A Talkin' To!

You have managed to turn me from a woman of substance into a Brick flying, calling too damn much, crying and crying, spying, way down, down low with flats on, from the opposite side of the bar, easy off flowing on the top of your car…I never intended to be this chick, groping in smoke for her mind, or the readily dissolving remnants of it, after being chased, I’ve been dismissed, as just an object, something to play with, you have managed to turn me from a woman of substance to this…

Who knew? I certainly didn’t. I suppose we could just chalk it up to fate. Maybe fate is too strong though and makes the consequences sound a bit too dire. Coincidence? Perhaps. It was a little more than a chance meeting. About that much, I’m certain. It felt like the Ritz, on 9th and E, circa 1993, Washington, D.C., all the homeys, and me. If we weren’t on the dance floor we got to the dance floor. Those on the dance floor slowed up for a second, almost stopping to comprehend just what was going on, as the baseline to Das EFX Mic Checka cleared the air with its very daunting, intimidating quiet before the storm intro, or at least as much as that is possible while blasting 50 dB out of some speakers, black folks on 4 floors wall to wall, and then….RIGGETY ROWLLLLLLLL!!!! That’s the sensation that I got as I sat in the grid lock listening to the latest Jill Scott CD (The Real Thing: Words and Sounds, Vol. 3) that was in the changer. It was just outta the blue, but it hit like a ton of bricks. It ran through me like that proverbial buzz saw that the NFL analysts talk about when describing Tom Brady’s Patriots romping through opposing defenses like a hot knife through a stick of butter.

You ever catch your mama, a good friend, a frustrated co-worker, disgruntled postal worker, the team that the aforementioned Patriots embarrassed last Sunday, your ex-wife(!) on the wrong day at the wrong time, and you get to taste the wrath, in full force, in all of its fury, as they decide that today is the day to let the flood gates fly open, to let loose. You didn’t ask for it, but you got it. In the middle of it, you don’t even know how you got there, but one thing’s for certain: you’re stuck. There’s no escaping. You’ve got to weather this storm.

Chances are, it wasn’t even your storm, but you’ll still be the one trying to brace yourself as they proceed to take 400 years of slavery out on your...–shut your mouth! You get a talkin’ to. I got a talkin’ to today, and believe you me...no punches were pulled. Again, I didn’t ask for this. All I did was grab a CD off the shelf as I walked out the door for work. It wasn’t a new CD either. I’ve not only owned it for over a month, I’ve played it several times at home. I’ve listened to it while I ironed clothes. It played while I cooked. Jill wailed on Come See Me while I paid her no mind, cleaning, talking on the phone…blogging. I didn’t hear it though.

You remember when Wesley Snipes was layin’ into Woody Harrelson’s Billy Hoyle in White Men Can’t Jump, “You don’t Hear Jimmy!”? It was like that. Jill was on, but I didn’t hear her. It’s strange how that’s such a huge metaphor for the greater meaning of her narrative, her soliloquy and my talkin’ to. And is it just her narrative? It’s eerily familiar. I’ve been here before.

As usual, Ms. Scott brews up some “crazy nasty, uber-fantastic, chemistry”, marrying her sultry, powerful and vibrant vocals with provocative, soulful, and sometimes hard driving rhythms, just funky enough and sophisticated at the same time. It’s sexy in a grown-up, non-Ciara/Beyonce/Ashanti/Missy/Video Vixen sort of way. And still incredibly relevant. I don’t mean to sound surprised about the potency of her lyrics, she being one of the Big W-I, double-L-I-E’s of spoken word. She always has something to say and never seems to have a hard to time saying it and being oh so colorful. But it was never like this. It was NEVER like this.

Her tales of toast, 2 scrambled eggs…griiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiits, were both clever and cute and made her that really real that Common talks about. Allow me to be the first to put you on notice that she stepped her game up on this effort. Floetry did a little something on Opera, but Jill spread her wings and showed her Airness, rarefied as it is, dropping them and others off on the second floor as she rose to the roof. I found myself looking around and staring into the other cars that were parked next to me on 880 North, wondering if they could hear it. I must’ve blushed a couple times, sheepishly peering down my nose and then to the periphery, embarrassed like a school boy whose crush has been exposed in front of the class, note seized by teacher and read aloud. Neither Puffy, nor Jigga ever made me want to have some Cristal, and Biggie never moved me to get some Remi in my system, but Jill has my mouth watering in anticipation of a Crown Royal on ice, and I do believe I’m turning a deep shade of red telling you about it. Okay, maybe burgundy. But it was altogether deeper than that.

Jill Scott said a lot here. “Did you hear what she said? No…did you listen?” I said to a friend in a phone conversation later that evening, returning a call that I was forced to let go to voicemail as Jill was giving me that talkin’ to. (Of course, she had “heard”, and was mildly amused that I got my head opened up). Listening to this record (if I may borrow my Dad’s vernacular. Before CD’s, there were these black vinyl things…and we didn’t lock our doors at night…) felt like that dream that you wake up from and sit there for a minute, breathing heavily, not sure if it was real or if it was just a dream because its details were so vivid that you swear you had just lived it.

Does Jill’s command of her communication skills so completely eclipse those of the rest of us mere mortals or is it that our 30-something sensibilities and life experiences seem to be in lock step at this moment in time(in a yin and yang, male and female sort of way), allowing me to hear what might have been lost on me at any time prior? Simultaneously, I heard what she was saying, felt what she was saying, wanted to sympathize, be a friend ,empathize, do a better job next time, lend an ear, give advice, and was even moved to apologize. She was Mama, good friend, ex-wife, girlfriend, co-worker all at once, sounding off to me. Getting some things off her chest.

Maybe I’ve been trying to be what they need me to be, when I shoulda just been me.

Wow! That’s really all I can say. “But you don’t call, and you don’t come and you don’t say that you miss me…and you don’t stop on your way back just to say hi…,”. And here I thought I was in touch. I thought I paid attention. I (and I daresay many of my brethren) have been asleep at the wheel. Exxon Valdez captain, that’s me.

It wasn’t all an attack. The full frontal assault wasn’t entirely abrasive. She confided as well, as friends of the opposite sex are wont to do sometimes. The brutal honesty of this confidence doesn’t come around often so I suggest you do as I: just shut up and listen. I learned a thing to two, like when your older cousin or real cool Auntie breaks something down for you. Enlightens you. Armed with this type of information, you could’ve been dangerous all these years.

The Real Thing is a portrait or perhaps more appropriately a dissertation, while, strangely, still an exercise in intimacy. Yes, I said intimacy. Again, my 30-something-ness affords me the luxury of not allowing the longings of the loins cloud the definition. She bares her soul in a way that demands to be acknowledged and considered. Sistas, Jill did you a solid.

Procrastination

It’s 9:48pm and I’ve decided that this would be a swell time to dispense of the assorted receipts, funny bits of lint, and business cards that are strewn across my nightstand. Nothing like busy work to keep you occupied and feeling otherwise productive when un-productive would be so much better a description. A few minutes ago, I was doing dishes that have been sitting here all day but were suddenly crying out for me to wash them. I folded laundry that ordinarily, although covering my bed, may have either made a very un-triumphant return to the white basket which transported it on its brief journey from the Whirlpool dryer, through the kitchen, past the living room and onto my bed, or just been knocked to the floor as I might choose to fold them tomorrow when I’m not as tired. I’d probably take a call from a telemarketer right now if one called, and volunteer for the ensuing survey if there were one.

No, I don’t have a term paper to finish, or a chemistry exam for which to cram. I’ve just convinced myself that this night would be different. I’ll create the perfect creative environment. I’Il just sit down and let it flow. Uninterrupted. It’s going to be great. I brainstormed all the way home, sitting in traffic, about what was on my mind and how I would capture it succinctly for a blog entry. I would site examples, give personal accounts, use clever analogies. You know how I do! I would amuse. I would inspire. I would provoke thought. I’d try to, anyway. I’d shoot for a literary masterpiece, my daily moon, if you will. If I fell short, it would still end up amongst the stars. Then I got home.

