Annie

The sun'll come out
Tomorrow
Bet your bottom dollar
That tomorrow
There'll be sun!

That's what I keep telling myself when I throw my legs over the side of the bed, stand up and walk to the window so I can throw the blinds open. Everyday, however, I've seen nothing but grey skies and even rain as I peer around the expanse of brick structures that comprise the view from my 5th floor room here at the Windsor House Hotel in el Barrio Chico, an upscale, urban residential neighborhood here in northeast Bogota, Colombia. It's not so bad though. It's not like I brought shorts and sandals out here or hadn't looked at weather.com prior to packing for this trip. The only thing I could have probably used was an umbrella, but I don't do umbrellas so no me importa.

I also have found myself singing this song as I leave the office each night after 12 long, frustrating hours with minimal progress having taken place. Unfortunately, THAT tomorrow has yet to show up either. Nothing like a little OJT (on the job training...keep up...) to make your learning curve do the ol' hockey stick thing. Sorry for making you think outside the box a little too much with the gratuitous use of tired corporate colloquiallisms. Perhaps I'm a little starved for some conversation in English. It's been a few days.

Today was probably the best of the workdays though. At least I didn't have to get up, eat, and be in a taxi by 615am like I have every other day this week. Today was Saturday and we did make a little smidgen of progress before leaving last night, so we decided to come in at 10am today. We got a little bit done, and anything I was stuck on, I was just going to have to stay stuck because my resources back in the corporate office were minimal since it was Saturday and no one was really feeling my pain from way over there. It's cool though. At least the really difficult stuff seems to be behind us. Now its just a matter of fine tuning and making this look like less of a science project and more like an actualy offering to the public that works in a very user-friendly and idiot proof sort of way.

Somehow, lunch was delayed until about 5pm when we finally got back to the hotel, but I guess we just got caught up in the work, after having a relatively late breakfast. The very hip Osaki japanese restaurant in my now favorite Parque de la 93 would get the nod for what would turn out to be more of a pre-dinner than anything. I'm all for any place that not only has that view, but also has a mixture of Thai, Japanese, and Chinese food (done well, i might add) on the menu all while playing the type of cool house/trip-hop music that you hear in swanky clothing stores.

So, today, being the tomorrow that I was lamenting about yesterday, turned out not to be so bad after all, and it's still early. We'll be hitting la zona rosa later on to hang out and eat dinner for real. I'm really diggin' this town.

Multi-faceted Metropolis

The Toy Shop

I'm too tired to get into a whole lot of detail tonight, but I found a marvelous restaurant in the center of town called Jugueteria (translation: Toy Shop). I took lots of pictures and had a pretty good meal. I'm thinking that it might make it to the big show and get an in depth write up on Destinations. Stay tuned for that. Buenas Noches.

Parque de la 93

Last night I promised you a much less rushed and infinitely more vivid account of Bogota through the eyes of one famously fatigued business traveler who lives for being significantly less bullish on the business of business than on the alacrity of the ad-lib. Espero que estas listos pero el tiempo ha venido!

It was a famously tough day at the office yesterday and the ride home was no cup of tea either, but I think I mentioned that yesterday. No need to re-hash on such a colossal commute, as I know that like you, I too am eager to get to the good part. Today's ride home was much better, but we'll get to that later. After waiting in the rain and lamenting about how I wish I handn't forgotten my scarf and gloves, I was more than ready to let a superb gastric experience take me away. A good meal could surely take me away, away from the sleep deprivation and the annoyances of a fickle product that seems to be one part sadist and two parts prankster as it routinely picks the most public and significantly inopportune times to get performance anxiety.

