West Coast Relay

Cookin' Music...

After last night's fiasco, I was determined to have a much more enjoyable time in the kitchen today. I had promised to bring a dish to the Christmas party and I was finally getting around to doing it. Never mind that it was slated to start about an hour and 8 minutes after I started cooking. I was busy today. I had several errands to run (which I completed) but was delayed by somebody else's tardiness (they shall remain nameless) and needed a minute to regroup before going about the business of cookin' on this fine Saturday afternoon. Since I had not done so already, I decided to

When Auto-pilot goes wrong...

Tired and hungry is never a good combination for me, but this predicament is precisely where I found myself tonight. I don't know why. I didn't work particularly hard today except maybe at the gym. I hadn't sat in any traffic and my kids and I had been home for a couple of hours. I had cooked dinner the previous evening so I wouldn't have to worry about slaving over the stove. I was just in the zone, but not in the good way. Here's how it went down.

I had a load of laundry in the washing machine, and one in the dryer. I had another stack of clothes on my bed waiting to be folded. The dishwasher hadn't done a very thorough job on the last load of dishes, so I was taking those out and stacking them on the counter to be washed by hand. Meanwhile, I was reheating the food so that my kids could eat right away while I continued to clean. Once again, I cooked some delicious spaghetti but somehow there wasn't enough for me after I made plates for the kids. No worries. I boiled some more water and threw some more noodles in there.

"By the time I'm finished with these dishes, the noodles will be done and I can relax and eat," I thought to myself.

The kids finished their food and I proceeded to grab their plates and wash them as well. It sure was going to be great to have a clean kitchen immediately after dinner. I had to change the channel to something they didn't want to watch (I think it was THursday night football) so that they would actually concentrate on their plates and eat their food in under an hour. When I set their salad in front of them, The Suite Life of Zach and Cody was playing for the 13th time today and even though they had already seen that episode, they couldn't tear their eyes away from it.

Things were coming together almost exactly according to plan. I had washed the strainer and set it to the side of the sink and was washing the last couple of bowls and then their plates when it was time for the noodles to be done. Like the finely tuned domestic machine that I was on this evening, I set the bowls and plates in the dishwasher to dry, dried my hands with a towel, picked up the oven mitts so that I could pick up the large pot of boiling water containing my noodles, made a quarter turn to face the sink and poured the boiling water and noodles into the sink.

Recall that I had previously mentioned that I had set the strainer to the side of the sink. Yeah, this minor detail didn't set in with me either until a second or two later when I looked at the empty strainer to the left of the sink. My noodles went down the drain without a trace just as my hunger intensified exponentially. I stood there frozen for a moment, totally defeated. I couldn't remember if that was the last of the noodles or not, but I hoped that it was not. It wasn't. Now, however, I'd have to fill the pot with more water and wait until it started to boil and then wait another 11 minutes after that for the noodles to cook. I finally sat down to enjoy my pasta (I had half a package of penne in the cupboard) at about 1015pm.

No way, Dad...for real?

"I played for coaches that weren't satisfied with the conditioning workout until somebody threw up!" I said to my son when we were walking away from the field. It was 655am and we were walking away from the field after one of his less spirited workouts. He had complained about being tired and a little out of breath. Ordinarily, I would've said something to the effect that he was 9 years old and that 9 year-olds aren't supposed to get tired and should be able to run all day and that when I was 9...well, you get the picture. But today, I went for this tactic. I think the sensationalism worked on him.

"For real?!" he said with eyes as wide as saucers. "Why???"

"Oh yeah! That's right!" I said very matter of factly, giving it that higher pitched inflection for emphasis. "He was crazy. Most coaches are...especially the high school and college ones." I tried to keep my smile concealed as we walked up the hill. I caught myself though, thinking that if I overdo it, he might react in just the opposite way than I had intended and never want to play at all. "That's why we're working out right now...so you'll be ready when you get to high school. It'll be easy for you." I'm not sure if you if he was buying it, but he seemed to be mulling it over in his head for a minute.

"One time our coach came into the gym and said 'put those balls away...we won't be needing those today' and we then proceeded to run 35 suicides...," I explained to my daughter as we walked out the gym after her basketball practice. Her eyes widened too, but she didn't say anything. This is yet another mannerism that she gets from me.

"We blew a 9 point lead late in the game and he wanted to make sure we were focused and we remembered a thing or two about keeping our intensity until the final horn sounds." All she could say was "Wow!"

"When we were done with that, he took the balls back out of the equipment closet and we ran the fast break drill for an hour straight!"

My motives were a little different in this conversation, as we had just been discussing conditioning at her practice and how her coach chooses to take care of that facet of the game. Unfazed, she had the appearance of someone that would gladly walk back in the gym and play for another 2 hours.

I stopped short of making up any stories about walking 6 miles to school, uphill both ways.

Seizing the opportunity

I got inspired today by a blog reader. I don't know why that I'm finding that so noteworthy today, or why it hasn't happened before, but it made me write immediately so I'm not complaining. I was reading the comments that I got back from some readers on the metaphorically laden Sexually Frustrated piece that I wrote and one of the readers suggested that I had a sequel in the works.

Actually, I did not, but one came to mind awfully quickly. I had momentarily forgotten that people don't always "get" me and my novice writing may not adequately voice what I think I'm trying to convey. The piece made perfect sense to me, but apparently some of the other folks had allowed themselves to get swept up in the provocative metaphor and failed to catch the subtlety of what I was describing. Again, it must've been my fault. I just must not be a good enough writer to make it plain for everybody yet. I had a little fun with the sequel though, drawing on the inspiration that made me enjoy writing way back when (perhaps I'll have to try to re-create my maiden voyage in one of these posts) and endeavoring to play professor in an amusing sort of way. Well, I think I amused myself at least.

It was kind of neat to try and dissect my own writing as if it were a famous literary text or a mysterious biblical verse. I actually pictured myself standing at the head of the class and challenging the class like Denzel's Professor Melvin Tolson from the Great Debaters. I was pacing, I was double underlining words with a piece of chalk, and I made it plain for the masses. Yes, I'm aware that masses is severely overstating things.

And the beat goes on...

"Man! Those red lights are coming up in my rearview mirror FAST!" I thought to myself as I strolled down the MacArthur Freeway on my way to work this morning. "There must be a situation that they have to get to in a hurry...I'd better get out of their way."

But they weren't heading to a situation. They were, however, in hot pursuit of somebody. Unfortunately, that somebody was me. It was actually kind of comical how I put my blinker on and got out of the fast lane to let them pass. Imagine what they thought of my audacity. How presumptuous I must've looked.

"Hey, wait, why are they getting behind me? I'll let them pass again...."

"Oh...no...wait. They are pulling me over."

Only sail powered water crafts that dare venture into the seas around the equator ever have the wind taken from said sails as fast as it was taken from mine today. I haven't felt so defeated since those fast breaking dynamos from Judge Memorial High School in Utah ran us out of a South Tahoe gymnasium one summer day back in 1988. "I can't believe they are pulling me over."

Believe it, big boy. You can't run from the long arm of the law. Well, you can run, but you can't hide. I never even saw those cats. I was thinking of all of the lame excuses that usually come to mind.

"I was going with the flow of traffic."

"I only sped up so that I could change lanes..."

"I have a meeting to get to at work..."

"I'm late to pick up my kids..."

"I was trying to get out of the way of the car that rolled up on me so fast in my rear view..."

I tried to look on the bright side. "At least it's broad daylight, specially in this remote, tucked away spot where I'm being forced to pull over. At least I'm dressed like I have a job and am going to it. (My usual get-up of sweats/hat/sneakers might very well have got me profiled)." It's not like any of these things would do anything to help my situation, but at least they gave me some level of comfort. I really did think that I went to sleep and woke up and that yesterday's early morning misfortunes were ancient history. I guess not. Clearly, this saga shall continue for another day. I hope it stops there.

On the wrong foot...

I should've known that today was going to be one of those days when I woke up at 4:05am. Ordinarily, waking up at such an hour wouldn't present much of a problem as it would just mean that I was going to roll over onto my other shoulder and then continue my slumber. Today, however, when my alarm was set for 435am I immediately groaned my distaste. There's nothing worse than waking up just before your alarm clock. I always feel as though I have cheated myself out of that last segment of sleep. Somehow, that 30 minutes seems like a huge amount. I think its just the principle of knowing that you've undershot the boundary of your allotted sleeping time and somehow feel like that amount will set the wheels in motion for a day where you will be tired and not at your best. You feel like you will be at a disadvantage all day because you were deprived of this crucial last 30 minutes of sleep. I would much rather have awakened at 2am or even 1am when I could have nestled back in for a few more solid hours of good sleep than deal with the nerve racking notion that I want to sleep more but can't dare get into the good deep sleep for fear of sleeping through the alarm.

