1975- On April 29, Operation Frequent Wind went into full effect, evacuating thousands of South Vietnamese, U.S. and Foreign Nationals from the U.S. Embassy and several other points around the city of Saigon, just ahead of the Communist North Vietnamese forces who were poised to take the city. Those that couldn't get out by air crammed on to boats or something resembling them. The pullout of U.S. forces, effectively ended the Vietnam War as the North Vietnamese claimed victory over the South Vietnamese regime.
1992- On April 29, I was in my Af-Am Film Lit class at UCLA when somebody burst into our classroom to exclaim excitedly, "They're about to read the verdict! Hurry!" With that, my professor led everyone out of the classroom in a near sprint to a coffee shop near Bunche Hall. We all watched in disbelief as overseers Briceno, Wind, and Koon were acquitted of the beating of Rodney King within an inch of his life. Even though we had all witnessed the savage behavior of Los Angeles' finest on videotape, the jury failed to convict them. Within the hour, it was goin' down all over the southland. The justice system had gone too far this time, and my people weren't going to just stand there and do nothing about it. People rioted and looted all into the night, committing unspeakable acts of violence in some cases, while burning many neighborhoods to the ground. No retail establishment was safe, even in tony Westwood where I was at school. Many of my friends took to the streets for the shopping spree, but this was minor compared to the devastation over in the 'hood.
On the local, National, and World news for the next 48 hours, the chaos was the top story. No...it was the ONLY story. The city of Los Angeles had been virtually shut down as curfews were put into effect. A State of Emergency was declared. The National Guard was brought in. Ironically, they were dispatched to places like Bel-Air and Brentwood. It was a surreal atmosphere. Classes were cancelled. We really couldn't go anywhere, and the smell of a city on fire was everywhere.
2006- It was April 29 and I was in Ho Chi Minh City (the former Saigon) on a business trip. I had come along with a client that had attended the training class that I had just given in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and he insisted that we had much to get done. I had no idea that it was anything other than Saturday as I stepped off the plane. On the approach, however, I did notice how eerily familiar this place looked. Very rarely do you go somewhere and it looks just like all of the footage you've seen from the old news clips and even the Hollywood movies on the subject. It was as if time had stood still for the past 40 years. We drove past the "Unification" Palace on my way in from the airport, but I didn't think much of it at the time. It all became glaringly apparent how big a deal this date in history was when I woke up the next morning. Tanks rumbled down the street followed by soldiers and there were red flags with a gold star in the middle of them hanging from everywhere. Their parade was quite a spectacle. I had only seen things like this on the nightly news whenever they talked about the Soviet Union or China, now here I was right in the middle of it.
Over the next two days, as I was left with vast amounts of free time, I gained even greater perspective on how significant this holiday was to them as almost nobody was working. Most of the people that I was to train were off until Wednesday. I did meet with the CEO of the company and a couple of his employees at a coffee shop, but they couldn't even get into their own office building. None of them seemed at all worried by the fact that I was there essentially "chillin'" for days. I phoned one of my Vietnamese co-workers back at the office and told him about the holiday and how I wasn't doing anything. Boy did I take him back.
"Holiday!? It was no holiday for me. My family and I barely made it on to a raft with all of our belongings on that day. I was 10 years old and was stuck on that thing for a few days. We lost everything!"
That conversation made me really open my eyes and start checking things out. They say that history is written by the winners, and that was definitely true here. The museum that was across from the Unification Palace proudly displayed a captured U.S. Military helicopter and tank in its courtyard, and images of "Uncle Ho" (Ho Chi Minh) were everywhere. Nowhere more prominent than in the post office which was one of the most beautiful you'll ever see. The armed military police that stood on the corners of the major streets were a constant reminder that somebody was always watching around there, and that if anything went down, they'd quick rise up to squash it. Unification was the polite word that they used for the takeover that occurred on that day.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Back in the Saddle
It's been a few days since my last entry, but I'm back. Judging by all of the fan mail, email, and irate voice mail messages, I was apparently missed quite a bit. Allow me to issue my most sincere apology and a whole truckload of excuses. Okay, I'll spare you the excuses. It's been a busy few days since I last had some free time and a free thought. Well, that's not totally true. I did have some free time, but for much of that, I had no internet access, so we'll chalk it up to being busy. Let me catch you up.
On Thursday, I worked from home, getting caught up with a customer whose whole world was coming crashing down as he was having extreme difficulties making something work while his supervisors breathed down his neck. While I was on this extended phone call/chat/troubleshooting session, I got a call from my daughter reminding me that she wanted me to fry some chicken and bring it to her potluck/presentation/parent's night for the science-for-girls program that she's been a part of this year. I thought I had plenty of time to get this done, but as the day wore on and I was still dealing with this client, I started to have doubts. With 2 hours remaining, I had decided to buy some chicken from Popeye's or the Colonel. However, the amount of money that they wanted for that amount of fowl was downright foul, so I hopped in the car and high-tailed it on over to the store to buy some of my own chicken. I got home and proceeded to fry enough chicken for 20 people in a little under 90 minutes. I had 2 frying pans going at one point and its a miracle that I wasn't covered in flour by the time I had to dash out the door to deliver this bird.
Friday it was jazz, strip steak, and dessert. A wonderful evening indeed. Oops! I almost forgot about the shrimp cocktail. When you get off to a good start like that, you've gotta bring it home with something solid on the back-end. Dessert was so good that it didn't even make it back to the table, indulging right there at the counter.
Saturday, should've been somewhat relaxing and should've contained some idle time but I was put in charge of music by my frantic cousin whose to-do list had become too much to handle. My travel drought was about to end as I would board Southwest flight 1204 to Los Angeles to attend my cousin's 40th birthday party. She said she wanted something cool, but funky. Smooth and sophisticated, but something that might make people want to dance. "I got this...don't worry." She was worried though. Real worried. I came through in grand style. Amoeba records is always a good spot for such a requirement. I grabbed a couple mix-tape selections by DJ Haylow and the latest from Madlib ("Who!?? What the...? I told you Jay-Z!" exclaimed my cousin) and headed for the airport. When I landed at LAX, she was not there to pick me up, but on the other side of town picking up a cake and still in search of the elusive magic purse that she had been trying to corral for the last 4 days (and 4 hours on this day). So I sat and waited...and waited. Finally, she sent a friend of hers to pick me up. Langston and I were making our way out of Soviet Asia so the time flew by. The party was a nice little affair at a swanky Indian restaurant called Tanzore and even though we arrived nearly 3 hours late (yes, I was with the guest of honor)a good time was had by all. By the way, my music was a hit.
Sunday was lounging in La La Land. First it was breakfast at the Coffee Co. and then a stroll through Santa Monica's 3rd Street Promenade. One of my other cousin's was hell-bent on doing a cupcake tour or Los Angeles, so we accompanied her on this leg of it. Yummy Donuts on Wilshire was the spot of the moment. Talk about decadence. There were 6 of us and she ordered 8 huge cupcakes. These weren't your average cupcakes, like you might expect to get from a plastic wrapper in the junk food aisle. Although, they purposely made one to look like a Hostess cupcake, not only complete with the white swirls on the top but also injected with whipped cream in the middle. The 7up cupcake had a gummy lemon and lime on top. My favorite was the Red Velvet. She cut the cupcakes into 1/4s and we all dug in. It was a little too soon after that huge breakfast to do much more than taste, and the exorbitant amount of frosting on these cupcakes made it easy for me to adhere to that plan. Next time, I'll come hungry and bring some milk. We walked this off with a stroll to Pacific Park on the Boardwalk, and then lounged the rest of the afternoon away at the luxurious Loews Hotel, sipping Malbecs by the pool deck, that overlooked Santa Monica Beach.
More wine tasting ensued later in the evening, but why don't I use that as a nice segue for tomorrow's entry? Yeah, I thought you'd agree.
On Thursday, I worked from home, getting caught up with a customer whose whole world was coming crashing down as he was having extreme difficulties making something work while his supervisors breathed down his neck. While I was on this extended phone call/chat/troubleshooting session, I got a call from my daughter reminding me that she wanted me to fry some chicken and bring it to her potluck/presentation/parent's night for the science-for-girls program that she's been a part of this year. I thought I had plenty of time to get this done, but as the day wore on and I was still dealing with this client, I started to have doubts. With 2 hours remaining, I had decided to buy some chicken from Popeye's or the Colonel. However, the amount of money that they wanted for that amount of fowl was downright foul, so I hopped in the car and high-tailed it on over to the store to buy some of my own chicken. I got home and proceeded to fry enough chicken for 20 people in a little under 90 minutes. I had 2 frying pans going at one point and its a miracle that I wasn't covered in flour by the time I had to dash out the door to deliver this bird.
Friday it was jazz, strip steak, and dessert. A wonderful evening indeed. Oops! I almost forgot about the shrimp cocktail. When you get off to a good start like that, you've gotta bring it home with something solid on the back-end. Dessert was so good that it didn't even make it back to the table, indulging right there at the counter.
Saturday, should've been somewhat relaxing and should've contained some idle time but I was put in charge of music by my frantic cousin whose to-do list had become too much to handle. My travel drought was about to end as I would board Southwest flight 1204 to Los Angeles to attend my cousin's 40th birthday party. She said she wanted something cool, but funky. Smooth and sophisticated, but something that might make people want to dance. "I got this...don't worry." She was worried though. Real worried. I came through in grand style. Amoeba records is always a good spot for such a requirement. I grabbed a couple mix-tape selections by DJ Haylow and the latest from Madlib ("Who!?? What the...? I told you Jay-Z!" exclaimed my cousin) and headed for the airport. When I landed at LAX, she was not there to pick me up, but on the other side of town picking up a cake and still in search of the elusive magic purse that she had been trying to corral for the last 4 days (and 4 hours on this day). So I sat and waited...and waited. Finally, she sent a friend of hers to pick me up. Langston and I were making our way out of Soviet Asia so the time flew by. The party was a nice little affair at a swanky Indian restaurant called Tanzore and even though we arrived nearly 3 hours late (yes, I was with the guest of honor)a good time was had by all. By the way, my music was a hit.
Sunday was lounging in La La Land. First it was breakfast at the Coffee Co. and then a stroll through Santa Monica's 3rd Street Promenade. One of my other cousin's was hell-bent on doing a cupcake tour or Los Angeles, so we accompanied her on this leg of it. Yummy Donuts on Wilshire was the spot of the moment. Talk about decadence. There were 6 of us and she ordered 8 huge cupcakes. These weren't your average cupcakes, like you might expect to get from a plastic wrapper in the junk food aisle. Although, they purposely made one to look like a Hostess cupcake, not only complete with the white swirls on the top but also injected with whipped cream in the middle. The 7up cupcake had a gummy lemon and lime on top. My favorite was the Red Velvet. She cut the cupcakes into 1/4s and we all dug in. It was a little too soon after that huge breakfast to do much more than taste, and the exorbitant amount of frosting on these cupcakes made it easy for me to adhere to that plan. Next time, I'll come hungry and bring some milk. We walked this off with a stroll to Pacific Park on the Boardwalk, and then lounged the rest of the afternoon away at the luxurious Loews Hotel, sipping Malbecs by the pool deck, that overlooked Santa Monica Beach.
More wine tasting ensued later in the evening, but why don't I use that as a nice segue for tomorrow's entry? Yeah, I thought you'd agree.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
My Inspiration
Isn't it funny what inspires us? I was standing outside this evening, waiting for a bus that seemed like it would never come and starting to hunch over and cower to the biting wind that was nipping at my face. I knew it was going to be a little cool when I headed home and I was even prepared, donning a skull cap and gloves for my courageous stand against the elements. But when the bus didn't come when I thought it would, my bravery decided to desert me. I thought it would be there in 5 minutes, not 55 minutes. My hands began to freeze within those gloves. As I gazed across the street at the comfy chairs in the window of Starbucks and the relaxed patrons enjoying hot beverages while sitting in said chairs, I grew even more weary. But then I thought about the frigid plains of Soviet Central Asia that Langston Hughes described in the chapter that I just completed of his autobiographical I Wonder As I Wander.
The damp snow on my hat brim and on my shoulders crusted over and froze into crinkly sheets of thin ice. The snow that stuck to my face made it a white mask, as were all of the other faces around me.
This was his very vivid account of an overcrowded train ride through rural, post-Revolution Soviet Union in which he and his travel companion had to jump off the train into a snowbank as theirs was not a destination big enough to warrant a full stop, only a slowdown. Suddenly, my spine straightened up and I held my head high. I uncrossed my arms, choosing instead to let them hang confidently at my sides. It sounded like the conditions were sub-zero in Langston's recollection. My conditions were easily 45 or 50 degrees ABOVE zero. I wish I could tell you that I did not curse the tardy bus nor the constant wind at all during the final 25 minutes that I waited out there, but at least I had Brother Hughes to get me through.
I find myself doing the same thing at the gym. Well, in theory anyway. When I was working out for more than the purpose of trying to look good in the mirror, I could pretty easily coax myself into shooting 10 more jumpers, or doing 10 more push-ups, or running 10 more laps. Now, I am motivated by more cosmetic things like the aforementioned mirror, and not wanting to have to replace expensive suits in my closet.
My writing pursuits are inspired by several things. My drive to work at the craft as often as possible comes from a statement that another writer that I met made to me last year. He said that "If you're going to call yourself a writer, you have to write everyday." This has been a challenge, but I'm much improved over this time last year.
From the "billboard material" files, I occasionally like to look at an email that I received in response to a writing position I applied for last year. The editor of this rather obscure travel magazine said, among other things that my outlook was too negative and that he didn't think I had the ability to entice people to want to travel, insinuating that I would more likely scare them away from it altogether. Perhaps there was some truth to what he wrote, but the fact that he turned me down for the gig inspires me to prove him, and any others that doubt my conviction, wrong.
Finally, I'm inspired by my 9th grade english teacher, Father Cobb. It was his assigning of a "saturation report" and his less than lukewarm response to my rough draft that sent me down this path. So revamped was my final draft, that he read it to the class , stopping after one rather descriptive passage and exclaiming, "This is GREAT writing!" Thanks, Father Cobb, for making me straighten up, stand tall, and not letting me settle for mediocrity.