Indeed the food was good, but my taste buds would not begin to tell even half of the story. The Devil was truly in the details on this evening, and he may have even had a heart. Who knew? But maybe it was a ploy to get me softened up and off my game for the struggles that awaited me at work today. Whatever it was, it was a perfectly placed diversion, timed with the precision of a swiss jeweler. We hadn't been seated for two minutes when the thick, grey blanket of clouds that had been subtley brushing a cool mist across my face burst into an explosion of silver dollar sized rain drops as if the sky was a big slot machine and God decided that it was time for somebody to get paid. What good fortune we had not to get caught in this watery onslaught, especially me in wool P coat and cotton skull cap. I almost completely tuned out of the conversation at the table and got lost in each splattering drop as it hit the pavement like a thousand tiny snare drums. It's not like I was an integral part of the discussion, scarcely understanding most of what was being said. The Chileans (I'm with a Chilean client, helping to set up a trial at a Colombian communications company) chop up the spanish language with a rapid-fire delivery of words that is much more AK-47 than the rhythmic sing-songiness of the spanish spoken by Mexicans and even the colombians that I have encountered thus far. Occasionally, one of them (the one that speaks english) will stop to translate a particularly good story, but much of the time I just get lost for significant parts of their conversations. Not to worry though because the individual raindrops were dotting the canvas, whose background of el Parque de la 93 had already been filled in, like they were controlled by the brush of impressionist artist Georges Seuratt painting his Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte and I was completely under its spell.

I wondered if anyone else noticed how spectacular this park was? It was downright breathtaking, and even more so in this weather. The vertically pointed, inset spotlights on the walkways were shining with such an intensity that steam was dancing off them, but in slow motion. It wasn't the eerie slow motion of a cemetery scene from a horror movie, but rather a surreal and anything but sinister, if not seductive pace. The decorative lamps, placed just far enough apart so that night time still looks like night time worked in concert with the small fountain pools to make a case that the very overstated and decadent hydraulically powered, mega fountain extravaganza at the Bellagio is a sign of the apocalypse. I was even taken by the trees (acacia? eucalyptus? I don't know..i'm no botanist that's for sure) and how they framed the park like a nice crown moulding, with neatly trimmed hedges as base boards. Do we have parks this nice in the United States? Maybe I never notice. But maybe, just maybe, the urban planners here took special care of this detail knowing that the ripple effect of satisfied patrons returning to the surrounding restaurants like Pesquera Jaramillo from whose window I delighted in a hearty paella would stimulate an economy for years to come.

I dined at Cafe Renault this evening, almost directly across the park, but not nearly as close to the window. Whatever the view of the outside may have lacked here, the visuals on the inside did their best to make up for as fabulously prepared, pretty food and pretty people were in no short supply. The subtle Chilean Shiraz (Tabali 2005, from the Limari Valley) very nicely set up the roast beef with tangy mustard sauce that I did my best to get through before my Mortons-esque warm melted chocolate centered, chocolate cake and cafe con leche wrapped the evening.

Our taxi driver, Juan, took the long way home in today's curiously lighter traffic to showcase the very spectacular mountainside residential neighborhoods and accompanying views among other things. I can't wait to spend some more time checking out these locales that easily give San Francisco's hilly streets a run for the money.

The Weather up here...

Let me just say a few things before I retire this evening. First of all, if you've never been at extreme altitudes, it can really surprise you. At various times today, I have been out of breath just sitting still, and have had a headache off and on. These symptoms are said to be consistent with High Altitude Sickness. Apparently, Bogota is the 3rd highest altitude in the world among major cities, at 8678 feet. That's nearly 3500 feet higher than Denver! Adding insult to injury is the fact that cold weather (its about 49 degrees F and rainy) reportedly aggravates these conditions.

The other thing that dogged me today was the incredible traffic. It seemed to go in every direction on every street. To use "go" is quite a poor choice of words because the cars did anything but that. This city has about 10 million people and it seemed like whomever wasn't jammed into a taxi or a bus (many of the doors of the buses were open as folks held on to a rail inside while half hanging outside) owns a vehicle. We had to wait about an hour and a half for our taxi to come, and then drive for about an hour back to the hotel across town. This same taxi is coming for us again at 615am, so I've got to cut this short. More tomorrow about the wonderful park view that I enjoyed while eating my paella dinner.