Just as I had feared, 435am came in an instant and I was still tired (somehow much more tired than I had been at 405am) so I played that game of "okay, i'm going to get out of bed in just a second after I sit here and reflect on the day ahead of me for a moment". That started out as a prayer as it often does, asking for strength and safety and wisdom and creativity and continued good health but it ended up with me drifting back into sea of Z's for another 12 minutes. I had to hurry if I were going to be the first person in the pool this morning. I arrived to find the steam coming off the water and the middle lane wide open, which didn't quite move me to do the Tiger Woods fist pump, but I cracked a slight smile. I quickly changed into my suit and headed out for the water. It was about 50 degrees outside so I was very eager to submerse myself in the water before steam started to come off of me. I lowered myself into the water and while adjusting my goggles they snapped off. Now, my body was warm, but my head and neck had not yet been in the water so I was getting cold.

I cinched the strap back on the left eye to an appropriate setting and then re-adjusted them to my face once again. Perfect, or at least it seemed so for the next lap and a half until they popped off again. I felt like Michael Phelps in his Olympic race when he had the eye wear malfunction and he started to take in massive amounts of water, only I was not swimming very fast and millions of people were not watching. Really, those were the only differences. It was at this moment when I decided that I might be on to a theme for today's blog entry. Right there at 520am in middle lane of the outdoor lap pool at Club One on 12th Street in City Center, I had the epiphany that this might be the harbinger for the rest of my day.

I finished my quarter mile without any further incident, got dressed and went upstairs to lift weights. It was here that I would let a 45 pound weight slip from my fingers in slow motion. I watched in disbelief as it hit the floor...and not my foot. So shocked was I, having braced for the impact and held my breath in anticipation, that I neglected to get out of the way before it fell from its side edge down to the floor, or what would've been the floor had my left foot not been there. I didn't even scream or make a face, choosing instead to ball up my right fist and ferociously punch into my left palm while telling myself to shake it off. All of this excitement and its not even 6am yet. My boss is jetting off to London and I'm here having a Happy Monday/Welcome to December party and fielding phone calls from customers in Idaho and getting an earful about the formatting of my expense report. It looks like I ought to get the lemonade machine ready today.

Ode to Keith

And Keith! Darn it Keith! Change your name please. Thats not scary and I'm embarrased to say that. Boris, try that! Keith, you know! Oh! WATCH OUT FOR KEITH!

Once again I spent the weekend watching cartoons and darn near splittin' a gut laughing at some of the pure comedic genius that these guys think up. The above clip is from Hoodwinked which is your basic Fletch meets Pixar meets Snatch and is a bonafide laugh-a-minute. From the banjo playing mountain goat to the extreme snowboarding granny, this one's a classic.

I also got a kick out of the latest animated offering in Disney/Pixar's BOLT. These guys always do a masterful job in keeping it just entertaining enough to bridge the gap between what I think is funny and what my kids think is funny. The streetwise pigeons had me almost falling out of my seat. Anytime I hear some Brooklyn-esque accents, I am quite amused.


As I mentioned a few weeks back, I've had a hard time kicking the habit that I picked up after my surgery (http://dailywithdestah.blogspot.com/2008/10/aint-no-sunshine.html). No, not drugs. I left those behind as soon as I could. But the cartoons and Adult Swim still have this strange allure to me. Some of them, correction, MOST of them are downright crude and really force you to push the limits as they toe that thin line between funny and just plain stupid, while usually grotesque as well. They're like a train wreck. I want to look away, but I can't. I want to turn the TV off and just go to sleep, but I know they're on and I don't have to be up early tomorrow, so...I'll just watch for a minute. The Boondocks is the only one that I don't feel like a total loser watching, especially since I am a fan of Aaron McGruder and his comic strip. Most of the others give me the sense that I needed to be high to really relate, and that undoubtedly its creator was indeed (and, more likely, constantly) high. The Boondocks is almost masterful in how it makes fun of the world from a young brotha's perspective. (DISCLAIMER: The N-bombs notwithstanding, this clip still underscores the point quite effectively). Check out Sam Jackson providing the voice of wigger extraordinaire, Gin Rummy.


Finally, keeping the nonsense going as I wind up the weekend and get ready to go to bed, I stumbled upon the Wil Ferrell Christmas classic, Elf, which , like Top Gun, The Wedding Singer, Malcolm X, and Jerry McGuire I will watch with or without commercial interruption each and every time they come on television. My kids love this one too.



Sorry, but I've got to give you two more clips of this one.

Can't steal my joy

It's Friday and it's the day after Thanksgiving and I had nowhere to be today. So why was somebody trying to steal my joy? Did he not like the look on my face? Was I a little too relaxed for his liking? I sure wasn't wearing a shirt that said "Try to get stuck in my craw!" What is a craw anyway? I think I looked that up at some point and if I recall, it was somewhat of a letdown.

I was at the gym when the incident occurred, the first incident anyway. I sat down on an exercise bike and proceeded to ride my way into a low impact cardio workout. It's not my workout of choice, but I have to do what I can do right now and actually running still is not yet an option. I had my headphones on and was zoning out listening to the Verve remixes CD while my man L.A. was holdin' court on the hardwood. This was entertainment in itself. L.A. is always quite the character when our 6am crew would play, having never met a shot that he didn't like and not being at all afraid to tell you about it. He was flat out giving it to some clown that was trying to guard him, although said clown would not exactly be what you'd all all-everything or even all-anything for that matter. I think I must've been laughing aloud because L.A. kept looking in my direction every time he scored. You know how it is when you've got headphones on and you don't realize that people can actually hear you. I'm glad I didn't scream out what I was thinking of saying (something like "I guess you're proof that 50 is indeed the new 40" or "you must've been somethin' else back in your 30s"...something that would've really jabbed at him).

For some reason, the guy on the bike next to mine thought that I was deriving such pleasure from listening to CNN's coverage of the economic crisis.

"Are you listening to this?" he said, motioning to the miniature TV screen above the handlebars on the bike.

I had the music on and didn't really hear his question (well, I heard it, but wasn't really comprehending that he was actually talking to me) and was reaching for the left earbud when he said, "Oh, I didn't see that you had your music on,...."

I just nodded, but he continued. He decided that this would be a good day to be a very vocal Obama detractor. At that moment, CNN was running a story about another person that Barack had appointed to his cabinet and ol' Peter Pessimist to my right decided that he had had enough.

"I'm not a republican, but this is the first time that I have voted against my gut," he said, confusing me for a minute. Was he saying that he was a McCain guy or that he was an Obama guy? As we (actually, he) kept talking, it became clear that he had actually voted for Obama. His frustration, however, was in what he perceived as Barack appointing the same "establishment" types that had produced the financial mess in the first place. Has any President-Elect ever been blamed and criticized for so much even before he was sworn in? It's ridiculous. It's like he's not just been hired for the job of President of the United States, but Manager of the New York Yankees. If he orders his eggs over easy instead of poached, there will be a news story about it and his competence will be measured against this action and dissected and analyzed over and over again. Luckily, my rehabilitating knee prohibits me from spending too much time on the bike, so I was soon free of this very annoying conversation, but it wouldn't be the last of the day.

A friend of mine would later try to get me to assist with some of their personal drama and try to bend my ear with some of their gossip about somebody that is supposed to be one of their close friends. Again, I got outta there as soon as I could. Finally, I could not help but be saddened by the madness that led to the senseless death of some people at Walmart. It is truly a shame when people are so maniacal about saving a few bucks. The irony is that they are spending to save. How does that work? Some unlucky person that happened to be working and attempting to control the crowd was trampled in the process and later died. At a time when the whole world needs to really take a step back and remember the real reason for the season, we are still all caught up in the materialism that continues to send us into a tailspin.

Why I am thankful

I am thankful today for so many things, not the least of which is being able to take a moment to reflect on exactly what some of those things are. I am thankful that I have this outlet(writing, blogging, however you wish to term it) to record some of my thoughts on a daily basis if I so choose. So often in my past, things were trapped inside my head and never saw the light of day while my frustration with people not quite understanding where I'm coming from continued to grow.

I'm thankful that I am alive to see another glorious California day in which wearing a jacket is optional and the multiculturalism is mandatory. I love it that I can see people of all sorts of different ethnicities each time I leave my humble abode. I'm thankful that I even have an abode to be so humble about. Many people are losing theirs and I have the nerve to complain sometimes about how much mine is costing me. I'm thankful that I can make the payment for this place, even if only by the skin of my teeth.

I'm thankful that while I may be on the mend after this knee surgery that was much more serious than I had bargained for, I am getting pretty good physical therapy and making some progress. The progress is slow to come and requires a great deal of patience and restraint on my part, but it is progress nonetheless. This time last month, I was still taking narcotics half of the time and awakening with a great deal of back pain in the middle of the night, almost every night. I was walking around like a zombie most days, motivated to do little more than sleep (assuming that I actually could), and in danger of falling asleep each time I was driving for more than 20 or 30 minutes. Even though I've got many more tough months of rehab ahead of me, all of that seems like so long ago. I'm thankful for the little things like walking without crutches and being able to ride an exercise bike or bend my leg into a sitting position comfortably.

I'm thankful to have the opportunity to spend time with my wonderful children and hear about what goes on in their school day, each day. I'm thankful to have local family that I can talk to anytime I want to or drop in on whenever I have the urge. It's such a luxury to know where everyone is going to be on a day like today and to be able to look forward to breaking bread (some serious bread!) with many of them today and relaxing and talking like no time at all has passed since the last time you had a chance to catch up.

