security guard to see if they or one of their colleagues had been alerted about missing car keys. Still nothing.
I headed back to D&B to look around in there myself, instead of relying on the manager/security. Before I could get in there, the manager saw that I had bottled water in my hand, and he told me I could not play on the games with outside food or drink. I explained to him that my visit was far from a leisurely one, I was just headed in with my son to look for my keys and I proceeded to keep walking in the place. The manager put his whole hand on my shoulder and impeded my process.
I couldn't curse because my son was with me, but in hushed tones I politely asked the manager to get his hands off of me before I f**ked his ass up, and he called security--the very same security guard I had already spoken to regarding my keys. The security guard saw me, dapped me up and asked what the problem was, and I explained it, and he told the D&B manager to let me in with my water, because these were extenuating circumstances. I gave the D&B manager a look of disdain and tried to locate my keys, but I still came up empty.
At this point, I had to call my wife to come get my son and me, because she had the spare key. I felt defeated and hella old but I couldn't really pout because my energetic son still needed to be entertained. 45 minutes later, the wife arrived with the spare key and we all walked towards the car. Just as I getting ready to get in the car, I noticed something in my windshield wiper---something that had not been there when I walked to the car earlier. I must have dropped my keys in the parking lot somewhere, and someone was nice enough to discreetly put them in my windshield wiper. I'm amazed someone didn't steal my car, but I'm thankful they didn't.
But damn, what if dropping and fake losing keys is the first step in the long, winding road towards senility. I'm mainly writing about this because I'm a blogger/writer, but part of me wanted to do something meaningful to prove that I still have some modicum of intelligence in an attempt to restore a little order in my life.
Friday, February 23, 2018
So in response to the lack of outward progress in preventing another school shooting like the one in Parkland, Florida, high school students all around this fine, flawed country of ours have decided to stage walkouts. They are leaving school grounds, and walking around during school hours so that their voices can be heard. They are tired of living in fear, tired of lawmakers not tweaking gun laws and tired of feeling like powerless kids at the knee of powerful, yet ineffective adults.
I was a teenager once so I understand that natural angst and restlessness constantly bubbles inside of them. They are at that weird age between being take care of by their parents yet preparing for post-high school life. They are dating, their bodies are changing, they have endless amounts of information at their fingertips, and so they have access to way more information than teens in past years--present company included. That part I get. But when you add in the very real threat of being shot at or killed during a seemingly innocuous school day, you add in a level of fear and terror, I know nothing about---at least from their perspective. I worry about that as a parent now with my six year old, but that's part of the omnipresent overprotective feeling of being a parent. I can't imagine what these teens are thinking and feeling on a daily basis.
But I do know this...I am not a fan of the walkouts. Not at all.
I have already established that my worries as a teen were tame compared to the concerns of these kids, so please know that I'm not turning a blind eye to that fact. Having said that, when I was that age, my father made it very clear, that my job was to go school, get good grades and prepare myself for post-high school life. He didn't want me misbehaving or dillydallying in school, because those type of things (and yes those are clinical terms) hindered, not helped my ability to achieve our final goal.
If my son wanted to walk out of school, I know that I ultimately could not stop him from doing so especially if all of his friends were following suit. But I would pull him aside before he left that day, and request that as long as a teacher (an unarmed one for now) was in front of the class, it was my expectation that he'd be sitting right there learning as he would be doing any other day--not because he (or I) was turning a blind eye to the greater movement--but because that was his job during school hours. Then, I would sit down with my son and brainstorm about 5-10 other ways he could adeptly make his point that he was not happy with the guns, the shootings and the lack of real change. I'd also let him know that walkouts are fine, but there are other ways to be just as effective and just as radical. Maybe he could write a letter to a newspaper, record a message on youtube and circulate it profusely, go to a very public place durng non-school hours with a megaphone and talk from the heart. I'd throw out ideas, I'd listen to his and maybe we could come to a compromise.
My son could very well end up telling me to go f**k myself (figuratively, not literally of course) and that he wanted to be involved in the walkout and I'd have to respect. But he'd have to respect the fact that I didn't like it, and he'd also have to endure me coming up with alternative suggestions for how to protest. I think that's a fair exchange.
If he were a college student, he'd have carte blanche, but as a high school student, I don't think that much leeway should be granted. As I typed this out, I realized that I sound conservative as hell, but frankly, I am like that with a few aspects of my life. You get like that as a parent sometimes I suppose...
I was a teenager once so I understand that natural angst and restlessness constantly bubbles inside of them. They are at that weird age between being take care of by their parents yet preparing for post-high school life. They are dating, their bodies are changing, they have endless amounts of information at their fingertips, and so they have access to way more information than teens in past years--present company included. That part I get. But when you add in the very real threat of being shot at or killed during a seemingly innocuous school day, you add in a level of fear and terror, I know nothing about---at least from their perspective. I worry about that as a parent now with my six year old, but that's part of the omnipresent overprotective feeling of being a parent. I can't imagine what these teens are thinking and feeling on a daily basis.
But I do know this...I am not a fan of the walkouts. Not at all.
I have already established that my worries as a teen were tame compared to the concerns of these kids, so please know that I'm not turning a blind eye to that fact. Having said that, when I was that age, my father made it very clear, that my job was to go school, get good grades and prepare myself for post-high school life. He didn't want me misbehaving or dillydallying in school, because those type of things (and yes those are clinical terms) hindered, not helped my ability to achieve our final goal.
If my son wanted to walk out of school, I know that I ultimately could not stop him from doing so especially if all of his friends were following suit. But I would pull him aside before he left that day, and request that as long as a teacher (an unarmed one for now) was in front of the class, it was my expectation that he'd be sitting right there learning as he would be doing any other day--not because he (or I) was turning a blind eye to the greater movement--but because that was his job during school hours. Then, I would sit down with my son and brainstorm about 5-10 other ways he could adeptly make his point that he was not happy with the guns, the shootings and the lack of real change. I'd also let him know that walkouts are fine, but there are other ways to be just as effective and just as radical. Maybe he could write a letter to a newspaper, record a message on youtube and circulate it profusely, go to a very public place durng non-school hours with a megaphone and talk from the heart. I'd throw out ideas, I'd listen to his and maybe we could come to a compromise.
My son could very well end up telling me to go f**k myself (figuratively, not literally of course) and that he wanted to be involved in the walkout and I'd have to respect. But he'd have to respect the fact that I didn't like it, and he'd also have to endure me coming up with alternative suggestions for how to protest. I think that's a fair exchange.
If he were a college student, he'd have carte blanche, but as a high school student, I don't think that much leeway should be granted. As I typed this out, I realized that I sound conservative as hell, but frankly, I am like that with a few aspects of my life. You get like that as a parent sometimes I suppose...
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
Usually I like to go see movies on a weekday around 11 or on the weekend during the earliest available matinee. I don't like crowds, I don't like teenagers, I don't like post-movie applause, I just want to be able to think and draw my own conclusions on the movie, and sometimes crowds do not allow those types of deductions to take place.
My persnickety demands where movies are concerned, combined with the difficulty my wife and I have finding a sitter to allow us to go see a movie---especially when we'd rather go out and drink and do something festive once we finally fine someone to watch Nyles--pretty much means that my movie attendance over the past couple of years sucks. The only movies I've seen recently are the ones my son wanted to see, which basically means I have to fight between going to sleep and playing on my phone.
I could not apply my wishes and demands to the Black Panther movie, because my wife really wanted to see the movie during the first weekend, since everyone was talking about it. It wasn't that I didn't share her eagerness, I just really wanted to control the outside variables, since I knew this was supposed to be a movie of great importance.