Gate E6

There are 2 things that can be counted on almost without fail when waiting for a flight to Latin America from most U.S. airports. First, CNN will undoubtedly be playing on some monitor within view from the entire room at some decibel level only audible by the dust mites residing on the metal brace that secures it to the wall or allows it to hang from the ceiling. This is surely the reason for their endless ticker-tape display across the bottom of the screen and the curiously bolded headlines, often adding emphasis to meaningless, out of context quotes. How is it possible that there is never a shortage of disaster footage to show from some part of the world at every hour on this network? Today, in addition to the disaster that is Hillary Clinton’s bid for the Democratic Presidential nomination (it’s scrub time, Hillary, clear the benches and stop fouling), there appear to be some tornadoes wreaking havoc in the Midwest. I’ve not yet seen any word on the fires from the Santa Cruz mountains not far (about 35 minutes) from my parents’ house in San Jose.

The second thing, and this one is as certain as death and taxes and____ (fill in the blanks to get your priority level moved way up around Christmas time), is that there will be a disproportionate amount of very good looking people, be they young old, female or male. Even the kids are very well kept. I particularly enjoy this because it emphatically puts to rest stereotypes that many Americans (United States Americans, that is) have about the way Latinos look. There are brown skinned, fair skinned, curly haired, blonde haired and even red haired people with freckles in these places. There are people of African descent (don’t forget, the slave ships stopped in plenty of those places), indigenous people, and even Asians. Most folks in the U.S. have this need to lump every single Spanish speaking person into a single designation: Mexican. Never mind that there are many more countries in Central and South America (and even the Caribbean) where Spanish is spoken. There are whole nations that, like the U.S. are melting pots of people of different ancestry. Here at Gate E6 at the Miami International Airport, the scene was nothing if not indicative of this fact. I saw sharply dressed women in the finest designer fashions, themselves looking like actresses from a Tela novela sitting next to blonde haired, blue eyed gentlemen with beards. Had they not spoken, they could have easily passed as European or even United States residents. Nearest the television, a mother of 3 sat tending to a little one in a stroller as her other school-age children played their hand held video games with the insouciance of young rock stars, glad to be able to enjoy their own little moment away from adoring fans, and free from the annoyance of one another. Right across from me, three women (probably a mother and her two grown daughters) sat and conversed amongst themselves, surrounded by several bags from what appeared to be quite a successful shopping spree. Another lady sitting near me could’ve been mistaken for Australian, adorned in earth toned hiking gear, complete with boots and a hat that read WOMBAT and had an accompanying picture of one above the bill. I was just waiting for her to call somebody "mate" or drop a “g’day” in a sentence, but she too spoke flawless Spanish.

II daresay that even I failed to draw any special attention from anyone , even towering over most in my white seatsuit. Miami is wonderful that way. The airport is always one of my favorites for the people watching alone. Pay close attention as you stroll to your connecting flight and you may feel as though you have taken a wrong turn and entered the Olympic Stadium , walking opposite the opening ceremonies parade. Being a true international airport, this gateway to latin America makes the traveler feel as though he has already left the United States as each successive gate seems to be heading to some other country. Other than maybe Amsterdam Schipol Airport, there’s not another place that I would gladly spend a layover, given the choice. Having a La Carreta restaurant right in the terminal plays no small part in this ranking either. Looking at the airport map, I didn’t think I would have time to delight in some vaca frita, arroz de morros and sweet platanos, but I did manage to work it out. In search of a mailbox to mail my absentee ballot, I ended up having to leave the secure part of the terminal anyway. I wanted to ensure that my ballot would be counted for the June 3 election that I will miss due to the lenhgth of this sojourn in South America. The security line was surprisingly short for a holiday weekend, and La Carreta was right there, so I decided to sit down and have a bite to eat.