When I walked through the door, I was beat so I dropped my bag and sat down for a minute. As fate would have it, my 3 remote controls were sitting on the couch’s arm, just where I had left them. Even though I knew that I wanted to start writing while it was fresh in my mind, I flipped on NBA TV and watched the rundown of the evening’s action. I would only watch for a minute, I told myself…just to unwind. I decided that I was hungry, so I made myself something to eat. Nothing spectacular. Really, not spectacular at all, unless maybe you like eating like a hobo. Okay, it wasn’t that bad and no it wasn’t a hot dog on the end of a stick. I boiled some angel hair pasta, seasoned up some of the canned sock-eye salmon that I had leftover from yesterday and stirred it all together with a touch of olive oil. Sorely missing was either some parmesan cheese and/or some sort of cream sauce. I didn’t buy any heavy whipping cream the last time I was at the store, and I don’t do the add water to the powder type sauces, so I hoped that it could do without. It couldn’t. But after a few bites, it was just fine. I must’ve temporarily re-adopted my broke college student sensibilities and was just happy to be putting any food in my belly.

I reflected upon my proposed topic as the pasta concoction in the dish rapidly disappeared. How appropriate that I be “roughing it” and getting into a frame of mind to talk about struggle and loss and redemption. But not yet. My mom had called me while I was on my way home and then had to take another call. I know she’s going to call me back. I better not get started yet, lest my flow be interrupted by her call. I think there’s some more junk mail for me to sift through and subsequently shred. Oh wait, did I pay the cable bill? I better get online to check. I wonder if anyone else is talking about what’s on my mind. Let me Google it. There’s the phone. It’s a good thing I’ve got my Bluetooth; I’ll make these granite counter tops sparkle. What am I going to wear to work tomorrow? Plug in the iron. Let’s see…what’s clean? I’m going to be so efficient in the morning. I’ll workout, eat breakfast, get dressed, and hit the door like clockwork.

I need to nail this one. No, I’m not running from it. I’m not afraid. I just want to give it the proper attention and concentration. It’s going to be great. I’ll feel so accomplished when I finish. I already know who’s going to comment. That pomegranate I ate today sure was good, I should buy another the next time I’m at Whole Foods. Let’s see. Should I write to Coltrane or Massive Attack. No. Silence. No. Sportscenter? Videos. There’s the phone again. I’ll do this tomorrow. Yeah. Tomorrow. That way I can collect my thoughts even more. As for now, I’ll put on my dark shades, get back on the Harley and ride into the sunset. But, don’t worry. I’m the Procrastinator 3000. I’ll be back. Hasta la vista, Baby!

What a waste!

I just spent the last 45 minutes going through various items of unsolicited junk mail. Everyone under the sun wants me to have their credit card. They want me to transfer balances from current accounts to their card account and are trying to sweeten the deal with various low interest rate offers. Eastbay wants me to order some new sneakers. West Elm is eager to show me its winter collection of bedroom sets and eclectic office furniture. The Clothing Broker boasts of suits from $49 (as if!) and is announcing that much of their inventory is 65% off! Lee’s Cleaners urges me to not only use its wash and fold servivce, but also to take advantage of their $ 0.99 same day dry cleaning special on shirts. All of this is supposed to be exciting to me.

It’s like this everyday. If it’s not these, it’s a collection of others. Even though I can get my statements online for various accounts, many still see fit to send me paper statements as well. Thankfully, some of them have an option to stop the barage of paper. We must waste an unconscionable amount of paper each day in this country, and for what? I don’t know if I’m just flat out not their target market or if the majority of recipients of all of this excessive solicitation are just as annoyed as I am, but it is truly lost on me. In fact, I think I’m less likely to patronize their businesses when they send me all of this stuff. At least TV commercials try to entertain me just a little bit. Of course they are once again unsuccessful in their main objective as I can rarely remember the brand name or what exactly it was that they were advertising in my favorite commercials. Unfortunately, advertising in print burns precious resources (trees) while TV commercials only make it a little more difficult for us to enjoy whatever programming we are tuned into on a given night. Why doesn’t anyone see this as a problem? Is it really necessary to bombard me with mail everyday? What if there were a law passed that limited the amount of junk mail that could be sent from each source? What if junk mail were only allowed to be sent on Mondays or something like that? That would be an improvement. After all, I have received something from 3 different Bank of America credit card products this week, and it’s only Wednesday! I get the point. Besides, I am so much more likely to check a website for a special anyway. In the event that it slips my mind, one weekly reminder would be much more palatable than 5!

Besides, wouldn’t this save the companies money? If they didn’t have to print all of this stuff up, they would save a fortune, and furthermore would not have to pay the cost of postage for all of these millions of items they must send out each day. They could use the money saved on all of this useless advertising to invest back into their employees. Maybe they could have a profit sharing program or give some nice quarterly bonueses. This would boost morale and likely productivity. As a result, bottom lines would probably increase and at a greater margin since the expense that went in to producing all of the worthless mailers would be eliminated. I better stop before I get put on some communist watch list.

Such an approach would be far to pragmatic for a country that prides itself in its displays of excess. Private sector corporations will spend millions on mail that likely has a greater chance of heading straight from the mailbox to the shredder (unopened even!) than it does of being read, and even less chance of having a recipient actually sign up for one of the services or offers. The Federal Government spends Trillions (yes, with a T) of dollars on a war in a far off land that can’t be won, while failing to put any significant investment into the healthcare or education systems back here at home. That same Government supports a culture in which candidates will raise astronomical amounts of money by charging guests $25,000 per plate to eat the same chicken and rice pilaf dinner that you had at the Women’s Auxiliary Awards and Appreciation Luncheon last year, while just outside this banquet hall homeless and hungry people beg for nickels just to make it through another day. How backward are we to think that any candidate that runs a campaign within this frameword will actually turn around and effect any change on any of these issues once elected?

Well, that’s enough from my perch atop the proverbial soap box tonight. Uhuru!

The End of the World as we know it...

It seems that I’ve done a lot more wondering than wandering of late. That appears certain to change in the near future as my traveling to Asia, the Caribbean, and South America are all but foregone conclusions, thanks to upcoming work projects. However, one thing that an idle body and mind has allowed me to do is wonder aloud about some rather frivolous topics. Those that only subject themselves to my random musings through this medium may not be aware of just how silly I can be and how the train that carries my thoughts often leaves the station off the tracks, with neither a destination, conductor, nor passengers. It just goes. Case in point, the Mr. Mary Kay piece from a few weeks back, speaks precisely to this point. Today the Trivial Train has pulled in again, so…ALL ABOARD!

Out of the clear blue sky I bring you today’s topic. Today we’ll talk about the Monarch of Man Fantasies…the Prince of Pajamas…the Baron of the Babes…the Czar of the Pleasure Pursuers. Of course, I’m talking about none other than Mr. Hugh Hefner, who , on the surface appears to have the life that all of us want (all of us Men that is). But what if it’s all a big lie? What if all that glitters is not gold?

Well, I’ve made the pilgrimage to Holmby Hills, paid a visit to the Mansion, and ventured into the legendary Grotto, so I can confirm that there are no smoke and mirrors there. It’s all as advertised. The whole complex is such an extraordinary expanse that it’s almost breathtaking. By itself, the house cuts quite an imposing figure, sitting smack dab in the middle of the grounds. The other features like the zoo full of exotic animals, the aforementioned Grotto, and spectacular game rooms (some equipped with no furniture, just a TV and “pillow-top mattress” material in lieu of carpet) can’t be done justice by the words of a mere mortal such as myself. ( I could give it a try, but I’ll spare you today, lest I never make a single solitary point in this piece). Surely I would be remiss to not mention all of the cute little bunny rabbits, conejitos for our Spanish speaking readers. Suffice it to say that it’s a grown man’s Disneyland, and I’m sure ol’ Walt came by for some inspiration when ever he was at a loss for what to add to his House of Mouse down the road. Ah…pardon me as I attempt to recover from this episode of nostalgia.