As you can imagine, I did not get my wishes. I bought tickets for Sunday evening show (8pm to be exact) and I purposely picked a theater that served wine, so I could ramp up the Black Panther experience. But when I arrived at the theater, I learned the bar was closed. I didn't lose my cool though.
The wife and I arrived at 7:15 for the 8pm movie, and when we got to the theater where our movie was playing, there were already approximately 30 people already waiting and we just got behind them.
**Sidebar: Lots of black brothers and sisters used the release of the Black Panther movie to dress in traditional---or at least what they believed to be traditional--African garb. I get the sentiment, it was a cool, unifying gesture to see, but I wasn't doing that sh*t. I loved seeing all the black and brown folks on the big screen, but at the end of the day, it was just a movie. A movie that may open the doors for black and brown people on and behind the camera, but a movie nonetheless. I didn't need any African-ness (if you will) but for those who did, God bless them*** Sidebar off***
Everyone was let in around 7:45,and I went to get popcorn and beverages, while the wife saved my seat. We had chosen a spot in the upper left corner, so I could sit in the aisle, in case something went down (you'd be a fool to not think that way these days), but when I arrived back at my seat, we were surrounded by loud ass teens who looked to be between 15 and 17. Still, I remained calm. The kids actually weren't that bad once the movie started, but they were a bit too loud and dramatic for my taste. I'll be returning to my traditional matinee times going forward.
I won't say too much about the movie, because I don't know who has or has not seen it. The cast was great, the acting was good, the African vs African-American story line was rich with conflict (which would make a great writing assignment for a college/high school class), the strong female roles were refreshing and it was one of the better Marvel movies I've seen. I didn't like the reliance on the usage of CSI and at times, the movie dragged a bit, but I feel like I'm nitpicking. Not since Blade with Wesley Snipes and Marvel's Luke Cage, have I seen such bad ass black superheroes. When my son gets a little older and I feel like he can deal with the effects of movie violence (lots of questions and bad dreams), I'll let him see it too.
My persnickety demands where movies are concerned, combined with the difficulty my wife and I have finding a sitter to allow us to go see a movie---especially when we'd rather go out and drink and do something festive once we finally fine someone to watch Nyles--pretty much means that my movie attendance over the past couple of years sucks. The only movies I've seen recently are the ones my son wanted to see, which basically means I have to fight between going to sleep and playing on my phone.
I could not apply my wishes and demands to the Black Panther movie, because my wife really wanted to see the movie during the first weekend, since everyone was talking about it. It wasn't that I didn't share her eagerness, I just really wanted to control the outside variables, since I knew this was supposed to be a movie of great importance.
As you can imagine, I did not get my wishes. I bought tickets for Sunday evening show (8pm to be exact) and I purposely picked a theater that served wine, so I could ramp up the Black Panther experience. But when I arrived at the theater, I learned the bar was closed. I didn't lose my cool though.
The wife and I arrived at 7:15 for the 8pm movie, and when we got to the theater where our movie was playing, there were already approximately 30 people already waiting and we just got behind them.
**Sidebar: Lots of black brothers and sisters used the release of the Black Panther movie to dress in traditional---or at least what they believed to be traditional--African garb. I get the sentiment, it was a cool, unifying gesture to see, but I wasn't doing that sh*t. I loved seeing all the black and brown folks on the big screen, but at the end of the day, it was just a movie. A movie that may open the doors for black and brown people on and behind the camera, but a movie nonetheless. I didn't need any African-ness (if you will) but for those who did, God bless them*** Sidebar off***
Everyone was let in around 7:45,and I went to get popcorn and beverages, while the wife saved my seat. We had chosen a spot in the upper left corner, so I could sit in the aisle, in case something went down (you'd be a fool to not think that way these days), but when I arrived back at my seat, we were surrounded by loud ass teens who looked to be between 15 and 17. Still, I remained calm. The kids actually weren't that bad once the movie started, but they were a bit too loud and dramatic for my taste. I'll be returning to my traditional matinee times going forward.
I won't say too much about the movie, because I don't know who has or has not seen it. The cast was great, the acting was good, the African vs African-American story line was rich with conflict (which would make a great writing assignment for a college/high school class), the strong female roles were refreshing and it was one of the better Marvel movies I've seen. I didn't like the reliance on the usage of CSI and at times, the movie dragged a bit, but I feel like I'm nitpicking. Not since Blade with Wesley Snipes and Marvel's Luke Cage, have I seen such bad ass black superheroes. When my son gets a little older and I feel like he can deal with the effects of movie violence (lots of questions and bad dreams), I'll let him see it too.
Friday, February 16, 2018
It took 43 years, but this morning I finally had my first white-woman-clutch-her-purse-when-I-walk-by moment.
It was around 6:15am, and I was in the midst of my 5-mile run around Northwest Washington DC. I had headphones in my ear, but the music remained at a relatively low volume, so that I could hear everything going on around me. At that time of morning, there are other runners/walkers, people driving and walking to work, homeless people sleeping, peeing or wandering, and insanely large rats jumping out of unsuspecting places to scare the shit out of me. Quite a motley crew right?
I was running by a well-lit but quiet section of DC when I spotted a woman walking and talking on the phone. My head is always on a swivel while I run, so I saw her a good 30-45 seconds before she saw me, and I immediately noticed that she was talking loud on the phone, and not paying attention to her surroundings. I didn't give it much thought, because my plan was to run by her without making any eye contact, so I didn't startle her.
But about 10 seconds before I was to run by her, she saw me. She didn't stop talking on the phone, and she didn't appear to be startled--in fact she gave me a half-smile, which was nice, but not necessary. I began to nod my head at her, and then I noticed that her hands had gone from her pocket to her pocketbook. Not only were both her hands holding on to her pocketbook for dear life, but she also turned her body slightly away from me, as I ran by her. I really started to stop and say something rude but 1)I was way too tired and my thighs were burning way too damn much for me to do anything menacing and 2)That's all I needed was for a cop or another citizen to see me berating a woman (a white woman at that) from afar. That wouldn't end well.
But here's the thing that gets me. I was clearly running. I had a water bottle in my hand, headphones in my ear, and I was sweating like Kevin Garnett in a postgame interview. How the hell does one pivot from being in workout to robbery mode? I can understand being cautious when it is dark and early in the morning, but this woman was talking LOUD and not looking around for almost a minute before she saw me. Not to mention, if I really wanted to rob her, the clutching and turning technique would hardly be a deterrent--she'd still get got.
Honestly, the clutching part didn't bother me (yes it did) as much as the body turn. She decided that that the clutching only scratched the surface, so she had to slightly turn her body away to seal the safety deal. It wasn't even a full turn, it was just enough of a turn for me to get annoyed.
Again, I tried really hard to look at it from a woman's perspective, but I can only do that up to a certain point. I felt some kind of way about that, but on the positive side, what better month for it to go down right?
It was around 6:15am, and I was in the midst of my 5-mile run around Northwest Washington DC. I had headphones in my ear, but the music remained at a relatively low volume, so that I could hear everything going on around me. At that time of morning, there are other runners/walkers, people driving and walking to work, homeless people sleeping, peeing or wandering, and insanely large rats jumping out of unsuspecting places to scare the shit out of me. Quite a motley crew right?
I was running by a well-lit but quiet section of DC when I spotted a woman walking and talking on the phone. My head is always on a swivel while I run, so I saw her a good 30-45 seconds before she saw me, and I immediately noticed that she was talking loud on the phone, and not paying attention to her surroundings. I didn't give it much thought, because my plan was to run by her without making any eye contact, so I didn't startle her.