Now I’m sitting in seat 30G of flight 915 at 51000 feet, watching the Water Horse. I can’t wait to get to my hotel room and lay down. Riding back in the cattle class can really wear you out. I sure hope that the immigration process is not a long one.

What's the big deal?

Today has been that oddest of days that seemed to drag on with no end in sight, all the while having a surreal, finality to it. Its as though I’m Jerry, George, Elaine, and Kramer (well, maybe not those last two, but…) all in one, walking down the street in that little town during the final episode and wondering what’s next. However, there seems to be no next. That peculiar guitar pickin’ sequence that has for years been a suitable stand-in for some theme music curiously absent, they just walk as we, the viewing public wait for the camera to pan out, for somebody to say something profoundly climactic, or to end with that bit of tragic hijinx that only the Seinfeld crew can pull off. Only, there was no voodoo womancaught rubbing oil on George’s bald head, no freeze frame of Jerry running to victory having caught a flyer in the race of the century. There was just me doing my laundry, straightening the kitchen, and packing clothes for a trip that seems to have many of my friends quite concerned.

All day folks have been greeting me like Michael Clarke Duncan walking the Green Mile in that Tom Hanks flick from a few years back. I heard “good luck” or “travel safely” and “see you when you get back”, and even “have fun” from most folks, but it wasn’t what they said with their mouths so much as what they said with their eyes. People looked at me long and hard, in earnest even, as they gave me the firm shake that’s usually reserved for a soldier going off to war. Folks at church said prayers for me, but those prayers seemed altogether deeper than the regular ones bestowed upon a casual traveler. In case I hadn’t given it much credence before, the reputation of Colombia in South America indeed is quite notorious.

The American public clearly must subscribe to the theory that if a Hollywood film or television show says that something is so, then it truly is so. I went to Nicaragua and Panama , both countries that had episodes of civil war in the last 25 years, but no one even batted an eye when I took those trips. Making small talk with a client in Nicaragua, , I asked what the country was famous for or if there were anything that I ought to see or pick up before leaving. “Bullets" he said, with a cynical laugh. I too laughed as after having spent 3 or 4 days with Sr. Leonel Roman, I had come to expect and enjoy his sense of humor, I usually being the object of pranks between he and his right hand man Augusto.

But there had been no movie about Nicaragua, or Panama and no hip hop songs had glorified the nefarious activities that took place there like they had for Colombia. Had CNN and Fox News been the force that they are today back in the 1980s during those Central American conlicts, perhaps somebody may have questioned my trips there or maybe raised concern. Without a doubt, the biggest factor in Colombia's infamy was the fact that movies like Scarface and Blow are huge parts of pop culture and that it had such dominant role in the narcotics trade that really exploded in the 1980s.

As I left church yesterday, after saying goodbyes to well-wishers, I was chased down in the parking lot by one of my fellow door keepers. At first, I thought I had forgotten something and he were rushing out to hand it to me. But he just wanted to have a last word. It didn't seem like the words were coming easily for him, and his eyes suggested something much more dire than the small talk that he managed as he shook my hand for what seemed like a minute. He too gave me that dead-man-walking look. This one had me a little alarmed though. He and I are usually strictly on the small-talk level and it seemed strange for him to look at me like a ghost. The clencher was when he brought up the memory of one of our colleagues, recently gone on to glory.

These are the reasons why I keep what they call an even keel. I keep it together so that others don't have to. It's a good thing that my prayer heals all attitude is still firmly intact. A few years ago when this wasn't my thing, I might've let all of these long looks get to me. But, when I lay me down to sleep tonight, I'm just going to pray that I wake up in the morning to catch that flight to Bogota, and when I get on that plane tomorrow, I'll pray that I get there safely and that I come back safely. That's all I can do.

sexually frustrated

It's been a long time. I try to think of something else, but my thoughts keep coming back to the same thing. It's everywhere. I drive down the freeway thinking about it longingly. Indeed its been way too long.I'm at the gym and I'm sitting there on the Hammer Strength upright bench press, gripping the handles when I realize that I not only have not been listening at all to the song pumpin' out of the earbuds connected to my mp3 player, but I have also been staring for quite some time at a spot on one of the mirrored walls that mirrors the image of the mirrored wall behind me, mirroring the image of the former mirrored wall, mirroring the latter infinitely. Yeah, I'm languishing in this lurid loop of infinite imagery as well, and even alliterating.