The damp snow on my hat brim and on my shoulders crusted over and froze into crinkly sheets of thin ice. The snow that stuck to my face made it a white mask, as were all of the other faces around me.
This was his very vivid account of an overcrowded train ride through rural, post-Revolution Soviet Union in which he and his travel companion had to jump off the train into a snowbank as theirs was not a destination big enough to warrant a full stop, only a slowdown. Suddenly, my spine straightened up and I held my head high. I uncrossed my arms, choosing instead to let them hang confidently at my sides. It sounded like the conditions were sub-zero in Langston's recollection. My conditions were easily 45 or 50 degrees ABOVE zero. I wish I could tell you that I did not curse the tardy bus nor the constant wind at all during the final 25 minutes that I waited out there, but at least I had Brother Hughes to get me through.
I find myself doing the same thing at the gym. Well, in theory anyway. When I was working out for more than the purpose of trying to look good in the mirror, I could pretty easily coax myself into shooting 10 more jumpers, or doing 10 more push-ups, or running 10 more laps. Now, I am motivated by more cosmetic things like the aforementioned mirror, and not wanting to have to replace expensive suits in my closet.
My writing pursuits are inspired by several things. My drive to work at the craft as often as possible comes from a statement that another writer that I met made to me last year. He said that "If you're going to call yourself a writer, you have to write everyday." This has been a challenge, but I'm much improved over this time last year.
From the "billboard material" files, I occasionally like to look at an email that I received in response to a writing position I applied for last year. The editor of this rather obscure travel magazine said, among other things that my outlook was too negative and that he didn't think I had the ability to entice people to want to travel, insinuating that I would more likely scare them away from it altogether. Perhaps there was some truth to what he wrote, but the fact that he turned me down for the gig inspires me to prove him, and any others that doubt my conviction, wrong.
Finally, I'm inspired by my 9th grade english teacher, Father Cobb. It was his assigning of a "saturation report" and his less than lukewarm response to my rough draft that sent me down this path. So revamped was my final draft, that he read it to the class , stopping after one rather descriptive passage and exclaiming, "This is GREAT writing!" Thanks, Father Cobb, for making me straighten up, stand tall, and not letting me settle for mediocrity.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Heart of the City
I checked out the Heart of the City Tour with Mary J. Blige and Jay-Z last night and it was worth the wait. After some character that calls himself Dream (he looked and sounded more like the love child of MC Shy D and Baby D from JJ Fad. He's got some song called Falsetto that all the little kids in the crowd seemed to know) came out to open the show, Mary and the Jigga Man were shown in a documentary short, sitting for an interview. After the mere sight of their faces on the screen sent the crowd roaring, they calmed down a bit to hang on the every word of Mary and Jay. They did this whole mutual-admiration, Brooklyn-Love thing and then talked about the impact that each other has had on hip-hop and pop culture. It was pretty cool. They came back to a different portion of this film whenever there was a costume change or some other break in the action.
It was really cool how they, being co-headliners, came out together to do Jay's Reasonable Doubt classic "Can't Knock the Hustle" with Mary singing the hook. The crowd went absolutely nuts. Jay left the stage and then Mary proceeded to give 100% of herself for the next hour and 15 minutes. Jay emerged once during that to do the Biggie Smalls rap on the remixed version of "Real Love". Mary put on a great show and showed strong vocals that even the most die-hard of fans had to admit were much more refined than performances early on in her career. She can bring it for real! She was also doing her role model/inspirational artist thing, giving uplifting messages to sistas out there, as a nice contrast to alot of the other messages being played on the radio. She left it all out on the stage, and then without intermission, Jay-Z came back.
One of the really nice aspects of the show was how both of them played with almost a full orchestra, equipped with a horn section, several guitars, percussions, back-up singers, and even violins. Of course, Jay-Z had a DJ for parts of his performance too. Jay rocked the house for about an hour himself, and then Mary re-emerged for their collaboration on "Dead Presidents", which then led right into Mary's "Take Me As I am".
I've got to say this about Jay-Z. His was not the most entertaining hip-hop show I've ever seen but it was definitely top notch. (I have to give that nod to the Roots, who I've seen rock the house 2 or 3 times, and Run DMC). It was kind of like seeing Clyde Drexler, or Hakeem Olajuwon or Charles Barkley in person during the Michael Jordan Era. They were great, but...well...you know.
It was really cool how they, being co-headliners, came out together to do Jay's Reasonable Doubt classic "Can't Knock the Hustle" with Mary singing the hook. The crowd went absolutely nuts. Jay left the stage and then Mary proceeded to give 100% of herself for the next hour and 15 minutes. Jay emerged once during that to do the Biggie Smalls rap on the remixed version of "Real Love". Mary put on a great show and showed strong vocals that even the most die-hard of fans had to admit were much more refined than performances early on in her career. She can bring it for real! She was also doing her role model/inspirational artist thing, giving uplifting messages to sistas out there, as a nice contrast to alot of the other messages being played on the radio. She left it all out on the stage, and then without intermission, Jay-Z came back.
One of the really nice aspects of the show was how both of them played with almost a full orchestra, equipped with a horn section, several guitars, percussions, back-up singers, and even violins. Of course, Jay-Z had a DJ for parts of his performance too. Jay rocked the house for about an hour himself, and then Mary re-emerged for their collaboration on "Dead Presidents", which then led right into Mary's "Take Me As I am".
I've got to say this about Jay-Z. His was not the most entertaining hip-hop show I've ever seen but it was definitely top notch. (I have to give that nod to the Roots, who I've seen rock the house 2 or 3 times, and Run DMC). It was kind of like seeing Clyde Drexler, or Hakeem Olajuwon or Charles Barkley in person during the Michael Jordan Era. They were great, but...well...you know.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Weekend Mosts
You remember that page in the yearbook where they had the Senior Mosts? You remember! They would tell you who had the prettiest eyes, who was the biggest flirt, and of course who was most likely to succeed. Well, this is like that. But different.
Most Blatant disregard:
I was in line at the Pak n' Save grocery store not far from my house. Ordinarily, this would not have been my store of choice, but it was late, I didn't feel like getting back on the freeway, and I was HUNGRY! I'm never really a fan of the warehouse type grocery stores. I enjoy the order and simplicity of a smaller, more manageable place, that is somewhat organized. If there's too much going on, I don't usually find what I'm looking for very fast, and I get frustrated. Similarly, I can't shop at a place like Marshall's or Ross. People always tell me how they get great deals at these places, but I don't really have the patience to rifle through 563 articles of clothing to find something buried deep under some other stuff. Besides, they rarely have things in my size anyway. So I'm at Pak n' Save on Friday night and I'm hungry and I'm trying to grab some things as quickly as I can, doing a quick plan of the next 4 of 5 meals that I might be able to create out of these $25 worth of groceries (because that's about all I can afford til payday). I also had to grab a $25 gift card for my daughter to give to one of her friends that was having a birthday party, but more on that later.
I've finally got my items (spaghetti sauce, eggs, pinto beans, milk, salad mix, potatoes, etc.) and headed to the line. With this little bit of groceries, I headed straight for the express line, 15 items or less. It was much shorter and should move quickly. There was another line open and most folks in it had big baskets full of stuff. Most of the people in my line had the hand carried baskets, like me, if any at all. Except for this one sista whose turn it now was to move her stuff up to the counter. None of us really noticed that she had a basket until she kept unloading and unloading and unloading. It was like Willy Wonka had invented a never-ending grocery basket that could hold the contents of the whole store. She must've been pulling stuff out of this basket for a solid 4 or 5 minutes. At first she was just doing it at her leisure, as if she were the only person in the room. But then folks started to get visibly perturbed, shifting their weight to their other foot, sighing loudly, sucking teeth, rolling eyes; all of the things from the passive-aggressive handbook. Then Shaqwuita got in line behind me and I thought it was 'bout to go down.
"Oh hell to the naw!" she exclaimed, head almost rolling right off her shoulders as she invoked the Reverend Dr. Whitney Houston. "This b**** is trippin'! What? She cain't count? She know that's waaaaaay more than 15!"
Ol' girl with the Whole World in her Cart ("she got the whole world, in her cart...she got the whole wide world, in her cart...she got the whole world, in her cart...") looked up from over the rim of the basket (she had climbed inside it at this point to continue extracting groceries from its depths, placing them on pulleys to get them up to the conveyor belt). Even the lady at the register had her hand on her hip now, as she scanned this mother lode of processed foods with robotic precision using her free hand. Shaqwuita felt like she had to reach out and touch someone at this point. Luckily, she had a cell phone.
"You would not believe dis b*****! Yeah! I'm still here. I know...this b***** is crazy!"
Fifteen minutes later, I was finally through the line and getting into my car. Clearly her time was more valuable that all of the rest of ours. Especially Shaqwuita's.
Most Annoying:
Remember the gift card that I bought? Well, my daughter didn't end up going to the party so I went back to Pak n' Save and tried to return it. (That $25 would be a nice addition to the $1.72 that's in my checking account until Friday). With receipt in hand, I walked up to the customer service counter and met with the very "friendly" Michelle who didn't even look up from her magazine when she asked "can I help you?"
I explained that I had purchased the Best Buy gift card here the previous evening and was here to return it.
"We can't do anything with that, you need to go to Best Buy," as she promptly went back to reading her magazine.
This was not the end of the world. At least Best Buy was in the adjacent parking lot. I walked out and went over to Best Buy and waited in their customer service line. Some lady in front of me was giving this poor high-school kid, who probably wished she were home doing homework instead of collecting minimum wage at this retail establishment, the business about some faulty steam cleaning vacuum that had destroyed her carpet. When it was my turn, I stepped up calmly and explained my situation. She retired to her manager's office and then came back to tell me that I would have to take care of this at Pak n' Save. No I was annoyed. On the way back to my car I called Pak n' Save in hopes of talking to some manager instead of having to deal with Ms. Congeniality again. I talked to Cary who gave me a very encouraging, "No problem, come on in!" as I pulled into his parking lot.
No one was at the desk when I returned to Pak n' Save but a security guard asked me if she could be of assistance. She went looking for Cary and when she couldn't find him, asked Michelle where he was. Michelle was now working at a register (I guess she finished her magazine) and started loud talking when the security guard went over to tell her that somebody needed some customer service.
"I already TOLD him that we can't help him. He NEEDS to go to Best Buy!"
Just then Cary appeared and was very helpful. He looked at my receipt and made some phone calls and then finally came back to me where I was standing to give me the bad news, but is effort softened the blow a great deal. I was stuck with the gift card, unless I wanted to mail it in and wait for them to send me a check.
Most Random Thought:
What does motor oil really taste like? Yeah, I know. That's even more random than you thought that I, the Red Baron of Randomness (yeah, I know...that's lame, and there's no real practical similarities there, but it was better than the other choice , Rick James, that came to mind) could come up with. You're probably still trying to get your head wrapped around just how my brain, scrambled as it is, would ever stumble upon this. Well, this is something that I usually say whenever somebody says something like "..it's an acquired taste...,". I usually follow that up with, "you could probably acquire a taste for motor oil too, but that doesn't make it a delicacy...," quite pleased with myself, countenance giving this very fact away. I never really give it much thought, but as I was pumping gas on Saturday, with nothing else to fill up those few minutes of watching my last few dollars go into that gas tank, I gazed at a can of Castrol GTX on a rack near the pump. It looks like it would go down kind of smooth. It kinda looks like something that they make at Starbucks. It would stick to your ribs. It would probably be a good real replacement, like a protein shake or something. No? No! Yeah, I know. Hey, I told you it was random.
Most shocking development(s):
Pistons lose to Sixers in game one of their first round playoff match-up. And...it was at the Palace. Detroit knows they're not supposed to lose their and to the Sixers! The Jay-Z and Mary J. Blige concert was postponed. The reasons surrounding this one were very mysterious. One of the theories caused me to learn something new (see below).
I know there was something else shocking that happened but my a.d.d. is kickin' in so I can't remember. Perhaps it was my team losing to a bunch of geriatrics in our "old-man's-used-to-was-league" game. Before I start pointing out the fact that we had only 5 guys (among them, 1 guy with a blood clot in his leg who has strict orders not to be doing anything strenous, ESPECIALLY basketball, and another that collapsed and nearly passed out 2 minutes into the game the week before because the severe respiratory infection that he had been suffering from was not allowing him to take in enough air), and they had 3 subs on the bench giving them 8, let me remind you of how youth should've prevailed here. The youngest guy on the other team had the salt and pepper greying going on. Several others were very bald. Most were certifiably silver citizens. One of the guys I was guarding was actually about my height, but had those shiny shorts with the belt in them like the Fort Wayne Pistons or Minneapolis Lakers used to wear. I think he was the power forward that played with George Mikan in the '50s. Yeah...that's where I recognize him from. He's the guy whose shot Bill Russell redirects in those old black and white highlights. On one of the rebounds that I grabbed over him, he got mad and swung his cane at me after I was undeterred by his attempts to knock me off the post with his artificial hip.
One thing about old cats though, is that you KNOW they can shoot. It's true what they say about shooting a jump shot. It's like riding a bike. You never forget how to do it. Well, maybe you adjust it to a set shot, but it still leaves your hand the same way. They wouldn't be playing if they couldn't still shoot, because they sure can't jump anymore and aren't blowing by anybody. At least I didn't think they would be. At one point, I had to ask one of my teammates if he were in foul trouble because surely that had to be the reason why he was making Old Man River look like Sweetwater Clifton. This dude was scoring at will, dribbling with one hand, navigating his walker with his other. And when somebody is moving that slow, you're in such disbelief that you just watch them score. I came over and blocked some of the shots from the weakside, but on others I didn't bother, because I didn't think I had to. On one play, I left my man to go all the way to the other side of the key to block a guy's shot, but my man was still in the way, so I could only get enough of my hand on the ball to slap it off the glass. But some other old guy grabbed it, so I blocked his shot too, again to one of his teammates. This happened about 4 times as I was up and down like a pogo stick, while my teammates stood and watched, one of them in my way still. None of them thought to grab the ball, so eventually somebody grabbed it that I couldn't get to and he scored. Can you believe that we were actually down by 17 at one point? Well, when the other team is giving you a steady dose of uncontested layups and 3-point set shots that they were given enough time to line up with their scopes like army reconnaissance snipers, you're going to be down. We made a valiant comeback though, pulling to within 6 with a minute left. I hit two late 3-pointers to cut it to 3, and had another roll around the rim 3 times with 11 seconds left that would've tied it. We had to foul them after that, and of course they made the free-throws. Could there have been anything more shocking? Hmmm. I can't recall.