But about 10 seconds before I was to run by her, she saw me. She didn't stop talking on the phone, and she didn't appear to be startled--in fact she gave me a half-smile, which was nice, but not necessary. I began to nod my head at her, and then I noticed that her hands had gone from her pocket to her pocketbook. Not only were both her hands holding on to her pocketbook for dear life, but she also turned her body slightly away from me, as I ran by her. I really started to stop and say something rude but 1)I was way too tired and my thighs were burning way too damn much for me to do anything menacing and 2)That's all I needed was for a cop or another citizen to see me berating a woman (a white woman at that) from afar. That wouldn't end well.
But here's the thing that gets me. I was clearly running. I had a water bottle in my hand, headphones in my ear, and I was sweating like Kevin Garnett in a postgame interview. How the hell does one pivot from being in workout to robbery mode? I can understand being cautious when it is dark and early in the morning, but this woman was talking LOUD and not looking around for almost a minute before she saw me. Not to mention, if I really wanted to rob her, the clutching and turning technique would hardly be a deterrent--she'd still get got.
Honestly, the clutching part didn't bother me (yes it did) as much as the body turn. She decided that that the clutching only scratched the surface, so she had to slightly turn her body away to seal the safety deal. It wasn't even a full turn, it was just enough of a turn for me to get annoyed.
Again, I tried really hard to look at it from a woman's perspective, but I can only do that up to a certain point. I felt some kind of way about that, but on the positive side, what better month for it to go down right?
Thursday, February 15, 2018
When I tell people I"m not a Drake fan, they tend to think I'm hating just to hate, or I'm just hell-bent on hating any millennial hip-hop music, and that is simply not true. I like some of J Cole's work, I like Kendrick Lamar, and I even like some offerings from 2 Chainz (it pains me to spell it that way) and A$AP Rocky (I'm equally pained by that spelling).
Drake has always felt, sounded and looked artificial to me. He sounds like a brother from Canada who has been given a long-term assignment of trying to sound like a brother from the South. He raps one way but that stands in stark contrast to how he sounds on interviews or even hosting Saturday Night Live. I think when he sings he sounds more authentic, but it sounds hella nasal and not particularly pleasing to my snobby ears. To that point, my main man Bomani Jones says that if you think of Drake as a singer who raps, and not a rapper who sings, he becomes easier to tolerate. I tried that and he still sucks...for the most part.
Two years ago when I was shoe shopping with my son Carlton at Foot Locker, I heard this song come on through the store loudspeakers:
His rhymes in that song sounded believable and not forced, and even the singing was tolerable. I remember telling my son that this would be the only Drake song I liked in my life. My youngest son likes "Hotline Bling" so I play that a lot, but when he's not around, I'm not really a fan of that song. Over the past two years, I've heard lots of Drake songs, and they were all lukewarm to wack to me, until today.
I was listening to a Pandora station, and an older Drake song called 0 to 100 came on:
Now, parts of this song still sounded contrived and not at all like a brother from Canada, but the combination of the beat and Drake's flow, reeled me all the way in. I wore this song out today, and even gave this song a spot in my elusive workout playlist. I still don't like him, and he'll never convince to buy an entire album/cd/tape, but for now, I respect his ability to win my approval....as if he really cares if a 43-year old likes his stuff.
Drake has always felt, sounded and looked artificial to me. He sounds like a brother from Canada who has been given a long-term assignment of trying to sound like a brother from the South. He raps one way but that stands in stark contrast to how he sounds on interviews or even hosting Saturday Night Live. I think when he sings he sounds more authentic, but it sounds hella nasal and not particularly pleasing to my snobby ears. To that point, my main man Bomani Jones says that if you think of Drake as a singer who raps, and not a rapper who sings, he becomes easier to tolerate. I tried that and he still sucks...for the most part.
Two years ago when I was shoe shopping with my son Carlton at Foot Locker, I heard this song come on through the store loudspeakers:
His rhymes in that song sounded believable and not forced, and even the singing was tolerable. I remember telling my son that this would be the only Drake song I liked in my life. My youngest son likes "Hotline Bling" so I play that a lot, but when he's not around, I'm not really a fan of that song. Over the past two years, I've heard lots of Drake songs, and they were all lukewarm to wack to me, until today.
I was listening to a Pandora station, and an older Drake song called 0 to 100 came on:
Now, parts of this song still sounded contrived and not at all like a brother from Canada, but the combination of the beat and Drake's flow, reeled me all the way in. I wore this song out today, and even gave this song a spot in my elusive workout playlist. I still don't like him, and he'll never convince to buy an entire album/cd/tape, but for now, I respect his ability to win my approval....as if he really cares if a 43-year old likes his stuff.
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
So on this Valentine's Day, I think I'd like to focus on my wife. I usually keep her business out of this blog because 1) this blog is supposed to be about me goddammit and 2) she really doesn't like for me to put her business out there, and for the most part I have respected her wishes. I will do no such thing today.
The wife has had quite a difficult year. Her mother is in the midst of some pretty debilitating nerve pain that we saw up close when we visited her and her husband in Minnesota, and my wife is concerned about that. Then last month, her favorite uncle died suddenly and unexpectedly and we had to attend that sad, sad funeral. Not to mention, that uncle was her father's youngest brother, and now she's increasingly worried about her dad, which is totally understandable. Older people are obsessed with other people's deaths and funerals for some odd reason, but that doesn't necessarily mean they know how to cope with them.
And lastly, my wife has spent the last five months at a job she really can't stand. There's always a learning curve when a new job is involved, but this boss seemed hell-bent on significantly shortening that curve and berating my wife for falling short. At first, she handled it and chalked up to newness, but eventually that great attitude turned to anger, which turned to stress, which turned to all out tears--and considering the list of things she was already enduring in her life, you can imagine how difficult it was for her to get through the day. She loves me and she loves our son, but there was only so much cheering up we had in us. A change in employment was needed and luckily for us, one came last week and it has served as a catalyst for good vibes.
She's still worried about her mother and father, but she's able to deal with that stress with a clearer perspective now that a new job is on the horizon. Plus, she has a five-day weekend before the new job starts, and she'll be able to enter this new situation with a clear head and justifiable excitement. It doesn't hurt that she'll be working with an old boss, who knows and respects her work ethic.
I don't know if the wife will read this, because let's face it: ain't nobody really checking for my blog on a regular basis anymore, since I write about as frequently as the arrival of Halley's Comet. But she'll stumble on it eventually, and when that magical day comes, she'll (and everyone else who reads) will know how happy I am for her. Also I wrote a condensed version of this in her Valentine's Day card, but I realized I had more to say than Hallmark would allow, so now I've empty the clip...so to speak.
The wife has had quite a difficult year. Her mother is in the midst of some pretty debilitating nerve pain that we saw up close when we visited her and her husband in Minnesota, and my wife is concerned about that. Then last month, her favorite uncle died suddenly and unexpectedly and we had to attend that sad, sad funeral. Not to mention, that uncle was her father's youngest brother, and now she's increasingly worried about her dad, which is totally understandable. Older people are obsessed with other people's deaths and funerals for some odd reason, but that doesn't necessarily mean they know how to cope with them.