I'm thankful for the many people that care about me and look after me in their own ways. There are those that invite me over to eat on those days when I have absolutely nothing at my house. It's as if they have a sixth sense or get a memo informing them that the stock at my place is getting mighty low. There are those that call to say hi or send an email at just the right time. I may not seem appropriately grateful for this correspondence, but I am. I am so much the better because of it.

I am thankful that I am even able to recognize that I have things to be thankful about.

prince of darkness

I was driving today and flipping through the radio stations as I often do and came across a song that was oh so familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. I was tapping my toe and humming along and even doing that thing steering wheel drum solo thing that annoys me whenever I see other drivers in traffic doing it. Just then I remembered that through the wonders of modern technology, all I need to do is look at the text display on the navigation/radio system of my car to find out not only the name of the song, but the artist as well. With the possible exception of when I'm driving through a tunnel or obscure area in the hills, this is a pretty fail safe feature. It was Ozzy Osbourne. You thought I was going somewhere else with this, didn't you?

When I was 9 or 10 years old I was terrified of Ozzy. The guy just scared me. Not only were his lyrics allegedly glorifying devil worship and going to hell(hand basket not required) but he looked downright scary on his album covers often wearing fangs and having dripping blood running down his chin. The kicker, however, was the urban legend that told of him actually biting the head off of a bat. Some stories said the bat was alive and others still said that it bit him back and that he got rabies. It was the kind of wonderfully horrible tale that the mind of a 9 year old couldn't help but take for fact and lose sleep over.

Of course I lived next door to the craziest kid on the block and he seemed hell bent on becoming Ozzy and trying to convince me of how cool it was to be so destructive. His efforts were futile due to the fact that I was one of the scariest kids of all time. I was not the kid that would go into the haunted house and I definitely was not the one that would lock myself inside a dark room with a mirror and call upon somebody named Bloody Mary to come out and play. With all of this in mind, I found myself absolutely tickled that I was sitting there making my way through traffic and enjoying Ozzy's song. I attributed it to the fact that I didn't think I had ever actually realized that this was his song, but just one of those songs that somebody always had playing and that I'd managed to hear plenty of times. Don't forget that I grew up in the suburbs.

It also got me to thinking about not only that whole period of time but also the heavy metal/rock 'n roll genre. How did Metal and Rock become synonymous with the devil and hell and how did the imagery that usually accompanies the music, whether in their crazy costumes or the rather detailed artwork from the album covers, the face of the music? Did every one of the musicians that had a hand in producing the music pay homage to the prince of darkness and deliberately set out to represent such dark ideology with each thundering chord from their electric guitars and each lyric screamed from their mouths? Was this really the music that got all of the little demons and devils all riled up and ready to unleash their mayhem? What if they actually preferred something from Mozart or Bach?

Think about it. If going to the darkside is so heaped in ritual and tradition, wouldn't it be entirely possible that all of the noise and thrashing around that's often depicted would be distracting? Along that same line of thinking, wouldn't the wild hair and tiger skinned spandex pants be a little over the top as well. What if it turned out that The Grim Reaper didn't actually have that menacing look on his..er..uh..face..um...skull face...(whatever!) and was actually like a tired old factory worker that was moonlighting after his day job and actually preferred to stroll down the Styx listening to some Bill Evans tickling the ivories at a very elevator friendly decibel level? If so, then demons might actually ride on the backs of winged dragons to the tune of Korsakov's Flight of the Bumblebee.

I don't know where I get this stuff. It's just a shame that most of it never makes it off the proverbial cutting room floor. I always feel like some of the most interesting "thinks" that I think get lost in the shuffle before they ever have the chance to see the light of day and be developed as complete thoughts (see yesterday's post). I'm just glad that my seasoned ears can delight in the artistic merits of the music and not be discouraged by the shady associations that it had in years past.

Over and under in between the ups and downs
My mind's carpet magic ride goes round and round.

Can you dig it?

I had 73 things to do today and somehow work came in at 74. You know how it is during a short week. I know that nothing will be open on Thanksgiving and I won't really want to do anything on Friday except for watch some football and eat some leftovers, so that leaves today and tomorrow to do everything. Of course, that won't happen since my time is rarely my own, and I won't leave with enough leftovers to last me very long. Oh well, no sense complaining about any of this.

I am struck by a single thought this evening, and that is how is it that people can interrupt you at precisely the moment when you were about to have that moment of clarity? You know that moment when the tornado that swirls the thoughts, activities, deadlines, worries, fears, and desires all around into a windblown cocktail that you alone get to enjoy from right in the middle of it Dorothy and Toto style, suddenly loses its steam and lays down each of the multitude of elements in your world into a very orderly grid resembling the situation room of a battleship (or at least the ones in the movies, half lit, but with green blips showing various items on the radar) and moving at the speed of that carousel with the horses and the circus music from your youth. That moment when you feel like you actually can do all of the things that you need to do if only you approach them in precisely this specific order and devote precisely this specific amount of brainpower on each and...POOF! Somebody interrupts you and it's all gone. You were a juggler and someone diverted your attention long enough to make it impossible for you to keep 4 balls that you had in the air from crashing to the ground. How does that always happen?

I've tried writing things down and making this imaginary perfect grid an actual living document, but even that doesn't quite get it done. Sure, I may have something to reference with respect to what has been completed already and what has yet to be completed but the intangibles get lost. What intangibles, you ask? The INTANGIBLE intangibles! If they weren't intangible, they'd probably be perfectly preserved on the paper and any clown could see exactly what they were. But since they are the style points that might define the difference between John Riggins' solid game and Walter Payton's breathtaking one, even though the stat line of each might be identical, there's no since in trying to teach you if you don't understand already. Sometimes I can leave one of the balls up in the air for awhile and keep on juggling just as if no time had passed at all. Other times, however, it's like I've stumbled upon some 13th century playwright's notes and am supposed to be able to discern the spirit of the subject matter and what exactly inspired him to write the things that he wrote and why he wrote them the way he did. It doesn't even seem like these were my own ideas in the first place. I can't even make any sense out of what I've jotted down.

I feel like Jack Nicholson's Melvin Udall in As Good as It Gets sometimes when I'm on a roll and the phone rings or someone sends me a text. Maybe the only true way to get anything done is to do it at precisely the moment when you get inspired and then not to stop until you are finished. Now wouldn't that be something.

Further on up the road

Ominous

I got in the red, 4wd Jeep Cherokee Laredo that they rented to me at the Hertz #1 Club Gold counter and put the key into the ignition. It was a rather peculiar key. In fact, save for the sure embarrassment that I would’ve felt, I would’ve asked exactly what it was and how it is that I’m supposed to use it to start this vehicle. Was it a keyless remote type key like the one I have for my Murano, or do I actually have to put it into the ignition. It turned out to be the latter. It was almost 830pm now and I know I should’ve gone to find some dinner much earlier but here I was acting like I was smack dab in the middle of Metropolis or something. I looked around the car, first over my shoulder, then in the rearview mirror . Finally, I turned all the way around to give the backseat and rear hatchback area a good once-over. It’s too quiet here; so much so that it almost makes you nervous. I don’t get nervous, but curiously I was at this moment. I almost expected to see someone’s menacing countenance eyeing me when I looked into the rearview mirror as I turned the ignition. It’s much too quiet here.

I backed out of the space and proceeded to drive out of the parking lot listening to Real Jazz on Sirius 72. My hotel is just off the highway but tucked in at the end of a dead-end road that backs up to a field. It’s not a very productive looking field. Not many of the fields around here look terribly productive. Most are desolate and devoid of life. It’s as if this land was thrown away and reclaimed in foreclosure. To my right I could see an imposing dark figure in the periphery. As I got deeper into my left turn out of the parking lot, the dim street light, accentuated even more by the subtle trace of fog that had lowered at this hour, allowed me to see that the dark figure was a very ominous looking 18 wheeler. A Mack truck to be exact, not to be confused with the nose-less Peterbilt variety. I don’t know why this behemoth of the byways captured my attention for more than that split second, but it did.

Suddenly, I was in a Stephen King movie. The lights on this sleeping giant flipped on and the engine roared to life and it lurched toward me. My Eddie Bauer leather boot slammed the accelerator to the floor as I struggled to overcorrect the while and straighten out of this left turn gone wrong. The quick glance that I gave to the intersection ahead proved to be nearly fatal as I mistakenly took the left turning Dodge Durango turning toward me to mean that I could safely make my right turn under its cover but was nearly broadsided by the late model Saturn SUV. As I swerved yet again, the Mack truck took out all of the other cars at the intersection now giving strong chase. I sped down Overland Avenue across the bridge over the Snake River, weaving in and out of the cars still out at that hour. I turn right and then right again, but I can’t shake him. My appetite is gone. I can’t remember why I had even come out of the hotel. I wish I hadn’t. My motor skills are imitating Nathan Bourne’s romp through Prague in the Mini Cooper. My mind is reflective, recalling abstract thoughts to a soundtrack of a female opera singing tragedy. The road runs out and all at once I’m in one of those fields again. Is this where they grow potatoes? It looks more like the location of a mass grave, perhaps soon to be my final resting place. Who knew that renting a 4x4 would come in so handy and so soon. How is this truck keeping up with me? Who is driving that thing? Where is everyone? Why doesn’t anybody help me? Is this how it all ends for me?