Well, maybe you might not think it's a long time, but the desire in me says otherwise. Sure, we all have desires...wants...needs. But mine are kicking into overdrive. It's almost completely consuming me. I was even having a hard time staying focused at church today. All day! It was like a war was being waged inside my head. It was the classic clash between the methodical, traditional school of thought, tried and true vs. the clever, exciting, and downright electrifying being contested in the dome. Shoot! It was like the Superbowl. Maybe I should pray for it. No, I definitely can't do that. I shouldn't do that. There are much more pressing things to pray for than satisfying my hunger for, my pursuit, my lust. I picked up a book after church and there it was again. As I read, I even found myself envious of this effort, even though recorded so long ago, the words nearly jumped off the page, swirling around in my head like a seductive dance, lulling me into the trance and pulling me deeper and deeper into this despair. I better stop before I check off the rest of the seven deadlies. But really, It's not totally selfish. Done right, I'm not the only one that benefits. See?! This is getting totally out of hand.

Call me an addict, but if I must go without, it's awfully difficult for me to function at all. Actually though, when I put it into perspective, I must not be in terribly dire straits yet because I still have this need for it to be good. I'm not at the point where something mediocre will get me over. My standards have not gone totally out the window. Perhaps that's the problem. In my mind, I have this need for everything to flow just the right way. It can't be awkward or forced. Ideally, I'd ease into it like an Otis Redding vocal over a Bill Evans piano solo. Maybe I'd massage away the weariness wearing away the inhibitions, metaphorically speaking, and parlay a hint of the sentiment with a whisper. I like to think that subtlety is my specialty. Well, that and paying attention to what works and how its working. If I've really got it going, there's no need to hurry. I'll just vary the intensity until the anticipation is altogether too much to withstand any longer, delivering the goods early and often. I'll make sure my attention to detail is particularly on point. Leaving nothing to chance, I'd simultaneously relieve the tension at the core of it all while tittilating the senses, arousing the curiousity, and liberating from the tyranny of the conventional. On a good day, I can bring forth a moment of clarity. Things that haven't been thought about in ways that have never been dreamt about is what I go for. Traditional is boring. Mind-blowing is what I'm after. What can I say? I'm a pleaser. Every artist is. (You did realize there is an art to this, didn't you?)

Perhaps that too is the problem, or at least a subset therein. If I settle for mediocre, maybe I please, but then I'm not pleased. I'm my worst critic. Every artist is. The psyche of an artist can get increasingly fragile at the mention of words like mediocre or phrases like "it'll do" or "it was good enough".

In the sports world, its often said that you're only as good as your last game. That body of work singularly defines you in the eyes of our instant gratification society. My last time seems like ancient history. I remember it only in fragments, like an amnesiac after a trauma. I'm trying to piece them together to create a complete visual but this too is pointless. This rambling is not making the need go away. This whole rant is becoming rather anti-climactic, which is precisely the antithesis of my desired end-game. But maybe that's the pleaser in me talking again. Maybe this was good for you. Maybe this got you there. Did it? It did? Then why do I still feel so empty?

Squidward, Carl, and Super Frank

My kids and I get into these heated discussions every now and then about some complete nonsense. I love the passion with which they discuss some of these topics so I do my best to give them my best effort to the contrary. I love taking the ridiculous side of an argument with them, especially when their best counter is something on the order of "Is NOT!" or "yaHUH" or "WAY!" Today we got on the topic of Squidward, who to me is the only character in the cast of the Spongebob cartoon with any redeeming qualities. Namely, he plays the clarinet and, like me, seems opposed to any of the shenanigans that happen on the whole ridiculously twisted show. I'm convinced that some guy about my age was indulging in some pharmaceutical extractions one day and got particularly baked. How baked? So baked that he thought he was having a conversaton with a sponge and the rest is history. How he came up with an underwater squirrel with a scuba suit on, i'll never know.