Most laugh out loud moment:
We were heading to the car on our way to the park and my daughter decided that she wanted to take the stairs and see if she could get to the bottom (6 floors down) before my son and I did on the elevator. Usually, the two of them would race, but my son was starting to feel the effects of a cold and wasn't quite up to it. The elevator doors opened and we stepped in as she darted out the door to the stairwell. As the door to the elevator started to close, I could hear her feet pounding down the stairs, probably annoying whomever lives in the unit on the other side of that wall. Hey, you know what they always say: location, location, location. My place is at the other end of the hall. My son was leaning against the far wall nearest to the touch pad since he fashions himself a modern day Marco Polo, always wanting to be in charge of getting us to the correct floor, beating the "door close" button to death in the process. As soon as the door was secure and at the precise moment before we started our descent he looked up at me, across to the opposite wall that I was leaning on, fixed his eyes upon mine and proceeded to let out some sufficiently foul smelling and quite audible flatulence. Pleased with himself, his blank look turned to a wry smile as a look of sheer horror took over mine. I ceased to inhale another breath. Thinking to myself, "this is what it must feel like when a fish is lying on it's side, outside of the bowl like in those asthma commercials, wishing it had air". Was the elevator even moving? The bell signifying the passing of each floor seemed to come as infrequently as church bells ringing at high noon on a Wednesday afternoon. Like an evil villain now, my son's smile was quite pronounced at this point, his lips finally bursting with laughter that he could no longer contain.
I practically fell out of the elevator when the door finally opened. But after that first big gulp of air that my lungs sucked down, I too let out a hearty laugh.
Most playing on their juvenile sensibilities:
When you're broke, as I frequently am in these days of high gas prices and recession, you have to find creative ways to entertain yourself that won't break the bank. When these ways are free, its even better. This becomes more difficult by an order of magnitude when you're talking about kids. They want to go to the movies, eat at McDonald's, go to Six Flags or anything else that the myriad of commercials and billboards tell them every second of every day that they should want to do. Saturday, I found a nice free activity as Target was having an event at the Museum of the African Diaspora in San Francisco, and even had catered hors d'oevres to go along with it. (The pomegranate meatballs were wonderful!) Sunday, however, seeing ol' dad's team get dismantled by Naismith's original 5 wasn't quite enough entertainment for my two little rascals.
I had to go to the old standby, the Park. Unfortunately, with a splint on her finger, my daughter could not play basketball or climb on the monkey bars, so we I chose one that had lots of grass and vast open spaces. Other than that, there's not alot to do at this place. For views, it's an A+ as its bay side location gives the best unobstructed view of the City of San Francisco, The Bay Bridge, and the big metal, trojan-horse looking cranes that decorate the port of Oakland. If you're not flying a kite or having a barbecue, there's not much else to do, however. Banking on the fact that my kids are so competitive (I wonder where they get that from?) it was not too difficult to devise a plan to keep them occupied. I had them engage in a series of races that would both keep them busy and keep them from freezing as the 85 degree temperatures from earlier in the week were distant history as the mercury now dipped to 49 late on this Sunday afternoon. First it was the bear crawl race (which, she said she could do with no problem. What? I checked first...geeez!). Next was the hop on one leg race. After that, the running backward race. The crab walk race was next, followed by the duck walk race. The grand finale was the regular sprinting foot-race. However, to make sure that my son didn't hip check my daughter into next week like you may recall from a previous post ( http://dailywithdestah.blogspot.com/2008/01/8-is-great.html ) I used the park's unique configuration to my advantage. There are converging paths that run from the corners of the big grass field, making a big X right in the middle of the park. I stood at the middle and instructed them to each pick a corner to start in. They stood there, revving their little engines waiting for me to give them the starting signal as they glanced across the field at one another out of the corner of their eyes. With much less fan fare than Rizzo getting Danny Zucco and the boys started in their race through the Los Angeles Canal system or Pinky Tescadero popping bubble gum and blowing huge bubbles as she dropped the handkerchief to get the race between Fonzi and some other guy on Happy Days going, I gave them the "on your marks, get set go" as I dropped my right arm. Like they were shot out of cannons, they took off, giggling and thundering down the asphalt paths just as fast as they could go. Near the end of the race, I became quite concerned that I was going to find myself smack dab in the middle of an August Wilson play, as these Two Trains were running on a course right for me and looked to be getting there at the same time. Doing a timely two-step though, I was able to get out of the way just enough and to grab my daughter at the same time so that we all didn't go down in a heap. They were ready to go at this point.
Most educational moment:
One of the good rumors I heard about the cancellation of the Jay-Z/Mary J. show was that April 20 was a "holiday" of sorts. A holiday? Hmmm...news to me. I thought I was going to be outta luck until at least Memorial Day. Cinco de Mayo is a celebration, but nobody stops work for it, at least not around here. Apparently, April 20th is observed as a counterculture holiday by folks that often partake in a friendly game of puff-puff-give. You can look this up on wikipedia. Seriously. Apparently, back in 1971 some clever co-eds from San Rafael High School in Northern California started convenening at the Louis Pasteur statue at 4:20pm each day to take a toke. And so were born the phrases 420 Louis!, 420 friendly (as you might see in an ad "wanted: roommate...420 friendly") and the cleverly titled album by Method Man 4/21: The day after. I'm not quite sure what the significance of Louis Pasteur's statue was here (other than a place to meet), since I don't think he had any scientific breakthroughs involving cannabis or under its influence. Nor am I aware that Ms. Blige nor Mr. S. Carter had a particular affinity toward it either. It shall forever remain a mystery.
Most Blatant disregard:
I was in line at the Pak n' Save grocery store not far from my house. Ordinarily, this would not have been my store of choice, but it was late, I didn't feel like getting back on the freeway, and I was HUNGRY! I'm never really a fan of the warehouse type grocery stores. I enjoy the order and simplicity of a smaller, more manageable place, that is somewhat organized. If there's too much going on, I don't usually find what I'm looking for very fast, and I get frustrated. Similarly, I can't shop at a place like Marshall's or Ross. People always tell me how they get great deals at these places, but I don't really have the patience to rifle through 563 articles of clothing to find something buried deep under some other stuff. Besides, they rarely have things in my size anyway. So I'm at Pak n' Save on Friday night and I'm hungry and I'm trying to grab some things as quickly as I can, doing a quick plan of the next 4 of 5 meals that I might be able to create out of these $25 worth of groceries (because that's about all I can afford til payday). I also had to grab a $25 gift card for my daughter to give to one of her friends that was having a birthday party, but more on that later.
I've finally got my items (spaghetti sauce, eggs, pinto beans, milk, salad mix, potatoes, etc.) and headed to the line. With this little bit of groceries, I headed straight for the express line, 15 items or less. It was much shorter and should move quickly. There was another line open and most folks in it had big baskets full of stuff. Most of the people in my line had the hand carried baskets, like me, if any at all. Except for this one sista whose turn it now was to move her stuff up to the counter. None of us really noticed that she had a basket until she kept unloading and unloading and unloading. It was like Willy Wonka had invented a never-ending grocery basket that could hold the contents of the whole store. She must've been pulling stuff out of this basket for a solid 4 or 5 minutes. At first she was just doing it at her leisure, as if she were the only person in the room. But then folks started to get visibly perturbed, shifting their weight to their other foot, sighing loudly, sucking teeth, rolling eyes; all of the things from the passive-aggressive handbook. Then Shaqwuita got in line behind me and I thought it was 'bout to go down.
"Oh hell to the naw!" she exclaimed, head almost rolling right off her shoulders as she invoked the Reverend Dr. Whitney Houston. "This b**** is trippin'! What? She cain't count? She know that's waaaaaay more than 15!"
Ol' girl with the Whole World in her Cart ("she got the whole world, in her cart...she got the whole wide world, in her cart...she got the whole world, in her cart...") looked up from over the rim of the basket (she had climbed inside it at this point to continue extracting groceries from its depths, placing them on pulleys to get them up to the conveyor belt). Even the lady at the register had her hand on her hip now, as she scanned this mother lode of processed foods with robotic precision using her free hand. Shaqwuita felt like she had to reach out and touch someone at this point. Luckily, she had a cell phone.
"You would not believe dis b*****! Yeah! I'm still here. I know...this b***** is crazy!"
Fifteen minutes later, I was finally through the line and getting into my car. Clearly her time was more valuable that all of the rest of ours. Especially Shaqwuita's.
Most Annoying:
Remember the gift card that I bought? Well, my daughter didn't end up going to the party so I went back to Pak n' Save and tried to return it. (That $25 would be a nice addition to the $1.72 that's in my checking account until Friday). With receipt in hand, I walked up to the customer service counter and met with the very "friendly" Michelle who didn't even look up from her magazine when she asked "can I help you?"
I explained that I had purchased the Best Buy gift card here the previous evening and was here to return it.
"We can't do anything with that, you need to go to Best Buy," as she promptly went back to reading her magazine.
This was not the end of the world. At least Best Buy was in the adjacent parking lot. I walked out and went over to Best Buy and waited in their customer service line. Some lady in front of me was giving this poor high-school kid, who probably wished she were home doing homework instead of collecting minimum wage at this retail establishment, the business about some faulty steam cleaning vacuum that had destroyed her carpet. When it was my turn, I stepped up calmly and explained my situation. She retired to her manager's office and then came back to tell me that I would have to take care of this at Pak n' Save. No I was annoyed. On the way back to my car I called Pak n' Save in hopes of talking to some manager instead of having to deal with Ms. Congeniality again. I talked to Cary who gave me a very encouraging, "No problem, come on in!" as I pulled into his parking lot.
No one was at the desk when I returned to Pak n' Save but a security guard asked me if she could be of assistance. She went looking for Cary and when she couldn't find him, asked Michelle where he was. Michelle was now working at a register (I guess she finished her magazine) and started loud talking when the security guard went over to tell her that somebody needed some customer service.
"I already TOLD him that we can't help him. He NEEDS to go to Best Buy!"
Just then Cary appeared and was very helpful. He looked at my receipt and made some phone calls and then finally came back to me where I was standing to give me the bad news, but is effort softened the blow a great deal. I was stuck with the gift card, unless I wanted to mail it in and wait for them to send me a check.
Most Random Thought:
What does motor oil really taste like? Yeah, I know. That's even more random than you thought that I, the Red Baron of Randomness (yeah, I know...that's lame, and there's no real practical similarities there, but it was better than the other choice , Rick James, that came to mind) could come up with. You're probably still trying to get your head wrapped around just how my brain, scrambled as it is, would ever stumble upon this. Well, this is something that I usually say whenever somebody says something like "..it's an acquired taste...,". I usually follow that up with, "you could probably acquire a taste for motor oil too, but that doesn't make it a delicacy...," quite pleased with myself, countenance giving this very fact away. I never really give it much thought, but as I was pumping gas on Saturday, with nothing else to fill up those few minutes of watching my last few dollars go into that gas tank, I gazed at a can of Castrol GTX on a rack near the pump. It looks like it would go down kind of smooth. It kinda looks like something that they make at Starbucks. It would stick to your ribs. It would probably be a good real replacement, like a protein shake or something. No? No! Yeah, I know. Hey, I told you it was random.
Most shocking development(s):
Pistons lose to Sixers in game one of their first round playoff match-up. And...it was at the Palace. Detroit knows they're not supposed to lose their and to the Sixers! The Jay-Z and Mary J. Blige concert was postponed. The reasons surrounding this one were very mysterious. One of the theories caused me to learn something new (see below).
I know there was something else shocking that happened but my a.d.d. is kickin' in so I can't remember. Perhaps it was my team losing to a bunch of geriatrics in our "old-man's-used-to-was-league" game. Before I start pointing out the fact that we had only 5 guys (among them, 1 guy with a blood clot in his leg who has strict orders not to be doing anything strenous, ESPECIALLY basketball, and another that collapsed and nearly passed out 2 minutes into the game the week before because the severe respiratory infection that he had been suffering from was not allowing him to take in enough air), and they had 3 subs on the bench giving them 8, let me remind you of how youth should've prevailed here. The youngest guy on the other team had the salt and pepper greying going on. Several others were very bald. Most were certifiably silver citizens. One of the guys I was guarding was actually about my height, but had those shiny shorts with the belt in them like the Fort Wayne Pistons or Minneapolis Lakers used to wear. I think he was the power forward that played with George Mikan in the '50s. Yeah...that's where I recognize him from. He's the guy whose shot Bill Russell redirects in those old black and white highlights. On one of the rebounds that I grabbed over him, he got mad and swung his cane at me after I was undeterred by his attempts to knock me off the post with his artificial hip.
One thing about old cats though, is that you KNOW they can shoot. It's true what they say about shooting a jump shot. It's like riding a bike. You never forget how to do it. Well, maybe you adjust it to a set shot, but it still leaves your hand the same way. They wouldn't be playing if they couldn't still shoot, because they sure can't jump anymore and aren't blowing by anybody. At least I didn't think they would be. At one point, I had to ask one of my teammates if he were in foul trouble because surely that had to be the reason why he was making Old Man River look like Sweetwater Clifton. This dude was scoring at will, dribbling with one hand, navigating his walker with his other. And when somebody is moving that slow, you're in such disbelief that you just watch them score. I came over and blocked some of the shots from the weakside, but on others I didn't bother, because I didn't think I had to. On one play, I left my man to go all the way to the other side of the key to block a guy's shot, but my man was still in the way, so I could only get enough of my hand on the ball to slap it off the glass. But some other old guy grabbed it, so I blocked his shot too, again to one of his teammates. This happened about 4 times as I was up and down like a pogo stick, while my teammates stood and watched, one of them in my way still. None of them thought to grab the ball, so eventually somebody grabbed it that I couldn't get to and he scored. Can you believe that we were actually down by 17 at one point? Well, when the other team is giving you a steady dose of uncontested layups and 3-point set shots that they were given enough time to line up with their scopes like army reconnaissance snipers, you're going to be down. We made a valiant comeback though, pulling to within 6 with a minute left. I hit two late 3-pointers to cut it to 3, and had another roll around the rim 3 times with 11 seconds left that would've tied it. We had to foul them after that, and of course they made the free-throws. Could there have been anything more shocking? Hmmm. I can't recall.
