Shoulda, Coulda...

Whoever coined the phrase “hindsight is 20/20” was really on to something. I’m sure they realized it too, as they held court from their easy chair, their podium, or their street corner. They probably took a breath, impressed with themselves, glanced out over their loyal subjects, and struck an insightful countenance before continuing again. Listening intently, their audience was awestruck by their admirable perception of the obvious. Their pontificating continued, juxtaposing life’s vicissitudes and sounding downright Socratic, all the while never allowing themselves or the breadth of their knowledge to be hampered by a trifle such as an awareness of their own ignorance.

Stay with me now. We all know this cat. Sometimes they rear their head at the barbeque, plate of ribs in their lap, cold brew in their hand, having just chased down the Courvoisier. They’re at First Fridays, talking louder than you, one-upping whatever you were talking about. They’re at the water cooler, enlightening all of the rest of us minionS about what’s really going on.

Just to show you that I’m not bloggin’ ‘cause I’m thinkin’ it’s a trend, “lemme break it down for you again.” Whoever coined the phrase “hindsight is 20/20” is probably the same guy pictured next to Webster’s definition of a Monday Morning Quarterback. They’ve got all the answers. Of course they do, because they know all the outcomes.

Well, color me Easy-Chair Elway. I suffered from a random attack of, well...randomness today. (Big surprise there.) I suddenly had it all figured out. Excuse me while I put on my Life Coach’s obligatory hat and whistle. Career choices are paramount in my mind these days as my current employer, whom we’ll call Titanic Networks, speeds toward its demise and I remain on deck, playing in the band, keeping the music going so as to not alarm the passengers or in our case the clients. It’s too late to help me, so I’ll play Pat Riley and lead you all to the Promised Land. It’s not too late for you. Moving to the top spot on my list of “if I had it to do agains” I would’ve sold Mary Kay. Yeah, that’s right, Mary Kay. Yeah, put this one right up there ahead of Major League Pitcher, GQ Model, or concert pianist.

I could’ve made a killing selling Mary Kay. Seriously. I’d be like those barbershops that they put in the business districts of major metro areas with the voluptuous 20-somethings donning smocks, shears, and a smile, causing even the would-be Rogaine users to frequent. Speaking completely from an unquestioned position of objectivity, I’m not a bad looking cat. I can play tall, dark and handsome. Well, I’m definitely tall.

It’s not about the cosmetics. No, don’t get this confused with last week’s post where I said that it indeed WAS all cosmetic, clearly referring to the state of being, or even the adjective (English majors, please excuse me if I go astray) form and not the noun that I’m using here. I’ll say it again. It’s not about the cosmetics. Any sales person knows that the product doesn’t sell the product. People sell the product. Never having used any actual cosmetics, I’ll assume that much like the gasoline I’m sold at the pump, with its differing brand names, plethora of octane ratings and varying prices, it’s all the same gas. Furthermore, the consumer buys from who they like. I think they could like me. They definitely don’t want to see somebody that’s wearing the product and looking prettier than them. That would only make them mad. They’d put the lipstick on, their pretty sales lady would tell them, “Oooh! Girl! That looks great!” and they’d subsequently head to the mirror and discover that it doesn’t look as good as their sales lady until they get their upper lip waxed or get collagen injections. But if I were the sales person and was able to give them the same compliment, while blushing, and smiling with my eyes they’d have their instant proof that these very cosmetics indeed have the desired effect on the male species.



Of course it wouldn’t all be smooth sailing. There’d be the issue of the pink car. I’d be so successful that they’d give me a Pink Cadillac to drive around to make my deliveries. No problem. Monday Morning Joe Montana that I am, I figured that I’d put some rims on it and keep some Keith Washington in the changer as I rode up and down the street. I’d supplant the mail man as the highlight of their day.

My ultimate undoing might be the ever increasing price of petrol, however. Sure, I’d have lots of customers, and they’d be buying lots of make-up. But in an effort to have that Pink Cadillac with the plush bucket seats come around their way more often, they might start doing something ridiculous like ordering one tube of lipstick at a time. I’d get there and find that they were writing notes with the stuff, letting their kids use it for their coloring books, or whatever they could think of to use it up as quickly as possible. Mr. Bush’s war would finally drive me into debt more serious than single tubes of lipstick could get me out of. Mary Kay would take the Pink Cadillac away.

It would all come crumbling down as I’d finally come to the realization that the Pee Wee Herman bicycle with the paper boy’s basket does not go over nearly as well as the Pink Coupe de Ville on dubs. My clientele’s patience for my inability to get to them in a timely fashion would wane almost as quickly as your interest in the randomness of my ramblings.

Tired

I'm so tired that I might fall asleep right here on my couch with all my clothes on, and not care. I lack the desire to get up and brush my teeth or even turn the television or any lights off. I hope the door is locked. I'm so tired that it's a wonder that I'm typing anything at all here right now. I could very well be sleeping with my eyes open. My fingers are typing on auto-pilot as the mindless dribble being spouted out on Sportscenter provides a low murmur in the background.

I can only hope that I will sleep like a corpse and not wake up a moment before completing 7 or 8 hours of sleep. Too bad that rain that they promised hasn't started falling yet. I always sleep a little better while it rains through the night. There's something about raindrops rapping against the window that manages to sooth and relax and make you sleep a little bit longer. I'm dozing off now. Maybe I will actually brush my teeth and head to my bed.

Alas, the band of merry men that carry on beneath my window nightly have started in on their first act. Perhaps the streetsweeper will come by and provide the rhythm section for this ensemble. Okay, that's it. I'm being seduced into watching the eyelid channel. Goodnight, Canada.

Fallacy of Fantasy

Nostradamus could not have predicted what I’m about to tell you. Miss Cleo had it all wrong. If you had money on me, you lost. If you hurry, you can turn on your television and see my tearful admission during the press conference. Hurry! Aw…you missed it. I was on all the networks. Larry King weighed in. O’Reilly took his usual moral high ground. Nancy Grace was appalled, and even accused me of several other crimes against humanity. (Totally un-founded accusations, of course. You know how she does.)

I’m still numb. I can’t believe I did it either. I am the first person to speak of how absurd such things are, and now I’m putting the “A” in absurdity. So, for those of you not near a television, here it is: I participated in a Fantasy Basketball draft today. I know. I know. It’s shocking, isn’t it? I sat in my living room, on the phone with a group of friends and acquaintances poring over the scouting reports and injury lists of all of this year’s NBA players on my laptop and “drafted” 15 players for my team. My team will not practice together. My teammates will never pick each other up off the floor. They will never play any help defense for one another. They will definitely never pass to one another. They will do so with minimal guidance from me, as I merely set the line-up for the week’s games and let them do their thing. Some coach, huh. No pep talks. No making them stay after practice to shoot extra free throws. Nothing. From this computer screen I make various personnel changes based on their performance or reported injuries. If my favorite team is playing against one of my players, I hope that this player has a great game, even at the expense of my team winning. I don’t look at scores. I don’t look at standings. I don’t even care if my player’s team wins. I just look at his stats, and compare them to the stats of the players on some other so-called virtual coach’s team and determine a winner.