Squidward must've been his conscience, or his english teacher, or his mother or somebody that served as the unwelcomed voice of reason and common sense in his waste of a life. Anyway, we were driving in the car towards San Jose discussing the only episode of Spongebob that I don't mind (like would be WAY to strong a word) and also rating the worst characters in the other shows that they watch. One such character that really irks me is Carl from the Jimmy Neutron series. Jimmy is not exactly a cat that I look forward to either, but Carl is just awful. He's Jimmy's whiny friend that complains about everything, is a worry-wart, and his voice is just terrible. But, I digress.

The only decent episode of Spongebob, and there's only about 4 of them that they loop over and over again, is the one where they have a talent show. So riveting is Squidward's virtuoso performance on the clarinet that the crowd was absolutely moved to silence. Literally. I'm talkin' crickets. The curtain just happens to come up while Spongebob is mopping the stage, and the crowd goes wild. In utter disbelief, Squidward comes back to the stage to play, thinking that the crowd is calling for an encore.

Crickets.

Spongebob returns with his mop and the crowd erupts. Squidward returns. Crickets. Spongebob returns, applause. Squidward? Crickets. You get the idea. Don't get me wrong, I would in no way be watching this nonsense if my kids didn't have control of the TV. Bugs Bunny is my guy. That's a real cartoon.

At last, we'll get to Superfrank. Apparently, I made some clever reference yesterday that I had completely forgotten about until my son reminded me today. I guess we were discussing Chuck E. Cheese like places at which they'd like to play for my daughter's birthday. Boomer's came up, as did John's Incredible Pizza, and The Jungle. My son brought up some place called Super Frank's that I hadn't heard of which prompted me to say, "Super Frank? what is he...some kinda hot dog super hero?" My kids were in stitches. Like I said, I totally forgot about this randomness, although upon being reminded, I laughed about it again too. Riding in the car got that much better.

Birdman

I know that you must've read this title and thought of 4 or 5 different avenues I could go down. Is he talking about jazz great Charlie Parker? Are we going to hear about some cat at Alcatraz? Is this an ode to Mike Tyson, well known curator of pigeons, and not a bad prize fighter when he doesn't have a hankerin' for an ear. Perhaps you thought I was going to keep it a little more current for our Dirty Southt fans and speak on one of those fellas from New Orleans on the Cash Money label. Is that 4 yet? Or maybe, speaking of rap music, you thought I might talk about that underground economy topic that Ice Cube immortalized when he said a bird in the hand, is worth MORE than a bush.

Well, the first one and the fifth might be good guesses. If you know me, you know that Charlie Parker or 'Trane or Miles might be on my mind at any given time. But that's not it. If you've talked to me about my travels lately, you might have deduced that #5 had to be it since I'm soon to be on a plane headed for the place (Colombia) that Hollywood, pop culture, and of course hip-hop has glorified and made synonymous with drug trafficking. That thought has crossed my mind this week, but no, that's not what I'm talking about tonight either.

Tonight, I'm not that complex at all. In fact, I'm downright superficial. I'm talkin' bout the bird, as in Golden Bird. Chicken. I think I just like saying the name Golden Bird, and thinking about how good my uncles would make it sound to drive over to Central and Avalon to get some Golden Bird Chicken. They'd start tellin' those kind of stories where alot of the sentences don't even end with an action but with a sound and maybe a hand gesture. "Boy, lemme tell you. We'd roll on down Central to Golden Bird and WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" (Insert the same hand gesture that the older folk at church make when something that the preacher said gets good to 'em). It was as if no matter what had preceeded the mention of Golden Bird in those stories was quickly nullified by the power of Golden Bird. It was like the magic antidote for whatever had ailed my uncles. Whatever hardships they had encountered paled in comparison to the Golden Bird that lay waiting for them. It was the light at the end of their tunnel. It was the pot of gold at the end of the runway.