Let me put my Dan Brown hat back on and get back to the randomness of today’s supposition. What would happen if this evening’s newscast led off with “Playboy Paradox: What the Girls Next Door found in the Closet.” So dark the con of man indeed if his Royal Highness were playing for the other team. But could it stick? They’d have a field day with this. Trent Lott, Barack Obama, and Condoleeza Rice wouldn’t even be discussed until after the second or third commercial on Nightline. They’d speculate that the Dow’s big gains today would be offset by tomorrow’s near collapse of the pharmaceutical market as Phizer (ye of the little blue pill) would be in ruins as its main poster boy turned out to be a hoax. The ladies on The View would be all over the place, as usual, Barbara sharing an anecdote about the time back in ’74 when Hef refused her advances and was more interested in her date than she was, and Joy will go on about how Hef swore her to secrecy and talked to some people to get her career jumpstarted after she exposed him as a fraud, by not catching what she was throwing at him. Larry King’s show will change its theme music to Buddy Guy’s “Damn Right I’ve Got the Blues” and will seem dis-interested in living any longer, let alone interviewing his guests or going on with his show at all. He’ll keep an open bottle of Wild Turkey on his desk, and often cut off his guest with “Whatever, man…” at random intervals. The guy from Will and Grace will suddenly become hot on the talk show circuit as will the Queer Eye Guys, and Lance from N’Sync. Right wing Republicans everywhere will start to posture about how he made a mistake and that it doesn’t take away from all of the good that he’s done in his political career, realize that their Freudian slip is not only way too introspective but sending them sprawling like homey in This Christmas on the bathroom floor with the baby oil, think better of it and go back to condemning him and his wicked ways to eternal damnation.

Enough! I had merely set out to entertain, but the blasphemy of my suppositions is altogether too much for me to bear. I didn’t mean it Hef. It’s jus’ jokes. Please don’t give me the lifetime ban. I’ll play nice. My bad.

Little Shop of Horrors

To say that I dislike the mall is like saying that liberal politics aren’t something that Sean Hannity particularly embraces. It’s not NEARLY a strong enough statement. Generally speaking, a shopping mall is not a place that I will frequent. In fact, I generally loathe them and try to avoid them if at all possible. I’ll go through great pains to either get their at closing, or at the time it opens so as to spend the minimal amount of time possible inside. I don’t browse or meander. I get in and get out. I’ve likely already done some research about the availability of the item for which I am seeking. I might even make a phone call to make sure that they’ve got the item that I want in the color that I want, and in the size that I need in that particular store before even heading toward a mall. Of course, this can often be a fruitless venture, and even mis-leading as the person on the phone seemingly tries their best to be the antithesis of helpful (defined, un-helpful, useless…etc.) as if they hope that you will come into the store with a bad attitude gunning for them specifically and ready for a throwdown. No thanks, pal, I’m not that guy. I’m sorry that you chose to work in retail out of all the available vocations. Don’t take it out on me.
But if you want to really put a scare into me, take me near a mall during this time of year. The hair on the back of my neck stands up at the mere mention of shopping. I get cold and clammy, and even nauseated at the suggestion of getting a jump on the good deals. You can’t get me near one of those places. You know how in a scary movie the dog might be hyper-aware of the impending danger and won’t go forward, stopping in his tracks despite his owner yanking on the leash or barking uncontrollably at an empty doorway? Yes, in fact I am the dog in this scenario. The whole scene frightens me. Never mind the long lines and the clutter created by the incessant stacking of the sales items as close to the doorways as possible and at the end of every aisle, I’m frozen with fear at the parking lot. You don’t get an appreciation for just how poorly conceived most of the parking lots and parking structures were until they are at capacity. When even a Geo Storm fails to make the requisite hairpin turn without making it a DMV driver’s license test, 3-point turn in an EMPTY lot, you know it’s a problem. Do yourself a favor. If valet parking is offered (as it seems to be at most of your higher end Westfield type facilities), be sure to partake. You’ll save yourself time and aggravation not to mention the headache of parking in a neighboring county.
The really scary notion is that the person that comes up with these awful marketing slogans is actually getting promoted. Somewhere, there is someone in a corner office, some Vice President of Strategically Cutting Edge Nomenclatural Initiatives that came up with Cyber Monday or Black Friday, sipping on their latte, basking in their own self-righteous glow. Call me out of touch, but I had never heard of either of these until this weekend. And last I checked (hold on as I thrust my black gloved fist to the sky), black was used as an adjective to suggest bad things that were to be avoided (a la blacklist, black ball, black sox) and white was used to “nice” things up (for instance “white” lie, which is not AS bad). I guess white sale was already taken. Cyber Monday. Now that’s pure genius. Said V.P.’s 4-year-old probably came up with that while being hastily unstrapped from the booster seat in the drop off lane at the pre-school, 15 minutes before the meeting. Maybe Black is used to forewarn of events like the one shown over and over again on the news reels this weekend in which two women got into a fist fight over who would get the last Baby Drinks Water on the shelf.
They say that all of the great savings are suddenly available on Monday, but I think this is just a ploy to get at the folks like me that are mall-o-phobic. Nice try. I contend that if you keep your eyes open, these internet deals are always available. I’ve been shopping on the internet for years. In fact, I would almost anoint it as a completely flawed system if I could get the FedEx guy to actually attempt to deliver something when I’m home. Well, that’s enough of my rant. With any luck, I’ll keep my mall moratorium going on through the holidays.

Excuses are like...

I just got home from playing in the alumni basketball game at my high school. I'd love to tell you that we showed those youngsters that they've still got plenty to learn. We were horrible. We couldn't get the ball up the court. We kicked it when we should've dribbled it. We were hopelessly bound to the ground. It most certainly wasn't cute.

I was the elder statesman of the group, more than 7 years the senior of the next oldest guy. We looked like a million bucks in warm-ups, rattling the rim, and strokin' it from beyond the arc. Perhaps we warmed up for too long, because we ran out of gas in a hurry. The game sure seemed to move fast. And those dunks and 3 pointers? Negative.

On the bright side, I left without being injured. In fact, all of us did. I felt my hamstrings and achilles tendon tugging at me a few times, but it was just a scare. I'll blame it on the traffic. Yeah, I'm talking about traffic. Not the game. Traffic! There were accidents all over the place. I was in my car for 90 minutes when I left work. Yeah, that's what happened. It was the traffic. Furthermore, it was too humid today, and that moisture in the air made it hard to warm up. The barometric pressure made it difficult for the ball to get through the hoop. The crystal clear vision that I now have after successful lasik surgery is way too sensitive to the very brigtht, newly installed flourescent lights that weren't there when I was a student there. That place was like a dungeon before. Well, actually it wasn't. It has always been one of the nicer gyms around. Okay, hang on a second as I gather myself and try to come up with a better excuse to replace that one.

Oh, I got it. Let's try washed up on for size. As much as I hate to admit it, the game is not quite where it used to be. When called out on that, however, I'll reply with "I've lost more game than you've EVER had", serving the dual-purpose of making me feel better and dissin' whoever its recipient is. Well, that's enough on that subject.

Tomorrow morning I do battle against more youngsters, but this time there will be a little more parity to the match-ups. The parents will take on their 10 year old daughters in a grudge match on the soccer field at 930am sharp. Wish me luck.

Don't get caught in the Roadblock...Irie

Today I'm coming at you live and direct (well, about 5 hours ago I was) from the Back A Yard Caribbean Grill on Willow Street in Menlo Park, CA where I'm awaiting my lunch with great anticipation. I've ordered the oxtail and jerk chicken combination and I'll wash it down with some ginger beer. At present, I'm thinking about how fortunate I am to work a mere 2 minutes away from this spot and am imagining the possibilities, assuming, of course, that the food is here is good. I am, after all, a tremendous fan of Caribbean food. I'm not ready to anoint them into the category of certifiably authentic, can't miss eat spot yet until I've had a wonderful dining experience. I hang out with a bunch of Caribbean cats (3 Jamaicans, 1 Bajan-from Barbados in case you ain't "up", and a Trini) so I've had a chance to taste some very authentic island food quite often. Having visited that region a couple times, I've also tasted the goods straight from the source. Oddly enough, I'm excited by the fact that its a hole-in-the-wall with seating for only about 16 and nestled into the last storefront near the corner of this residential street.