There’s even trash talking.

“I can’t believe you activated THAT chump this week! He’s a bum!”
“My sister could pick a better line-up than you!”
“Didn’t you know that Adam Morrison was out for the season?”

The whole thing is laughable. Bragging rights are claimed by couch potatoes all around the country. So-called experts, many of whom have never laced up a pair of sneakers and couldn’t tell a pick and roll from a cinnamon roll, razz each other over email and text messages every day , taking credit for Kevin Garnett’s triple double, as if they had helped him perfect his look-away pass or something. Fantasy football guys are even worse. There is actually a segment on ESPN Sportscenter devoted to telling you whom you should have in your starting line-up based on whom the upcoming opponent is, or if the weather is going to be bad, or if the team is playing on natural grass or turf.

Unfortunately, I have not even told you the worst part of this whole sordid tale yet. This is the really despicable part of the whole thing. I feel like Sylvester in the Looney Toons cartoons after he brags to his son about how he is the greatest catcher of mice known to the free world, and then gets beat-up and outsmarted by the mouse, be it Speedy Gonzales or the Kangaroo. Sylvester Jr. will surely make an appearance, sporting a paper bag on his head with the eyes cut out, shaking his head and express his extreme disappointment in me.


“Oh father…I’m so ashamed.”

The draft started at 5pm today. Monday. On Mondays at 5pm, the “A” game at my gym happens. All the cats that really think they can play, show up for the pick up games at 5pm on Mondays and Wednesdays. They stack their teams in hopes that they will get 4, 5 or 6 consecutive victories and not only get a significant cardio workout, but will have bragging rights (REAL bragging rights) until we play again. I skipped the Monday pick-up game for the Fantasy draft. I sat at a laptop and got my “competitive” juices flowing by selecting players on a laptop that were better statistically than the players that my colleagues selected. “And, what do you get for this?” I was asked during a phone conversation this evening. “Um, nothing,” I replied sheepishly. Merely the satisfaction of knowing that I’m officially a nerd. I am the one always preaching to my kids about why I don’t play video games or why I won’t buy them a PlayStation (“I prefer to play games where I actually break a sweat,” I always say with my chest puffed out). It’s all downhill for me from here. Shhhhhhhh!

10/28/07: World Series...of Baseball

I’m a bit disappointed about the World Series this year, and the baseball playoffs in general. Tonight is Game 4 in a series currently led by the Red Sox 3-0. Twice during the playoffs, my insomnia has been cured watching these games, most recently in Game 1 when the Rockies were dismantled 13-1. I missed the Sox offensive onslaught in the 5th inning where they banged out 7 runs. But it was already 6-1 when I dozed off, so it wasn’t like I was watching a nail-biting pitcher’s duel.

I had higher hopes for the Colorado Rockies. They were definitely the exciting story of the last few weeks of the baseball season. They came on like gangbusters winning 20 of their last 21 games and then sweeping the Phillies and Diamondbacks to earn the right to represent the National League in the World Series. Then their fairytale ended. Their momentum was broken. Despite what any non-athlete with a microphone might tell you, momentum is huge. If you’re hot, the last thing you want to do is take a break. You want to keep it going as long as possible. The San Francisco Giants were sailing along until the Loma Prieta Earthquake forced the delay of their Bay Bridge World Series back in 1989 against my Oakland A’s. They never won another game and were sent back to the ‘Stick with their hats in their hand. LeBron James and those other 4 guys that suit up with him surely wish that they could’ve played the Spurs in last season’s NBA Finals immediately following the Detroit game in which King James scored 25 straight points to win the game. The Rockies had to wait 9 long days before they could take on the Boston Red Sox, because the Red Sox were having lots of trouble dispensing of the Cleveland Indians.

I guess that’s where it kind of fell apart for me. I was loving the fact that after being written off by everyone back in May, the boys in the pinstripes stormed back and almost caught the Red Sox for the A.L. East title. Yes. There, I said it. I’m a closet Yankee fan, and as a result, can’t really get excited about the Red Sox. The A’s are my team, but I like the Yankees too because, unlike my A’s, they choose to pay their players and as a result, keep the same roster year in and year out. There’s something about a Fox telecast with its frequent cut-aways to see Joe Torre’s facial expressions, Joe Buck and Tim McCarver and their random banter, Derek Jeter doing something clever, Jorge Posada being the un-sung hero that never gets any credit but gets it done all the time, and then my main man Mariano Rivera turning out the lights on any thoughts of a rally, that just does it for me. This year it was not to be though. The Yanks were pretty much blanked by the Indians and, adding insult to injury, TBS had the first two rounds of playoffs on their network. Their broadcast teams were TERRIBLE. They may as well have let the guys that bring us the Tour de France on Versus or even the WE Network cover the baseball playoffs . Tony Gwynn in the booth was about as exciting as he was on the field. I actually missed the first two days of the playoffs trying to find the games, searching frantically with my remote control on ESPN, ESPN2, ESPN Classic, and Fox. I was dumbfounded.

So tonight, I may or may not watch Game 4. If I do watch, I’ll probably be switching back and forth between the Sunday Night Football game (now THERE’S the gold standard for broadcasters: Madden and Michaels). I’m about as interested in that baseball game as I am in the daily World Series of Poker.

Scary

I’ve been invited to a Halloween party and suddenly have this anxiety about dressing up in a costume. This shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but strangely enough it is. I haven’t dressed up for Halloween since I was in the 5th grade, and have not missed it one bit. Every year I see people making a big deal about getting just the right costume and I’m glad that I generally ignore this whole charade, save for accompanying my children from house to house as they amass a fortune in candy immense enough to make Willy Wonka stare in amazement.

Suddenly, I’m right in the middle of it. I’m not excited enough to want to get some incredibly elaborate costume, but also don’t want to show up dressed as a ghost, with eye wholes cut out of some white sheet and be ridiculed by my friends for not putting enough effort into my selection. I don’t want to get anything that is too far out of character for me or anything that is morally objectionable (Pimp, inflatable fallous) or anything too stupid like a muscle bound man or a pirate.

Undoubtedly, I will arrive at this party feeling utterly ridiculous and will immediately see somebody wearing something that I decided against and wish that I hadn’t as they are the hit of the party. I’ll be self-conscious all night and try to hang out in one part of the room so as to not draw a lot of attention to myself, probably close to the table with all of the hors d’ouevres. It’ll be like when I was in 9th grade and had to dress up for an event only to discover that my summer growth spurt had been a little more pronounced than I had realized as my grey slacks were not nearly long enough to conceal my blue and burgundy argyle socks. Furthermore, as I look through the catalog of items on the Halloween superstore website I am not confident that all of the costumes featured will look the same on somebody my height. I could end up looking EXTRA ridiculous when it’s all said and done. Oh well, I’ll work it out. Perhaps a picture will make it to this site next week. Stay tuned.