To this day, nary a drumstick from Golden Bird has touched my lips, but I hold it in pretty high esteem nonetheless. I keep saying that I'm going to try some the next time I'm down around that way, but I just haven't managed to get around to it yet.

I fried up my own chicken this evening, and it was of the finger-lickin' variety. Nevermind the fact that my being out of napkins made the finger-lickin' necessary lest I get up several times during the meal to wash my hands. It was pretty good. I fry some pretty good bird, if I do say so myself. I like it. I'm a pretty tough critic on foods, so it must be pretty good. I hadn't intended to fry it, but you know how it is when it gets late. I didn't get home until after 830pm and I hadn't yet thawed anything out. I turned on the oven to bake it, but then realized that I wouldn't be eating for about an hour if I went that route. I kicked around the idea of browning and then boiling in some red wine (a little coq au vin style...) but I didn't have any of the other trimmings like rosemary or anything else to cut in to make it really "sing". So I fried it. Give me a minus one in the cholesterol game for today.

Grows on Trees

Another day, another bill to pay. Just when I was thinking that I may be nearing the surface in the perpetual fight to keep my head above water, the undertow grabbed hold of my ankles and yanked me back down. The glow of the sun grew more and more faint and the lighter water at the top began to fade to darkness as I descended to the depths once again, arms extended overhead, motionless, defeated.

Just as the Softball season took its turn for the home stretch of playoffs and closing day ceremonies, I got the reminder that it was time to sign the kids up for soccer. Oh, by the way, childcare expenses are way past due, and need I remind you that gas is even $4/gallon in the 'hood? Everyone wants their money right now, and none of them are concerned about my ability to give it to them. I pay off one creditor and the other one comes calling. I fix one thing and something else breaks. Its a never ending cycle. I feel like a modern day Sisiphys, pushing my rock up this mountain of debt, only to realize that my efforts are an exercise in futility as the rock always manages to roll back down the hill before I can get it to stay up top.

Sisiphys...I like that. Six-figure share cropper is another one of my favorites. Sleepy sales engineer whose eyelids are growing heavy and who needs to get to sleep before I start to look my age.

Spring Cleaning

It seems like I have been perpetually cleaning for the past 16 months since I moved into my place. At first it was getting rid of boxes and other odds and ends right after I moved in. Then it was getting rid of more boxes as I got some new furniture and various other new items for my living room and kitchen. Then it was the painstakingly slow process of dispensing with things that no longer possessed the look and feel that I was going for. Namely, the hodge-podge items had to go. I was trying to graduate from the sloppy bachelor pad, used, tattered and mis-matched furniture to something that expressed the new urban chic, uptown lifestyle that I called myself being thrust into when they handed me the keys to this place. Of course, I had to hand them my all of my money, but it was worth it, right?

Trying to maintain the swanky lounge/cool clothing store/speak-easy atmosphere is hard work. You see, those places are always very pure in their lines, very edgy in their music, very cool with their clientele. High top sneakers kicked off under the coffee table and sweat socks thrown to the side are not conducive to this aesthetic. Stacks of junkmail and bills lugged in from the mailbox each day and random receipts and scattered bits of lint from my pocket don't exactly add flavor either. On good days, when everything is clean I feel like a museum curator urging visitors not to touch or use anything. That's a nice thought when you have kids, albeit laughable. On bad days, I feel like poor old Sisiphys, pushing the rock up the hill, only to watch it roll back down and force me to begin again. Naturally, I try to level off somewhere near the middle, knocking off little chunks of the hill on the way up, and trying not to let things get out of hand.