I need a good meal too. Sure, Thanksgiving is but 2 days away. I have, however, worked up a pretty hearty appetite after poring through the new product material on my new job after slogging through the traffic that seems to be permanently in effect on my route to work. You see, I don't DO traffic. Well, that is, not if I can help it. I've become so spoiled in these specialty vocations that I've managed to keep that I don't know if there is any going back for me...EVER.

Traffic is the bane of my existence. It really gets under my skin so I avoid it like the plague. Unfortunately, I work in at area that affords me virtually no opportunities for short cuts. If the main road is congested, which, by definition I-880 is at all times, I've got to just sit and wait.

I'm not cut out for traffic. I get antsy. I get stiff being folded up like a pretzel in a car, and then there is the issue of the stupid people, my brethren in the bottleneck. When they aren't endangering my life, they can be quite entertaining. Well, actually the entertaining things they do are the very things that endanger my life. It's usually a sure bet to find a few ladies applying makeup in the rearview mirror, holding their compact in their left hand,wrist slightly touching the steering wheel to keep the vehicle steady. Today I was also trying to avoid the clown in the grey 745i that was not only slowing to about 35 for no apparent reason, but was also routinely jerking the wheel back when he realized that his driving by braille was causing him to veer into dangerous territory. Upon closer inspection, I could see that he was reading AND REPLYING TO emails on his Blackberry. Needless to say, at the first sign of daylight, I sped past him as quickly as I could. Finally, there was the lady in the LX470 that just took make-up to a whole new level. Not only was she putting on her face (and quite a tall order that was) with the visor flipped down to use its mirror, but she also had her head cocked to the side so she could keep that phone conversation going. So alarmed was I, that I stopped steering with my knees, grabbed the wheel and moved over a couple lanes.

Okay, now I'm starving. Like I said a minute ago, seating is a hot commodity in here and I've yet to comandeer a chair in here, but I've already placed my order at the counter. Making matters worse, 2 people broke protocol and went past all the rest of us that were waiting and took the table that was opening up (my table). Ostensibly, the rest of us just liked standing around waiting and had no intentions of ever taking a seat and actually partaking in a meal.

My food couldn't come fast enough. When they put it in front of me I almost forgot to give thanks, but I caught myself, prayed, and then went at it. It's a good thing that I'm dressed fairly nicely because I might just put my elbows on the table and start shoveling the rice and peas into my mouth. The spicy sweetness of the jerk chicken is seducing me, flirtatiously tickling my nostrils and making it very hard to stick to my plan of eating the salad first. The oxtails are falling off the bone and the plantains are done just right. I've definitely come to the right spot and Chef Robert Simpson has just earned himself a regular customer. Looking at the back wall at the menu, I notice that the escoveitch fish is only available on Fridays, so I make a mental note to make sure I mix up my routine every now and again so that I can check that out. Dennis Brown (DB, to those of us in the know) is wailing through the wall mounted speakers and giving my auricular senses similar satisfaction to what had already been realized by my olfactory senses and a great accompaniment to the food that was oh so pleasing to the palate.

I've got to jump right back in the traffic after my 530pm conference call, but this meal will at least have me in a good mood for the rest of the workday. I look forward to the next time I can sandwich some Irie between two slices of irate.

Loosed in Translation

I was on a conference call this morning when I did what I so often do during my days. My life slowed down to that Matrix speed (you know...bending way back like Neo as that hot bacon grease flys by, mere inches from my face, spatula in hand pointing at the sky for balance) and I took note that something mildly interesting and downright peculiar was happening, and that I should make a mental note lest I be without anything to reflect upon or write about at day's end. As it turns out, I was cooking breakfast for my kids and listening to my boss and 5 other colleagues from different places around the globe. Even though I was on the phone, and I've told him hundreds of times to relax and try to wait until somebody is off the phone to start bombarding someone with questions, my son started in. I pointed to the phone, which made him pause for a millisecond and then he continued after managing to lower his voice to a very loud whisper. I pointed to the phone again, and then shook my head, and was about to laugh, thankful that this phone had a mute button that I could deploy for just such situations. However, since he's a pretty good reader now, I decided to grab a pen and write him a note. He seemed game for this little exercise. After reading, he nodded, but then started to write something back to me. All but mentally checked out of the call at this point, I smile and decide to indulge him by replying on paper once again. We went back and forth like this until I figured a way to work this in my favor. I started to give him instructions like, "fold those blankets, and straighten up those pillows" which, to my surprise he gladly did. We did this for a few more minutes, he eagerly carrying out a task while I scrambled to think of another one for him to do to keep him engaged while I was multi-tasking. The funniest part was when I was trying to demontrate how I wanted him to roll up a rug and put it in the closet, and resorted to not only drawing something that looked like a party favor (you know the one that you blow into and it rolls out and makes the high pitched sound and is usually an absolute must at surprise parties?) but also to playing mime and doing a rolling/fishing rod motion with my hands. Finally, we got on the same page and he did it.

The kids and I later went to our church to help prepare some food bags for the less fortunate that came by not only today, but also will surely come again on Thanksgiving this Thursday. As it turns out, there were several that didn't speak English very well, and my Spanish speaking skills were called into action. I surprised myself at how well I communicated. Perhaps there was some adrenaline working in my favor, forcing my brain to go into its deepest recesses to recall something that I would usually cause me to draw a blank in a less pressure packed situation. As you can see I was quite pleased with myself.

Later this afternoon, I was grabbing a sandwich at the Togo's across the street from my job when I was amused (yes, easily...i know) by the conversations taking place behind the counter. There were 2 latina ladies and a latino man, and 1 older Japanese gentleman and his son. The son appeared to be the owner of the place and was barking out orders to everyone as the lunch rush ended. Naturally, I timed it perfectly to show up just as the last of the lunch crowd was leaving.

As that last customer left with their sandwich and I was studying the menu, as if I've not been here dozens of times, I noticed that the Japanese father and son were talking to each other in Japanese. This was no big deal. In fact, it was one of those so ordinary things, that I probably DIDN'T really notice until the ensuing events drew more attention to that fact in retrospect. The owner took my order and began to prepare my Sierra Steak Sandwich on a french roll. Very casually, he starts in on Pedro who is re-stocking the deli meats in their respective trays on the counter. He's going on and on about Pedro's single earring and calling his machismo into question. Pedro answers back in spanish and then it occurs to me that Sam, the owner is also speaking spanish, and quite flawlessly. I'm reminded of Matseui Sushi in the Financial District of Panama City, Panama with it's all Japanese staff, and very authentic Japanese decor and excellent sushi rolls. Nothing seemed out of place there until they came to take orders from our table that included myself and several clients that I was visiting in Panama. I remember my sheer amazement as the Japanese waiter came to our table and spoke PERFECT spanish to everyone at my table, hitting the right inflections and everything, sounding like he was straight from an Almodovar flick. I shared this story with Sam and he laughed too, and we exchanged some more small talk as he finished making my sandwich. I returned across the street to eat and finish the workday before dashing off to enter the traffic. Manana, por la manana, lo hare' todo tambien. Hasta manana!

Domestic Disturbance

My desire to be present the next time Futbol's best take aim at its ultimate prize was put to the test this weekend. No, I did not wait in a long line winding around the block for tickets to the match between Chivas and San Luis. No, I didn't tune into the Univision broadcast of America defeating Morelia. It was a little lower level than that. I was on the field for most of Saturday and Sunday watching FC RTT battle its way through pool play to capture the consolation championship. Who is FC RTT? It's not the Futbol Club of Rotterdam or anything like that. It's my 10 year old daughter's soccer (yes, extremely apologetically, we call it soccer here)team, the Rockridge Tough Tigers. Cute name, right? It could be alot worse. They've gone to the mattreses with such formidable foes as the Sugar Plum Fairies, the Soccer Sisters, and the Purple Dolphins. Luckily, overcast skies reigned supreme, so I wouldn't leave with the souvenir "racoon tan" again.