Stella by Starlight plays gently on the satellite radio. I’m still warming up the car and the daydream/nightmare is gone. That truck has been parked there all day and no one is in it. I’m heading to Morey’s Steakhouse and will enjoy the “best Steak on the Snake” according to them. I snicker at that ol’ truck as I turn onto W. 7th Street North and drive out to make the right on Overland. If it weren’t so dark, I’d probably walk over to this place and walk back. I’ve walked much further in much larger cities. It’s awfully dark outside though and the Weather Channel is telling me that it’s 32 degrees with the wind chill. Morey’s is close but it still gives me the creeps. Sure, it sits just a few feet from the Snake River but the street it is on is so dark and desolate. Without the 70 foot tall sign to lure you in, I daresay that only those in the know would ever find this place. It has that abandoned warehouse near the docks feel to it. Couple that with the not so generous use of streetlights and throw in the large professional sports team stadium parking lot and it’s easy to see why the hair on the back of my neck stands up each time I’ve been there. At least there were 3 cars in the lot this time and I found a spot fairly close to the front door.

I’m getting out of the car, but I still feel the urge to glance at the rearview mirror and then behind me in the backseat again. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find, nor do I want to know. If there were some eyes peering back at me, what would I do but jump anyway. The banquet hall one hundred yards in front of me looks even more eerie as I turn off my headlights, transforming its doorways into cavernous shadows that don’t look inviting or festive at all. As I’m putting on my gloves, the feeling of uneasiness comes over me once again. If I turn my head to discover someone standing there I will surely have a hard time keeping my composure. My forehead is getting moist and my hands are starting to sweat as I pull on the left glove first, and then the right. My peripheral vision detects something out of that window again and now the cold sweat has washed over my whole body and I don’t even feel like I’m breathing anymore or that my heart is beating. Finally, I snap my head to the left to find that no one is there and that my paranoia is having its way with me again. The window had begun to fog up as I sat there and as my breathing had quickened. Calming down now, I reasoned that the flickering of the lone light pole some fifty yards away signaling that some electrician clearly needed to come have a look-see, had began to dance playfully with the shadows and through a condensation obscured window had made for one chilling visual effect. “Get out of the car, and walk into the restaurant!” I chastised myself.

Nevermind the monster truck that was parked two spots over from me with its 22” tractor tires and Born to be Wild mud guards. I couldn’t help but think that this looked like precisely the vehicle that Kurt Russell did battle with in Breakdown as he tried to retrieve his kidnapped wife from some small town desperadoes. I got out and with my head on a swivel, as the football coaches always reminded us, I walked swiftly into the restaurant to enjoy my dinner. The whole time I was in eating that Steak Diane and sipping on that Grand Estates Merlot (or 2) I found my thoughts returning to that dark parking lot. From my window seat, I stared out at the Snake River and the overpass not far up the way and would occasionally turn my sights back to the front door whenever I heard anything in that direction. Of course I was seated sideways as I would never dream of having my back to the door. Brother Malcolm clearly had a profound effect on me at age 15 because since I read his autobiography, no doorway ever gets a good read on the back of my head after I initially pass through it.

I noticed that I was now the last person in the restaurant. Things close early around here and I didn’t show up until almost 9pm. I got into a long conversation with my waiter, Orlando about Bogota where he is from and the next thing I knew it was time to go. I wasn’t scared, but one’s imagination can run wild when left idly to wonder and wander. Mix in some red wine and red rum might come out. That’s the last thing I need is to come up missing in a place like this. No one would come look for me for quite awhile. Who knows what unspeakable things might be done to me in the meantime? Contrary to what I’ve said in previous writings about dining alone, perhaps having someone with which to converse can be a good thing.

Alas, it was indeed about that time. After paying the check and gathering myself to walk out, I hesitated at the door and looked back again to find that the bus boy and Orlando had looked up to see me off. We had said our official goodbyes when I signed the check and he walked off, but you know how that awkward silence and the strained facial expressions have a way of creeping up on you when you make eye contact after a goodbye. “Goodbye, have a nice night,” they said. I waved and smiled. The smile disappeared from my face when I turned my sights back through the thin plates of tempered glass on the front door. I braced myself for not only the cold, but the loneliness of the darkness.

I tried to be optimistic. At least the cold would heighten my senses and I’d be very aware of any intended ambush. But it sure was dark out there and my car was the only one that remained. Where does the staff park? Do they live in the building? It was all so peculiar. Perhaps there was an employee lot around the other side that I had neglected to notice. Not on the Snake River side, but the other side around the dark corner beyond the parking lot.

As I walked in and out of the shadows cast by the distant light posts my eyes played various tricks on me as if they had received a memo that it was not the middle of November but instead the very first day in April. I tried to dismiss all of this but as I approached from the passenger side , the high clearance of this 4wd vehicle allowing me to peer underneath to the other side I would swear that I saw a pair of feet waiting. My gait slowed as I struggled to focus in on what appeared to be some work boots. I took one more step and then…

SILENCE.
DARKNESS.
Regaining my bearings I figured that I was face down in the backseat of my own vehicle as it rumbled down a dark country road. My satellite radio was no longer on the straight ahead jazz station but on some sort of eclectic alternative selection that seemed straight out of a movie that might involve UFOs or hills with eyes. I could see a couple other pairs of boots on the floor near my face, but heard no conversation.

I don’t have the stomach for all of this, I thought to myself. No, really, I don’t, in the present tense, so enough of this charade. In my solitude, I got the crazy idea to inject some fiction into my daily ruminations. We’ll have to see how this is received first. My own “first draft” sort of critique would call for an increase in the vivid detail. What do you think?

In Hiding

All day, I've been trying to put a finger on the movie that I'm reminded of whenever I see black people here in Idaho. Can anybody help me out? I see them, and it seems like they see me, and get startled and scurry away. I am just as surprised as they are, but I would expect that it would be more of a pleasant surprise for everyone involved. It's not like this is a frequent occurrence or anything. We'll discount the 2 people that I saw at the airport because one of them came in on a flight like me and the other looked like he might work there.

I purposely detoured off I-84 East on my way from Boise to Burley this morning at a place called Mountain Home because rumor has it that there are some of "us" over there. Allegedly, there are a couple of black hair salons there. I say allegedly because a) I couldn't find them and b) they are alleged to be versed in doing black hair, not necessarily operating exclusively as that. It would make sense if this were actually true though because there is an Air Force Base in this little town of 11,341. You know how you can always find a good portion of us in the military. I was genuinely excited when I saw the sign that said "Mountain Home, Next Exit". I drove down route 30 expecting to see some signs of us somewhere. Maybe I'd see some airmen out for a morning stroll. Maybe I'd see some folks coming out of the grocery store or filling up at the gas station. Hopefully I'd see some where I dined since this was where I had decided my breakfast stop would be after an early morning of flying.

As I look at the demographics of the town (87.9% white, 2.61% black) on wikipedia, I see that my hopes for this place were far too high. I was the only brotha in Joe's Steakhouse, lured in by the signs on the front bragging of breakfast specials right across from the Thunderbird Hotel. (C'mon, Thunderbird...breakfast specials...it was a good a bet as any. Don't act like you wouldn't have considered it too). Joe's seemed like the kind of place that would've had some sort of good country breakfast and maybe some animated waitress like Mama from Roscoe's back in the day. It was not to be, however. The special of 2 waffles, ham, bacon or sausage and eggs any style for $6.25 written on a chalkboard near the front door got me excited, but the excitement stopped there.

I thought for sure that I wouldn't see any black folks in Burley since I didn't see any in 48 hours on my last visit. It didn't disappoint either. Well, disappoint is not really the right word here, but you catch my drift. I'd be surprised and delighted and probably want to rush over and give a hug if I did actually see somebody, but I had no expectation at all. There sure weren't any at "the Drift" (a little bar/restaurant across the street from where I'm working) and none walking around the town square. When I left the office just after dark, I thought I saw a brotha running down the street. I know what you're thinking. Why did he have to be running? Of course I'm not insinuating that if one of "us" were on the street that he would have to be running for his life or running from a crime. That's not it at all. It was dark and I did a double take because as he dashed through the shadows he looked like maybe he could've been a brotha but when I got closer I could see that he wasn't. I haven't even been here a whole day and I'm already like Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck on the deserted island...or was it a shipwreck? I don't know. You remember that one, don't you? Bugs is staring at Daffy and suddenly before our eyes, Daffy turns into a nicely browned, roasted duck on a platter. No? Daffy stares at Bugs and pictures him as a big chicken drumstick and he doesn't regain his right mind until Bugs threw some water on him just as he had tied the bib around his neck and readied his fork and knife for a feast. Still no? How about Daffy running full steam ahead toward what looks like a pool of cool refreshing water only to leap into a swan dive and land in some dry hot sand that he spews from his mouth like a swan in a fountain after attempting to swim through this oasis turned mirage. Yeah, it's like that. I'm driving down the street seeing a stocky white man with a 5 o'clock shadow lurking in the 5 o'clock shadows with his hat pulled down low and I think think I'm looking at one of my neighbors on the corner of 15th street in Oakland.