10/24/07: Aaaaaaaaaaaaah Yeah...all da ladies go get your towels...

Remember the slow jam tape? No, seriously. Don’t act like you haven't any recollection of what I’m talking about. I heard an old song today that must’ve been on one of my particularly famous editions and it made me think of how ridiculous some of my college antics were. Of course none of it was ridiculous at the time. I thought I was the coolest cat around, and the selections that made the final cut of my rendezvous soundtracks surely reflected that.

In fact, I think they evolved as I evolved. Some of my earliest efforts contained the old standbys of the time. Keith Sweat whined and cried through many of my early efforts at foraging for sustenance. Johnny Gill and Bobby Brown dropped the smooth vocals that filled in the blanks when I fell short, which was often. When I only had a shy smile to offer, Troop told tales of walking to school each day and waiting for her to pass my way. As I started to graduate from young lion to more experienced hunter, the complexity of my musical selections became more evident as well, or so I thought. I went for the classics, sometimes letting Lenny Williams do the begging or Teddy convince somebody as to why they ought to come on and go with me. I was always good for keeping some Prince in the rotation too, just for atmosphere because although the décor of my apartment or dorm room my have belied the fact that I was a man of exquisite taste, the dim light along with his lyrics might create the illusion that the futon was really a 100% Italian leather sofa, draped in Egyptian lace.

Any hunter or fisherman will tell you that you’re only as good as your tools though. If you’re in search of quail, heavy artillery might not be the right approach. If you’ve got the wrong bait, you won’t catch anything that day. So I kept a few selections from 12 Play available or H-Town or maybe that a capella joint from Shai, lest I eliminate anyone my age from being lured in.

My roommates and I would have competitions with the tapes, hyping our latest offerings like we had just come out of the studio after producing Songs in the Key of Life or Kind of Blue, or Thriller or something like that. “Yo…you let me know if you want to borrow this one…its niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.” The most amusing aspects of this whole undertaking were the rather ambitious assumptions that were made in this whole process. First of all, the notion that this “mood music” was the very lynch pin to a successful outing was ridiculous. Our naiveté probably prevented us from grasping the notion of a phenomenon like “girl-talk” and that what we thought in our circles was cementing our legend, was probably being discussed between hysterical laughter on a 3-way call. Furthermore, that the specific order of said musical selections was deemed so crucial to the war effort was downright laughable. Finally, and most importantly there would need to be occasion to unsheathe Excalibur. There was not always a surplus for us young lions of the Serengeti. Indeed there were many periods where famine swept across our homeland. The environment often ceased to be target rich. None of that was of any consequence though as you’ll recall from my 10/11/07 post that stated “if you stay ready, you ain’t got to get ready.” We STAYED ready.

Well, I’m proud to say that I no longer own any slow jam tapes. I’m over that. Really…I am! Awhile ago, I figured out that John Coltrane had already done this work for me 50 years ago when he and McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones got together to bring us A Love Supreme. It didn’t require the 18 or 19 tracks that I might include. With 4 tracks, it was simple in construction but very rich in content, appropriately mellow in stretches and fiercely intense in others.

Again, I may be making too big an assumption here with this musical choice, but now I am older and wise enough to know that neither Coltrane’s nor any other’s melody is the foundation that is holding everything together, but more likely akin to a nice chandelier.

10/23/07: What if...?

What if the Hokey Pokey is what it’s all about? Once again I found myself amused by something very silly and insignificant. I read that on a t-shirt this afternoon and laughed out loud. It’s great when life causes you to laugh out loud. I was wasting away at a trade show today, hoping that each person that came in the general vicinity of my booth would keep walking. I find most trade shows to be about as fruitful as walking down the beach with a metal detector. In the parlance of this Dilbert Generation, this show was a veritable Barney Fest. (I love you, you love me….) We generated exactly one (1) lead today, and I think I’ve actually talked to that guy before. It’s like going to that one good nightclub in a small town. You see the same people every time, and yet you have to act like there’s something new to talk about and that you don’t know what’s going on in every else’s corner of the industry. There was a lot of head nodding; a lot of arms folded head nodding (the “I’m listening, engaged and intrigued by what you are saying”); a lot of arms crossed, with the right hand holding the chin (the “I’m listening, and you are saying something so profound that I have to ponder it for a minute before responding” or “you sure are full of yourself and talk so much, that I’m really just doing this to look intrigued and can think of nothing except that when a segue presents itself I’m cutting this short and leaving you standing here); and of course plenty of people just looking generally disinterested and looking around the room.

But what if putting your left foot in and your left foot out and shaking it all about is what it’s all about. I sat in a whole lot of traffic today and had plenty of time to think about all kinds of stuff, not the least of which involved “what it’s all about”. I thought about work. I thought about family. I thought about friends, old and new. I thought about the lady that I always see on the corner of 17th and Castro on most days, begging for change when I get off the freeway on my way home. I thought about whether or not I’m supposed to try to help her when I see her, or if I’m supposed to help everyone that I see that is less fortunate than myself. I wonder if I should befriend her or bring her some food, or ask her name or pray for her. For the time being, I resolved to do the best I can, and whatever I can.

I ended up hanging out with some friends this evening and having a pretty good time. We went to have some so-so Cuban food and then went to hear some live music at another spot in San Francisco’s Mission District. This place renewed all of our interest in going to Brazil. There we stood, arms folded, bobbing our heads to the samba rhythms of the Boca Do Rio band.

Intrigued? Indeed. Engaged? Absolutely. It seems as though Brazilians, by nature, have an unfair advantage when it comes to having fun. It’s like a whole country was born with the fun gene and the rest of us have to try to develop it like we might develop a singing voice or a left hand.

The band’s drummer really had it going. He was workin’ the timbales, the bongos, and even a tambourine. San Francisco is an amazing city. I love the fact that on any given night, you’ve got so many cultural options to entertain yourself. Well, that’s it for tonight. I’m sure glad my 11th grade English teacher isn’t grading this and forcing me to write a suitable conclusion to this little personal essay. Nos vemos…

Monday October 22, 2007

It’s the beginning of another week and I’m back at the keyboard makin’ it do what it do. It is an uncharacteristically warm, Bay Area evening in late October. This is what folks around here might call “earthquake weather”, as if there were such a thing. However, folks around here are always acutely aware, this time of year, of 2 major events that have occurred in the last 20 years. The first was the Loma Prieta Earthquake back on October 17, 1989. About a half mile from my house there is a monument built in remembrance of the lives lost when the double-decker section of the highway known as the Cypress Structure collapsed. The other event that happened on October 20, 1991 was the Oakland Hills Fire that destroyed more than 3,000 homes. The Bay Area routinely gets what is called Indian Summer, causing our fall weather to sometimes be warmer than our summer weather. It was no doubt the dry weather and warm winds that fueled this blaze back then.