As I sat with some of the other soccer moms and dads, I overheard and participated in a number of colorful conversations ranging from "which middle school are you sending your kids to?" to "have you shopped at the new Trader Joe's? I won't go their again, its just too crowded!" to "I can't believe that Weinstein was given that appointment. He's such a right winger and there's no way we can have someone like that on the bench!" It's always very amusing to see how the conversations vary from season to season, and sport to sport. Our soccer league is one of the "hill" leagues (as opposed to being one in the "flatlands"), so its more of a wine and cheese crowd, and I mean this quite literally. One year, a group of parents on our team saw to it that each practice and game was not without a thermos full of vino and an assortment of cheeses. This is in sharp contrast to the baseball league which is decidedly a "flatlands" crew. The conversations are far less pretentious and often take place loudly from one end of a cell phone, while the wine and cheese might instead be some fried catfish and wing drummettes from JJ's.

But I digress. I was beginning to talk about the conversations that took place around the field. This was the wrap-up to the soccer season, and while I enjoy soccer (well, actually I enjoy futbol considerably more)this season seems to have lasted an eternity and I would welcome its completion. Many of the usual teammates that my kids had played with over the last several years were scattered across several teams and as a result, I didn't get to pal around with the same group of parents on the sidelines. Putting it mildly, it wasn't nearly as enjoyable socially as in years past. The kids were still entertaining on the field, but the whole atmosphere changed. My son's team had a real interesting collection of parents. Many of them were alot older than I and have managed to make it a little further up the proverbial hill than I have at this juncture. I'm firmly rooted on some of the flattest real estate in the whole of Downtown at present, but if it's any consolation, I am on the top floor. Sorry, let's see...where was I? Oh yeah, conversations. Like I said, I had and heard alot of them this weekend, but this was perhaps the most amusing:

Eli's Dad: "Phew! What a day!" (totally exasperated and out of sorts. Ordinarily a little more stiff and buttoned up, on this day, he was more..um...casual, in his grey cotton sweats, some sneakers and some sort of obscure alternative band or oddly-vernacularized watering hole t-shirt, perhaps it was a spot in Berkeley of which I was unfamiliar, hair slightly disheveled, and looking like an un-made bed).

I smiled and chuckled, acknowledging his ice breaker and clearing the way for some conversation. "Is that right?" I said, or something like that, but I fear that I may have been more likely to utter that sentence in THAT way, in the more relaxed confines of the baseball venue, maybe following it up with "...like that there...,". And that's when he dropped the big one.

"Aw man, these kids are wearing me out...our Nanny is out today," he said looking at me as if the two of us were stranded in the Arctic Circle without our jackets, demanding that I give an agreeable, knowing, and commiserating nod. It took all that I had to keep a straight face. Was he kidding? It was like a guy sitting at field level on the fifty yard line and complaining to me that "Man! Those Raider-ettes are just too pretty from here. I can't concentrate on the game," as I strain to see the action through my binoculars from my seat on the Moon. I nodded anyway, smiling like Malcolm McDowell with eyelids pinned open in A Clockwork Orange and mouth stuck as if in spasm in a Jack Nicholson Joker-esque smile. I know a little about alot of things, but having a nanny or something resembling a nanny to help with my kids is something I know nothing about.

"I think Nanny's are like the Holy Grail. You can't live without them," he went on.

Okay, let's try to be fair. In addition to Eli who I believe to be about 7 or 8, he had another little guy about 5 years old riding his bike around and climbing up fences and a 3 year old that would wander, but not too far away from dad. They looked like they could keep you busy and maybe be called a handful, but they were just kids.

I don't know what Eli's dad does for a living (we never got to that)but I have an idea that its nothing where his hands get dirty. I was actually surprised to see him wearing the cotton sweats with the sneakers on this day, as he has often opted for the penny loafers with some variation of this ensemble in the past. Perhaps he has an admin that does things like get people on the phone for him or keep his coffee cup full, and maybe even opens his mail or sends his faxes. Who knows? All I know is he was hard pressed to get any genuine sympathy out of a guy who had put the D in domestic that day cooking breakfast (and you should've seen last night's dinner...check "Destinations" for that later this week), doing laundry, and ironing the kids clothes and getting all of us out the door for an 8am church service. I put the C in chauffeur, as I would drive the kids home to change out of their church clothes and into their soccer uniforms, to grab a bite to eat between games, home to change again and shower again before taking them to a team ice cream party to celebrate the victory and the end to a great season. I also put the U in the "Are you serious?" that I kept concealed behind that mask. I feared he was going to tell me that Eli had spilled the rest of his grande, half caf,soy Caramel Macchiato before they left the house(the one that he usually drinks in peace while Annie the Au Pair corrals the little cowpokes) and that I might have to give him a hug or something.

Not to say that I'm Super Dad or anything, but I just have a hard time seeing the difficulty in whipping a couple of kids into shape. As a captain of industry, surely you have to be a leader of men that probably act like they're six years old half the time. What's the problem? You were a kid once, you know how kids think. One of my college coaches often uttered the following: "I been 21...but you ain't been 45!" That statement made me laugh and I wanted to dismiss it as the ramblings of an old fool when I was that 21 year old, but it is so true. He's already done everything that I'm thinking about doing, so there will be no surprises. I know my kids will eat 17 donuts each if I leave a plate of them in front of them, so I don't do it. Given the opportunity, my son will knock his sister over if it means he gets to go first or be first, so I'm not surprised and try to head it off before it happens.

Parenting is not easy. There is no handbook. But we all have either experienced or observed some good old-fashioned parenting along the way, so its not totally foreign to us. Sure, there are many variations, but the ends justify the means. Dad might let the kids chase the skunk,let them get sprayed because they need to learn that valuable lesson and then hose them off and make them sleep in a tent outside for a couple days. "It'll be fun...like a camping trip." Mom, on the other hand, might just keep them from going outside at all until they're 23 to ensure that they don't get so much as get a hangnail.

Even if I could afford such a thing as a nanny, I wouldn't. I don't quite see the point of letting somebody else deprive me of the odd experiences that my children are sure to bring my way. I can tell a much better story about how my kid threw the makeshift cloth-napkin football a little too close to the wedding cake and then tried to re-write the bride's name with her little finger if it was on my watch rather than hearing about it from the au pair. I don't need to watch family oriented sit-coms with laugh tracks. My kids are at the height of their hilarity during prime time.

Where you been?

I started a new job yesterday, but it was the most comfortable first day ever. There weren't any awkward moments at the water cooler. I didn't have to wander around wondering where the copy machine or the restroom was located, before sheepishly introducing myself to one of my new co-workers and asking for assistance, being forced to endure some small talk and a "welcome aboard" or a "glad to have you here", and a "don't hesitate to ask me if you need anything at all". I sat in my new cubicle and worked, hardly being interrupted at all by somebody returning from the breakroom to ask me some generic questions about what I'm working on, or what my job responsibilities are going to be.

Today, I didn't at all feel like a 5 year old kid going to day 2 of kindergarten, wishing that my mother wouldn't drive away and leave me here and hoping that the other kids will be nice and let me play with them. It felt more like day 502 than day 2. It was as if I went home on Friday May 2, 2003, and over the weekend the calendar fast forwarded to November 15, 2007. You see...I've worked with all but 2 of these folks before. Everybody's first day at a new job should be this comfortable. You know how you feel when you go back to your parents' house and feel as though you can still navigate your way in the dark from the front door all the way to your room at the back of the house without ever bumping your shin on anything nor allowing the floorboards to creak since you've memorized each spot, and can contort your body like Baron Francois Toulour in Ocean's 12 dodging the laser beamed alarm system, to ensure that nary a creak awakens your mother and unleashes her wrath upon you.

It was exciting to see people making copies, sending faxes, and just...moving around with a sense of purpose! (This was in sharp contrast with the company I just left that, on a good day, resembled a mausoleum; correction a recently raided mausoleum with its scattered remains littering the walkways). Where there was talk of gloom and doom, now there is optimism and promise. Laughter and productivity have replaced the whispering and apathy.