I got lost on the way home from the office. Home...yeah, that's funny to me too. Home meaning back to the hotel room that shall be where I reside for the next few days. Instead of going back the way that I came, I followed some signs and arrows and just when I was getting alarmed I saw a sista pushing a stroller hurriedly down the side of the road. She seemed to scurry away even faster when she saw me. What is that movie? It's driving me crazy. If we were in that movie, I'd try to talk to her or try to get her attention and she'd try to hurry up and finish what she'd doing and then be on her way and my questions would persist and she'd grow more and more anxious, urging that I better leave because it's not safe here. I'd say why? She'd look like she'd seen a ghost and become unable to describe the terrible thing that was making her so uneasy and causing her to strongly advise me to leave this place. I'd still be curious and would still follow after her asking why, not able to grasp the gravity of the situation and then it would be too late. Well, I hope that's not how it goes down for me, but that's how it feels. What movie is that???

Don't call it a comeback!

The smoke is beginning to clear and the sun is peeking out over the horizon. The darkness that has characterized the last 7 or 8 weeks of my life appears to be succumbing to the light at long last. I have actually come up with a metaphor or two. I haven't been remotely near one of those in weeks, but they're still around. They're just a little more elusive than ever. There's something about being in constant pain and under the influence of narcotics that makes it a little more difficult to get a handle on things that usually come so easily.

In the past few weeks, I've felt old and washed up and unable to get into the zone. I've had no idea where the zone is, never mind how to actually get into it. I'm reminded of that scene from Rocky where Sylvester Stallone is dressed in the signature grey sweatsuit with the black Chuck Taylor's and the beanie. Wait a minute. We can't forget the standard issue gym shorts pulled over the top of the aforementioned sweats. His outfit is not what intrigues me though, but rather his struggles to catch the chicken that Mick has ordered him to chase in an exercise to work on his agility and quickness. My mind has felt anything but agile or quick during this sleep deprivated, pain plentiful, pharmaceutically alterered state that I've been in and out of since September 5. On the rare occasion that I've managed to escape the 3 previous states of being, lack of desire has felled me more often than not. Fast forward in your Rocky DVD box set to Rocky 3 when a sufficiently dolled up and polished Sly doesn't really want to train and is downright scared to do anything other than drive his Ferrari around. The spoils from his good life have been a little too good to him and he's afraid of going back to breaking thumbs in South Philly. Don't worry, I have no terribly sordid past to return to, but I can sympathize with the sentiment that made him slow down and stop running down that Santa Monica beach against the always ridiculously chizled Apollo Creed. Having no desire to even attempt the thing that have given you such a wonderful creative outlet for such a prolonged period of time does begin to feed the fire of apathy. Now there's some irony. Apathy would probably be more aptly described by the grey ashes that follow the eruption of a volcano rather than the spectacular vibrancy of erupting lava. I'm on my way back. I just took an unexpected detour and it's taking me a little bit more time to return to the highway.

MexiSoul

Once again I found myself with the challenge of satisfying my discriminating palate while simultaneously being limited not the lack of abundance in my cupboard. I'd love to point to the rough economy as the reason why there is no surplus at my house, but it would be like this anyway. The only difference is that where I might ordinarily splurge for the $3 or $4 item at the corner store that might make a meal complete, now I quickly move on to deal with what I do have.

I haven't traveled lately so I have had to be a little more diligent about going grocery shopping each time that I get paid. It would be nice if that bi-weekly trip to the grocery store would get me by until the next one was in sight, but it rarely does. I did make a nice investment at Costco about a month ago that has allowed me to stretch a little further. Usually, I'm completely out of everything early in the 2nd week, but this time I had meat all the way through. Being that this was the last day before pay-day, there wasn't much else to go with it so I had to be creative and look a little further back on the shelves.

Way in the back, I found a ham-hock and a bag of frozen, chopped collard greens. It was early afternoon when I started this search so I didn't rule out the preparation of said greens as I usually might have due to time constraints. Besides, I was really desiring something green. I ran out of vegetables last week sometime. There were also a couple random pieces of frozen chicken in the freezer as well.

I've had baked chicken almost every night this week so I was really wishing that I could add some variety somehow. The collard greens begged for some fried chicken, but not only had I already had my quota of that this month, I was out of oil so frying wasn't an option. I did, however, have this package of mole poblano from a recent trip to Mi Pueblo (the latino grocery store).

I know what you're thinking: Mole and ham hocks. Collard Greens and chocolate sauce. Look...when your financial straits are as dire as mine are these days, you expand the horizons of your tastebuds in a hurry. It sure smelled good. Sitting at the counter, my daughter was doing her homework and was becoming more and more curious as the aromas began to dance through the air from the stove top. In fact, after I took her to soccer practice, she was so interested in tasting what I had concocted that she insisted on eating before I took her home.

"That's some good chicken!" she said.

She even wanted seconds. I would've preferred that the greens be the big leafy variety, but the chopped ones weren't bad. My palate did not get the least bit confused by these cross cultural culinary choices. It was merely another exercise in getting a suitable caloric intake so that I can sleep through the night and be able to work out first thing in the morning. I'm always happy when the meals taste slightly better than army rations, so by that standard, this evening was a resounding success.

New Year's Day!

It's not January 1st, but it sure feels like it. There was no big cheer let out at the stroke of midnight. Well, at least not midnight here in California. Perhaps it was midnight in Chile or Argentina or some place like that, but here in the City of Oak, it was at precisely 8pm PST that Barack Obama was first announced as the winner of the 2008 United States Presidential election. What a monumental moment this was but I found myself strangely unable to react. On the inside, I was all at once relieved and skeptical, elated yet subdued.

Sure, this might be called "typical Destah", failing to appropriately react or show any emotion and scarcely a pulse in the face of some earth shattering news or event. I'd done it so many times before. Why would this be any different? When my first born child arrived into the world, I could only stare at her in disbelief. Even when they handed her to me and she stared back at me with the same quizzical expression, it was still quite the surreal experience. I sat there in front of the television screen watching Wolfe Blitzer proudly announce that the junior Senator from Illinois was being projected by CNN as the presumptive President elect and could scarcely crack a smile. I felt like one of those inmates that had been wrongly accused of some heinous crime that got them sentenced to 20 years, of which they had already served 17, as they sit in the courtroom and are suddenly exonerated of all charges as some new evidence is finally brought to light. On the one hand, you're partly relieved, but on the other, such a price was paid that the cynicism remains. How can you celebrate something that should've been allowed to happen long ago? Well, perhaps I wasn't that bad, but my face probably said as much.

I never thought I'd see this day. I mean, I did but...well, you know. In my teens, if someone asked what I thought I might be when I grew up, with a straight face that would impress the director of a funeral home, I might say that I might be president. I thought I was a pretty smart guy. People liked me. I like people. I appreciate the differences and nuances that all of the cultures that reside here in this country and respect and admire the ones that I've had the pleasure of encountering outside it. I could be President. But in actuality it was just something to say. It was more like an affirmation that made me feel good and spoke to the high self confidence that I had growing up.

It's not that I didn't think I wasn't good enough it's just that it hadn't been done before, and the odds against my success were astronomical. Such things didn't bother me though. I like to think that I'll be successful at anything upon which I set my sights. I was president of the microcosm of society known as junior high, so who's to say I couldn't have continued upon that track, against all odds.

The audacity of youth is that bold. Young people don't have the wisdom of experience to know any better most of the time. They haven't had to come face to face with segregation or second class treatment. They haven't been profiled or marginalized. Their world has been pretty fair for the short time that they've been aware of such things as fairness. That audacity led me to do the unthinkable, at least according to my peers, by running for vice-president as a 7th grader, just one week after stepping on to the campus of a new school, naive about such things as the social hierarchy and the who's who around those parts. I made a surprisingly good showing too. I wasn't surprised, but most others were. I didn't win, but I was appointed a position on the board and eventually ascended to one of the executive offices after the misdeeds of one of the social elite forced them to resign their post. But that was so long ago. My pursuits have led me in different directions since then and perhaps society's unwritten rules have subtly shaped my attitude so that I don't think about such grandiose things as being President. Somewhere along the way I was conditioned to get in line, like a good laborer and be a very small part of the machine, master of only my very minute domain. Paying mortgages and making ends meet have become paramount to my existence. It's as if I'm looking at life through a television camera upon which someone has taken a Sharpie and written HOA fees, car note, groceries, credit card debt, personal health and well being in bold black ink so as to obscure the bigger picture beyond the lens, making it all run together into one big out of focus nothingness.

Caught up in that nothingness are things like big dreams and pots of gold at the end of rainbows. The pursuit of happiness has been lauded, but not happiness itself. Sooner or later the futility of that pursuit can get to be so overwhelming that you almost become numb to it all. I think that's partially where I was at 8pm PST tonight. In my mind, Barack Obama was so supremely qualified, like no other candidate that this country has seen before, that it was almost a waste to time to continue campaigning. To hold a contest in which one candidate was so overmatched seemed like a formality that we could all do without. In any other circumstance, the decision would be what's commonly termed as a no-brainer.