And lastly, my wife has spent the last five months at a job she really can't stand. There's always a learning curve when a new job is involved, but this boss seemed hell-bent on significantly shortening that curve and berating my wife for falling short. At first, she handled it and chalked up to newness, but eventually that great attitude turned to anger, which turned to stress, which turned to all out tears--and considering the list of things she was already enduring in her life, you can imagine how difficult it was for her to get through the day. She loves me and she loves our son, but there was only so much cheering up we had in us. A change in employment was needed and luckily for us, one came last week and it has served as a catalyst for good vibes.
She's still worried about her mother and father, but she's able to deal with that stress with a clearer perspective now that a new job is on the horizon. Plus, she has a five-day weekend before the new job starts, and she'll be able to enter this new situation with a clear head and justifiable excitement. It doesn't hurt that she'll be working with an old boss, who knows and respects her work ethic.
I don't know if the wife will read this, because let's face it: ain't nobody really checking for my blog on a regular basis anymore, since I write about as frequently as the arrival of Halley's Comet. But she'll stumble on it eventually, and when that magical day comes, she'll (and everyone else who reads) will know how happy I am for her. Also I wrote a condensed version of this in her Valentine's Day card, but I realized I had more to say than Hallmark would allow, so now I've empty the clip...so to speak.
Monday, February 12, 2018
So earlier this morning, my 20-year old son Carlton was shipped to Afghanistan, where he'll be until November or so. While he's gone, he will most likely miss the birth of the child that his wife will give birth to around that same time. God-willing, when that healthy child is born, I will be a goddamn grandfather at the young and tender age of 43. How is that for an opening paragraph after dwelling in a blogless existence for two months?
One of my least favorite expressions is "unpack" but in this specific instance, it feels apropos to use that phrase, so let's unpack each of those bombs I dropped in the previous paragraph.
I've known for several months that my son was going to be deployed, but for the longest time, he had been pretty tight-lipped about the destination. And given that he's in the Marines, I knew better than to pester him about something like that. But about a month ago, when I visited him, he told me that his nine-month stint would be divided between Norway and Romania. Both of those countries sounded a bit innocuous to me, but I didn't pressure him. I learned he was going to Afghanistan not through a direct conversation with him but via a conversation with his mother last Friday. He didn't have the heart to tell me directly, which I get.
First I sat there in shock and told myself that missions like this were exactly what Carlton prepared for, and I needed to man the f**k up. Then, almost involuntary, a montage of memories with my son from birth to 20 started to play on an endless loop on the Summer Jam screen in my head, and that served as the catalyst for my tears. I cried and cried at work, and as luck would have it, my boss called me mid-cry. I got my shit together long enough to not sound like a babbling idiot, but I ended up telling him why I was somber, and thank god he understood.
Last Sunday, just a few days before I found out about the Afghanistan deployment, my son told me that his wife was pregnant and I was going to be a grandfather. I don't agree with their decision, due to the volatility of their relationship and from my vantage point it feels like this was a save-the-relationship child, but he and his wife are grown, and far be it from me to interfere with their affairs and their reproductive organs. But again, to be a grandfather at 43---even though I want a healthy child to be brought into this world--is difficult for me to wrap my mind around. As I told a friend of mine, now I have to wear an ascot, keep a few extra buttons of my shirt open and smoke a cigar, per the grandfather handbook.
I am proud of my son, don't get me wrong. He's 20 years old, he and his wife are homeowners, he has a steady income and they are about to bring a child in the world. But in my mind, he is still a child, and based on what I know about them both, they simply aren't ready to be parents. Then again, who among us is really ready to take on that large of a responsibility? I was 22 when Carlton was born, and I had a degree, no money, no property and my sources of income were a job at Stride Rite and substitute teaching. He'll find his way I'm sure, but I worry about him. But I will be supportive and helpful, because that's what parents--specifically fathers--are supposed to do.
Thanks for humoring me and welcome back to the blog. This is the 12th year of its existence.
One of my least favorite expressions is "unpack" but in this specific instance, it feels apropos to use that phrase, so let's unpack each of those bombs I dropped in the previous paragraph.
I've known for several months that my son was going to be deployed, but for the longest time, he had been pretty tight-lipped about the destination. And given that he's in the Marines, I knew better than to pester him about something like that. But about a month ago, when I visited him, he told me that his nine-month stint would be divided between Norway and Romania. Both of those countries sounded a bit innocuous to me, but I didn't pressure him. I learned he was going to Afghanistan not through a direct conversation with him but via a conversation with his mother last Friday. He didn't have the heart to tell me directly, which I get.
First I sat there in shock and told myself that missions like this were exactly what Carlton prepared for, and I needed to man the f**k up. Then, almost involuntary, a montage of memories with my son from birth to 20 started to play on an endless loop on the Summer Jam screen in my head, and that served as the catalyst for my tears. I cried and cried at work, and as luck would have it, my boss called me mid-cry. I got my shit together long enough to not sound like a babbling idiot, but I ended up telling him why I was somber, and thank god he understood.
Last Sunday, just a few days before I found out about the Afghanistan deployment, my son told me that his wife was pregnant and I was going to be a grandfather. I don't agree with their decision, due to the volatility of their relationship and from my vantage point it feels like this was a save-the-relationship child, but he and his wife are grown, and far be it from me to interfere with their affairs and their reproductive organs. But again, to be a grandfather at 43---even though I want a healthy child to be brought into this world--is difficult for me to wrap my mind around. As I told a friend of mine, now I have to wear an ascot, keep a few extra buttons of my shirt open and smoke a cigar, per the grandfather handbook.
I am proud of my son, don't get me wrong. He's 20 years old, he and his wife are homeowners, he has a steady income and they are about to bring a child in the world. But in my mind, he is still a child, and based on what I know about them both, they simply aren't ready to be parents. Then again, who among us is really ready to take on that large of a responsibility? I was 22 when Carlton was born, and I had a degree, no money, no property and my sources of income were a job at Stride Rite and substitute teaching. He'll find his way I'm sure, but I worry about him. But I will be supportive and helpful, because that's what parents--specifically fathers--are supposed to do.
Thanks for humoring me and welcome back to the blog. This is the 12th year of its existence.
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Last night my son's school had something called a "Showcase", where the entire class of 23 students, convened to basically show the parents what the hell they've been doing all semester. The kids recited lines about an expedition they went and then (they basically interviewed students and faculty, wrote down their responses, drew pictures of who they interviewed and then drew a school map to indicate where in the school this teacher---it was VERY cool) explained it to the parents via a 30-minute long presentation. The teachers did an excellent job of instilling confidence and a work ethic in these kids and it showed in the final product. Not one kid messed up any of their lines, and when it came time for each kid to show off their drawings, their maps and their interview questions/answers, they did so gleefully. It warmed my heart as a parent and as a member of the school community. My son is in damn good hands.
This concludes the positive portion of my blog entry. Now I have to get dirty.
One of my son's best friends in kindergarten is Jayson, and their behavior patterns are virtually identical. He's mercurial, he's silly and he can be a bit handsy at times. Sadly, Jayson's parents--particularly his mother--are annoying as hell. They ask questions about my son but the motive behind their questions is always to show off what THEIR son is doing, rather than really hear about mine. They also go to church eight times a week, and they turn their noses up at my wife and me, because we don't attend at all.
15-20 minutes before the Showcase began, my son was fixing his bowtie and tucking in his shirt, and out of nowhere Jayson hit Nyles in the back of the neck. It was a total sucker punch. Nyles's first instinct was to hit Jayson back(per my instructions) but I held him back for two reasons:
But what I DID do is pull Nyles aside and ask him to hit Jayson the next morning before class started. My wife immediately swooped in and told me that I should not be instructing my son to do such things. On one hand, I agreed with her because my son has a birthday party this weekend and both Jayson and his parents will be in attendance. No one needs that kind of drama at a kiddie birthday party, but at the same time, I don't want any kid having one up on my son in the punch department. He needs to win or at least break even, but out of respect for my wife, I kept the peace...until this morning.