The way the weather was last week, I was worried that I might be sitting in the rain watching the Raiders play yesterday. Now, it may seem like a badge of honor for folks in places like Green Bay or Buffalo to brave the elements and cheer their team on, but here in the Bay, where we can scarcely drive through a little drizzle, this is definitely not the case. Making matters worse, I’m not a Raider fan. I go to one game a year and tailgate with a big group of friends with whom I went to college. Several of them are die-hard Raider fans and they really get into it. I just enjoy the barbeque, the dominoes, and hanging out with the homies. I even half-heartedly cheer for the Silver and Black while I’m there. You almost can’t help but cheer. You WILL cheer when you’re sitting in a sea of Silver and Black. Those people are crazy. There was a guy that clearly was out of his mind when he put on his Kansas City Chiefs jersey to the game, and sat down in our section. After having drinks and obscenities hurled his way, he was finally escorted away by security and police, much to the delight of the Raider Nation. (For the record, I count myself a member Niner Nation, aka Napa Nation or The Wine and Cheese Club.) I doubt that the police charged him with anything. It was probably more like putting him in protective custody. They might’ve torn him apart if he had made it out of the first quarter.

Staying true to form, the Raiders lost in a painful way, but unlike my friends, my mood would be unaffected. I was just happy to have seen everybody and for having had the chance to hang out. For my efforts, I came out looking like a raccoon. Apparently, the polarized Maui Jim sunglasses that I wore to the game worked a little too well, leaving two light circles around my eyes, as the rest of my face browned. So many people commented today at the gym, that I had to take a look at myself in the mirror to see what all the fuss was about. If I had been wearing stripes, I would’ve looked like the Hamburglar.

On Saturday, I got to catch up with my cousin Audrey. We chatted for hours. It was kind of funny as I found myself reminiscing about when the two of us went to school at UCLA. We would talk and talk and talk while she battled with the procrastination that seemed to dog her every time we got together to study. I would get most of my work done, usually calculus problems or something, while she complained about not being able to get a term paper started. Fifteen years later, here we were again, talking the night away while she contemplated folding the piles of laundry that covered the couch and shuddering at the mountain of dishes in the sink. (I helped with the dishes, but I think she stayed up until 3am folding.)

Well, I’m yawning more and more with each keystroke, so I think I’ll have to call it a day.

Just got paid...

It's Friday night and it's raining. I am very much looking forward to going to bed early tonight and getting up to make a big country breakfast. It has certainly been a long week, but the direct deposit hit today so I can pay all my bills now. It's a nice feeling to look at my balance online and feel like that character from the Flintstones, J.L. Gotrocks. But it's very short lived. I should go grocery shopping while I can, and put some gas in the tank. Need a loan? I got you. (I can say that since I know that none of you will read this today, and I'll be broke tomorrow).

As you can plainly see, I've got nothing substantive to say today. Work took it all out of me. Although, it did give me plenty of material for a good Dilbert File entry. Unfortunately, I won't get it done tonight. I must go foraging for sustenance now, lest I wither away into nothingness.

10/18/07: She was really the realest before she got into showbiz

PART II: The death of the original, untampered ..down sista…. I miss H.E.R.

I remember the first time I saw the Roots. My boy Darryn called me.

“Yo Haqq! YO!! You gotta get down here!” he yelled into the phone, trying to make sure I heard him over all the noise.

It must’ve been about 1130pm on a Monday night in San Jose, CA, not exactly the most happening spot on the planet, but alas, my humble hometown. He proceeded to tell me how this group called the Roots was rockin’ the spot at a place called the Ajax Lounge. Studious engineering student that I was, it would usually take an air-raid siren or fire alarm to get me out of the crib on a Monday night when I had class at 8am on Tuesday. Something in his voice made me get dressed in hurry down there though. It was as if he’d just witnessed little men emerging from a spaceship. It was like when your parents told you about the first time they heard Sam Cooke sing, or for others, the first time they heard the Beatles. You knew it was Earth shattering, and you had to be a part of it.

The Roots did not disappoint. They had everyone in this very small space dancing, yelling their approval, participating in the call and response nature of some of the songs. They put on a SHOW! No one was sitting down. Everyone was jumping up and down, and had that amazed look on their face, like they all knew that this was indeed something special. By this time, I had seen a few concerts, and quickly discovered that many of these performers were much more exciting on wax than on stage. Break dancing had kind of died off and it was no longer terribly exciting to watch a guy walk around the stage in a sweat suit and a lot of gold and rap over a track. These cats had us all involved though. They had TALENT!

Let’s rewind back to yesterday’s entry. Something happened. Talent ceased to be a requirement. You never find a group anymore that has anything other than some artificial bass on their tracks, and the rhythm is rarely anything too complex. Did they forget where they come from? Where we come from?! Back in the mother land, we often carried on many complex rhythms simultaneously. We used to talk about stuff; about social issues. I’m not saying that every song was some sort of sociology lecture over a phat beat, but they had a little more substance. It was still poetry. Some were a little edgier than others, but a legitimate case for poetry could be made. That’s what this art form is. It’s poetry. It’s people using their voice to say something. The Lost Poets called us out back in the day, saying we were scared of revolution. Now we’re called to come one and come all and get our grillz. Come one come all, and denigrate your sisters and mothers. Come one, come all and listen to the perpetual soundtrack for every strip club in America. Let’s all make it rain and pop bottles with models, because none of us have anywhere to be but “da Club” and we’re all “ballin outta control”, as we pull our leased Escalade up to our mama’s driveway.

Now all you gotta do is hang your pants off your behind, scowl, and borrow your little sisters book of nursery rhymes to make a hit record. You can’t carry a CD on your own, so you feature 23 other “artists” on your 18 tracks and 7 lewd and lascivious interludes, shoot your video at somebody’s big ol’ house or at the dolla-dolla spot (or both) and suddenly you’re large, still livin’ at your mama’s house. Some of it is really elementary.

Shoulders. Chest. Pants. Shoes.
Shoulders. Chest. Pants. Shoes.

Are you kidding me? My 2nd grader could’ve come up with that one. Let me not totally rain on the parade though. Playing devil’s advocate, perhaps it takes real genius to come up with something so, well…simple!

They love it in the suburbs, in the boardrooms, in the country club. We as a people are no longer a threat. Forget what you heard. Willy Lynch is a media executive. And we buy everything he’s selling. The Roots, the Talib Kweli’s…the cats that are still saying anything at all, they can’t get on the air. How did this happen? How could we let this happen? We play dominoes. We know that all money ain’t good money! It ain’t that comfortable up in the House, is it?

“That’s why we cain’t have nuthin’!”

We used to have black radio stations. We used to have places where we got the news about what was going on in our communities. We had songs that were by us, about us, and meant to uplift us. I can think of maybe one big-city station , KJLH in Los Angeles, that might still qualify, but I don’t live in L.A. anymore, and they were playing some suspect stuff in the afternoon the last time I was in the Southland, so I’m not sure. Hopefully, there are still some in the South, but the Evil Empire will probably soon squeeze them out too.