If you were Coach Mike Krzyzewski at Duke University and you could have a valedictorian, Eagle Scout, that volunteers at the senior center in his free time and oh, just so happens to be 7 feet tall and the most graceful and dominating center to play the high school game since one Lewis Alcindor sprinted down the court for New York City's Power Memorial High School, you'd stop at nothing to get that kid enrolled at your esteemed institution of higher learning. If you owned a restaurant and needed a chef to distinguish your establishment and exalt it above all other dining options and the most creative and easiest to work with chef were available, you'd snatch that chef out faster than he could flip a flapjack.If you were a corporation trying to fill an important position and you had an opportunity to hire the top individual from the top university in all of the land, you would not hesitate to do so. Only in Presidential politics was this type of logic put into question, and actually seen as a negative.

It would seem that if Barack Obama, the President of the Harvard Law Review while a student there (which, by the way pretty much distinguishes him as the DUDE of dudes at the nation's finest law school), who just so happens to be a man of African descent, had been denied his rightful place as leader of the Free World that there could be no more devastating blow to a people that have suffered so many indignities and disappointments throughout the 232 year history of this country. But in some strange way, that statement would not have been entirely true. Sure, it would've been incredibly discouraging for the morale of anyone that ever dared to dream, that ever dared to believe. However, the cynicism amongst black people in this country runs so deep that many including myself would not have been surprised.

It is for that reason that I could not bring myself to celebrate, let alone be even outwardly relieved when he was announced as the winner of the 2008 Presidential Race. I had watched in disbelief when candidates that neither looked like me, nor were likely ever a victim of racism like me were cheated out of crucial electoral votes that cost them the Commander-in-Chief's position in the White House. While my faith in the great system of democracy that this country takes such pride in was all but shaken into oblivion, I was able to rationalize it into something as callous as "Well, they're doing it to each other now. Now they must know how we feel most of the time." But it wasn't personal. Barack Obama's candidacy was personal to me. I have never met the man, but I feel like I have. I have never spoken to the man, but I feel as though he speaks for me. I have never sat down and had the opportunity to learn of his deepest fears and ambitions, but I would bet that they are similar to mine.

I dismissed Wolfe Blitzer and Diane Sawyer and all the rest of the media that proclaimed that Obama would be the next President of the United States. Until the MAN took the mic and admitted that he had indeed been defeated by the BETTER man, I had decided that I wouldn't really listen. To his credit, John McCain gave a very eloquent concession speech that actually served as a nice segue to the positivity and hope for change that will be ushered in with Barack Obama.

I must admit that I still was relatively speechless when McCain spoke but felt like the smile that had developed deep down inside me was beaming like a spotlight for all to see, written all over my face. It was tough to put into words how great a feeling it was to realize that he, that WE had actually done it. When I woke up today, it almost didn't seem real. It was as if yesterday were New Year's Eve and we had all had a grand celebration, no, a positively EPIC celebration and at some point I had fallen asleep and now awakened after the streamers and party favors had all been cleaned up. Gone was the flash and excitement and the energy of last night's festivities. But the sun was shining so brightly with the promise of a new year ripe with new resolutions and opportunities for change that I knew that something special had indeed taken place.

Tuesday Two-step

I'm not sure what I was going to write here. It's a full two weeks later now and I'm enjoying a rare drug free and relatively pain free moment. I'm trying to briefly capitalize on it and jot down a few thoughts while I'm able. Let's see, a Tuesday 2-step. Perhaps I was on my way to work after working out at the gym. Maybe once at work, I 2-stepped my way around doing anything too strenous and then 2-stepped, or perhaps more appropriately side-stepped my way out a side door to get an early jump on traffic.

I was undoubtedly operating from a position of sleep deprivation as seems to be the norm these days. Step one could've been waking up at some obscene hour and laying there with my eyes closed pretending that I could actually fall back asleep if I just concentrated. Step 2 was likely my trying to fight through the urge to get up and go to the bathroom again (the meds make my kidneys quite active) for fear that I would definitely not be able to sleep again.

Electric

"I've got something really amazing to share with you..."

Ain't no sunshine...

This constant fatigue is a killer. Not only can I hardly muster up the energy to complete a thought, let alone a creative one, I really don't have the desire to do it most of the time. Writing makes me sleepy. Thinking about writing makes me sleepy. If I'm looking at a computer screen, the effect is magnified. (Note: this entry was conceived the old fashioned way, using a pen and a notebook and then transferred to cyberspace later.)

It's an incredibly cruel joke. Most of the time that I want to sleep, I'm prevented from doing so by the pain. As a result, my body often chooses to shut down at the most inopportune of times, like when I'm driving or trying to listen to a sermon at church. I wonder when my amusement with the frustration is going to end? Right now, I'm able to laugh at the pain and the curious alone time, albeit unconscionably uncomfortable alone time, that it affords me. I've actually come to look forward to the late night (correction: LATE late night) selections that television has to offer. Cartoon Network's Adult Swim has some particularly twisted viewing on tap (Aqua Teen Hunger Force, Stroker and Hoops, Assy McGee, Shin Chan). The nights that find me partially medicated make these a little extra interesting. I've even discovered that I can catch obscure episodes of The Proud Family or Kim Possible at around 3am.

The whole thing is a catch 22. Conventional wisdom says that perhaps my problem is being only partially medicated. Not so. First of all, I don't enjoy the way that the medication makes me feel, even when the twisted cartoons are involved. Secondly, the drugs don't do their job. More often than not, they mess with my head causing me to think of weird stuff and dream about even WEIRDER stuff, all the while still allowing me to endure the pain, even if in an altered state. Finally, , when I do take the full allotment of meds, they may actually deaden the pain but the narcotics cause my kidneys to work overtime and I end up getting up several times throughout the night to use the bathroom so I still don't sleep well. My patience for this too has run out. Let's hope I continue to stay amused and that the pain eventually stops.

monday

Today I woke up and had to get on a conference call as soon as I got up. I was trying to wake up as the call got started, but it never really worked. Several times throughout the call, I found myself lost and disinterested. Such is the norm with me and conference calls, but these Monday morning ones are especially brutal. I was called upon to give my input and I gave a less than inspiring account of my daily happenings from the past week. When someone else was talking, a question was posed to determine if one of my customers were experiencing a similar issue. Everyone on the call paused to wait for my feedback.

I had nothing to say. I played it off like I had forgotten to turn the mute button off, but the truth is that I had not really heard the question. Apathy is really putting a damper on my productivity. I'll snap out of it though. There's something about the relationship between my inactivity and productivity. If I stay active, my mind is sharp and I am more focused. When I am not terribly active, like I'm not right now due to the knee injury, everything else in the way of productivity seems to suffer as well. Oh well, I'll get through it soon enough.

The Aftermath

I found out today that the USC Trojans lost to Oregon State last night. I feel like I was in a coma and when I woke up everyone had long since been over the shock of the whole thing to the point that it wasn't even news anymore. It would've been all that they talked about on every station. All day it has felt like life went on without me and I was not missed.

Where was I? Well, I stepped into a vacuum in the universe known as the emergency room at Summit Hospital in Oakland. What a surreal experience this place was. The same set of characters seemed to be present, but there were no metal detectors to walk through like there are at Kaiser. I found parking rather easily, and hobbled my 1-crutch totin' self on into the registration area. Before I could really get myself into a comfortable position in the chair, the triage nurse had called my name.

This was an interesting character who kept making me laugh even though I was doubled over in pain, and he looked like one of my cousins. I stepped out of this chamber of comedy and found a seat close by at the urging of Senor Triage. I was amazed at how many open seats there were in this place. What kind of emergency room was this? Had I fallen asleep in Downtown Oakland and awakened in Mayberry? There was hardly anybody there and yet a really chatty gentleman named Warren decided to sit right next to me. Okay, not RIGHT right next to me, but just on the other side of an end table about 2 feet wide that held several magazines and a Sporting Green from the day's San Francisco Chronicle. Immediately, Warren starts to peer at the newspaper that I was reading to pass the time, almost leaning into my lap to read.

"Let me get that when you're done," he said

"Oh sure, no problem," I said, counting no less than 15 seats in my direct line of sight without turning my head a single degree in either direction. Warren proceeded to talk, and rather loudly, about the Raiders, the Yankees, John McCain, his knucklehead nephew, his bad feet, and again his nephew. Don't get me wrong, he was a nice guy, I was just feeling like I wanted to sit there and die peacefully, wallowing in my own self-pity for my last few pathetic moments. He reminded me of a lighter-skinned, bald-headed version of the late Bernie Mac and his voice was every bit as booming.

"DEXTER OWENS?"

Saved! I was again amazed at how fast the proceedings were going here. I was called by somebody else to go through some additional paperwork. Five minutes after that I was being whisked into the next room to get the IV hooked up and have some blood drawn. Yeah...an IV. Oh, I got ahead of myself. I apparently picked the wrong day to eat some turkey salad from the Safeway deli and it did quite a number on my stomach. Since I was not yet feeling well at the 24 hour mark since eating this salmonella salad I decided to seek some medical attention.

What a frightening proposition this was! This was the first time that I have needed medical care RIGHT NOW and could not just stroll into to Kaiser, aka the devil I know. Although I would have to endure the indignity of that metal detector and probably stand because their emergency room is so crowded, at least I knew where to go. I had to get some friends to look up some info for me on the internet while I drove in the direction of the hospital.