Most laugh out loud moment:
We were heading to the car on our way to the park and my daughter decided that she wanted to take the stairs and see if she could get to the bottom (6 floors down) before my son and I did on the elevator. Usually, the two of them would race, but my son was starting to feel the effects of a cold and wasn't quite up to it. The elevator doors opened and we stepped in as she darted out the door to the stairwell. As the door to the elevator started to close, I could hear her feet pounding down the stairs, probably annoying whomever lives in the unit on the other side of that wall. Hey, you know what they always say: location, location, location. My place is at the other end of the hall. My son was leaning against the far wall nearest to the touch pad since he fashions himself a modern day Marco Polo, always wanting to be in charge of getting us to the correct floor, beating the "door close" button to death in the process. As soon as the door was secure and at the precise moment before we started our descent he looked up at me, across to the opposite wall that I was leaning on, fixed his eyes upon mine and proceeded to let out some sufficiently foul smelling and quite audible flatulence. Pleased with himself, his blank look turned to a wry smile as a look of sheer horror took over mine. I ceased to inhale another breath. Thinking to myself, "this is what it must feel like when a fish is lying on it's side, outside of the bowl like in those asthma commercials, wishing it had air". Was the elevator even moving? The bell signifying the passing of each floor seemed to come as infrequently as church bells ringing at high noon on a Wednesday afternoon. Like an evil villain now, my son's smile was quite pronounced at this point, his lips finally bursting with laughter that he could no longer contain.
I practically fell out of the elevator when the door finally opened. But after that first big gulp of air that my lungs sucked down, I too let out a hearty laugh.
Most playing on their juvenile sensibilities:
When you're broke, as I frequently am in these days of high gas prices and recession, you have to find creative ways to entertain yourself that won't break the bank. When these ways are free, its even better. This becomes more difficult by an order of magnitude when you're talking about kids. They want to go to the movies, eat at McDonald's, go to Six Flags or anything else that the myriad of commercials and billboards tell them every second of every day that they should want to do. Saturday, I found a nice free activity as Target was having an event at the Museum of the African Diaspora in San Francisco, and even had catered hors d'oevres to go along with it. (The pomegranate meatballs were wonderful!) Sunday, however, seeing ol' dad's team get dismantled by Naismith's original 5 wasn't quite enough entertainment for my two little rascals.
I had to go to the old standby, the Park. Unfortunately, with a splint on her finger, my daughter could not play basketball or climb on the monkey bars, so we I chose one that had lots of grass and vast open spaces. Other than that, there's not alot to do at this place. For views, it's an A+ as its bay side location gives the best unobstructed view of the City of San Francisco, The Bay Bridge, and the big metal, trojan-horse looking cranes that decorate the port of Oakland. If you're not flying a kite or having a barbecue, there's not much else to do, however. Banking on the fact that my kids are so competitive (I wonder where they get that from?) it was not too difficult to devise a plan to keep them occupied. I had them engage in a series of races that would both keep them busy and keep them from freezing as the 85 degree temperatures from earlier in the week were distant history as the mercury now dipped to 49 late on this Sunday afternoon. First it was the bear crawl race (which, she said she could do with no problem. What? I checked first...geeez!). Next was the hop on one leg race. After that, the running backward race. The crab walk race was next, followed by the duck walk race. The grand finale was the regular sprinting foot-race. However, to make sure that my son didn't hip check my daughter into next week like you may recall from a previous post ( http://dailywithdestah.blogspot.com/2008/01/8-is-great.html ) I used the park's unique configuration to my advantage. There are converging paths that run from the corners of the big grass field, making a big X right in the middle of the park. I stood at the middle and instructed them to each pick a corner to start in. They stood there, revving their little engines waiting for me to give them the starting signal as they glanced across the field at one another out of the corner of their eyes. With much less fan fare than Rizzo getting Danny Zucco and the boys started in their race through the Los Angeles Canal system or Pinky Tescadero popping bubble gum and blowing huge bubbles as she dropped the handkerchief to get the race between Fonzi and some other guy on Happy Days going, I gave them the "on your marks, get set go" as I dropped my right arm. Like they were shot out of cannons, they took off, giggling and thundering down the asphalt paths just as fast as they could go. Near the end of the race, I became quite concerned that I was going to find myself smack dab in the middle of an August Wilson play, as these Two Trains were running on a course right for me and looked to be getting there at the same time. Doing a timely two-step though, I was able to get out of the way just enough and to grab my daughter at the same time so that we all didn't go down in a heap. They were ready to go at this point.
Most educational moment:
One of the good rumors I heard about the cancellation of the Jay-Z/Mary J. show was that April 20 was a "holiday" of sorts. A holiday? Hmmm...news to me. I thought I was going to be outta luck until at least Memorial Day. Cinco de Mayo is a celebration, but nobody stops work for it, at least not around here. Apparently, April 20th is observed as a counterculture holiday by folks that often partake in a friendly game of puff-puff-give. You can look this up on wikipedia. Seriously. Apparently, back in 1971 some clever co-eds from San Rafael High School in Northern California started convenening at the Louis Pasteur statue at 4:20pm each day to take a toke. And so were born the phrases 420 Louis!, 420 friendly (as you might see in an ad "wanted: roommate...420 friendly") and the cleverly titled album by Method Man 4/21: The day after. I'm not quite sure what the significance of Louis Pasteur's statue was here (other than a place to meet), since I don't think he had any scientific breakthroughs involving cannabis or under its influence. Nor am I aware that Ms. Blige nor Mr. S. Carter had a particular affinity toward it either. It shall forever remain a mystery.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Planning on Points
Today I'm daring to be proactive. I'm endeavoring not to do something at the last minute. I'm actually going to plan. I know. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up also. I'm trying to convince myself that this is really the best course of action. Believe me, it is not easy to step out of your comfort zone like this.
My dilemma is whether or not to pay for hotels for some upcoming trips or to attempt to use my Marriott Rewards points. If I choose to pay for the hotel for a 5 day trip, I'm looking at a bill of at least $700. The only way to significantly lower the cost is to find a hotel further away from where I need to be. Also complicating the issue is whether or not to rent a car, which would be an additional expense. Ideally, I'd fly in, take a shuttle to the hotel, and then just be a foot soldier to and from where I need to be each day. See the problem? If I'm far away from the venue, then I need a car, so I'm not really saving any money by being further away.
If I had my own car, this might be doable. But then I'd have to embark on a long drive and buy gas. This far in advance, I'm fairly certain that buying gas will be much more expensive than keeping gas in the car. Okay, scratch that. I think? Yeah, scratch that. Okay...where were we? Oh yeah. I'm flying in, and trying not to rent a car. Hotel points are the next option. Somehow, this brings up the same dilemma. All of the higher category hotels (translated: requiring more points per stay) are closer to the venue. However, if I do stay further away to save on points, then I can afford a rental car, can't I? Well, no...probably not. The goal is to not spend on anything but food. Will I even have enough points by then? Right now I'd be good for about 3 nights at most point categories. Presumably, with my travel frequency, I will accumulate more points. But what if, for some reason, I don't get the opportunity to stay at a Marriott on these upcoming business trips.
This is why planning travel sucks. If I just had to go all of a sudden, I'd probably just figure it out on the fly. Oh well. I've held you captive in my thinking out loud long enough.
My dilemma is whether or not to pay for hotels for some upcoming trips or to attempt to use my Marriott Rewards points. If I choose to pay for the hotel for a 5 day trip, I'm looking at a bill of at least $700. The only way to significantly lower the cost is to find a hotel further away from where I need to be. Also complicating the issue is whether or not to rent a car, which would be an additional expense. Ideally, I'd fly in, take a shuttle to the hotel, and then just be a foot soldier to and from where I need to be each day. See the problem? If I'm far away from the venue, then I need a car, so I'm not really saving any money by being further away.
If I had my own car, this might be doable. But then I'd have to embark on a long drive and buy gas. This far in advance, I'm fairly certain that buying gas will be much more expensive than keeping gas in the car. Okay, scratch that. I think? Yeah, scratch that. Okay...where were we? Oh yeah. I'm flying in, and trying not to rent a car. Hotel points are the next option. Somehow, this brings up the same dilemma. All of the higher category hotels (translated: requiring more points per stay) are closer to the venue. However, if I do stay further away to save on points, then I can afford a rental car, can't I? Well, no...probably not. The goal is to not spend on anything but food. Will I even have enough points by then? Right now I'd be good for about 3 nights at most point categories. Presumably, with my travel frequency, I will accumulate more points. But what if, for some reason, I don't get the opportunity to stay at a Marriott on these upcoming business trips.
This is why planning travel sucks. If I just had to go all of a sudden, I'd probably just figure it out on the fly. Oh well. I've held you captive in my thinking out loud long enough.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Somebody please make it stop...
"If I see another unwed mother pushing a stroller, baby in one arm, another one on the way, I don't know what the hell I'm gon' do...," -- Dick Anthony Williams as Bigstop in Spike Lee's 1990 film Mo Betta' Blues
I hear you Bigstop. I really do. I'll tell you another thing that is driving me absolutely crazy also. If I see anotha young brotha dressed like a clown, walking like he's wearing the Forrest Gump Limited Edition Ricketts collection leg braces, belt strapped tightly around his thighs, pockets hanging somewhere near the back of his knees, white t-shirt long enough to be worn as a wedding dress, plaid boxers showing as the cuffs of trousers start to fray on the bottom from dragging on the floor, I don't know what the hell I'm gon' do! When did it become cool to have your little behind hanging out for all to see?
Are you really so "hood" when you leave your Sponge Bob briefs for all to see? If your underwear were meant to be seen, you wouldn't wear it UNDER your clothes. Why is this popular? How ridiculous is it that you must constantly pull up your pants and can scarcely walk without your hand holding your britches by the waist? It's not comfortable. We've all had that day where we didn't have a belt and had to wear something that didn't quite fit right. This usually happens to me if I go to the gym and pack my duffle bag full of something other than sweats on the occasion that I have somewhere to go when I'm finished working out. I'll double and triple check while I'm packing the bag, but somehow belt just doesn't make the checklist. So there I am the rest of the day, holding my pants up and feeling ridiculous.
Let's take a closer look at this though. Why is sagging necessary? Well, I can understand wanting to be as far away from the achey-brakey culture and their Wranglers that seem to have a strangle hold on more than just the denim industry. The skinny jean look sported by the goth/mod/skater/logo-t-shirt-dyed-black-hair-earring-in-the-lip-nipple-pierced-guy crowd is not terribly masculine either. But this is not the way. I'm even up for a compromise. You can go ahead and keep sagging as long as we can put some guidelines in place. First, why not just buy longer jeans that don't fit you in the waist? An awful lot of you are 5'9" or smaller (at least according to the statistics), so why not shop where I shop. I guarantee that if your little behind tries to wear my jeans, they will bunch up around your ankles and drag on the floor like you like and will be plenty baggy. Shoot, you might even be able to fit two of you in there. You can still wear the belt, but now it can be loosely fastened around your waist. That way if you're late for school or work and have to run for the bus, you can really stretch out and run, and swing both arms back and forth instead of that crab-lookin' walk that you usually do. If you wanna sag your basketball shorts, buy them in the big-boys section. If they go to my knees, they'll surely go to your ankles, so I'm sure you can swing it and still look cool. Is this too much to ask? I think y'all can do it.
We can even have a buddy system. Brothas can keep each other in line and make sure that no one looks like an idiot. Back in the day, a brotha might've told anotha that the cuff on his zoot suit was flipped the wrong way or that the feather in his fedora was looking kinda shabby. You brothas can help each other out can't you? You must be doin' it a little bit because at least I haven't seen anybody in some BVD briefs saggin'. Clearly there are at least minimal guidelines. Let's just add some common sense to them. If you can still fit into Tuff Skins, then get your jeans in the Men's department. If you can shop in the Men's department, head on over to Big and Tall. If you really need the Big and Tall sizes, well.... If you're that damn big you probably play for somebody and if you don't you ought to borrow yo' mama's sewing machine and get a frequent buyer card at New York Fabrics.
I don't want to hear the "i'm expressing my individuality" argument either. Whether this stemmed from prison culture or not, you were emulating somebody in an effort to get some street cred. Think about it. Once upon a time, a guy whose clothes didn't fit wasn't cool. He was the laughingstock of the neighborhood. But maybe one day he got tired of all that and hit somebody in the jaw and nobody messed with him again. Now the next chump comes along and sees that homey with the clothes that don't fit is feared and respected and decides that he too wants to be respected and feared, so he starts to dress like him.
We all can relate to this, can't we? I know I can. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Dr. J. I wanted to wear the Converse All-Star's that he wore and I wanted my afro to be big like his. I didn't want to comb through my nappy hair though, so my mom had to egg me on with "You want to be like Dr. J, don't you?" That was usually enough for me to bite the bullet and suffer through that black, plastic pick with the fist above the peace sign on the handle blazing a trail through the knotted curls on my scalp. But eventually, I found my way and a hairdo that was more sensible for me. Luckily I didn't have to experiment with a gheri curl to arrive there. And I'm almost strictly a Nike man now.
But are we really being individuals when the very dark blue denim dungarees and white t-shirt issued by an institution that incarcerates us is the attire of choice? Prisoners are all dressed alike and all locked up alike to remind them of the freedoms to which they no longer have the right. So what if you're not in jail or have never been in jail. You're still allowing yourself to be institutionalized. Maybe the media is serving as warden out here on this side of the walls. BET issues the image of your wardrobe, feeds you a steady diet of misogyny, and gets you hooked on that modern day Blue Magic that is apathy and you and hit it extra hard.
But I'm free to do whatever I want!