Remember black music? Real black music. SOUL music? You remember when a song came on and you marveled at the talent, and the voice, and the hair on the back of your neck stood up, and your feet started moving and you couldn’t help but start dancing? You might even catch your mama or grandmamma singing or dancing (or both) while doing chores around the house when something good came on the radio. And it was the same at everybody’s house. You knew that if your dad kept the Ohio Players album covers out of reach at your house, you could check them out at your partna’s house. They were playing Marvin Gaye at Johnny’s house, and cookin’ the same pot of collard greens, just like at your house, and it smelled like afro-sheen (or classy curl for some of you) and air freshener in their bathroom too. Deon’s daddy was turning the meat on the grill while Rose Royce belted out something from the Car Wash Soundtrack. Stan was fading everybody up at the barbershop as we listened to Franky Beverly or Johnny Taylor and read Jet Magazine. It was black music everywhere, all the time, and it was beautiful. It was our soundtrack. I hear old songs today and it reminds me of being a black kid in the ‘70s and ‘80s and I smile and it makes me feel good.

And then some woman’s posterior reminded R. Kelly of his Jeep, and told us there wasn’t nuthin’ wrong with a little bump and grind. Sure, old songs were suggestive in their own way, but they were subtle. You could listen with your kids. Then everybody had somebody rappin’ a verse on their R&B record to give it a little more edge. Then pretty soon the rap was a little longer, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the song. Then the whole song was a rap, and the only singing was the hook. The script was flipped. Then we ran out of original ideas. Sampling was cool when it paid homage to artists from the past that took the time and displayed their creativity in actual arranging and composing unique music. First it was used sparingly, now it’s used almost exclusively. It’s probably not a coincidence that this happened about the same time that music programs began to decline in our school systems.

But I’ma take her back hoping that this $*%# stops…cuz what I’m still talking bout y’all is hip hop.

In the words of Malcolm, its time to stop singin’ and start swingin’. Hit ‘em where it hurts. If we don’t buy it, they can’t sell it.

10/17/07: Hip Hop is Dead

I saw a video from the Black Eyed Peas today on VH-1 Soul. I actually watched the whole thing. Now, please understand that I am by no means a Black Eyed Peas fan. I’m not talking about the current iteration of the group. I’m not talking about the Wonder if I take you home, My humps, my humps my lovely lady lumps. I’m talkin’ ‘bout the Fergie-less, raw, Los Angeles Hip Hop group that didn’t dress in ridiculous costumes and sing popcorn lyrics. I’m talkin’ ‘bout Joints and Jams. What I’m talkin’ ‘bout, y’all, is HIP HOP. I remember the first hip hop show I ever saw. I think i was about 12, and I saw UTFO, the Real Roxanne, and Rockmaster Scott and the Dynamic 3 (the 3 is for 3 words: one hit wonder). Hip hop was break dancing. It was poetic. It was creative. It was HOT!

It pains me that mainstream media and radio (translated: clear channel, aka the evil empire) continue to call the current Black Eyed Peas Hip Hop. These guys actually were signed by Ruthless Records back in the day. Yeah, THAT Ruthless Records. Eazy-E's Ruthless Records. Not that the old Black Eyed Peas were the standard by which all hip hop groups were measured. They weren’t exactly Boogie Down Productions or A Tribe Called Quest, and definitely weren’t Wu Tang or Public Enemy. They had a nice little flow. They had a good lookin' sistah singin' their hooks, with a smooth sultry voice. I guess sista-girl (Kim Hill) was a little too ethnic for their move to the mainstream. They even ditched their live band.

The good thing about hip-hop was always that it had a voice and like the different slangs and dialects, that voice had something a little different to say depending on what part of the country it came from. There was a different sound. Hip hop in LA had a party feel. Miami had its bass. New York was definitely coming from a position of being the birthplace of hip hop, the trend setters...the inner city, the concrete jungle.

Then everybody went and got gangsta, which was cool, because for some, that was their reality. The establishment got worried. Tax dollars were spent on banning some performances, or preventing radio play. Parental advisories were put on the CD covers. Even the little Studio Gangstas were being put on the most wanted list. It was never quite clear though if the fear was that suburban America was becoming ghetto-fied or that too many guys from the ghetto were getting rich and the Puff Daddy’s of the World were infiltrating the country club. And they brought the Thunder! There were task forces. Congressional hearings. The FBI was after NWA. I mean, really. Jay-Z said it quite plainly:

First black in the suburbs, you’d think I had xtc, perkoset and plus sherm …thought back to the block, never saw a cop when I was out there, they never came out there, and out there I was slingin crack to live, I’m only slingin’ rap to your kids..you don’t want your little ones actin like this…little joey got his doo rag on drivin down the street blastin’ Tupac songs (THUG LIFE, BAAAABY!),…HELL YEAH! …you don’t like that do ya…you f&%@d up the hood…right back to you

Clearly, something had to be done. Too bad they didn't continue down the path of taking legal action, and maybe pushing the art deeper underground. No, what happened was much worse.

Unfortunately, somewhere along the way somebody decided to flip the script. It was probably like that scene from the Godfather when all of the 5 families got together to call a truce. “I believe this drug business is going to destroy us,” pleaded Brando’s Don Corleone. “I wanna control it, keep it as a business…keep it respectable…keep it with the dark people…keep it away from schools and children. Keep it among the coloreds, they’re animals anyway,” one of the other Dons explained. Instead of banning the music, they relaxed the restrictions and let anything and everything on the radio.

It's getting late again. Stay tuned tomorrow as I go for day #2 on this soap box, and give my 2 or maybe 3 cents on how R&B was ruined too.

10/16/07: It's all cosmetic

I took a chance today. It could have blown up in my face and I would’ve had to deal with the consequences. No, I didn’t place my life savings on some sure thing. I didn’t try to beat a train to an intersection before the barricades came down. And no, I didn’t rob a bank. I decided not to go to the gym until the end of the day. ( Go ahead, join everyone else in the collective rolling of eyes.)

Some people drink a cup o’ joe. Some read the paper before leaving the house in the morning. I exercise. When I don’t exercise in the morning, the day just doesn’t start off right. It takes me longer to really wake up. I’m sluggish. I get complacent. I might sit and stare at my computer for 15 minutes straight wondering what I’m supposed to do next, and my mind is like the etch-a-sketch that has just been shaken clean. I get this anxiety about whether or not I’m going to get to workout that day. I’m not terribly alert. I’m not creative. I’m stuck in a rut. It’s my grande half caf mocha latte no foam. I need it.