I'm happy to report that I survived (so far, although I have only consumed chicken broth today) and lived to tell about it. Sure, I was hooked up to an IV for 2 hours, and didn't get home until almost 5 hours after I had arrived, but I felt a little better when I left. It's amazing how much better this PPO stuff is than Kaiser. Maybe it has something to do with getting the bill in the mail at a later date. I'll let you know if I'm still so high on them when it arrives.

SO so motivated...

You ever have one of those days where you really don't feel like doing too much? Too much is actually not a fair assessment at all. It would be more accurate to say that you don't feel like doing anything. Breathing seems to be an arduous task. If i could just fall asleep and wake up sometime during the Obama administration with a good knee and a resting heartrate back in the 40s, I'll be good.

Once again, I woke up this morning to the sound of jackhammers, trucks revving their engines loudly and then backing up while playing the accompanying "beep.....beep.....beep." I tried to ignore it for at least an hour. I tried to roll over to the other side of the bed away from the window. Next I opted for the old head under the pillow trick but that didn't work either. This was worse than about 2 hours earlier when I had finally found that perfect position. Perfectly odd position that is more like it. I had my right leg over the left side of the bed while the whole left side of my body was lying like I was on my back. My right arm was fully extended over to the top right corner of the bed as if it had a nail through it and my left arm was bent over head. I don't know how I ended up like this, but it was apparently the single posture that did not aggravate the sciatic nerve in my lower back to keep me awake. But then I had to go to the bathroom. I cursed my bladder for what seemed like hours, but was probably only 30 or 40 minutes. Before I finally succumbed, I made a mental note of said position so that I could recreate the abstact body-art pose again and falling fast asleep again. Of course it didn't work out like that. Somehow I fell asleep again, but it seemed to be all too short.

I had the remote control in hand for about 10 minutes when I decided that sleep was no longer in my cards and that perhaps I should watch TV. It was almost 9, so Regis and Kelly should be on. I didn't feel like watching them though. My computer was in the other room, but I didn't feel like hobbling over to get it. Everything is such a chore. I finally did get up and get it, but I didn't even feel like checking email or reading anything that the internet had to offer. Pain would zap all of my creative thoughts for the day and apathy would prevent me from doing much work. Food is always good in these instances. I opted to pick up something when my I went to get my daughter from school. I didn't even feel up to making a peanut butter sandwich.

It's the sweet ones that put a hurt on you...

La Playa Caribe

Thunderstorms crash against a blue-grey sky, interrupting the gentle rustling of the wind through the palm trees, yet still I strive…to find even better locations for recovery. With the distinct exception of my Dominica sojourn years ago, I refuse to accept that I can visit an island without spending some time on the beach.. Here in the Dominican Republic, that quest was on once again. Significantly slowed by this bad wheel, the potential for engaging in my usual adventuresome ways would be all but eliminated. Not to worry though, because I knew that going in. I’m supposed to be convalescing. I’m supposed to be relaxing and recovering. Gallivanting down cobblestone streets or traipsing around museums or seeing any sights is sadly not in the plans.

The beach is a pretty fair consolation though, in my opinion. Any chance I can get to look at the ocean and be close enough to hear the crashing waves, I’m surely going to take. My hotel had a clear view of the Caribbean Sea that began just on the other side of George Washington Avenue, but being essentially in an urban area of this seaside town there was no beach close by.

The concierge and other locals let us know that the beach was a little ways past the airport at a place called Boca Chica. It was interesting to hear the varying reviews about said beach. Some people described it as nice, while others made a screwface and shook their head as if they had just caught a wiff of something unpleasant. Others still said that it was nice, but it has fallen off a bit. (Keep in mind that the bulk of these descriptions were in Spanish).

The very well groomed concierge lady (picture somebody with long hair, high cheek bones and an elegance that suggested perhaps she had adorned an evening gown and a sash at some point) said Playa Caribe was going to be our best bet, but that it was pretty far away and that a taxi could get a bit expensive. We were looking at about $50 each way and then we had to hope that we could catch one on the way back. This didn't seem like a terribly good plan since we had no knowledge of the area. The last thing I want to do is get caught out there with no way to leave. Since persuading a local to take us out there was not looking likely, it was time to make an exception to one of my long standing travel rules. I would have to rent a car in another country.

Technically, I have driven in Canada before, but that's not really like a foreign country. They drive just like we do here. In fact, they drive even slower and really follow all of the rules. Driving in third world countries, and even in very developed countries in Asia is completely BANANAS.This place tended to be closer to bananas than not. We'll call it platanos. The only saving grace here was that there wasn't an obscene amount of traffic as in a place like Bogota. The toughest thing would be pulling out of the hotel onto George Washington Avenue which was basically an expressway with no stop lights in sight. Finding the beach was relatively easy, given that this is an island and most of the time the big road on an island is one that goes around its edges. So we jumped in the red mitsubishi montero that they rented us and I was nominated to drive. I laughed to myself about the crippled guy getting the nod, but then again, I felt safer with my own driving skills. Besides, it was an automatic, so I didn't need my left leg to drive. I only needed to withstand the agony of keeping my left leg bent in this small car while we drove.

After what seemed like 2 or 3 minutes, I finally made the left onto George Washington Avenue and away we went. It never ceases to amaze me how people overestimate or are just plain wrong on distances and times that it takes to get somewhere in other places. It's probably because the breakneck pace of American life doesn't make time such an issue so it's not really paid attention to as much. In about 30 minutes, we had passed by the airport and were going through towns that were much more rural than Santo Domingo. I was surprised at how much it resembled the drive from Saigon up to Vung Tau in Vietnam. There were livestock roaming along the side of the road, chickens meandering around, and children playing way too close to the freeway, but you got the sense that they new better than to stray out there.

The first beach that we came upon was the aforementioned Boca Chica. There were lots of other cars making this turn, so it wasn't hard to find. Unfortunately, there were lots of cars making this turn, so it wasn't all that serene either. It was definitely a party out here at this place. Remember that scene in Boyz n the Hood, or Hustle and Flow where all of the cars were in the parking lot and everyone was rollin' through with the tops down and the music on loud? No? Okay..is D.C. in the house? Do cats still stroll on over to Hanes Point and wash and wax their cars out there on Sunday afternoon while playing their music as loud as possible so that as many people as possible notice them? Well, Boca Chica was like that. Going down that main strip was like driving through a parade and every man woman and child was gettin' their hustle on, trying to sell you dulces, cervezas, fans, agua...you name it. There were so many people on the sand that there was no reason to even stop the car. I was in search of west and wewaxation. People watching is always welcomed, but I'd settle for some crashing waves and a clean plot of sand. Back to the highway it was.

When we had driven another 15 or 20 minutes, it became apparent that we must've missed the turn and had gone too far. We stumbled upon another beach called Guayacanes, but it was just like Boca Chica with way too much goin' on. After doubling back, I saw the little sign that led to Playa Caribe (blink and you woulda missed it). This little stretch of beach was so small that it looked like someone's private seaside hideaway. It wasn't exactly pristine, fine white sand with aqua blue water like you might see in Turks and Caicos or the Bahamas, but it was nice. There were palapas with the Presidente cerveza logo on them all over the place and reclining beach chairs. We found some empties and I hobbled on over and plunked down. Just then the beach "commisioner" rolled up demanding payment for the "rental" of said beach chairs. It was only a couple bucks, so I didn't argue. He also sold us some Presidentes, so it was all good.

It was already late in the afternoon so hanging out there for a couple hours was about all we were able to do. That was just fine though. Watching the waves crash against the cliff in the distance and listening to the rustle of the wind through the palm trees was plenty for me. I was treated to the cat and mouse game that is inevitable when a group of teenagers spend Sunday at the beach. The ratios are always bad, but that never stops the group from having way too much fun. There were a group of about 20 kids who had to be about 15 or 16, but only about 5 girls. Naturally, the boys were acting up and the girls were kind of playing along, only slightly objecting to the throwing of sand or excessive splashing. After many failed attempts at a human pyramid, they switched their attention back to the young ladies. At one point the fellas were really getting crazy as they, standing in water up to their necks, had apparently removed their trunks and began waving them overhead while chanting something over and over again. The girls thought better of this and stayed back out of the water and waited this routine out for the 10-15 minutes that it endured.

The sun kept playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds all day, and it even started to rain. Nobody even flinched at the drops nor ran for cover though. I didn't bother to move the half of my body that was not totally under the shade of the palapa, and just let the warm rain drops hit me. It felt like a Carl Thomas song.

Summer rain
Whispers me to sleep
And wakes me up again
Sometimes I swear I hear her call my name
To wash away the pain
My summer rain

That made the rental car worth it right there.

Sabado Gigante!

It's Saturday and I'm doin' it big in DR. Well, as big as you can do it on one leg. Let me run down the day for you. After getting up and doing my first round of rehab exercises and icing in the easy chair that they have positioned in the corner of my room here at the Renaissance Jaragua Hotel and Casino in Santo Domingo, I had a light breakfast of juevos, papas, y empanadas. The sun was shining and I hadn't been to the pool yet, so that would be my next order of business.