Are you really? Everyone in saggin'jeans and hyphy white tees looks a little communist or socialist or some kinda -ist laden institution to me. What does your sagging signify for you? Are you unified? Is there an increased sense of brotherhood? The statistics say otherwise. Is it a reminder to you of the foot that the Man has firmly planted on the side of your neck as he laughs at the minstrel show that is your life, as you prance around with sunglasses that you could weld in and a mouth with so much metal that you forego toothpaste in favor of Nevr Dull? People have always broken their necks to be like us. People go to tanning booths to look like us and refuse to wash or comb their bleached-blonde hair for months to try to get dreaded out like us. Why not bring the proud tradition of trend setting back to life in a way that won't make your mamas and grandmamas cringe whenever they see you?
I hear you Bigstop. I really do. I'll tell you another thing that is driving me absolutely crazy also. If I see anotha young brotha dressed like a clown, walking like he's wearing the Forrest Gump Limited Edition Ricketts collection leg braces, belt strapped tightly around his thighs, pockets hanging somewhere near the back of his knees, white t-shirt long enough to be worn as a wedding dress, plaid boxers showing as the cuffs of trousers start to fray on the bottom from dragging on the floor, I don't know what the hell I'm gon' do! When did it become cool to have your little behind hanging out for all to see?
Are you really so "hood" when you leave your Sponge Bob briefs for all to see? If your underwear were meant to be seen, you wouldn't wear it UNDER your clothes. Why is this popular? How ridiculous is it that you must constantly pull up your pants and can scarcely walk without your hand holding your britches by the waist? It's not comfortable. We've all had that day where we didn't have a belt and had to wear something that didn't quite fit right. This usually happens to me if I go to the gym and pack my duffle bag full of something other than sweats on the occasion that I have somewhere to go when I'm finished working out. I'll double and triple check while I'm packing the bag, but somehow belt just doesn't make the checklist. So there I am the rest of the day, holding my pants up and feeling ridiculous.
Let's take a closer look at this though. Why is sagging necessary? Well, I can understand wanting to be as far away from the achey-brakey culture and their Wranglers that seem to have a strangle hold on more than just the denim industry. The skinny jean look sported by the goth/mod/skater/logo-t-shirt-dyed-black-hair-earring-in-the-lip-nipple-pierced-guy crowd is not terribly masculine either. But this is not the way. I'm even up for a compromise. You can go ahead and keep sagging as long as we can put some guidelines in place. First, why not just buy longer jeans that don't fit you in the waist? An awful lot of you are 5'9" or smaller (at least according to the statistics), so why not shop where I shop. I guarantee that if your little behind tries to wear my jeans, they will bunch up around your ankles and drag on the floor like you like and will be plenty baggy. Shoot, you might even be able to fit two of you in there. You can still wear the belt, but now it can be loosely fastened around your waist. That way if you're late for school or work and have to run for the bus, you can really stretch out and run, and swing both arms back and forth instead of that crab-lookin' walk that you usually do. If you wanna sag your basketball shorts, buy them in the big-boys section. If they go to my knees, they'll surely go to your ankles, so I'm sure you can swing it and still look cool. Is this too much to ask? I think y'all can do it.
We can even have a buddy system. Brothas can keep each other in line and make sure that no one looks like an idiot. Back in the day, a brotha might've told anotha that the cuff on his zoot suit was flipped the wrong way or that the feather in his fedora was looking kinda shabby. You brothas can help each other out can't you? You must be doin' it a little bit because at least I haven't seen anybody in some BVD briefs saggin'. Clearly there are at least minimal guidelines. Let's just add some common sense to them. If you can still fit into Tuff Skins, then get your jeans in the Men's department. If you can shop in the Men's department, head on over to Big and Tall. If you really need the Big and Tall sizes, well.... If you're that damn big you probably play for somebody and if you don't you ought to borrow yo' mama's sewing machine and get a frequent buyer card at New York Fabrics.
I don't want to hear the "i'm expressing my individuality" argument either. Whether this stemmed from prison culture or not, you were emulating somebody in an effort to get some street cred. Think about it. Once upon a time, a guy whose clothes didn't fit wasn't cool. He was the laughingstock of the neighborhood. But maybe one day he got tired of all that and hit somebody in the jaw and nobody messed with him again. Now the next chump comes along and sees that homey with the clothes that don't fit is feared and respected and decides that he too wants to be respected and feared, so he starts to dress like him.
We all can relate to this, can't we? I know I can. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Dr. J. I wanted to wear the Converse All-Star's that he wore and I wanted my afro to be big like his. I didn't want to comb through my nappy hair though, so my mom had to egg me on with "You want to be like Dr. J, don't you?" That was usually enough for me to bite the bullet and suffer through that black, plastic pick with the fist above the peace sign on the handle blazing a trail through the knotted curls on my scalp. But eventually, I found my way and a hairdo that was more sensible for me. Luckily I didn't have to experiment with a gheri curl to arrive there. And I'm almost strictly a Nike man now.
But are we really being individuals when the very dark blue denim dungarees and white t-shirt issued by an institution that incarcerates us is the attire of choice? Prisoners are all dressed alike and all locked up alike to remind them of the freedoms to which they no longer have the right. So what if you're not in jail or have never been in jail. You're still allowing yourself to be institutionalized. Maybe the media is serving as warden out here on this side of the walls. BET issues the image of your wardrobe, feeds you a steady diet of misogyny, and gets you hooked on that modern day Blue Magic that is apathy and you and hit it extra hard.
But I'm free to do whatever I want!
Are you really? Everyone in saggin'jeans and hyphy white tees looks a little communist or socialist or some kinda -ist laden institution to me. What does your sagging signify for you? Are you unified? Is there an increased sense of brotherhood? The statistics say otherwise. Is it a reminder to you of the foot that the Man has firmly planted on the side of your neck as he laughs at the minstrel show that is your life, as you prance around with sunglasses that you could weld in and a mouth with so much metal that you forego toothpaste in favor of Nevr Dull? People have always broken their necks to be like us. People go to tanning booths to look like us and refuse to wash or comb their bleached-blonde hair for months to try to get dreaded out like us. Why not bring the proud tradition of trend setting back to life in a way that won't make your mamas and grandmamas cringe whenever they see you?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Who needs Botox?
I was walking back from the gym this morning and noticed this man that just turned the corner and was now going head-on into some bright morning sunshine. He made the most disturbing facial expression you ever saw. His left eye was squinted all up and his head was turned to the right as if he preferred to let the left side of his face take the brunt of the punishment. His jaw jutted out like Bubba from Bayou La Batre, Alabama and his mouth was partially opened like Popeye. He maintained this posture for several steps until some buildings finally provided another stretch of shade for him. Unfortunately, the contortion claimed his face once again when his shady oasis ended.
He's not the first person I've seen do this. In fact, I see people all of the time making some crazy faces. The faces make them look like things are a lot worse than they are. Inevitably, you'll see somebody at the gym that looks like they are lifting the weight of the whole building right there from the bench press and maybe even grunting right along with it. Is all of that really necessary? You don't have to prove to me that you're working hard. One of my other "favorites" is the person at the desk job that is trying to act like the job is just way too taxing for them as they exhale loudly about every 15 seconds, and shake their heads while muttering to themselves about how much work they have or about how they are just too busy to take on anything else.
I think its all of these characters that motivate me to keep such an even keel, and for it to show. I try really hard to walk down the street and not have my facial expression change no matter how bright or how windy it is around the corner. I don't care if that hole in the ozone layer that they're always talking about is letting a good solid ray of uninhibited sunshine directly through and it is singeing the eyelashes right off my eyelids. I'm not going to let it show. Whenever I catch myself wrinkling up my brow, I make myself smile it away. The exhaling? Of course not. My ancestors would be so ashamed if I took to this in place of the spirituals and whistling of their day. It's not that bad. It doesn't have to look like it is.
He's not the first person I've seen do this. In fact, I see people all of the time making some crazy faces. The faces make them look like things are a lot worse than they are. Inevitably, you'll see somebody at the gym that looks like they are lifting the weight of the whole building right there from the bench press and maybe even grunting right along with it. Is all of that really necessary? You don't have to prove to me that you're working hard. One of my other "favorites" is the person at the desk job that is trying to act like the job is just way too taxing for them as they exhale loudly about every 15 seconds, and shake their heads while muttering to themselves about how much work they have or about how they are just too busy to take on anything else.
I think its all of these characters that motivate me to keep such an even keel, and for it to show. I try really hard to walk down the street and not have my facial expression change no matter how bright or how windy it is around the corner. I don't care if that hole in the ozone layer that they're always talking about is letting a good solid ray of uninhibited sunshine directly through and it is singeing the eyelashes right off my eyelids. I'm not going to let it show. Whenever I catch myself wrinkling up my brow, I make myself smile it away. The exhaling? Of course not. My ancestors would be so ashamed if I took to this in place of the spirituals and whistling of their day. It's not that bad. It doesn't have to look like it is.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Just because you're tall...
My friends are always getting on my case for all of the extra attention that they think I get just because I'm a little taller than them. Okay, maybe I'm alot taller than them. Many of my good friends are a little challenged in the height department. I have a handful of "my-size" friends, but the overwhelming majority fit into that average height category, which in the U.S. is about 5'9". I remember 5'9". Ronald Reagan was President. Michael Jackson was moon-walking to and fro. I had a pair of parachute pants, and I probably wore them with my Air Jordan's and my Starter jacket. Those were the first Air Jordan's, by the way. (The Mars Blackmon kind. Speaking of guys having short homeys....)I even had a shag. Not carpet, but haircut. Well, maybe we had shag carpet at the house too, but that wasn't my fault. Ah, nostalgia....
I can't just sit back and take this from them though. Like any good card-carrying member of the Vertically Enhanced, I have to present valid counter-arguments. It's not all VIP rooms and popularity (but when it is...Oooooh Wheee!). I don't fit anywhere. Cars are too small. Planes are too small. They don't keep trendy clothes in my size. I have to wear all of these nice suits just to keep from wrapping a sheet around me and having to go out into the world surrounded by reasonable men. Julius Caesar was surrounded by reasonable men. Et tu, my five-foot friend. Et tu?
In fact, its downright hard work being this tall and a tireless exercise in cooperative communication and precision. Do you know how much effort it takes to stand up 79 inches above sea level? They probably constructed the pyramids faster than I stand up sometimes. My feet have to send an email on up through my ankles to my knees and have them start to bend. My knees then send a singing telegram on up to my hips telling them to get ready. Although they're quite the disagreeable pair, and can't agree upon anything. The left one likes to cool out and goes Harold Melvin on ya(wake up everybody...) but the right screams James Brown (Get Up out that seat!) so it's not a smooth ascent. My hips and back bring it more up to date. One leans wit it, while the other rocks wit it. My back is mad because my arms ain't pullin' their weight though, just hangin' around. My head scolds the whole lot of 'em as it slams into the overhead compartment, obviously not having received the memo in time that it was time to raise up. Otherwise, it surely would've surveyed the situation and started ringing that bell and shouting "Iceberg! Iceberg!" But I digress. That's what happens when your brain is so high and has to run on auto-pilot waiting all that extra time for the oxygen to reach it. I try to tell them how much it hurts to hit your head on something, but they just say something like "I wish I could hit my head on something...that would be cool!" patrons of profundity that they are.
They don't stop there though. "If I was tall, I'd dunk every time I got the ball. I'd be in the LEAGUE!"
Of course you would, and if you had a rope you'd be a cowboy too, right?
"And all the honeys would be at me and I'd be poppin' my collar...and...and...."
Yes, I know they would. Oh..my bad. I didn't mean to pat you on the head.
And then they snap out of their little day dream get mad at me again, as this reminds them of one of their other key gripes. It might even be the granddaddy of all their gripes.
"She only talked to you because you're tall!"
Maybe she just didn't see you. In those heels, her vantage point goes right over the top of your head. Maybe you moved too fast like a little field mouse and her mere human eyes couldn't keep up...and...and...maybe my super slow-mo gait allowed her to take me all in. Never mind that scowl she gave you, that probably just means she's deep in thought, trying to think of something just as clever to say back to your "Damn! Girl! mmmm! mmmmmmmm! MMMMM! I wanna lick you like a food stamp!"
"She just thinks you play ball..."
So what? She might think you're famous too. I heard she and her girls whispering and they were trying to figure out if you really were that guy they saw on the TV, wearing that helmet and those little boots, sitting on top of that horse that had the roses around its neck.
"I'm gonna tell her that you're NOT that guy and that you just look like him and that you can't even walk and chew gum at the same time."
You do and I'll take my hand out from under this little flap on the back of your little jacket and make you get off my lap. (Let's see you talk then!)
It's not my fault. But that's no reason to get sore at me. While you guys were being good dancers and wearing all the fresh gear back in the day, I was busy being gangly and awkward, pants showing a little more sock than they should've. While you had on your Stacy Adams with your little pin-striped suit on Easter Sunday, I had on some corduroys and blue and white Nikes. It's all good though. I laughed at me too (and no, it was just to keep from crying).
The weather is not any different up here. It's just as cold and lonely up here as it is down there, but the view is a little better.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Studio Gangster
What a wonderful summer day we're having here in the City of Oak, and it's only April 12. There's not a cloud in the sky and the breeze is as subtle as a nervous adolescent grabbing for your hand on a first date. Just another one of your basic "This is why we live in California" type spring days, if I may quote myself. So why am I sitting here writing to you? It's not like I'm sitting poolside somewhere with my laptop like Carrie Bradshaw or something. I'm not sipping umbrella laden drinks or enjoying any fabulous people watching. I'm not even on the very urban-chic rooftop terrace of my building, looking out over the Bay as if I'm Puff Daddy in a Black Rob video. Like, Whoa! You didn't expect me to bring back that flash from the past did you? Well, since I'm giving you my impression of the veritable Way-Back machine...
The temperature's about 88, Hop in the water plug just for old times sake
Break to ya crib change your clothes once more
Cause youre invited to a barbeque thats starting at 4 -- Will Smith, Summertime
I'm sitting in my room, looking out the window the same way I do when the temperature is, say, 48. Waterplug? No. Barbeque? Well, I'm sure somebody's Q'ing today, but I'm not there. I'm at home. Chillin', but at home nonetheless. On Monday, some co-worker will undoubtedly sound off about how fabulous it was to ride their touring bike down the coast on Highway 1, or what a nice day it was in Santa Cruz, or brag about how they watched the Giants get 5 innings of no-hit ball from Matt Cain only to see a 5-run lead evaporate and the bullpen implode in the 10th, all while wearing short sleeved shirts and shorts. (No small feat for a Giants game...the shorts and t-shirts, that is). "I went through a whole tube of sunscreen," I can hear them saying. Not me, I'm just relaxing for a hot minute.