I guess I get like this because there are times when my job has me traveling so frequently that I don’t get to work out regularly, and then all of that eating out catches up to me. There’s that moment of truth every morning when you step out of the shower and it’s just you and the mirror. Clothes can’t hide that. It’s funny, when I was in college, and was a competitive athlete all of the working out had such purpose, there was a nobility to it. It was such an affirmation that you had put in the necessary blood, sweat and tears. It told you that when you came up against that guy that your dad and every coach warned you about (you know the guy, the one that’s shooting 1000 shots a day when you’re only shooting 500, or running 10 miles when you’re running only 5), you’d actually beat him. We used to have a word for somebody that just did all of the exercises that look good to the ladies (curls, bench press, etc.), and that had no bearing on improving their game. We’d call them “Cosmetic”. What an insult that was.

Well, color me cosmetic. With only an occasional Adult League or pick-up game to get ready for, I’m hardly getting in playoff shape. I’m not doing that extra rep so that I’ll hit that shot or get that rebound with 5 seconds left in Game 7. There’s really only two reasons to be a regular at the gym. The first is pretty practical. I’m pretty tall, and as a result have to get a lot of clothes tailored. If I spend a lot of money on a suit, I sure don’t want to grow out of it. The other reason, I’ve alluded to before. It’s all about looking good naked. That’s it. (I hope my mother isn’t reading this). Oh yeah, there are the health benefits, but reading about that here is like me telling you to eat your vegetables and floss your teeth. It’s not sexy.

When I’m not traveling, I like to keep to my workout routine. There’s no excuse. I made myself a morning person about 10 years ago when I figured out that this was the only sure-fire way to get the workout done. Otherwise, something always comes up. The day has a way of getting away. It just gets me going. It makes me feel good. At the very least, on a lazy day, I can at least point to that as an accomplishment before I lay my head down to sleep.

I’m happy to report that it actually, well… “worked out” for me today. As planned, I got to the gym at 5pm, and had a pretty good workout. Unfortunately, I did get a bit of unsettling news while I was warming up on the Lifecycle. LA came up to me and asked if I’d heard about Chuck. At first, I was having a hard time picturing whom he was talking about. I’d played pick-up ball with both of these guys dozens of times. I should know their names. Unfortunately, or not, depending on your vantage point, it is rare for any of us to know more than a nickname or some initials. Knowing a guy’s first name is almost the equivalent of having been the best man in his wedding, or knowing him since 3rd grade. It is almost completely unheard of to know a first AND last name. For the record, LA’s name is Louis (I knew his last name at some point, but can’t recall it now). Recalling some conversations with Chuck, I knew that he had attended St. Elizabeth’s High School, worked for the City of Oakland and was a pretty successful Real Estate investor. He had a knack for being real hot or real cold. Many times, Chuck had hit jump shots from what seemed like Kansas, some times 3 or 4 in a row, using that funny push shot of his, one foot in front of the other has he landed. I remember him hitting a game winning shot about 2 steps across half court, with me guarding him on a particular occasion, all of us in dis-belief as he ran out of the gym and straight to the locker room with a big smile on his face. Other times he might miss 8 in a row. Always a competitor though.

Well, as I pedaled away, LA proceeded to tell me that Chuck passed away last Friday. He was only 42. He apparently was rushed to the hospital when his appendix burst and had a heart attack on the operating table. Chuck was a good dude. I remember having a conversation with him about a trip he had taken to the Dominican Republic. He seemed to get away for an excursion or two every now and then. I would see him out about town hanging out sometimes. He seemed to live life. I didn’t know all sorts of personal details about him, but he was well liked in the circle of guys that regularly play at the gym. I will say a prayer for his family and loved ones before I go to sleep tonight. We’ll miss you, Chuck.

“…against my window…bringing back sweet memories…” 10/15/07

It’s been one of those days. It’s Monday and once again I’m blessed enough to be alive and kicking and recording some thoughts in cyberspace. I was a tad moody in the first half of the day, but I’m over that now. It seemed that the protein shake that I consumed upon returning from my workout failed to rejuvenate like it usually does. Perhaps I was just too tired from a full weekend. Grey skies never help out a California Boy like me in that department, but I was in denial.

I actually have come to enjoy the rain of late. It was also raining on Friday and I combated that by putting in my Jazz for a Rainy Afternoon CD and straightening up the humble abode. I opened the blinds all the way so that I could enjoy my semi-spectacular view (SF Skyline in one direction, construction in another). As long as I don’t have to be out and about in the rain, it’s not so bad. Besides, us urban dwellers have come to appreciate the fresh and clean sensation a good rain can have on downtown streets that get a little “ripe” sometimes. I again opened the blinds today hoping that the dimmed sunlight and some more jazz would do the trick, but it didn’t. Today I was more closely aligned with the sentiment of the song, as another blues song by Bobby Bland came to mind, being that it was Monday.

I was also irritated by having to be tethered to the wall by a 2-foot Ethernet cable since my wireless access point decided to stop working last night. (Not to worry, I got it working again just a few minutes ago.) How wonderfully ironic it is for me to work in the wireless industry and to be felled by some consumer-grade Wi-Fi access point. Had it not been for the rain, I might have walked to Starbucks.

I decided to run some errands. After all, I did have some clothes in need of dry-cleaning and the computer in the console of my car keeps barking at me to get the oil changed. Furthermore, there just so happens to be an Oil Changer about 3 blocks from my dry cleaner. I went to the Oil Changer first since I have this thing about doing things in an order that lends itself to what side of the street something is on, or which freeway entrance it is nearer. No, really. I’ll sometimes drive 5 or 10 more miles on the fumes in my tank because the gas station is on the wrong side of the freeway and will require me to make too many left turns and...(yeah, I know…you’re probably saying , ‘Okay, Rainman, we get it…move on already).

Oil Changer was just the thing I needed to kick start my day. Those of you with the advanced degrees in people watching can appreciate why I enjoyed this so much. Not that the Oil Changer franchise in and of itself is entertaining, but this particular location never disappoints. For some reason, the turnover at this place is really high and perhaps its proximity to Downtown gives it a little more flair…a little more ‘flava’ than some of its suburban counterparts. It’s almost like this location does group hiring. Awhile back there were a group of what looked like “hill kids”, coifs just a little too well kept, and facial hair too well manicured for an oil changing joint. Then for awhile there was the Richmond crew. They looked like they had all previously worked as stevedores (longshoreman) at the docks, and decided to try this out. All of them about 5’9” and shaped like an armoire. Today’s group was a bunch of Yardmen, aka Jamaicans. It was hilarious. I wonder how long they will last. I found it especially amusing because one of the very few Jamaican restaurants in town shares a parking lot with this place. I was even further amused when they did that thing that they always do at auto shops, car washes, or any other service businesses. The Up-Sell. Whatever you came to buy isn’t enough. They always insist that you buy something additional. Your air filter needs to be replaced. You need some coolant. You need some wiper fluid. You need some new steak knives. One of these days I’m going to go to Jiffy Lube on Monday and get all those fluids replaced, get a new filter, and then go to Oil Changer on Tuesday and try to contain my laughter when they insist that they buy all these things again.