In the Fresh Prince dream sequence version of my departure from that last company, my CEO and other execs would be clad in knee length rabbit coats,gators,feather adorned fedoras and struttin around with canes held by hands with pinky rings giving this narration as I clean out my desk and head for the door:


http://video.music.yahoo.com/up/music/music/?rn=1301797&vid=44407339&stationId=&curl=http%3A%2F%2Fsearch.music.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2F%3Fm%3Dall%26p%3Dinternational%2Bplayer%2527s%2Banthem

Spaceships don't come equipped with rearview mirrors, they dip...as quick as they can the atmosphere is narr..shoot the moon, like a preemi out the womb..reconsider...don't do it..read some liter-ture on the subject...you know we got yo' back like chiro-prac-tic...too soon...keep yo' heart 3 stacks...keep yo heart...

Technology

I'm sitting in some horrific traffic waiting to get on the Bay Bridge when it occurs to me how crazy it is that I'm sitting in a car and adding a blog entry from a telephone. I know it's 2007, and there are speakers the size of a single strand of hair, but I'm still blown away by this. It's one of those moments where the world suddenly seems to be in slow motion and I'm the only one aware of every maddening detail. I am acutely aware of things like my heartbeat, the second hand on my Omega watch ticking laboriously from hash mark to hash mark, the eternity between illuminations of the flashing red hand that says "don't walk!" but not in as many words, and if it weren't so loud, probably would hear the air filling up the lungs with each breath, of the stray cat sitting on top of the mobile trailer that is clearly mission control for the chaotic construction that is causing all of this traffic.

It's a telephone, despite what Mr. Wozniak would have you believe. Sure, it's got some sort of equilibrium feature that rights itself like a this stray cat would if for some reason it found itself suddenly falling toward the earth, when rotated, and it can play music and has the funny "seeing-eye" keyboard, but the fact remains; you CAN place a call to somebody from this iPhone.

It's not mine. I'm not cool enough for an iPhone. No, correction...I don't care enough to have an iPhone. I work in technology, but somehow find it hard to get terribly excited about technology. But come on...I'm logged into the internet on a telephone. That's at least a little bit exciting, if not supremely remarkable. Alexander Graham Bell would send Mr. Watson a text message saying "Where you At? You gotta check this out, Yo!" if he saw me typing on a telephone.

But then again, a moment ago, I conversed with a friend while the phone rested in my lap, easily 2 feet away from my ear or my mouth all because a compact contraption clipped to my ear, with its periodically blinking blue light transported my voice through the air at a radio frequency of ~2.4Ghz to my phone and out into the ether and on to the other end of that phone conversation.

Are you getting all this? I'm speaking into a piece of plastic that contains a dash of silicon, a pinch of copper and a touch or two of solder. (Yawn....)

Wake me up when somebody invents a toilet seat that can put itself down since the current state of the art, manually operated ones are far too complicated and too much work to operate for some people.

Snatching Defeat from the Jaws of Victory

I can’t believe those guys blew that game tonight. I just returned home from the Oracle Arena where my Golden State Warriors self-destructed in that uniquely Bay Area way. Leading by 22 points late in the 2nd quarter, the Warriors proceeded to squander their advantage to an undermanned Pistons team tonight. I thought they’d actually get their first victory tonight.

“Throw up your ‘O’ now, b$%@#!” jeered an inebriated man, clad in Bad Boy blue and red. “Yeah…O and six!” he continued, making reference to the stellar beginning to the Warriors 2007-2008 campaign.

It’s a tough time to be in the Bay Area. No Bay Area team has won a game in weeks. After starting out 2-0, the 49ers have dropped 7 straight. The Raiders have lost 5 in a row and the Stanford Cardinal and Cal Bears have each lost 4 out of their last 5. Stanford seemed to be poised to turn their program around after what, at the time, seemed to be an upset for the ages as they knocked off mighty USC, but has been unable to sustain even an ounce of that momentum. We are the anti-Boston.

I'm not worried though. This will just help with our mystique. As Chris Rock would say, "there's money in the comeback". We are sooooo poised for a comeback. Surely, things cannot get any worse. We're not even limiting our woes to the athletic arenas either. Our schools are bad, and our real estate market has gone through the floor. We even pay the highest gas prices. I scoff at the evening news when they report that the national average for a gallon of gas is approaching $3.00. Where...in Rock Springs, Wyoming? In the Bay Area, we're staring squarely at $3.50...in the HOOD! Don't go to downtown San Francisco, unless you're prepared to pay about $3.79.

Things can only get better. Joe Montana still lives here. Kenny Stabler played here. We can pull a rabbit out of a hat. We'll be back. It's just proving to be a formidable challenge to locate a suitable skull covering. Yay Areaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..............................

Poetry Slammin'

I’ve often day dreamed of getting’ my “Love Jones” on and reciting some poetry in front of a group of people. No, better yet, I’d perform it. I’d do something real mellow. I’d wear my cool shades indoors. I’d have on a fly suit.

You’ll never catch me
Long white T-shirt wearin’
My mama would kill me if my pants were saggin’
See, cuz I’m all about the clean-cut corporate
Not the ‘Hook it up’, go to the 5-finger discount store for it

I’d have a message, but I’d be contemporary enough to captivate my audience while entertainining them. I’d get the “oohs” and “aaahs” (not the bewilderment, or pleasant surprise “aah”, more like the MC battle, hip-hop, I just dissed you in my freestyle in that warehouse in 8-Mile style “aah”…or is that an “oh”?)

We need to look the part
Wall Street not Shawshank
High yield not bail bonds
Shun the grindin’ and flippin’
Choose the investment bankin’

I’d have some cool jazz to accompany me. When I paused for emphasis, it would pause. When I posed a question, or looked puzzled, it would PLAY puzzled. It would probably be an upright bass, and maybe a sax. The sax cat would be as cool as me, completely in lock step with my expressions. The bass man would be ice cold.

Then, just as suddenly, I’d bare the tender underbelly. The band wouldn’t miss a beat. I’d expose emotions. I’d be vulnerable. They’d eat it up.

I just want to love you...
So much that the very thought of you
Heals all ills, sets my heart a-fire
Making you want for nothing, as its
your equanimity i pursue

I’d switch to my deep voice, and the bass man would go with me. I’d remove the shades for effect and when I finished, I’d be totally spent. The audience would be on the edge of their seats and ready to burst and I’d have a facial expression that spoke of humility and relief. They’d whistle and cheer and beg for more. I’d tell them no, really, they are too kind. They’d persist and then finally, they insist so I acknowledge that okay,

I guess I AM kinda nice with the flow,..perhaps
I should hook up the collabo...as in ration, so they
can read me all around the nation...i'll be a
sensation...but they don't see me...cuz I don't see
them..cuz i'm blind...but Slim with the tongue pierced says
I got a beautiful mind...i'm outta time..no, i'm just hittin'
the wall...thanks for playin, i had a ball...iiight
den ...that's all from "Mr. Six-Seven-Twelve
o'clock"...i've got writers block...

At this point, the brothas in the back row would rush through the crowd to dap me up. The MC for the night would give me one last big-up, pause, and give me another. And then I’d WAKE up. I’d be confined by my own four walls…still and the light of day, none of my poetry probably ever will…see. But check back with me some other time, because I might indeed grow a spine.

Goodbye Old Friend

Today I said goodbye to an old friend; a faithful companion. We had one last full day together, but then it was time for us to part ways. Life will go on, but my friend will not soon be forgotten. I'll remember the many experiences that my friend was there to share with me. I'll recall the times that my friend was my only outlet, the only one that would take all that I dished out, and help me to make some sense of it. My friend neither judged nor condemned. Never once was I received with anything but fairness and neutrality. I was permitted to postulate, to perplex, or even pontificate. I could criticize, I could call to arms, I could confide if need be. Sometimes, If I felt like it, I could just chatter. I was allowed to emote. I was allowed to express myself.

But that's just the way friends are, right? Good friends just have a way about them. They are there when you have something to say, and there when you have nothing to say. They go in the trenches with you and stay the course until the two of you emerge victorious.