What's my excuse? Well, there wasn't alot of free time. As usual, one of my kids had a game in the middle of the day and it took awhile and I had to go to a workshop this morning, and I'm going to the Warriors game in a few hours so there's not enough time for me to do anything but chill here. Are you buying that? Yes? Well, I've got some beachfront property in which you might be interested. No? Why not? So what if I'm the same guy that got up early to run on the beach and swim in the bathtub-like waters of Turks and Caicos' Grace Bay. Nevermind that I once took in the Van Gogh museum, the Heineken Brewery and lunched at a sidewalk cafe after dashing out of Amsterdam's Schipol Airport during a lengthy layover or routinely dip out of Chicago's busy O'hare Airport to enjoy a pie from Giordano's with considerably tighter time constraints.
You must think I'm an impostor. I'm so ashamed of myself. I feel like Herman Smith from Cleveland in the Wiz. Sure, you remember Herman? Don't you? He was Richard Pryor's character in the movie. What's that? The Wiz? Yeah, some people called him the Wiz, but he turned out to be some cat that had a cool light show and spun some records on the 1's and 2's while taking advantage of the larger than life persona that he took on when sending his booming voice out over the amplified sound system. No special powers. Just a man.
I'm no impostor. I'm just tired. I can see Oakland anytime. My motivation to take it all in during every single spare block of time is very, very low here at home. I live here. Don't be mad at me because you're in Winona, Indiana.
The temperature's about 88, Hop in the water plug just for old times sake
Break to ya crib change your clothes once more
Cause youre invited to a barbeque thats starting at 4 -- Will Smith, Summertime
I'm sitting in my room, looking out the window the same way I do when the temperature is, say, 48. Waterplug? No. Barbeque? Well, I'm sure somebody's Q'ing today, but I'm not there. I'm at home. Chillin', but at home nonetheless. On Monday, some co-worker will undoubtedly sound off about how fabulous it was to ride their touring bike down the coast on Highway 1, or what a nice day it was in Santa Cruz, or brag about how they watched the Giants get 5 innings of no-hit ball from Matt Cain only to see a 5-run lead evaporate and the bullpen implode in the 10th, all while wearing short sleeved shirts and shorts. (No small feat for a Giants game...the shorts and t-shirts, that is). "I went through a whole tube of sunscreen," I can hear them saying. Not me, I'm just relaxing for a hot minute.
What's my excuse? Well, there wasn't alot of free time. As usual, one of my kids had a game in the middle of the day and it took awhile and I had to go to a workshop this morning, and I'm going to the Warriors game in a few hours so there's not enough time for me to do anything but chill here. Are you buying that? Yes? Well, I've got some beachfront property in which you might be interested. No? Why not? So what if I'm the same guy that got up early to run on the beach and swim in the bathtub-like waters of Turks and Caicos' Grace Bay. Nevermind that I once took in the Van Gogh museum, the Heineken Brewery and lunched at a sidewalk cafe after dashing out of Amsterdam's Schipol Airport during a lengthy layover or routinely dip out of Chicago's busy O'hare Airport to enjoy a pie from Giordano's with considerably tighter time constraints.
You must think I'm an impostor. I'm so ashamed of myself. I feel like Herman Smith from Cleveland in the Wiz. Sure, you remember Herman? Don't you? He was Richard Pryor's character in the movie. What's that? The Wiz? Yeah, some people called him the Wiz, but he turned out to be some cat that had a cool light show and spun some records on the 1's and 2's while taking advantage of the larger than life persona that he took on when sending his booming voice out over the amplified sound system. No special powers. Just a man.
I'm no impostor. I'm just tired. I can see Oakland anytime. My motivation to take it all in during every single spare block of time is very, very low here at home. I live here. Don't be mad at me because you're in Winona, Indiana.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Spare Change
I get asked for spare change everyday. It always reminds me of a comedy routine by Chris Rock (I think it was Chris Rock?) when he tells the panhandler to get a spare job. I'm not ready to go asking for spare change, but I sure am thinking about a spare job lately.
I don't know what I could do though. I'm trying to be open minded, but my job criteria will probably be my undoing in the end. I don't want to (and can't) quit my day job, so I need something that I can do at night. I would like to get paid pretty well. I would like to work a most nights, but I need to be able to be unreliable. My day job sends me out of town sometimes, so I need to be able to go do stuff like that and have my employer be cool with that. I would like to be a "stop-gap" for some employer, but also be added to a schedule when I feel like working. I know. This sounds pathetic. I was laughing at my teen-aged niece for the same type of criteria a year or two ago. One of my boys got a kick out of it the other night too, when I was bouncing ideas off him.
We came up with a couple of ideas though. Maybe I could work at UPS or Fedex or something. They have odd hours, and usually keep lots of part-time employees. Manual labor may not be that big of a deal as long as I don't keep hurting my back or getting other nagging injuries. It might pay pretty well though. But I don't know how'd they be on the whole unreliable thing. If I had to go out of town for a week or so, would they let me return to work? I think not.
Waiting tables came up too. However, do you think that my tall lanky body would negotiate its way very successfully through a crowded restaurant while carrying food and drinks? Perhaps. I think I could get the attentive part down. But I don't know about being fast when I'm carrying a tray of food. And, again, would I really be able to go away for a week or so and have them be cool with that? Probably not. Getting tips would be nice though.
Bartender seems plausible. In fact, that's the sexiest of the jobs that we came up with. Apparently, the tips are pretty good if you're at a popular spot too. However, I have about as much experience mixing drinks as I do mixing whites and darks in the laundry. I don't know what kind of bartender I'd be though. I can't imagine that I'd do too well as one of those guys pouring drinks for some poor sap that wants to spill his guts as I keep his shot glass full. Playing psychiatrist for some stranger in a dive bar doesn't sound like my type of hype. Nor can I imagine having to enforce any rules to some late night drunks that I have to put out into the street so we can close the doors for a few hours. I fashion myself being at a cool club, but who is really in the market for a tall male bartender? Most of the ones I see when I'm out at the hot spots are of the sexy female variety. Yet again, the issue of my being unreliable in stretches would probably be an issue. What to do...what to do?
I don't know. Maybe I'll run a lemonade stand on the corner out in front of my building. I'm sure the other frequent residents of that piece of real estate wouldn't mind the variety that my offering would provide. The cops would probably be suspicious too. Oh well, back to the brainstorming drawing board. Let's home for a good storm. Probably a perfect storm, because that's what will probably be necessary for me to find the type of perfect part-time job that I describe above.
I don't know what I could do though. I'm trying to be open minded, but my job criteria will probably be my undoing in the end. I don't want to (and can't) quit my day job, so I need something that I can do at night. I would like to get paid pretty well. I would like to work a most nights, but I need to be able to be unreliable. My day job sends me out of town sometimes, so I need to be able to go do stuff like that and have my employer be cool with that. I would like to be a "stop-gap" for some employer, but also be added to a schedule when I feel like working. I know. This sounds pathetic. I was laughing at my teen-aged niece for the same type of criteria a year or two ago. One of my boys got a kick out of it the other night too, when I was bouncing ideas off him.
We came up with a couple of ideas though. Maybe I could work at UPS or Fedex or something. They have odd hours, and usually keep lots of part-time employees. Manual labor may not be that big of a deal as long as I don't keep hurting my back or getting other nagging injuries. It might pay pretty well though. But I don't know how'd they be on the whole unreliable thing. If I had to go out of town for a week or so, would they let me return to work? I think not.
Waiting tables came up too. However, do you think that my tall lanky body would negotiate its way very successfully through a crowded restaurant while carrying food and drinks? Perhaps. I think I could get the attentive part down. But I don't know about being fast when I'm carrying a tray of food. And, again, would I really be able to go away for a week or so and have them be cool with that? Probably not. Getting tips would be nice though.
Bartender seems plausible. In fact, that's the sexiest of the jobs that we came up with. Apparently, the tips are pretty good if you're at a popular spot too. However, I have about as much experience mixing drinks as I do mixing whites and darks in the laundry. I don't know what kind of bartender I'd be though. I can't imagine that I'd do too well as one of those guys pouring drinks for some poor sap that wants to spill his guts as I keep his shot glass full. Playing psychiatrist for some stranger in a dive bar doesn't sound like my type of hype. Nor can I imagine having to enforce any rules to some late night drunks that I have to put out into the street so we can close the doors for a few hours. I fashion myself being at a cool club, but who is really in the market for a tall male bartender? Most of the ones I see when I'm out at the hot spots are of the sexy female variety. Yet again, the issue of my being unreliable in stretches would probably be an issue. What to do...what to do?
I don't know. Maybe I'll run a lemonade stand on the corner out in front of my building. I'm sure the other frequent residents of that piece of real estate wouldn't mind the variety that my offering would provide. The cops would probably be suspicious too. Oh well, back to the brainstorming drawing board. Let's home for a good storm. Probably a perfect storm, because that's what will probably be necessary for me to find the type of perfect part-time job that I describe above.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Methodically Morning
Stepping out of the 71 degree conditioned air in the lobby as I move from the elevator to the exit, and out into the 51 degree morning chill that waits there to wage a full frontal assault on my exposed face, announces my entry into the line-up. It's cold. Not painfully cold, but cold enough that the pores on my cheeks open as wide as mouths that need feedin', inhaling much more than their share of said air that swirls and twists down my neck and simultaneously up past my untied shoes and ankle socks with each step, having achieved full infiltration in a matter of seconds. I'm awake now. It's 5:41am, but suddenly I'm very much awake, and acutely aware. There is a certain quiet calm that a cool morning possesses that gives it an eerie, surreal feel. But I've got it virtually all to myself and I like it.
I step off the curb, giving only a cursory glance back over my left shoulder where the would-be traffic, would be, had it been afternoon, perhaps a quarter of three. The guy with the hoody like mine is little cause for alarm, advancing scarcely as fast as sunlight at this hour, and with a pronounced limp. Nevermind that there are three others just like him wandering aimlessly at this hour across the street, through the vacant parking lot and down the block, respectively. I'm not worried about them, and they're not worried about me. Not worried, but aware. Acutely aware. Aware enough to have my hands swinging at my sides, not nestled in cozy, cotton, hooded-sweatshirt pockets.
A ray of light from an adjacent street lamp catches the surface of a bottle partially concealed in a brown bag, set in the recessed doorway to a building I come upon, just before the corner and shines like fire in my eyes. My eyes, that were at once looking at everything and nothing at all, fixed their gaze on the exposed, wide mouth of the bottle, cap long since gone A.W.O.L., followed the threading down the neck to the label.
Dark, maybe red, gold crowned...
Old..at base of long, fat neck
40...across barrel-chest...
Lightly malted, now just well past fermented, and still quite obscured. Stench stinging nose through cold nostrils, jolting body and mind back to fast from super slo-mo. How slow? It's a good thing my ears defied that memo, cutting back on after the frozen sequence of events, hearing footsteps, but only my own. But how slow? Turtle slow? No, slower. Not exactly paint-drying slow but black trench-coated Keanu as Neo slow. So slow as to step outside the slowness of the slow and even gain a new vantage point on slow.
The silence is deafening, but it's wonderful. Chaos is still asleep. I seem to have arrived just in time for the urban street-corner sound check. Hum street light. Rattle and sway, hanging metal parking-lot sign. Rustle oak tree leaves. Swish street sweeper, two blocks away. Listen. Escucha la! Where was the moon that should shine down from high on this metropolis? Maybe that guy riding the bike like Ms. Gulch around the tornado in Wizard of Oz stole it. No, wait...this just in! It's the marine layer claiming responsibility like Hamas for the lunar abduction. What is he doing riding that bike at this hour anyway? Where is he going? I know he's cold.
I'll be at the gym soon. Starbucks is already alive and kickin'. Wait a minute? Somebody else has arrived late for the soundcheck. Rumbling deep down from within, my stomach growls and even seems to groan. Won't be tending to this for a few hours yet. Ahhhhhhhhh! Light. Heat. Real-time. Weights. Stretching. Basketball. Yoga. Showers. Forget clothes in locker room. Free Jamba Juice.
There but by the grace of God go I. Mourning the migration of morning until the next morning.
I step off the curb, giving only a cursory glance back over my left shoulder where the would-be traffic, would be, had it been afternoon, perhaps a quarter of three. The guy with the hoody like mine is little cause for alarm, advancing scarcely as fast as sunlight at this hour, and with a pronounced limp. Nevermind that there are three others just like him wandering aimlessly at this hour across the street, through the vacant parking lot and down the block, respectively. I'm not worried about them, and they're not worried about me. Not worried, but aware. Acutely aware. Aware enough to have my hands swinging at my sides, not nestled in cozy, cotton, hooded-sweatshirt pockets.
A ray of light from an adjacent street lamp catches the surface of a bottle partially concealed in a brown bag, set in the recessed doorway to a building I come upon, just before the corner and shines like fire in my eyes. My eyes, that were at once looking at everything and nothing at all, fixed their gaze on the exposed, wide mouth of the bottle, cap long since gone A.W.O.L., followed the threading down the neck to the label.
Dark, maybe red, gold crowned...
Old..at base of long, fat neck
40...across barrel-chest...
Lightly malted, now just well past fermented, and still quite obscured. Stench stinging nose through cold nostrils, jolting body and mind back to fast from super slo-mo. How slow? It's a good thing my ears defied that memo, cutting back on after the frozen sequence of events, hearing footsteps, but only my own. But how slow? Turtle slow? No, slower. Not exactly paint-drying slow but black trench-coated Keanu as Neo slow. So slow as to step outside the slowness of the slow and even gain a new vantage point on slow.