The combination of this entertaining cast of characters and my New Grooves, Blue Note Remix CD with its brilliant fusion of spoken word, hip-hop, and jazz turned the tables on my day. Rain is back on my good side now. If I weren’t getting tired, I’d wax poetic about my fondness for thunderstorms, which unfortunately we get here about as often as we get snow. “Bringing back sweet memories….”

Scheduling Snafu

I'm sitting on my couch smarting about why I'm stuck watching the Raiders/Chargers game while the biggest game of the season to date (Cowboys vs. Patriots) goes un-televised in my region. Yes, I live in the Bay Area (the Yay!) but you either like the Niners or the Raiders. Not both. NEVER both. Sure, I'll watch the Raiders now and then, but I am completely indifferent about the outcome. I've even been known to send annoying text messages to my Raider-fan friends as the seconds wind down in one of their particularly frustrating losses, offering my condolences (tongue in cheek). Of course, it's always nice if the Niners have already won their game before I start teasing people.

Well, this week, my Niners have a bye, so its Raiders or nothing. Their getting their lunches handed to them at the hands of Mr. LaDanian Tomlinson and his 2 first quarter touchdowns. Meanwhile, the score scrolling in the corner of the screen has informed me that the Patriots just scored. Oh well, at least I get to catch the Golden State Warriors first home pre-season game tonight. Well, that's it for now.

Pick up the phone

Today's (yesterday's...yeah, i know...) pet peave was people that don't pick up the phone, choosing instead to send an email. It never ceases to amaze me how people will send an email as a passive-aggressive means of relaying their message. Oh sure, we all do it. He/She who has not sent a work related email at 6pm, trying to sneak it in under the radar so that you don't have to deal with the consequences of it until tomorrow morning please stand up. That's what I thought. Like me, you are still sitting. Phone calls are so easy. We all have a cell phone. Whether it be Verizon, Sprint, or Boost, you can get in touch with most of us at a moment's notice.

In the last two days, I have had several instances of soccer moms, disorganized clients, and scatterbrained friends alike who sent an email when they should've called and then wondered why I didn't have the information when they asked me about it. "But I said, er...uh...i sent an email telling everyone that the game has been cancelled."

"Oh...you didn't see my email about the schedule change?"
"Oh yeah, we decided not to go, so we didn't need you to take us to the airport. But since you're here, are you hungry?"

Fresh off the latest game cancellation, I'm not in the mood to rant any further on this one. I think I'll get back in bed.

If you stay ready...

When I lived in the Woodner Apartments, just off Rock Creek Park in Washington, D.C., there was a bus that took residents to the nearest Metro (subway) stop, which in our case was the Van Ness/UDC Station. The bus was actually an old, 15 passenger Ford Econoline Van that ran from 6-9am in the morning and 3-6pm in the afternoon on the return trip. My roommates and I would take this ride to school everyday. It seemed like we were on this trek for more than an hour each day, but in actuality it was only about a 2 mile ride. The driver, Mr. D always had the radio tuned to WTEM (The Team) where Kiley and The Coach would give us the latest from the Sports world as seen through their very "objective" eyes. Their banter along with hustle and bustle on the streets of Northwest Washington, D.C. was plenty to keep the mind occupied and make the time fly by.

The best days, however, were the ones when we got in the van toward the end of rush hour, when there weren't too many passengers because that's when Mr. D held court. Mr. D was a tall brown-skinned, older gentleman that had been in D.C. for years, but was a country boy from North Carolina. He always wore a light jacket, never zipped up, and a Washington Redskins cap that covered the bald spot in the midst of his silver hair. He was usually in pretty good spirits and always had some conversation for you. When we did happen to catch him in one of his rather pensive moods, we could usually get him started by asking,

"Hey Mr. D...What's the good word?"
"Thunderbird!" he would reply, with a sly smile and proceed to "shoot the gift" for the rest of the ride. He had a million stories, and they'd usually have you in stitches by the time you got to the end of the ride. Surely they were embellished quite a bit over the years, but Mr. D was clearly "The Dude" back in his day.

On more than a few occasions, people have asked me if I were from the South. This always makes me laugh, because I have lived on the West Coast for just about all of my life. I suspect that's because of my relaxed demeanor, and the sometimes long and drawn out way that I tell a story. (I know, you would've never guessed.) I also think it has to do with the sayings that I have picked up from folks over the years. I know that Mr. D has contributed plenty to my collection. One of my favorites was always something along the lines of "As soon as you step off the porch in the morning, you're already 2 steps behind." Perhaps its a generational thing as I've heard some version of this uttered by many an older black man over the years, but the sentiment still rings true.

That's how I felt this morning. I was awakened by the sounds of some woman screaming bloody murder in the parking lot across the street from my place as what was first one police car and quickly became four pairs of officers, hemmed her up. Of course, this was about 10 minutes before my 530am alarm was set to go off. Nothing worse than being deprived of your last 10 minutes of sleep. I'd have rather been awakened at 2 or 3am, than moments before my alarm went off. As I got up and got dressed, I was reminded by what seemed to be every one of the 600 muscles and 206 bones in my body that pick up basketball doesn't agree with me nearly as much as it once did. I proceeded to struggle through a workout and came back home to down a protein shake and a bowl of oatmeal. Since today was one of those rare days that I actually had to make the pilgrimage down to the office, I flipped on the TV to hear the weather report. Instead of weather, I heard about some poor guy's remains that were holding up traffic on the freeway, causing a backup for miles and miles.

I'm allergic to traffic. I break out in hives and suffer from severe bouts of depression. Well, not really, but I still try to avoid it like the plague. The motivation to go to the Ghost Town formerly known as the corporate office was fading fast. I was already skeptical that I wouldn't be a terribly integral part of the meeting that was causing me to take this ride in the first place. I had talked to this client on the phone several times, but had never met him face to face. I ended up being thoroughly entertained by the fact that he looked like Frank Drebin (Leslie Nielsen) from the Police Academy movies. I was able to laugh inwardly for the whole 90 minutes that Frank was running his mouth. He was rather chatty. It was as if he were a one-man crusade to see to it that I would not be able to leave earlier enough to beat the traffic on the way home. We probably could've finished this meeting in 15 minutes, but he just wouldn't let up. To make matters worse, at the very end of his turn with the conch, he mustered up an action item for me. I would have to upgrade the firmware of some equipment before I left. Traffic was a certainty now. Well, at least it won't kill me, and what won't kill me can only make me stronger. (Yet another saying....).

On the brighter side, I did get home in time to catch the advanced yoga class at the gym. Mark, the instructor, humored us with his Seinfeldian wit while putting us through the yoga poses with the intensity of the drill sargeant in Full Metal Jacket. Furthermore, my writing streak continues...a whole 2 days in a row.

I must confess that I did have an idea that things would be okay this morning on that walk back from the gym through the cool morning air. I passed a homeless gentleman sitting on the steps of the Federal Building across the street from my house, reading the first book of Exodus aloud. I smiled to myself when I thought about the sermon I heard on this book a few Sundays ago. "Let the boys live!" exclaimed the preacher. To the world, this man may have looked beaten down and tossed aside, but clearly he was ready. I can only imagine that he was calling upon his faith to get him through another day, as he had probably done many days before. It's like another saying that I'm fond of: If you stay ready, you ain't got to get ready.