Since I preside over my son's drop off at school (my wife does the pick up) I knew that I could have the last word when it came to dictating my son's actions. My son walked into class today, removed his hat and gloves and I told him that he should hit a) hit Jayson before class started and b) tell the teacher and Jayson, that his daddy asked him to do that, since Jayson hit him last night.
When I told my wife about it later, she vehemently disagreed with my action, and told me that I should not have done any carryover retaliation from last night, and I think she might be right. I just don't want folks getting comfortable with hitting my son and thinking that repercussions aren't around the corner. But I also don't want my son getting in trouble because of crazy directives from his dad. We'll see what happens.
Also, shoutout to the two black fathers (there are only four of us in my son's kindergarten's class) who showed up to this kid-friendly showcase, smelling like weed. That's always a good look in an elementary school.
This concludes the positive portion of my blog entry. Now I have to get dirty.
One of my son's best friends in kindergarten is Jayson, and their behavior patterns are virtually identical. He's mercurial, he's silly and he can be a bit handsy at times. Sadly, Jayson's parents--particularly his mother--are annoying as hell. They ask questions about my son but the motive behind their questions is always to show off what THEIR son is doing, rather than really hear about mine. They also go to church eight times a week, and they turn their noses up at my wife and me, because we don't attend at all.
15-20 minutes before the Showcase began, my son was fixing his bowtie and tucking in his shirt, and out of nowhere Jayson hit Nyles in the back of the neck. It was a total sucker punch. Nyles's first instinct was to hit Jayson back(per my instructions) but I held him back for two reasons:
1 - Jayson's mom jumped in and pulled her son away, and I didn't want Nyles to accidentally hit Jayson AND his mom
2 - The showcase was going to start in 15 minutes and I didn't want Nyles or Jayson to be flustered during their big moment
But what I DID do is pull Nyles aside and ask him to hit Jayson the next morning before class started. My wife immediately swooped in and told me that I should not be instructing my son to do such things. On one hand, I agreed with her because my son has a birthday party this weekend and both Jayson and his parents will be in attendance. No one needs that kind of drama at a kiddie birthday party, but at the same time, I don't want any kid having one up on my son in the punch department. He needs to win or at least break even, but out of respect for my wife, I kept the peace...until this morning.
Since I preside over my son's drop off at school (my wife does the pick up) I knew that I could have the last word when it came to dictating my son's actions. My son walked into class today, removed his hat and gloves and I told him that he should hit a) hit Jayson before class started and b) tell the teacher and Jayson, that his daddy asked him to do that, since Jayson hit him last night.
When I told my wife about it later, she vehemently disagreed with my action, and told me that I should not have done any carryover retaliation from last night, and I think she might be right. I just don't want folks getting comfortable with hitting my son and thinking that repercussions aren't around the corner. But I also don't want my son getting in trouble because of crazy directives from his dad. We'll see what happens.
Also, shoutout to the two black fathers (there are only four of us in my son's kindergarten's class) who showed up to this kid-friendly showcase, smelling like weed. That's always a good look in an elementary school.
Thursday, November 16, 2017
When I woke up this morning and started scrolling through my phone before I got out of bed, I noticed a picture from Questlove's Instagram page. Apparently he went to the Janet Jackson concert in Brooklyn last night, and in addition to meeting and speaking with Janet, he got a chance to speak with Randy Jackson--someone he credits with inspiring him to drum:
Questlove did what Questlove does and told a long story of how Randy Jackson touched his life, and it was a damn good read. But it also made me think of my own personal Randy Jackson story. No I never met him in person or talked to him on the phone, but I do have a funny (at least to me) story to tell.
Back on September 7, 2001, there was big concert at Madison Square Garden, and it was a tribute to Michael Jackson and his 30 years as a solo artist. Usher, N'Sync, Chris Tucker, Beyonce, Muhammad Ali, Bobby Brown, Elizabeth Taylor, Michael's brothers and sisters and countless others were in the audience. Michael himself was there as well..but barely. After he died eight years later, in one of the many documentaries chronicling his struggle with prescription drugs, we learned that MJ was basically in a drug-induced haze the entire show--in fact he had to be awakened out of that haze in his hotel room and reminded that he had to show to do. It is amazing that he was able to summon an above-average show out of that haze, but it is sad that as far back as 2001, prescription drugs were wreaking havoc on his life on and off the stage.
Anyway, towards the end of the show, Jermaine, Jackie, Marlon, Tito and Randy joined MJ on stage so they could breeze (and I do mean breeze) through a medley of their hits. I'd argue that outside of seeing MJ peform "Billie Jean" the crowd had specifically gathered to see MJ and his brothers get down, and get down they did. They did "Love You Save", "I Want You Back", "Dancing Machine", "Shake Your Body Down to the Ground" and others. But my favorite of the night, which happens to involve and incident between Randy and MJ, was "ABC".
About 20 seconds into the song, everyone starts singing the chorus, and right afterwards, Randy starts singing, "You Down with OPP?" which is the Naughty By Nature song that sampled "ABC" (sorry for insulting your collective intelligence). If you know anything about MJ, you know that he is a control freak and perfectionist, and I'm sure he did not appreciate Randy sullying the reputation of the Jacksons and that quality song by bringing up a song in "OPP" which basically about doing the nasty with someone who is not yours. The camera doesn't show MJ's reaction the first time Randy says it, but 26 seconds into the song, the camera shows MJ staring at Randy, just daring him to say it a second time.
Sure enough, Randy does that dumb shit again, and this time MJ--who rarely breaks character or shows anger on or off stage--literally walks directly towards Randy with bad intentions, and Randy has to push MJ away, but not before MJ threw him a few more death stares. Five seconds later they transitioned to another song, so there was no residual anger, but man was it fun to see MJ uncut so to speak.
My story isn't as good as Questlove's but I still like it. Here's the video:
Questlove did what Questlove does and told a long story of how Randy Jackson touched his life, and it was a damn good read. But it also made me think of my own personal Randy Jackson story. No I never met him in person or talked to him on the phone, but I do have a funny (at least to me) story to tell.
Back on September 7, 2001, there was big concert at Madison Square Garden, and it was a tribute to Michael Jackson and his 30 years as a solo artist. Usher, N'Sync, Chris Tucker, Beyonce, Muhammad Ali, Bobby Brown, Elizabeth Taylor, Michael's brothers and sisters and countless others were in the audience. Michael himself was there as well..but barely. After he died eight years later, in one of the many documentaries chronicling his struggle with prescription drugs, we learned that MJ was basically in a drug-induced haze the entire show--in fact he had to be awakened out of that haze in his hotel room and reminded that he had to show to do. It is amazing that he was able to summon an above-average show out of that haze, but it is sad that as far back as 2001, prescription drugs were wreaking havoc on his life on and off the stage.
Anyway, towards the end of the show, Jermaine, Jackie, Marlon, Tito and Randy joined MJ on stage so they could breeze (and I do mean breeze) through a medley of their hits. I'd argue that outside of seeing MJ peform "Billie Jean" the crowd had specifically gathered to see MJ and his brothers get down, and get down they did. They did "Love You Save", "I Want You Back", "Dancing Machine", "Shake Your Body Down to the Ground" and others. But my favorite of the night, which happens to involve and incident between Randy and MJ, was "ABC".