The silence is deafening, but it's wonderful. Chaos is still asleep. I seem to have arrived just in time for the urban street-corner sound check. Hum street light. Rattle and sway, hanging metal parking-lot sign. Rustle oak tree leaves. Swish street sweeper, two blocks away. Listen. Escucha la! Where was the moon that should shine down from high on this metropolis? Maybe that guy riding the bike like Ms. Gulch around the tornado in Wizard of Oz stole it. No, wait...this just in! It's the marine layer claiming responsibility like Hamas for the lunar abduction. What is he doing riding that bike at this hour anyway? Where is he going? I know he's cold.
I'll be at the gym soon. Starbucks is already alive and kickin'. Wait a minute? Somebody else has arrived late for the soundcheck. Rumbling deep down from within, my stomach growls and even seems to groan. Won't be tending to this for a few hours yet. Ahhhhhhhhh! Light. Heat. Real-time. Weights. Stretching. Basketball. Yoga. Showers. Forget clothes in locker room. Free Jamba Juice.
There but by the grace of God go I. Mourning the migration of morning until the next morning.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Dumb move of the day...
I went to work today for about 4 hours. There was a meeting that I had to attend and it was in the afternoon, so I took my time getting there. It was a nice day today, so I was not at all eager to go and get holed up in the office. It's not like I was going to be out having fun in the sun or anything, but I just was not up for the office. When am I ever up for the office? Yeah, good point.
At this point, a trip to the office is purely economic in every facet. I have essentially two options for getting there. There might be three, but there's no one near enough to me to make carpooling a viable alternative. I can drive or I can take public transportation. From a purely convenient standpoint, driving is the best option. If I drive, I can come and go when I please, and have the freedom to go somewhere for lunch or run an errand. If I have something to do like workout or play ball after work, I can divert my course accordingly. However, at nearly $4/gallon for gas, driving to work costs me about $16 a day, including bridge toll. If I take public transportation, it costs $14 a day. In addition, I am annoyed and frazzled from having sat in traffic for an hour or more. While sitting on the bus or the train, I might be sitting by some folks engaged in a violent lovers quarrel, or somebody else whose odoriferous emanations are offensive, to say the least, while they shout into their cell phone, but I can read a book or just "space" as I stare out the window.
Today there was another wrinkle to add to the excitement. My Translink bus card that has $77 of credit available on it was on BLOCKED status. Thinking that I had run down to a zero balance I put an additional $40 on it on Friday, but it hadn't posted by the time I got on the Dumbarton Express bus that evening. The bus driver was cool though. He waved me on and said I should straighten it out later. I didn't expect to have the same problem today. Nor did I expect to have that same bus driver. At first he gave me a hard time when the sensor beeped as it declined my card. "You had this same problem last week, what happened?" I tried to explain and he didn't look like he was buying it so I stepped back off the boss and started to call the customer service center number on the back of the card. (No, I didn't get a repeat of that other customer service rep. This lady wasn't nearly as entertaining, but was helpful, even if her answers completely lacked logic.) Homey eventually told me to get on as I guess he thought I looked sincere enough while I talked to the customer service folks.
But my dumb move of the day was leaving my laptop power supply at work. I now only have about an hour and 26 minutes of battery life left. I wasn't planning on going to work tomorrow, and I'm still not. I've already been on Best Buy's and Circuit City's websites trying to see if they carry one that I can use, since both of those are right near the house. I need an extra one anyway. I hate having to tote one around everywhere. I'd much rather have one that travels and one that stays at the house so I don't have to think about it. That kind of limits my ability to be unnecessarily verbose. Oh well, I'll have to be long-winded some other time.
At this point, a trip to the office is purely economic in every facet. I have essentially two options for getting there. There might be three, but there's no one near enough to me to make carpooling a viable alternative. I can drive or I can take public transportation. From a purely convenient standpoint, driving is the best option. If I drive, I can come and go when I please, and have the freedom to go somewhere for lunch or run an errand. If I have something to do like workout or play ball after work, I can divert my course accordingly. However, at nearly $4/gallon for gas, driving to work costs me about $16 a day, including bridge toll. If I take public transportation, it costs $14 a day. In addition, I am annoyed and frazzled from having sat in traffic for an hour or more. While sitting on the bus or the train, I might be sitting by some folks engaged in a violent lovers quarrel, or somebody else whose odoriferous emanations are offensive, to say the least, while they shout into their cell phone, but I can read a book or just "space" as I stare out the window.
Today there was another wrinkle to add to the excitement. My Translink bus card that has $77 of credit available on it was on BLOCKED status. Thinking that I had run down to a zero balance I put an additional $40 on it on Friday, but it hadn't posted by the time I got on the Dumbarton Express bus that evening. The bus driver was cool though. He waved me on and said I should straighten it out later. I didn't expect to have the same problem today. Nor did I expect to have that same bus driver. At first he gave me a hard time when the sensor beeped as it declined my card. "You had this same problem last week, what happened?" I tried to explain and he didn't look like he was buying it so I stepped back off the boss and started to call the customer service center number on the back of the card. (No, I didn't get a repeat of that other customer service rep. This lady wasn't nearly as entertaining, but was helpful, even if her answers completely lacked logic.) Homey eventually told me to get on as I guess he thought I looked sincere enough while I talked to the customer service folks.
But my dumb move of the day was leaving my laptop power supply at work. I now only have about an hour and 26 minutes of battery life left. I wasn't planning on going to work tomorrow, and I'm still not. I've already been on Best Buy's and Circuit City's websites trying to see if they carry one that I can use, since both of those are right near the house. I need an extra one anyway. I hate having to tote one around everywhere. I'd much rather have one that travels and one that stays at the house so I don't have to think about it. That kind of limits my ability to be unnecessarily verbose. Oh well, I'll have to be long-winded some other time.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Customer Service Center
I called Union Bank of California's customer service line today and felt like I was suddenly smack dab in the middle of a Washington Mutual commercial about why I should switch. I was calling because when I was looking at my account online today, I noticed that I had been charged three times for a single visit to the ATM machine. Perhaps I was obsessing over my bank account but a $1.50 is a big deal when your balance frequently has only 2 numbers in front of the decimal point (on a good day), and the months are too long for your short paycheck.
After navigating my way through the menus, and sitting on hold and having to endure frequent offers to press "1" for our automated system, I finally got through to somebody.
UBOC CS Rep: Thank you for calling Union Bank of California, how may I provide you with excellent customer service?
Me: (thinking, well..first you could start by putting a stop to this incessant nickel and diming. I'd have a lot more respect for you if you'd just hold me up at gunpoint and take all of my money at once and get it over with). Um..yes...I made an ATM withdrawal yesterday and, looking at my account today, it appears as though I was charged 3 times for a single transaction.
Rep: (thinking, damn...you sure are broke. Do you always log-on to our website immediately after you take money out of your account or was this just pure co-incidence? If you're going to ask me if we'll consider allowing you to withdraw change from the ATM, I'm hanging up the phone). Ok, sir, let me take a look and see what happened.
Me: See, look right there...I was charged $3.00 for the withdrawal...
Rep: ..which you agreed to when they asked if you want to continue...
Me: Yes...and then $2.00...and then right after that $1.50...
Rep: Yes, that's right, I see it.... (thinking, you're lucky we didn't charge you for having to count all the change in your account and making us convert it into paper money before we could dispense it from the machine). Well, that $1.50 is the balance inquiry fee...
Me: Are you serious? (thinking, why don't you go ahead and charge me for blocking the sun as I stand in front of the machine that, by the way, is placed way too low for anyone that doesn't shop in the section where they sell Toughskins). That's ridiculous.
Rep: I'm sorry sir, but Bank of America charged you for having to access our (UBOC) system. You know what, we do the same thing to their customers when they use our ATMs. That's why it's always best to use a UBOC ATM whenever possible.
Me: There are a whole 2 of them in my whole city.
Rep: Where do you live?
Me: Oakland
Here's where it got good. Suddenly she became Dear Abbie and was giving me the rundown on how to beat the system.
Rep: Here's what you do. Next time, go inside the grocery store, or the CVS, or the mini-mart, and buy a pack of gum for $0.89 and use your ATM card and tell them that you want $80.00 cash back...I do it all the time.
Me: Right, right....(I nodded affirmatively, acknowledging the wink, nod, two pounds to the chest, and the ensuing raised fist that she surely must've been giving me at that precise moment on her end of the phone). I do that too...and I'll definitely have to remember that for next time. (My sis-TA!)
Rep: Yes, that's right...
And here's where it really took a turn. I just knew that she sensed the "exit-strategy" tone of my voice. This was the proverbial backing your way out of the chatty person's cube, and checking your watch or reacting to some papers that are coming out of the fax machine as if you and only you can retrieve them. But she hadn't. She must've mistaken our "uhuru" moment for an invitation to keep the conversation going.
Rep: Yes, everything's so expensive these days. When I lived in Columbus, Ohio I used to have a 4 bedroom house with a 3 car garage, a kitchen with a breakfast nook, a separate dining room, a laundry room the size of a bedroom, a foyer that...
Me: But when you woke up every morning, you were still in Columbus, Ohio...(ah my sarcasm, that'll end the conversation...)
Rep: It actually is a nice town...every Saturday when OSU has a football game, all the roads are one-way, in-bound before the game and one-way, out-bound after the game, and the stadium is as big as the Coliseum in Los Angeles, but its on their campus and in the summer...
Me:(this would be a great time for Verizon to make that "margin-call" on my cell phone bill right now and cut me off)
Rep: ...and everything is really cheap except for the heating bills in the winter time because it snows all the time and my husband would have to be out there shoveling snow and then in the summer it's...
And here's where she did say something amusing enough for me to write it down and pretty much cemented her place as the winner of today's blog topic, narrowly defeating Oh how my bad posture is making my back hurt and I don't wanna do anything but lay down, and Hmmm...why come somebody always gotta hit me up for a donation everytime I walk outta Walgreen's?
Rep: ...and in the summer out there when it's (here it comes, get ready) hotta than lil' sista on a Friday Night when Mama ain't home...
Me: (come again?)
Rep: (not missing a beat, even though I chuckled slightly, 2 seconds later, finally getting it)...and the air conditioning bill is so high, but when I was working for the Department of Defense and we moved around to...
Me: (Is my battery low? Maybe my phone will die...that'll save me)
Rep: ..but you know it's hard to come back to California after you've moved away, because everything is so expensive and I grew up there but then I moved away for awhile, but I've mostly lived in Southern California...
Me: (where is her supervisor? Isn't somebody watching the floor to see that everyone is on a business call? This don't sound like no business call!)
Rep: ...and then those other ladies at church were sweatin' me cuz My hat was too big and they couldn't see pastor and I wanted to tell those heffas...
Me: (settling in. Perhaps I should go sit on the couch...)
Rep: ...well, that's enough from me, is there anything else that I can help you with today, Sir?
Me: Yes, do you know where a brotha can get a good Sock-it-to-me Cake in the....
No, I'm just kidding. I finally got off the phone.
After navigating my way through the menus, and sitting on hold and having to endure frequent offers to press "1" for our automated system, I finally got through to somebody.
UBOC CS Rep: Thank you for calling Union Bank of California, how may I provide you with excellent customer service?
Me: (thinking, well..first you could start by putting a stop to this incessant nickel and diming. I'd have a lot more respect for you if you'd just hold me up at gunpoint and take all of my money at once and get it over with). Um..yes...I made an ATM withdrawal yesterday and, looking at my account today, it appears as though I was charged 3 times for a single transaction.
Rep: (thinking, damn...you sure are broke. Do you always log-on to our website immediately after you take money out of your account or was this just pure co-incidence? If you're going to ask me if we'll consider allowing you to withdraw change from the ATM, I'm hanging up the phone). Ok, sir, let me take a look and see what happened.
Me: See, look right there...I was charged $3.00 for the withdrawal...
Rep: ..which you agreed to when they asked if you want to continue...
Me: Yes...and then $2.00...and then right after that $1.50...
Rep: Yes, that's right, I see it.... (thinking, you're lucky we didn't charge you for having to count all the change in your account and making us convert it into paper money before we could dispense it from the machine). Well, that $1.50 is the balance inquiry fee...
Me: Are you serious? (thinking, why don't you go ahead and charge me for blocking the sun as I stand in front of the machine that, by the way, is placed way too low for anyone that doesn't shop in the section where they sell Toughskins). That's ridiculous.
Rep: I'm sorry sir, but Bank of America charged you for having to access our (UBOC) system. You know what, we do the same thing to their customers when they use our ATMs. That's why it's always best to use a UBOC ATM whenever possible.
Me: There are a whole 2 of them in my whole city.
Rep: Where do you live?
Me: Oakland
Here's where it got good. Suddenly she became Dear Abbie and was giving me the rundown on how to beat the system.
Rep: Here's what you do. Next time, go inside the grocery store, or the CVS, or the mini-mart, and buy a pack of gum for $0.89 and use your ATM card and tell them that you want $80.00 cash back...I do it all the time.
Me: Right, right....(I nodded affirmatively, acknowledging the wink, nod, two pounds to the chest, and the ensuing raised fist that she surely must've been giving me at that precise moment on her end of the phone). I do that too...and I'll definitely have to remember that for next time. (My sis-TA!)
Rep: Yes, that's right...
And here's where it really took a turn. I just knew that she sensed the "exit-strategy" tone of my voice. This was the proverbial backing your way out of the chatty person's cube, and checking your watch or reacting to some papers that are coming out of the fax machine as if you and only you can retrieve them. But she hadn't. She must've mistaken our "uhuru" moment for an invitation to keep the conversation going.
Rep: Yes, everything's so expensive these days. When I lived in Columbus, Ohio I used to have a 4 bedroom house with a 3 car garage, a kitchen with a breakfast nook, a separate dining room, a laundry room the size of a bedroom, a foyer that...
Me: But when you woke up every morning, you were still in Columbus, Ohio...(ah my sarcasm, that'll end the conversation...)
Rep: It actually is a nice town...every Saturday when OSU has a football game, all the roads are one-way, in-bound before the game and one-way, out-bound after the game, and the stadium is as big as the Coliseum in Los Angeles, but its on their campus and in the summer...
Me:(this would be a great time for Verizon to make that "margin-call" on my cell phone bill right now and cut me off)
Rep: ...and everything is really cheap except for the heating bills in the winter time because it snows all the time and my husband would have to be out there shoveling snow and then in the summer it's...