Tin Tin: October 10, 2007

First and foremost I'd like to apologize for the stupid title to this post. Today's date is October 10th (or at least it was when i scrawled some thoughts on to a piece of paper four hours ago. I feel like I've let my international readership down, not getting something posted on October 10th. We have passed midnight in California and it is now officially October 11th. As if I have any international readership, or anyone other than 2 or 3 friends actually reading this stuff...). Anyway, back to the title. Tin Tin is a cartoon character that apparently is quite popular in Europe, among other places. I recall from my travels to Spain that this little guy's face was everywhere. I even sent postcards with his likeness on them. I guess he wasn't exactly Bugs Bunny over here in the States, so not many people know about him, and as a result, I look as random as usual making some seemingly clever reference that amuses only me. So, to re-cap...Tin Tin, 10 10...stay with me now.





Anyways, “they” say that you should write everyday if you’re going to call yourself a writer. I’d love for somebody to call me a writer, so I’m trying to adhere to this rule. So here I am on day 3, and I already missed a day (Day 2). Which brings me to the second thing I'm apologizing for: The lack of a October 9th post. I had a good excuse though. I was busy. (Insert the laugh track, or the collective groan from the audience…you decide. Better yet the “Aaaaaahhhhhhh!” from the collection of black Brooklyn-ites on the street in the Spike Lee movie Do The Right Thing after the white guy on the bicycle apologizes for stepping on Giancarlo Esposito’s new Jordan’s –

“Dem sh*tz was $100!”
“Yeah…$108 with tax!”

Yeah, I knew you weren’t going to buy that excuse. Really, I was though. I went to the gym for yoga, weightlifting, and some cardio. I met a friend for lunch. I got a haircut ( and in so doing, was brought up to speed on “the latest”), I went to my son’s flag football practice, and I went to see the San Francisco premier of The Color Purple. Yes, I did get up at 5am to do all of this. Oh yeah…I almost forgot. I “worked from home” too. But that’s enough on the excuses. Clearly, I’ve got to move writing up higher on the priority list. I do push-ups as soon as I roll outta bed every morning and prefer to go to the gym before the rest of the day gets away from me. I was about to write something at around lunch time. Really...I was. I made another excuse then, to Myself, convincing Myself that it was too early in the day to report on, well, The Day.

So now I’m typing here from my cyber-confessional. To the virtual cyber priest/readers, I pledge to be more diligent about getting my entries in each day, and to try to be interesting. (He prescribes that I must write “I will blog everyday 500 times on a piece of paper and then do 5 Hail Marys and 10 Our Fathers).Well, that’s it for now. The 6am old-has-been’s basketball game at the gym is fast approaching so I need to get some sleep.

October 8, 2007

It’s another Monday, and life rolls on. The calendar says its Columbus Day, and the Federal and State buildings across the street from my place are closed. It doesn’t feel like a holiday to me though. Okay, I’m lying. Everyday seems like a holiday lately. I love it when I can take my time at the gym and not rush through any part of my workout. I even got in the pool and swam some laps today. Ordinarily, I would’ve been in a hurry to check the email on my Motorola Q phone, or see how many missed calls I had. Ah, the joys of “working from home”. The company that I work for (yes, I do have a day job) which was once so promising and such an exciting place to be , epitomizing cutting edge, limps along, hardly a shell of what it once was. I’ve got to find another job, and SOON!

Meanwhile, I’m obsessing over the thing that perplexes me on a daily basis: what am I going to eat next? It’ll probably be one of those Alaskan Salmon burgers that I have in the freezer from Costco. Delicious! I’ll put it on one of those whole wheat hamburger buns from the Safeway bakery and I’ll top it off with leafy green lettuce, and the Paul Robeson heirloom tomatoes that I have in the fridge. Who knew that in addition to being a playwright, activist, and football star, that the guy got around to developing his own tomato?! I’ll add some scotch bonnet pepper sauce to give it some kick.

This is hardly sounding like an excerpt from an episode of Have Fork, Will Travel, but my journeys have been curiously devoid of exotic locales lately. However, the destinations have been no less out of the ordinary. Case in point: a couple of weeks ago, I started a week exploring the Gold Country in Coloma, California, where gold was first discovered at Sutter’s Mill back in 1848. After surviving two days of hiking, camp fire songs, sleeping in a bunk bed the size of my sock drawer (I’d like to tell you that only my feet hung off the bed, but it was more like everything below my upper calf), and being one of 2 adult chaperones in a bunkhouse with some 20 4th and 5th grade boys, I was quite eager to check into the Coronado Island Marriot Resort in San Diego, CA and make like the vitruvian man as I sprawled out on the king sized bed in my room. The following morning, I would make my way down near the border to R.J. Donovan State Correctional Facility for my work assignment of the day. While the Shawshank Redemption is one of my favorite movies, I had no desire to see anything up close. I’m perfectly content observing the stimulated pixels that form on the business end of the cathode ray tube otherwise known as my television, while seated in the comfort of my living room. Luckily, I didn’t have to visit anything but the minimum security part of the facility. There were guys in orange shirts emblazoned with CDC PRISONER casually walking around the areas where I was. Some were unsupervised in the common areas, watering plants or gardening. There was even a guy tending to some flowers, just a few feet from an open gate. This was the first guy I saw when I drove onto the site. I was later informed that these guys are very low “flight” risks since they actually have a release date. The guys in the shackles and such, over in buildings 6 and 7 were over on the other side of the complex. I would’ve had to don a bullet proof vest to work in that area. I am Jack’s inflamed sense of disappointment. (Fight Club, for those of you that got lost…). No, really…I was rather looking forward to coming face to face with Hannibal Lecter. Yeah, right.

Minimum security was quite enough for my taste. In the wireless industry, we engineers often find ourselves on the roof or on some tall structure to make sure that our antennas work effectively. Usually, we just climb on up there, conduct our business, and climb back down. Our CDC chaperone had us put on the brakes as we made our way for the ladder this time. Why? Well, he had to call the Tower. He had to tell the tower that there would be one CDC employee, and 3 contractors, for a total of 4 people on the roof of the minimum security housing. My shrug, suggested, “What’s the big deal?” Then, he explained that if we went up there, and the numbers didn’t jive with what he told them, they’d start shooting. I am Jack’s pursed lips whistling “whew!” after digesting that bit of information.

Fast forward 24 hours and to the completely other end of the universe (and wouldn’t you know, it was only 140 miles away), and you find me performing a similar task at the Vintage Club in Indian Wells, CA, home to $30 Million dollar palatial homes and a few golf courses. As I grabbed the top rung of the ladder that led to the roof of one of the luxury condos on the property, I paused, had a flashback, and then decided that I was not in danger of being shot on the roof this time.