About 20 seconds into the song, everyone starts singing the chorus, and right afterwards, Randy starts singing, "You Down with OPP?" which is the Naughty By Nature song that sampled "ABC" (sorry for insulting your collective intelligence). If you know anything about MJ, you know that he is a control freak and perfectionist, and I'm sure he did not appreciate Randy sullying the reputation of the Jacksons and that quality song by bringing up a song in "OPP" which basically about doing the nasty with someone who is not yours. The camera doesn't show MJ's reaction the first time Randy says it, but 26 seconds into the song, the camera shows MJ staring at Randy, just daring him to say it a second time.
Sure enough, Randy does that dumb shit again, and this time MJ--who rarely breaks character or shows anger on or off stage--literally walks directly towards Randy with bad intentions, and Randy has to push MJ away, but not before MJ threw him a few more death stares. Five seconds later they transitioned to another song, so there was no residual anger, but man was it fun to see MJ uncut so to speak.
My story isn't as good as Questlove's but I still like it. Here's the video:
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Thanksgiving is just about a week away, which means my mother will be coming in town to cook and bless my family with her presence. The wife and I will be buying the groceries so that all we have to do when my mother arrives is kick back and relax--and by we I mean me because I'm sure my wife will assist my mother in making the magic happen. My job will be to entertain and play with young Nyles...or so I thought.
My mother sent me and my wife an email today with a list of the ingredients she will need to make the dinner, and in her message to me she said the following:
Now, my mother and I have been discussing her Thanksgiving visit for damn near a month, and not one solitary time did she mention the presence of her friend Marion. She mentioned that she wanted to spend time her son, daughter-in-law and grandson, and she also mentioned that she was looking forward to some relaxation time, but there was never mention of a +1 situation.
Before I give off the impression that my mother is now a lesbian--which would be a much better blog entry I might add--let me explain who Marion is. Marion was the caregiver for my grandmother before she died, and during that time her and my mother became good friends and travel/prayesr partners. They drive together, they fly together sometimes, and since they both live in Cleveland, Ohio, they attend church together. In fact, my mother calls Marion her "Prayer Warrior", which is odd because I've seen neither shield nor sword.
Since 2011, my mother has lost her mother, her father, her favorite aunt, and best friend of 40+ years, so she values family and companionship a great deal these days, and I get that 100%. In fact, I've wanted her to have that type of relationship with a friend or husband, since she divorced her last husband (not my father) in 2005. I say all the to say, I respect Marion's presence in my mom's life, and I don't dislike her. Yes she is slightly annoying and devoid of any semblance of a personality, but that's my mom's friend not mine.
What annoys me most about this whole situation is that my mother never asked me if it was ok to bring her friend. She just TOLD me that she was bringing her friend to my home--something my mother taught me to never do. She used to tell me that I should never bring an extra person to someone's house where food was going to be served and that the polite thing to do is to give someone a heads up or better yet, just ask. I know that's my mother and she's getting older, but damn couldn't she have asked me if it was cool or at least tell me that she wanted to bring someone, instead of just casually working it into a sentence about the cooking of food?
As I'm typing this, I'm realize that I sound petty, so maybe I should stop typing. Just to put a bow on this entry, I reached out to my mother and said:
Her response, just one word
I love her...but damn
My mother sent me and my wife an email today with a list of the ingredients she will need to make the dinner, and in her message to me she said the following:
Please let me know whether there are items you prefer to cook; otherwise, I don't mind cooking it all. Marion will be helping!
Now, my mother and I have been discussing her Thanksgiving visit for damn near a month, and not one solitary time did she mention the presence of her friend Marion. She mentioned that she wanted to spend time her son, daughter-in-law and grandson, and she also mentioned that she was looking forward to some relaxation time, but there was never mention of a +1 situation.
Before I give off the impression that my mother is now a lesbian--which would be a much better blog entry I might add--let me explain who Marion is. Marion was the caregiver for my grandmother before she died, and during that time her and my mother became good friends and travel/prayesr partners. They drive together, they fly together sometimes, and since they both live in Cleveland, Ohio, they attend church together. In fact, my mother calls Marion her "Prayer Warrior", which is odd because I've seen neither shield nor sword.
Since 2011, my mother has lost her mother, her father, her favorite aunt, and best friend of 40+ years, so she values family and companionship a great deal these days, and I get that 100%. In fact, I've wanted her to have that type of relationship with a friend or husband, since she divorced her last husband (not my father) in 2005. I say all the to say, I respect Marion's presence in my mom's life, and I don't dislike her. Yes she is slightly annoying and devoid of any semblance of a personality, but that's my mom's friend not mine.
What annoys me most about this whole situation is that my mother never asked me if it was ok to bring her friend. She just TOLD me that she was bringing her friend to my home--something my mother taught me to never do. She used to tell me that I should never bring an extra person to someone's house where food was going to be served and that the polite thing to do is to give someone a heads up or better yet, just ask. I know that's my mother and she's getting older, but damn couldn't she have asked me if it was cool or at least tell me that she wanted to bring someone, instead of just casually working it into a sentence about the cooking of food?
As I'm typing this, I'm realize that I sound petty, so maybe I should stop typing. Just to put a bow on this entry, I reached out to my mother and said:
Hello again Mommy. So Marion is coming too? That isn't a problem but I wasn't aware until that email.
Her response, just one word
Yes
I love her...but damn
Sunday, November 12, 2017
My wife and I sent our son to his grandfather's house for a couple days which allowed us some time to go to brunch--bottomless mimosa brunch at that. We sat at the bar, so as you can imagine, the bartender talked to us about a variety of subjects: The Pittsburgh Steelers, how many DC bars he'd worked at during his career, and unfortunately, we also talked about Bill Cosby.
The subject of Cosby came up because we were talking about the rash of male public figures, who have either admitted sexual abuse or have been outed by past victims. It is funny because earlier that morning I had seen this tweet from comedian W. Kamau Bell:
I had to check myself when I read that tweet, because I am quite sure that in my 20 or so years of being in the workforce, I have said inappropriate jokes, looked at a woman the wrong way, or encouraged unflattering jokes/behavior. It is important that dudes surround themselves with other dudes who can serve as their own personal check and balances. Surrounding yourself with a bunch of "yes" people will get you hemmed up---ask OJ Simpson. We as dudes can do better and given the current climate, it is imperative that we do that sooner rather than later.
Anyway, while talking about Bill Cosby, the bartender proceeded to tell my wife and I that he had doubts about Cosby's accusers. He kept saying "if" Cosby did it, and then he said he thought all the women were lying just to get his money. Never mind that most of his accusers simply spoke up about his behavior rather than sue him or take him to court. They just wanted to let Cosby's other victims know that they were not alone. Still, this bartender--like many men and women I know who grew up idolizing Cosby--think Cosby and his reputation are pristine clean.
The proper reaction, especially given the tweet I had seen earlier that morning, would have been for me to check the bartender and his sexist bullshit, to let him know that it was possible that one or two of those accusers were lying, but the not all of the 30+ (I forget how many there were) were lying. I should have informed that his b.s. logic is currently being used by Roy Moore, Donald Trump, Matthew Weiner and countless others I'm sure. Creepy folks like Kevin Spacey and Louis CK have owned up to their behavior, which I gave them slight props for, but it doesn't absolve them of guilt.