And here's where she did say something amusing enough for me to write it down and pretty much cemented her place as the winner of today's blog topic, narrowly defeating Oh how my bad posture is making my back hurt and I don't wanna do anything but lay down, and Hmmm...why come somebody always gotta hit me up for a donation everytime I walk outta Walgreen's?
Rep: ...and in the summer out there when it's (here it comes, get ready) hotta than lil' sista on a Friday Night when Mama ain't home...
Me: (come again?)
Rep: (not missing a beat, even though I chuckled slightly, 2 seconds later, finally getting it)...and the air conditioning bill is so high, but when I was working for the Department of Defense and we moved around to...
Me: (Is my battery low? Maybe my phone will die...that'll save me)
Rep: ..but you know it's hard to come back to California after you've moved away, because everything is so expensive and I grew up there but then I moved away for awhile, but I've mostly lived in Southern California...
Me: (where is her supervisor? Isn't somebody watching the floor to see that everyone is on a business call? This don't sound like no business call!)
Rep: ...and then those other ladies at church were sweatin' me cuz My hat was too big and they couldn't see pastor and I wanted to tell those heffas...
Me: (settling in. Perhaps I should go sit on the couch...)
Rep: ...well, that's enough from me, is there anything else that I can help you with today, Sir?
Me: Yes, do you know where a brotha can get a good Sock-it-to-me Cake in the....
No, I'm just kidding. I finally got off the phone.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Opening Day
It was a glorious day at the old ballpark. In anticipation of a frigid Bay Area night, I was sufficiently layered up and expected the worst. Stay home? I wouldn't dream of it. This was baseball and it was opening day. I can't recall ever having made it to an opening day game in my lifetime, and definitely not when the home team, my Oakland A's, was hosting the World Champion (oh how it pains me to say that) Boston Red Sox. I've really grown to dislike the Red Sox of late. Not only have they been good lately, but they've been so vocal about it. Look at us! We're the Boston Red Sox. It only took us 86 years, but we finally won a World Series again. Never mind that the Yankees have won 27 of them during that span. Look at us, we're the Red Sox.
Their fans are the worst. They were kind of lovable also-rans before, but now they're downright obnoxious. There was a certain humility that lived inside of their pessimism each season. They always knew that somehow their beloved Boston Red Sox would let them down in the most painful way possible each season. It made for good lore. It was a given. Where would we be as a society without the tragic late season collapses of the Boston Red Sox. They have so much character built up, that it rubs off on all of us. We all feel their pain, but are glad it happens to them and not us. Not anymore. Now they are like the Roman empire, sloshing around in their drunken stupor slurring their Boston "R's" and loudly carrying on about how great they are all of a sudden. Clearly, winning is too new for them to have mastered doing so gracefully yet. That's okay though. It makes for nice banter at the ballpark. I thought I had taken a left turn onto 69th Avenue, but I must've taken a wrong turn and somehow been transported right out the other end of the Ted Williams tunnel because there were way too many Red Sox fans in my beloved Oakland Coliseum on this night. They were everywhere. I was surrounded by them. They're like the new Dallas Cowboys. Suddenly everyone's a fan.
Their one redeeming quality is that when they're not being obnoxious, they're pretty knowledgeable about the game and intimately informed about their team, so at least you can trade barbs with someone mentally equipped to wage a war of words from the cheap seats. Maybe those accents aren't so bad either. They sure do sound funny. It sure would be great to beat them.
I love everything about the ballpark. The crisp look that the field has, tightly manicured by the grounds crew, the noise makers and foam fingers thrust toward the sky, the makeshift cheers led by the rowdy guys with the drums and the flags in the bleachers, the odd cadences of the beer and chocolate malt vendors barking about their wares as they make their way up and down the aisles makes you just feel like tossin' a ball around with your old man and eating hot dogs. Speaking of my old man and hot dogs, I think I'm going to have to call my dad to find out if I put him through the same pain as my kids did to me at this game.
It was the third inning and I had settled in for the pitcher's duel that was running simultaneously with the insult duel going on three rows behind me between an A's fan and a Sox fan. It was a sellout and sitting in close proximity with so many must have raised the temperature in the stadium enough so as to make it almost comfortable. It was just the kind of game that I love to see. It was a 1 run game and they had their big name pitcher, Daisuke Matsuzaka, going against our #2(Blanton). Already, we had been treated by some nice glove work in the outfield, a heated argument between the A's manager and the umpire, as well as a cacophony of boos raining down on 8 people that walked down the aisles wearing Red Sox hats and jerseys. Then my kids wanted to eat.
You know that point when you're 10 years old and you're playing down at the park with some older kids and its getting dark and you were not only supposed to be home an hour ago, but you're also about a block past the imaginary line on the street where your mom usually allows you to wander off too and you're absolutely enjoying the carefree bliss of being a rebellious youth that's living on the edge and the satisfaction written all over your face suddenly vanishes when you see your mom's car pull up in the parking lot and emerge in slow motion holding the brown leather, 1970's style belt that is so big it has two adjacent holes for two pins on the buckle, and the happy song that is playing in your head stops and you know the party's over for you? It was kind of like that, but without the impending doom of knowing that I would be doing that dance while holding my own butt with both hands in hopes that the stinging would go away.
At first I tried to act like I didn't hear them, but they kept asking. As I stood and made my way down the row, I caught some of the other fans looking at me the way those inmates looked at Michael Clarke Duncan in the Green Mile when Tom Hanks was walking him to The Chair. "Dead Man Walking!" they said with their eyes. They knew what lie ahead for me once at the concession stand. Not only would the lines be as long the world is wide, but they would also move at the speed of the Space Shuttle being driven down that road, launch pad and all, on that big huge truck thing in Florida before a mission. Making matters worse, not all of the stands sell all of the items.
Optimist that I am, I walked from the stand near our seats in section 206 all the way down to section 223 before I finally owned up to the fact that the lines weren't getting any shorter. If it weren't for the 13 inch television screen at the front of that concession stand line, I would've missed the whole game.
I finally got back to my seats, food and drinks in hand, and pocket $29 lighter, in the 6th inning. It was a school night, so the kids had to go to bed, so we left during the 7th inning stretch. I caught the rest of the game on the AM 1550 on the way home.
I'll let you know what my dad says.
Their fans are the worst. They were kind of lovable also-rans before, but now they're downright obnoxious. There was a certain humility that lived inside of their pessimism each season. They always knew that somehow their beloved Boston Red Sox would let them down in the most painful way possible each season. It made for good lore. It was a given. Where would we be as a society without the tragic late season collapses of the Boston Red Sox. They have so much character built up, that it rubs off on all of us. We all feel their pain, but are glad it happens to them and not us. Not anymore. Now they are like the Roman empire, sloshing around in their drunken stupor slurring their Boston "R's" and loudly carrying on about how great they are all of a sudden. Clearly, winning is too new for them to have mastered doing so gracefully yet. That's okay though. It makes for nice banter at the ballpark. I thought I had taken a left turn onto 69th Avenue, but I must've taken a wrong turn and somehow been transported right out the other end of the Ted Williams tunnel because there were way too many Red Sox fans in my beloved Oakland Coliseum on this night. They were everywhere. I was surrounded by them. They're like the new Dallas Cowboys. Suddenly everyone's a fan.
Their one redeeming quality is that when they're not being obnoxious, they're pretty knowledgeable about the game and intimately informed about their team, so at least you can trade barbs with someone mentally equipped to wage a war of words from the cheap seats. Maybe those accents aren't so bad either. They sure do sound funny. It sure would be great to beat them.
I love everything about the ballpark. The crisp look that the field has, tightly manicured by the grounds crew, the noise makers and foam fingers thrust toward the sky, the makeshift cheers led by the rowdy guys with the drums and the flags in the bleachers, the odd cadences of the beer and chocolate malt vendors barking about their wares as they make their way up and down the aisles makes you just feel like tossin' a ball around with your old man and eating hot dogs. Speaking of my old man and hot dogs, I think I'm going to have to call my dad to find out if I put him through the same pain as my kids did to me at this game.
It was the third inning and I had settled in for the pitcher's duel that was running simultaneously with the insult duel going on three rows behind me between an A's fan and a Sox fan. It was a sellout and sitting in close proximity with so many must have raised the temperature in the stadium enough so as to make it almost comfortable. It was just the kind of game that I love to see. It was a 1 run game and they had their big name pitcher, Daisuke Matsuzaka, going against our #2(Blanton). Already, we had been treated by some nice glove work in the outfield, a heated argument between the A's manager and the umpire, as well as a cacophony of boos raining down on 8 people that walked down the aisles wearing Red Sox hats and jerseys. Then my kids wanted to eat.
You know that point when you're 10 years old and you're playing down at the park with some older kids and its getting dark and you were not only supposed to be home an hour ago, but you're also about a block past the imaginary line on the street where your mom usually allows you to wander off too and you're absolutely enjoying the carefree bliss of being a rebellious youth that's living on the edge and the satisfaction written all over your face suddenly vanishes when you see your mom's car pull up in the parking lot and emerge in slow motion holding the brown leather, 1970's style belt that is so big it has two adjacent holes for two pins on the buckle, and the happy song that is playing in your head stops and you know the party's over for you? It was kind of like that, but without the impending doom of knowing that I would be doing that dance while holding my own butt with both hands in hopes that the stinging would go away.
At first I tried to act like I didn't hear them, but they kept asking. As I stood and made my way down the row, I caught some of the other fans looking at me the way those inmates looked at Michael Clarke Duncan in the Green Mile when Tom Hanks was walking him to The Chair. "Dead Man Walking!" they said with their eyes. They knew what lie ahead for me once at the concession stand. Not only would the lines be as long the world is wide, but they would also move at the speed of the Space Shuttle being driven down that road, launch pad and all, on that big huge truck thing in Florida before a mission. Making matters worse, not all of the stands sell all of the items.
Optimist that I am, I walked from the stand near our seats in section 206 all the way down to section 223 before I finally owned up to the fact that the lines weren't getting any shorter. If it weren't for the 13 inch television screen at the front of that concession stand line, I would've missed the whole game.
I finally got back to my seats, food and drinks in hand, and pocket $29 lighter, in the 6th inning. It was a school night, so the kids had to go to bed, so we left during the 7th inning stretch. I caught the rest of the game on the AM 1550 on the way home.
I'll let you know what my dad says.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Is it Just me?
Am I the only one that didn't think that Tyler Perry's latest offering (Meet the Browns) wasn't all that great of a movie? It seemed to be about 30 minutes too long and had a certain after-school-special quality to it. Shoot...I daresay it was almost like a Singleton flick.
I'm not going to sit here and act like I didn't laugh more than a few times, but other times I was shaking my head and asking "Why?" First of all, the Madea scene had absolutely no place in the movie whatsoever. It wasn't necessary. It was funny enough that Madea's daughter was such a level headed and wholesome character in the movie. They should've left the funeral scene in and not relegated it to the outtakes during the credits.
It's nice that he keeps the same core group of actors for his movies, and that he keeps the underlying religious theme going, but it just seemed to be hastily put together and a little far-fetched. I mean really. At least when Morris Chestnut gets shot in Boys N The Hood, we know he's definitely not going to play any more football, or anything else. Singleton did get that part right, jerking at our heart strings and letting us feel the pain and sorrow of that dramatic moment as he dies in his brother's (Ice Cube) arms. Tyler has this kid going to the pros straight outta high school after he gets shot! And speaking of that, I didn't like that message either. Why couldn't Rick Fox have encouraged the kid to be about his books along with the ball?
Furthermore on ol' Rick. This sure wasn't the Oz, or even the He Got Game Rick Fox. He acted about as well as (allow me to duck and cover as all the ladies hurl bricks and yell HATER at me) Morris Chestnut does in his roles. Maybe it was just one of those things, like during his playing days when you can sometimes slip into "playing down" to the level of the competition. It wasn't like this movie had Oscar potential, but you would think that Angela Bassett could've carried it. I mean, sista-girl has been Oscar nominated. She was better in Vampire in Brooklyn than she was in this. I'm sorry. I just can't get behind this one. I laughed a little bit, but I just wish that I had those 2 hours of my life back.
Another funny thing is that this movie came highly recommended from a friend of mine at church. In fact, he even said that I could take my kids and that its a good family movie. I think not. Sadly, more people probably saw this movie than saw The Great Debaters. Why, black people...why!?? Why can't we support good projects sometimes instead of always going to see the mindless dribble. (No pun intended).
I'm not going to sit here and act like I didn't laugh more than a few times, but other times I was shaking my head and asking "Why?" First of all, the Madea scene had absolutely no place in the movie whatsoever. It wasn't necessary. It was funny enough that Madea's daughter was such a level headed and wholesome character in the movie. They should've left the funeral scene in and not relegated it to the outtakes during the credits.
It's nice that he keeps the same core group of actors for his movies, and that he keeps the underlying religious theme going, but it just seemed to be hastily put together and a little far-fetched. I mean really. At least when Morris Chestnut gets shot in Boys N The Hood, we know he's definitely not going to play any more football, or anything else. Singleton did get that part right, jerking at our heart strings and letting us feel the pain and sorrow of that dramatic moment as he dies in his brother's (Ice Cube) arms. Tyler has this kid going to the pros straight outta high school after he gets shot! And speaking of that, I didn't like that message either. Why couldn't Rick Fox have encouraged the kid to be about his books along with the ball?
Furthermore on ol' Rick. This sure wasn't the Oz, or even the He Got Game Rick Fox. He acted about as well as (allow me to duck and cover as all the ladies hurl bricks and yell HATER at me) Morris Chestnut does in his roles. Maybe it was just one of those things, like during his playing days when you can sometimes slip into "playing down" to the level of the competition. It wasn't like this movie had Oscar potential, but you would think that Angela Bassett could've carried it. I mean, sista-girl has been Oscar nominated. She was better in Vampire in Brooklyn than she was in this. I'm sorry. I just can't get behind this one. I laughed a little bit, but I just wish that I had those 2 hours of my life back.
Another funny thing is that this movie came highly recommended from a friend of mine at church. In fact, he even said that I could take my kids and that its a good family movie. I think not. Sadly, more people probably saw this movie than saw The Great Debaters. Why, black people...why!?? Why can't we support good projects sometimes instead of always going to see the mindless dribble. (No pun intended).
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