Although this friend was at my side only a short time, I feel blessed just the same. I have other friends, and will surely meet new friends but each will have their special place in my mind, as I think about trials and triumphs shared with each. This one had so many special qualities. This friend encouraged and even facilitated communication with other friends and colleageus. This trusty companion brought me good news, and kept me in touch with things. I could seek advice, I could attempt to be clever, I could be myself with this friend. I could get off on tangents or launch into tirades, and even run on ranting with the intensity of a tel-evangelist. My friend would always allow me to finish, sometimes counseling or offering a necessary admonition lest I be too narrowminded in my assertions, or break rules, all the while maintaining the perspicacity of a supreme court justice.

But press on, I must. I won't continue this lament any longer because my laptop would not wish for me to do so. My entries will be entered on another keyboard after today. I will instant message from a new monitor. As I stand here on this precipice, my words and thoughts having come through the Gateway, I pray that greener pastures lie ahead and that the Dell will allow me to see the forest for the trees.

And if you inherited all the corn in Nebraska, you'd have nothing on me...

Uninspired

Gardner Webb (Who?) beat Kentucky at Rupp Arena tonight. (yawn). The CMA's were on tonight. Yes, that's the Country Music Awards. No, I didn't watch. I wouldn't know George Strait from George of the Jungle.

The world just kind of passed me by today. I can't recall anything interesting happening around me. Was I the invisible man again? No, I was that the other day. Should I have worn green so that I could've been the envy of all that encountered me? Wearing the Burger King mask that I donned at the masquerade party may have made things interesting. No, that wouldn't have made the difference. I like to be the observer not the observed. It was like the TV was on, but the rabbit ears weren't up.

Could this be the onset of, dare I say...no, I can't say it, but it rhymes with fighters socks. I'm not going to worry about it if you won't. I'm entitled to being far short of spectacular once in a while. I'm feeling idiomatically insufficient today. My metaphors have gone missing in action. I'm struggling mightily here. Hopefully, the real Destah will return tomorow to spin a tale of intrigue or international hijinks.

Well, it's time to put this one out of its misery. There's nothing in the tank. Start the standing 8 count right now.

It Ain't Easy being Green

When I was a kid the only possible cause to be wearing green was March 17th, so as to avoid the severe pinching attacks that would surely come your way if you were unable to produce at least a green stripe on a sock or a dollar bill in your pocket. Otherwise, green was very uncool. With the possible exception of my Oakland A’s, there were no green clad teams whose gear bought you any street cred, when you “rocked” it on the school yard.

The Green Bay Packers were the ultimate in boring, tucked way up there in Wisconsin heaped in all of their tradition and history and Opey Cunningham-ness. This was, of course, well before Bret Favre made them hip again with all of his gunslinging and constant jawing back and forth with relentless defensive linemen. The Jets weren’t terribly popular outside of the New York area. The absolute kings of un-cool, the Monarchs of Milquetoast, the veritable Tsunamis of Square were none other than the hated Boston Celtics.

I’m sure they weren’t hated in the New England area, but they definitely weren’t beloved on the West Coast. Keep in mind, this was the Starter jacket era and everywhere you went, you’d see a colorful team jacket or hat. The real cool kids had a Sixers jacket, either the red one or the white one if you were really one of those stylish kids, probably also wearing your Adidas Superstars and maybe even some fat laces. Bulls gear was popular, as was Knicks and even the red and gold of Atlanta made popular by Dominique Wilkins. I can even recall seeing a Spurs jacket, all silver with black writing, reppin’ the Ice Man, George Gervin. You’d get extra props for something like this as it showed your edginess as you payed homage to a player that had much more style and flair than victories. Around my way, the Showtime Lakers, coincidentally outfitted in gold were the proverbial gold standard for Starter gear.


Easily the most dazzling combination with its regal purple upon gold and white, everybody wanted to wear what Magic wore. We even wore the the white, purple, and gold Converse Weapons, the ugliest shoe ever known to man (well, maybe second after the Spike Lee and Tim Hardaway endorsed shoe from Nike, with the straps and the “I got Skillz” tagline in the commercial). You might see a lot of things, but you’d never see a kid wearing anything with Celtics across their chest.
The antithesis of style and cool, everything about the Celtics was bland. Call it tradition, but they wore (and basically still do wear) the same plain white uniforms with the plain block green script that they have always worn. The shorts that their players wore seemed EXTRA short and unflattering. There was nothing cool about the Boston Celtics, except of course all that winning. But that just made us all hate them even more.

Luckily, Frankenstein, the Chief and Larry Legend got old.

When they left, the victories left with them, faster than the ball off the bat of Bucky F#@$!n Dent. The once mighty Celtics spiraled down further than anyone could have imagined, closing Boston Garden and managing only 15 wins during a season in the mid-90s, and losing 18 in a row last season.

Larry Bird is not walking through that door, fans. Kevin McHale is not walking through that door, and Robert Parish is not walking through that door. And if you expect them to walk through that door, they're going to be gray and old. What we are is young, exciting, hard-working, and we're going to improve. People don't realize that, and as soon as they realize those three guys are not coming through that door, the better this town will be for all of us because there are young guys in that (locker) room playing their asses off.

– Frustrated Celtics Coach Rick Pitino, delivered this famous quote during a post game press conference.

But in 2007, 11-time all-star Kevin Garnett and sharp shooting 7-time all-star Ray Allen walked through the door and suddenly the Celtics have a swagger again. There’s suddenly talk of a championship…THIS YEAR. Teamed with Paul Pierce, The Big Ticket and Mr. Jesus Shuttlesworth do make you an instant contender to be sure, but who could’ve predicted that Gang Green could be en vogue!?? I’ve noticed a sharp increase in Celtic colors at the gym. Guys that I’ve known for years, and that would formerly be seen only in red and black or purple and gold are now showing off their Celtic Pride. These are guys, mind you, that have never been to Boston…wouldn’t know Beantown from Cape Town. Indeed anything is possible. Maybe I’ll even go out and buy myself a Marcus Allen Raiders jersey.

We Wear the Mask

It’s November 5th here in Oakland, CA and I’m here again with what’s on my mind. But before I do that, I’m also struck by today’s date 11-5. That’s not necessarily a significant date in most places, but in East Oakland it is at the very least urban legend. The East Oakland neighborhood of Sobrante Park has a nickname of some notoriety in its“11-5” moniker. In police blotter parlance, 11-5 is the code for heroin, and this particular neighborhood is severely afflicted by that problem. As far as the urban legend goes, it is said that tempers tend to flare on this date in that neighborhood contributing, regrettably, to this city’s perennially high homicide rate. Well, that’s enough on the demographic lesson for today.

What’s really got me today is my internal pessimist trying to escape to say “I told you so” as yet another public figure got caught running off at the mouth. Of course, I’m speaking of Dog the Bounty Hunter, of A&E Network reality show fame. I can’t even say “apparently” on this one because ol’ Dog is on tape, delivering his rhetoric in no uncertain terms. On the now famous telephone rant, Dog drops N-bombs like a B-1 Lancer dropping bunker busters on Al-Qaeda’s mountain hideaways. Unfortunately, I can’t say that I’m surprised. Our culture routinely falls short in the area of racial harmony. Oh sure, it seems like everything is okay. Segregation in schools has been gone for more than 50 years, black quarterbacks are no longer taboo, and white kids in the suburbs not only buy all the rap music but also sag their trousers and wear doo-rags. We’ve clearly embraced one another, haven’t we? To quote the great Paul Laurence Dunbar, “We,” as a society, “wear the mask.”

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries
To Thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!


Dog seemed like a likeable enough guy. I wasn’t a regular viewer of his show, but I’d seen it once or twice. He seemed like a guy that was trying to get people back on the right path, giving heartfelt pep talks to the escaped parolees as he corralled them. I’m not saying that I expected to see him penciled in as the Spellman College commencement speaker, but I didn’t expect this. But again, I’m not surprised.