Anyway, instead of picking a fight with the bartender and calling him on his b.s., I just sat there and continued to drink the mimosas he was so generously pouring. I didn't want my personal views to sabotage the wonderful outing I was having with my wife. But when the bartender walked away, my wife looked at me and acknowledged that the bartender was on some bullshit with that line of thought, but she also said I did the right thing by letting it go. I felt slightly validated, but in the two days since that outing ended, I feel like I dropped the ball.
That bartender was at least 50 years old, so it is possible that any words that my 42-year old ass had to say, wouldn't have done much damage. But still, I should have tried. I could have been disarming by starting my comments with a "hey man" or "come on don't you think that's kind of harsh?", and perhaps that would have been the catalyst to a spirited, but respectful dialogue. Instead, I chose to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol and blog about it 48 hours later.
I'm not being the passive again.
The subject of Cosby came up because we were talking about the rash of male public figures, who have either admitted sexual abuse or have been outed by past victims. It is funny because earlier that morning I had seen this tweet from comedian W. Kamau Bell:
All men need to do better. Some men just need to do more better than others. But all men can do better. We can stop encouraging bullshit. We can stop "laughing" at "jokes" we suspect are admissions of guilt. We can start snitchin. We can respect boundaries. We can believe women.
— W. Kamau Bell (@wkamaubell) November 10, 2017
I had to check myself when I read that tweet, because I am quite sure that in my 20 or so years of being in the workforce, I have said inappropriate jokes, looked at a woman the wrong way, or encouraged unflattering jokes/behavior. It is important that dudes surround themselves with other dudes who can serve as their own personal check and balances. Surrounding yourself with a bunch of "yes" people will get you hemmed up---ask OJ Simpson. We as dudes can do better and given the current climate, it is imperative that we do that sooner rather than later.
Anyway, while talking about Bill Cosby, the bartender proceeded to tell my wife and I that he had doubts about Cosby's accusers. He kept saying "if" Cosby did it, and then he said he thought all the women were lying just to get his money. Never mind that most of his accusers simply spoke up about his behavior rather than sue him or take him to court. They just wanted to let Cosby's other victims know that they were not alone. Still, this bartender--like many men and women I know who grew up idolizing Cosby--think Cosby and his reputation are pristine clean.
The proper reaction, especially given the tweet I had seen earlier that morning, would have been for me to check the bartender and his sexist bullshit, to let him know that it was possible that one or two of those accusers were lying, but the not all of the 30+ (I forget how many there were) were lying. I should have informed that his b.s. logic is currently being used by Roy Moore, Donald Trump, Matthew Weiner and countless others I'm sure. Creepy folks like Kevin Spacey and Louis CK have owned up to their behavior, which I gave them slight props for, but it doesn't absolve them of guilt.
Anyway, instead of picking a fight with the bartender and calling him on his b.s., I just sat there and continued to drink the mimosas he was so generously pouring. I didn't want my personal views to sabotage the wonderful outing I was having with my wife. But when the bartender walked away, my wife looked at me and acknowledged that the bartender was on some bullshit with that line of thought, but she also said I did the right thing by letting it go. I felt slightly validated, but in the two days since that outing ended, I feel like I dropped the ball.
That bartender was at least 50 years old, so it is possible that any words that my 42-year old ass had to say, wouldn't have done much damage. But still, I should have tried. I could have been disarming by starting my comments with a "hey man" or "come on don't you think that's kind of harsh?", and perhaps that would have been the catalyst to a spirited, but respectful dialogue. Instead, I chose to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol and blog about it 48 hours later.
I'm not being the passive again.
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Last Halloween, my wife, my son and I went trick-or-treating shortly after the sun went down. My son was Iron Man and his costume took a little time to get completely fastened on, but my wife and I got him squared away. The wife was a ballerina and I just threw on an Ahmad Rashad jersey, which is about as much as choose to do at the age of 41 (I'm 42 now) on Halloween.
Since it was Halloween and my wife was taking a little bit longer to get ready than I thought (surprise, surprise) I decided to keep the Halloween-vibe going by putting on Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video. I felt like the wife and I had done a great job of exposing our son to MJ's music, and all that goodwill would be more than enough to offset the fear and scariness the video invariably would cause. Plus I felt like showing him this potentially scary video was ok, but if he really was scared and shook, the candy and trick-or-treating experience would brainwash him 100%.
Now if I had been properly using my brain I would have realized that when I first saw the video I was 8 years old, and I literally was laying down on my dad's back alternating between watching the video and burying my head in his back. I loved the song, and I loved MJ but I didn't understand why he a) kept turning into a zombie and b) insisted on dancing and cavorting with the other zombies he literally had just met when he set foot in cemetery with Ola Ray. The whole operation both scared and confused me, and it was shaking the previously rock-solid trust I had in MJ--it feels weird to say that as a 8-year old I trusted MJ, but humor me.
After I watched that video, I took down my Billie Jean and Human Nature posters for a good month, before I finally got over my fear and watched the video three or four times. Using that logic, I had no business showing my 4-year old son the video last year, but I did it anyway. And you know what? It wasn't half bad.
My son watched the video and he didn't flinch, hide or cry. He did ask a million and one questions about zombies, cemeteries, MJ's transformations and why MJ and the monsters vacillated between being friends and enemies. These were all valid questions, and I did my best to answer each and every one of them. Then we went trick-or-treating and everything seemed to be ok. But while we were trick-or-treating, and once we finished, my son was sure to tell me, "Daddy I don't want to watch that again". I said ok.
Fast forward to this past Sunday, when my son started begging me to see the video again. I've been playing the Thriller album a lot lately, and my son has fallen in love with the song, "Thriller"--especially Vincent Price's diabolical rap/laugh combo. I guess hearing the song repeatedly built up my son's confidence, because all day Sunday he asked me to watch, and I reminded my son that he told me one year earlier that he never wanted to see the video again. Right around the time I almost gave in, I realized it was about 30 minutes before his bed time, and I didn't want MJ to be the catalyst for his bad dreams.
The next day, about two hours before his bedtime, I let Nyles watch Thriller. Just like the first time, he didn't move, cry, scream or hide, he just sat there and watched while asking questions. I got up to dance and he ignored me and remained fixated on Michael Jackson and the zombies around him. Then, about two minutes after the video ended, Nyles lightly hit his head against the couch--something he had done countless times in the past few months without crying--and he just started bawling like a baby. First he tried to say his head hurt, but he quickly pivoted and said that he was crying because Michael Jackson had scared him yet again. But this time his shunning of MJ had a little nuance involved. He no longer wanted to see the video, but he clarified that he definitely still wanted to hear the song--and he did all this while crying, which was quite impressive.
Sadly, the bad reactions did not end there. My son woke up about four times between 8 and 11pm, and each time he was crying and whining about what MJ did to him. He made me promise that I wouldn't show him the video and that I'd keep playing the song for him and I agreed. I also told myself (and the wife) that I was an idiot for allowing a 5-year old to swindle me into showing him a video I knew good and goddamn well he could not handle. This incident--combined with last week's incident when I slipped hummus into my son's sandwich instead of mayo/mustard which caused him to vomit and the teacher had to call me to come get him--means that my Dad-of-the-year award is in peril.
Since it was Halloween and my wife was taking a little bit longer to get ready than I thought (surprise, surprise) I decided to keep the Halloween-vibe going by putting on Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video. I felt like the wife and I had done a great job of exposing our son to MJ's music, and all that goodwill would be more than enough to offset the fear and scariness the video invariably would cause. Plus I felt like showing him this potentially scary video was ok, but if he really was scared and shook, the candy and trick-or-treating experience would brainwash him 100%.