I'm not allowed to swim or even submerge my leg in water yet, but nobody said that I couldn't lay next to the pool with my leg covered by ice bags. Icing never felt so good. First of all, it was about 90 degrees at 11am and very, very humid. Under those conditions, you don't even have to suck it up and fight through those first two minutes of adjusting to the cold ice bags against your skin. Add a strawberry, ice cream and rum concoction and a view of not only the pool and the surrounding palm trees, but also the Caribbean Sea and it becomes very clear that this is indeed the way to adhere to your recovery program. I was sure to slather up with the SPF 30 sunscreen and bring my polarized Maui Jim sunglasses even though the sun kept dipping behind the very expansive, billowy, white cloud cover.

I let my leg thaw out and then put the ice bags on again as Bob Marley blasted through the speakers and I enjoyed my surroundings. It seems as though Bob has written the soundtrack for the sea (at least the tropical sea) as nothing makes you feel the ambiance of windblown palm trees, sunshine, and crashing waves like he and the Wailers telling you to get down with the Kinky Reggae. As you can see, I was in no hurry to leave. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. My ice bags finally turned to water and my stomach started tuggin' at me for lunch.

Some of the employees at the pool bar suggested a spot about 3 blocks back in the neighborhood behind the hotel called El Conuco. Good call! The indoor/outdoor dining area was brightly colored and decorated with tropical birds, some drums and the colorful characters that were waiting on the tables. As usual, I ordered way too much food because I just want to try everything. I probably should've skipped the yucca with onions because my grilled steak with grilled onions was plenty. I forgot to mention the sancocho which I think is now, officially, my favorite thing to eat here. In fact, I'm going to go home and try to re-create this salty beef stew type soup in my own kitchen. Most of the restaurants here serve a small portion of it whether you order it or not. The candied papaya that I had for dessert was absolutely what the doctor ordered to top this late lunch off.

Saturday night proved that my hotel was indeed the place to be. In addition to the various conferences taking place in the ballrooms, and the nightly hustle and bustle of the casino, there was a sold out concert taking place in el Teatro Fiesta located at the rear of the casino. Folks came in droves and best in their elegant best to see Emmanuel, a Mexican crooner who must've been wildly popular around these parts. Walking out and catching a taxi, I noticed the multitude of cars parked any which way they could along the road leading away from the hotel. Later on, as the concert ended and folks made their way on to Santo Domingo's version of Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles (aka Adrian Tropical), the fashion show was on once again. Actually, I'm perhaps not being fair to Adrian's by comparing it to Roscoe's because it's people watching, and even its food, easily outdistances Roscoe's.

Off and away again

Here I am in a hotel room in Santo Domingo and I couldn't be happier. I have no plans for the rest of the evening other than eating, I'm icing my knee, and I'm watching CNN en Espanol intently. This is the life. Oh sure, I plan to go outside at some point. I didn't fly all this way just to see the inside of a hotel room. However, I am significantly slowed by this wisp of a left knee that I'm trying to slowly nurse back to health. What better place to get well than in a tropical paradise?

This sure beats the four walls that I call my own on Jefferson Street. I never thought I would get tired of my condo, but I surely was after not having seen "outside" for more than a week. Visitors had even commented on how pale I was. I was going stir crazy in there. I think the worst thing was the realization that not even my bed was a grand oasis anymore. Since I have been in such pain and so medicated, I haven't even been sleeping well. It was time to go somewhere. ANYWHERE!

Santo Domingo had been in the plans for a few months and it never occurred to me that I might not be going, unless there were a hurricane blowing through here or something. Boy did I luck out in that regard. All of the bad storms came through here in succession in the last 2 weeks, but this weeks forecast is crystal clear, save for a few scattered thunderstorms. I've always liked those anyway.

So, I'll be in search of some nice local cuisine tonight and my big plan for tomorrow is to sit by the pool with ice bags on my knee.

Withdrawal

The intensity continues to grow and its reach is spreading like a wild fire. I lie here in the dark trying to occupy my thoughts with something else. Anything else will do, just as long as I'm not focused on this pain that is no longer limiting itself to atomic pulses emanating from deep inside my surgically repaired left knee. Now, sly serpent that it is, El Dolor has slithered its way up the side of my leg, across the gluteus and is picking at the sciatic nerve in my lower back like he's Bo Diddly at a Juke Joint. I'd scream if I thought it would help. Audibly, that is. I'm sure my insides have been absorbing my repressed screams for hours now since the last of my meds wore off. It's downright excruciating.

I won't even look in its direction. If I were better at ambling around my condo at this point, I would've moved it off my desk and into another room. If I roll over on to my right side, it is within arm's reach. I look out the window instead. There's nothing to see, but that's where my gaze is fixed. While re-runs of Family Guy are on in the background, I'm turned away from the television hoping that the complex math problems I'm making up and subsequently trying to solve in my head will keep me from thinking about it. I was rubbing the area between my knee and upper thigh, but stopped when I noticed I was all but scratching. It's not that warm in here, but now I'm sweating. Last week, as I rode out the heat wave from within these walls, this would've been understandable but it's just a typical cool Oakland evening right now. I'd be surprised if it were more than 62 degrees outside. I pat at my brow with the top sheet on my bed and try to get back to my math problem.

Finally, I'm so curious that I can no longer fight the urge to glance over my right shoulder at it. It's smiling at me and it's not just any smile. It more closely resembles the wry, very evil, toothy grin of the Joker knowing that I am growing so weak that I will soon succumb. Slowly, I turn my head back toward the window. Its smile changes to a smirk as it must've figured out a way to channel all of its energy to telepathically remote control the television's volume down a few notches. I can no longer really hear what Peter, Brian and Stewy are muttering about. My back is still to all of them.

I'm beginning to re-evaluate my feelings toward Michael Imperioli's Chris Maltisanti or Chris Rock's Pookie, having previously lumped them in the bag with the weak and undisciplined. I can hear Omar Gooding's Demetrius Harris from that all too real portrait of life in Pro Football, pleading with himself to muster up some strength before giving in to The Grip. I start to pray, even though I rarely pray directly for myself, that this pain will go away.

It's laughing at me know. I can hear it. That smile turned smirk has now erupted into maniacal laughter, Vincent Price style. At this, I actually get up off the bed, pick up the suddenly very verbose orange bottle of the narcotic pain killer Norco and hobble into the other room with it in tow. I slam it down violently on the counter of the bathroom and close the door behind me when I leave. It knows I'll be back though. El dolor is still manning his post and will continue to do his number on me. Eventually I'll give in.

El Dolor actually turned it on a little too strong as my body must've been so overwhelmed that I actually fell asleep. That was only 45 minutes ago though. I'm awake again now. El Dolor is still here and you know who is still over there in the bathroom and I can still hear him.

fire

I just got back inside from standing in front of my building with all of my neighbors. It was funny how there was sort of a block party feel to the very informal gathering. I rarely see anyone save for chance encounters in the garage waiting for a vehicle to be delivered by the cage carousel that is our high-tech Klaus parking structure. What a nightmare this thing is! If you're lucky and your car is right where it's supposed to be, you might be inside it and ready to drive off no sooner than 45 seconds later. If someone down the row has retrieved there's more recently and you need to wait for the shifting and raising process, you're looking at more than 3 minutes. The worst is when you arrive at nearly the same time as someone else because first you could wait the 3 minutes for their car, and then the 3 minutes for things to shift around again for your car.

So here we are out in the night air and it occurs to me that this might be the highest occupancy of pets in a building that I have seen! Is it now en vogue to have a pet in your urban condo? What is this? Surely the smells must permeate all through their units, as they did in the elevator ride back up once we got the all clear from Fire Marshall Bill. False alarm as usual. I almost didn't make it out of the building anyway. First of all, I was nodding off on my couch and was scantily clad because it's always hot up here in the summertime, and I hadn't left the house all day. My routine had been, ice my knee, play with my computer, ice my knee, think about making my way over to the kitchen for some food, ice my knee, stare at the world outside my window longingly, do my physical therapy exercises, ice my knee...you get the picture. When the alarm went off and I realized that it was actually the building wide one and not just the single alarm in my unit, I had to find some clothes. Well, first I had to find my crutches. Next I found some clothes. My shirts are way over there in the closet and I don't feel like expending the energy to get all the way over there so I opted to just zip up my sweat jacket all the way. Shoes were a problem because I can't bend my leg long enough to put the left one on. I finally decided on flip flops. And since it was chilly outside and I didn't know how long we'd be, I was sure to look for a beanie or hat of some sort to keep me warm. All of this took at least 8-10 minutes of me trying to amble around quite ineffectively before finally locking my door and crutching it toward the elevator. I know, you're not supposed to take the elevator in an emergency, but after a millisecond of thought, I decided that 6 flights of stairs were not happening on crutches tonight. No way. No McCain.

I didn't even care that I probably looked like a total idiot coming out of the elevator in the front lobby for everyone to see. I would be a spectacle anyway, hunched over on these two metal rods, looking tired and sad and worn out. It was just another reminder of how vulnerable I am right now to some special circumstances. Oh well. I can think the good Lord for allowing me to move at all and delivering from danger, even if there was none present this time. We were just practicing. When it was all said and done, I was quite relieved that I hadn't picked up the wrong keys and made it a point to come in and be thankful.