The likable buffoon that was Cosmo Kramer on one of my formerly favorite shows (Seinfeld…but I just can’t watch those re-runs with the same pleasure anymore), showed his proverbial hind parts about this time last year with his angry explosion in response to a heckler at West Hollywood’s Laugh Factory. Comedians are usually given a significant amount of latitude to make light of the societies ills, but Kramer (Michael Richards is his real name) took it to a level that suggested a deep seated resentment that had long since eclipsed the realm of comedy. Finally (I wish I could really say finally, but it won’t be the last), shock jock Don Imus crossed the line on so many levels when he decided it was his place to refer to the young ladies of the Rutgers University basketball team, performing on their sport’s biggest stage, as “nappy headed ho’s”. The only silver lining here was that I really disliked Imus (I like him about as much as I like Savage, Hannity and Combs, or any other number of idiots that get airtime) prior to this incident, but still wish he had not stained the accomplishments of these young women with his nonsense.

The eternal optimist that I am, reasons that such exposures are necessary steps to progress in the positive direction. They are a necessary evil.

“Evil is Good…,” said Eddie Murphy as Preacher Pauly in A Vampire in Brooklyn.

All of my athletic career, I’ve been told there is no gain without first enduring some pain. CBS head man Les Moonves, in a statement following his decision to fire Imus stated it quite well:

One thing is for certain: This is about a lot more than Imus. He has flourished in a culture that permits a certain level of objectionable expression that hurts and demeans a wide range of people. In taking him off the air, I believe we take an important and necessary in not just solving a unique problem, but in changing that culture, which extends far beyond the walls of our Company.

That seems like a nice stance from CBS (MSNBC also dropped Imus), but just as serially losing coaches keep getting jobs in other football cities, Imus is scheduled to start another job on WABC (Citadel Broadcasting) in NYC on December 3rd.

Invisible Man, that's me

I was reminded of just how inconspicuous I can be today. In fact, you could say that I was quite literally smacked right on top of the head by it. As I walked to the corner store a block from my condo, I just so happened to be in the flight path of a group of pigeons that was re-locating from their rooftop perch to the vacant lot below. While most of them navigated all obstructions on their way between point A and point B, one of them had some difficulty, glancing right off my forehead and into my sunglasses. Apparently his depth perception was a little off. Perhaps he had taken this route many times before and couldn’t fathom that something in motion could actually be that tall.

Initially, I was stunned, and for a microsecond, my gait became a tad more deliberate. Then the germiphobe in me set in, as I had to resist the urge to immediately wipe my forehead. I really have a strong dislike for these winged rats. It seemed like an eternity between this encounter and the moment that I returned home, immediately heading to the sink to scour the contaminated area over and over again with soap and scalding water. Once I was convinced that all remnants of bird were gone, I sat down and relaxed, gazing out my 6th story window at the profusion of pigeons pecking away at the gravel in the lot below.

How could that bird have missed me? I cut quite an imposing figure on any landscape that I strut across. After all, I’m nearly a foot taller than the average adult male (5’9” in case you hadn’t noticed) but I am not, however, the most boisterous or overbearing fellow you’ve ever met. Perhaps he was as indifferent to my existence as many of the people that I encounter throughout the day. I can’t say that I’m in need of attention. I don’t have an exceptional need to be noticed or acknowledged all of the time. Attention from the opposite sex or maybe from someone having the clout to consider me for a career promotion being exempt, I must confess that I rather prefer the anonymity as I walk through my urban surroundings on my way to and fro each day. It’s downright absurd how all of us pass by one another pretending not to notice. It never ceases to amaze me how we can sit so close to one another on a 5-hour flight and not utter one word. Are they not worthy of our acknowledgement? Do we also discount their humanity? Their struggle? What good things are happening in their life? What turmoil they are enduring?

I fashion myself an observer, and in so doing, I spend exorbitant amounts of time absorbing my surroundings. Admittedly, this is quite a maddening habit. As such, it makes it nearly impossible for me to ignore the poverty or blight, homelessness or hunger that often smacks me upside the head (figuratively speaking, this time) as I walk down the street. I wonder what the guy sitting on the steps across the way is thinking. I wonder why the kids congregating on the corner outside the barbeque joint can’t find it within themselves to deposit the Styrofoam containers that formerly held their hot link sandwich into the trash can just a few feet away. I imagine that the rather attractive lady sitting across from me on the train is listening to Led Zeppelin’s the Song Remains the Same as she intently reads Elijah Mohammed’s a Message to the Black Man. Maybe that guy over there is a talented musician. Perhaps he’s sitting on that park bench going over the riffs, in his head, that he’ll play later this evening at the after hours spot when he sits in with whoever is headlining at Yoshi’s tonight. Maybe that lady rummaging through the dumpster wishes she were invisible, or perhaps she’s certain that she is.

It’s no wonder that my favorite book of all time is Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. This book so moved me when I read it at the end of my sophomore year in college that I remember staying up all night turning the pages. I literally could not put it down. Ellison’s imagery, his use of jazz music and prominent figures, and very in your face investigation of the simultaneous hope and hopelessness that is not only race relations but class relations as well, captivated me in a way that few novels have. Early on in the novel, the main character, whose name we conveniently never learn, muses over the Louis Armstrong tune “What did I do to be so black and blue” and very surreptitiously discloses one of the underlying themes of the book. The Battle Royale scene is the ultimate metaphor for one of society’s main ills, as it pits the have-nots against one another merely for the amusement of the haves.

I daresay that every black man in America might feel like he lives the Battle Royal each day, or at least has at some point in their life. My stature often makes it difficult for some to fathom the possibility that I might be adept at anything other than putting the ball in the basket. That I once adorned the same UCLA uniform as Alcindor and Walton, alarmingly, interests them much more than my qualifications to perform an operation that, if unsuccessful, could bring their business to a halt. I sat next to some middle-aged Caucasian men at the Warriors-Jazz game the other night and was struck by the extreme disgust they had for one of the “meaner…more intimidating” looking black players that failed to impede the progress of a more skilled white player on the opposing team. Clearly experts in the science of Dr. Naismith’s great game, the notion of skill level superceding their sociological prejudices was lost on these two that I doubt had played much competitive ball in their day. But now I’m passing judgment. That I was transparent yet again, however, was quite apparent as these two spoke as if I could not hear them.

My hyper-awareness often prevents me from enjoying the mindless dribble that is fed to me 24 hours a day from ESPN as they more often present the featured athletes as commodity rather than ponder their humanity. My inner existentialist ponders this often. All of the so-called experts that have never laced up a pair of sneakers are somehow ultra-qualified to interpret the actions and statements made by any of the hired help. Meanwhile the real story recedes back into the ether, not seen as conducive to increasing and retaining the viewership so coveted by advertisers.

Well, it’s getting late and my ramblings are drifting in and out of resembling anything cohesive. I’m just tired. It couldn’t be the veil going up preserve the clandestine notions that drift in and out of the chasms of my mind. No, I’m just tired…right?

“Son, after I’m gone I want you to keep up the good fight. I never told you , but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy’s country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion’s mouth. I want you to overcome ‘em with yeses, undermine ‘em with grins, agree ‘em to death and destruction, let ‘em swoller you til they vomit or bust wide open.”--- The meek grandfather from Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man

Where everybody knows your name...

...Sometimes you want to go

Where everybody knows your name,
and they're always glad you came.
You wanna be where you can see,
our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows
Your name.

You wanna go where people know,
people are all the same,
You wanna go where everybody knows
your name.

You know these lyrics. These came to mind tonight as I was at our church's revival. Dr. Leslie Braxton of the New Beginnings Church in Renton, Washington was "on point" with his sermon on this night, just as he had been all week as our featured revivalist. I can't explain what made me think of Sam Malone and Diane, and Woody and the rest of the Cheers gang as I was leaving the sanctuary, but I can tell you that I was feeling good. I wanted to call some friends and just chat and just make sure that everybody was doing okay. I returned some calls that I had no intention of returning until the next afternoon. Perhaps it was that line about them being "always glad you came", because there was a certain warmth that exuded from everybody that was present tonight that made me realize how much I enjoy coming here to get the Word and to praise Him. God is sooo good.