Now if I had been properly using my brain I would have realized that when I first saw the video I was 8 years old, and I literally was laying down on my dad's back alternating between watching the video and burying my head in his back. I loved the song, and I loved MJ but I didn't understand why he a) kept turning into a zombie and b) insisted on dancing and cavorting with the other zombies he literally had just met when he set foot in cemetery with Ola Ray. The whole operation both scared and confused me, and it was shaking the previously rock-solid trust I had in MJ--it feels weird to say that as a 8-year old I trusted MJ, but humor me.
After I watched that video, I took down my Billie Jean and Human Nature posters for a good month, before I finally got over my fear and watched the video three or four times. Using that logic, I had no business showing my 4-year old son the video last year, but I did it anyway. And you know what? It wasn't half bad.
My son watched the video and he didn't flinch, hide or cry. He did ask a million and one questions about zombies, cemeteries, MJ's transformations and why MJ and the monsters vacillated between being friends and enemies. These were all valid questions, and I did my best to answer each and every one of them. Then we went trick-or-treating and everything seemed to be ok. But while we were trick-or-treating, and once we finished, my son was sure to tell me, "Daddy I don't want to watch that again". I said ok.
Fast forward to this past Sunday, when my son started begging me to see the video again. I've been playing the Thriller album a lot lately, and my son has fallen in love with the song, "Thriller"--especially Vincent Price's diabolical rap/laugh combo. I guess hearing the song repeatedly built up my son's confidence, because all day Sunday he asked me to watch, and I reminded my son that he told me one year earlier that he never wanted to see the video again. Right around the time I almost gave in, I realized it was about 30 minutes before his bed time, and I didn't want MJ to be the catalyst for his bad dreams.
The next day, about two hours before his bedtime, I let Nyles watch Thriller. Just like the first time, he didn't move, cry, scream or hide, he just sat there and watched while asking questions. I got up to dance and he ignored me and remained fixated on Michael Jackson and the zombies around him. Then, about two minutes after the video ended, Nyles lightly hit his head against the couch--something he had done countless times in the past few months without crying--and he just started bawling like a baby. First he tried to say his head hurt, but he quickly pivoted and said that he was crying because Michael Jackson had scared him yet again. But this time his shunning of MJ had a little nuance involved. He no longer wanted to see the video, but he clarified that he definitely still wanted to hear the song--and he did all this while crying, which was quite impressive.
Sadly, the bad reactions did not end there. My son woke up about four times between 8 and 11pm, and each time he was crying and whining about what MJ did to him. He made me promise that I wouldn't show him the video and that I'd keep playing the song for him and I agreed. I also told myself (and the wife) that I was an idiot for allowing a 5-year old to swindle me into showing him a video I knew good and goddamn well he could not handle. This incident--combined with last week's incident when I slipped hummus into my son's sandwich instead of mayo/mustard which caused him to vomit and the teacher had to call me to come get him--means that my Dad-of-the-year award is in peril.
Wednesday, September 06, 2017
My son Nyles has reached that phase where he test his limits as a five year old. He's been watching the kids he went to summer camp with, he's been to some parties where he's witnessed other parent-to-kid interactions, and now he's peppered in what he's learned after one week of kindergarten. I was informed that this phase was coming by other parents, so in theory I should have been fully prepared for whatever he attempted to throw my way. But I still managed to let that little mfer get under my skin--especially this past Sunday.
Nyles went to a birthday party on Sunday morning, and that party was at a gym where they allowed the kids to run, jump, tumble, roll and hit heavy bags. It was a two-hour party and he burned an insane amount of energy which always makes parents happy because it leads to an equally as insane nap. At the conclusion of the party, they gave the kids pizza, cake, a cape and an accompanying mask. Parties like this did not exist when I was a youngster.
My son devoured the pizza and the cake, but his favorite parting gifts were the mask and cape. He wore them home, he wore them before and after swim lessons, and he basically kept them on right up until bedtime. If I had allowed him to wear the cape/mask combo in the shower, he would have tried to pull that off as well. Unfortunately, while he had on the cape and mask, he ran, jumped and stomped all over the damn house. A couple of times he even mimicked a superhero by trying to fly--and given that he was wearing a superhero's uniform, he was certainly well within his right. But not really.
After the seventh time of asking him to stop running, jumping and superheroing, I got in his face and raised my voice a bit. I forcefully asked him to keep his butt still and respect the house rules, or I'd take the cape and mask. I felt pretty good about myself and based on the sad, puppy dog look on Nyles's face, I think he got the message. Then I looked over to the wife, and she was laughing at me. Then I looked back at Nyles and I realized I was attempting to discipline this child while he was still wearing the ridiculous cape and mask. The following conversation ensued:
Me: I don't know what the f**k I think I'm doing trying to yell at him with a cape and mask on
The Wife: I was going to say, you look completely ridiculous right now, there's no way he's listening
Me (shooting a stern look at Nyles): He better be listening
The Wife (more laughter): Yeah I don't think so buddy
The lesson here? Before you discipline your kids, remove their superhero costumes. This blog would have been funnier if I recorded video of this bless-ed event, but somehow I doubt that my stern lecture to my son would have carried weight if I had a camera in my hand while my son was running around looking like a midget Batman. Just a hunch.
And my how times have changed in this blog over the years. I used to blog about women, masturbation, exercise and inane observations. Now the blog is kid-dominant, which combined with my extended periods of dormancy, have led to a reduced readership. I thank all five of you for continuing to humor me.
Nyles went to a birthday party on Sunday morning, and that party was at a gym where they allowed the kids to run, jump, tumble, roll and hit heavy bags. It was a two-hour party and he burned an insane amount of energy which always makes parents happy because it leads to an equally as insane nap. At the conclusion of the party, they gave the kids pizza, cake, a cape and an accompanying mask. Parties like this did not exist when I was a youngster.
My son devoured the pizza and the cake, but his favorite parting gifts were the mask and cape. He wore them home, he wore them before and after swim lessons, and he basically kept them on right up until bedtime. If I had allowed him to wear the cape/mask combo in the shower, he would have tried to pull that off as well. Unfortunately, while he had on the cape and mask, he ran, jumped and stomped all over the damn house. A couple of times he even mimicked a superhero by trying to fly--and given that he was wearing a superhero's uniform, he was certainly well within his right. But not really.
After the seventh time of asking him to stop running, jumping and superheroing, I got in his face and raised my voice a bit. I forcefully asked him to keep his butt still and respect the house rules, or I'd take the cape and mask. I felt pretty good about myself and based on the sad, puppy dog look on Nyles's face, I think he got the message. Then I looked over to the wife, and she was laughing at me. Then I looked back at Nyles and I realized I was attempting to discipline this child while he was still wearing the ridiculous cape and mask. The following conversation ensued:
Me: I don't know what the f**k I think I'm doing trying to yell at him with a cape and mask on
The Wife: I was going to say, you look completely ridiculous right now, there's no way he's listening
Me (shooting a stern look at Nyles): He better be listening
The Wife (more laughter): Yeah I don't think so buddy
The lesson here? Before you discipline your kids, remove their superhero costumes. This blog would have been funnier if I recorded video of this bless-ed event, but somehow I doubt that my stern lecture to my son would have carried weight if I had a camera in my hand while my son was running around looking like a midget Batman. Just a hunch.
And my how times have changed in this blog over the years. I used to blog about women, masturbation, exercise and inane observations. Now the blog is kid-dominant, which combined with my extended periods of dormancy, have led to a reduced readership. I thank all five of you for continuing to humor me.
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