My bedroom was the last frontier. I had grandiose ideas for this whole place, wanting to create this whole ultra cool sitting room before retiring to a plush, luxurious, dreamland, Four Seasons/Ritz Carlton, Prince Akeem of Zamunda type sleeping situation. Unfortunately, I ran out of money last year shortly after the Bed, Bath and Beyond bar stools were put into action. Luxury was put on hold, and trust me, there's nothing cute about a 6'7" brotha sleeping corner-to-corner on a full size bed with springs jabbing him in the ribs whenever her turns on his side. Patience has paid off, and thanks to a timely tax refund checkI was able to put that plan back into action.

You know how you show up at Thanksgiving dinner completely famished because you didn't want to eat anything all day so that you'd be able to have plenty of everything when you got there plus dessert? Well, that was me with the bedroom furniture. But really, its not as bad as you might think. I didn't get a dresser, with matching nightstands and a spectacular bed and a full length mirror or anything like that...yet. I did get out of the gate with eyes much bigger than my stomach perhaps, with this fabulous cal-king bed in my more likely queen-size room. I'll work it out. It's a nice problem to have.

But now the cleaning continues. I'm once again throwing away things that no longer work in this space. I'm looking for that perfect fung shui that will promote rest, relaxation, creativity and motivation. All of the clutter that I've got here now, is having just the opposite effect. I think i'm getting overwhelmed. But look at that wonderful bed calling my name. That makes it worth it. Let me try to be sensiible about this. I'll tackle it in much more digestible, more managebacle pieces. Today, I'll knock out the wall on the left, and tomorrow, I'll get the junk off my desk. Note to self, be sure not to put the mail on the desk tomorrow. Read it and get rid of it. Another note to self: double check to see that none of that mail is addressed to Sisiphys.

Are we there yet?

"Four hours each way??! How did your kids do with that?" asked a friend of mine about the road trip that I had just described. I told her that my kids did just fine. My kids have been trained to deal with such things, and know better than to distract their driver (me) with too many tedious questions like, 'Are we There yet?' They know that its best to save their gripes for important things like, "Dad, I'm hungry, when are we going to eat?" or "Dad, I really have to go to the bathroom right now, and I can't hold it." Luckily, I'm not new to this and think about such things way in advance. Also, I try to take into account the things that I can...well...take into account.

For instance, I know that it is absolutely inevitable that no matter if he has not had a single solitary beverage for the past 4 hours that my son will have to use the bathroom just as soon as we get 10 minutes away from the house. I also know that if he says he went to the bathroom already when we're getting ready to leave, it's best to watch him walk through the bathroom door and close it behind him just to be sure. I also know that both of my kids will call out every McDonald's, Chuck E. Cheese, Carl's Jr., or In-n-Out Burger that they see, and between the two of them could not come to a consensus on just where we should go to save their life, so I decide for them. I also know that my son will fall asleep just about every time we get on the freeway heading anywhere, so I can count on at least a period of time without any bickering coming from the backseat, and can also take the opportunity to wager with my daughter about the exact location (by landmark or city) that said nap will commence. For this trip to Reno from Oakland, I guessed Vallejo, but he didn't even make it to Richmond.

My cousin was also riding with us and she's always good for hours and hours of entertainment with her colorful stories about who said what to whom and clever anecdotal what-had-happened-was's so our selection of CD's would not be the only noise as we drove. We went to Reno for my sister's 40th Birthday. She is the only family member that lives up that way, so we surprised her with a rare visit. My aunt and uncle went ahead of us and had been hanging out with her all day before bringing her to the restaurant at which we had reservations. She had no idea that any of the rest of us were coming and I thought we might have to revive her when we walked in. (Her youngest daughter saw us walk in and had to be "muzzled"). My cousin, who also turned 40 a few weeks ago and was my sister's main road dawg growing up walked up beside her and that started the screaming. They embraced long and loudly while swaying back and forth like contestants doing a tango on Dancing with the Stars, all the while screamin' and hollerin'like Nettie and Sealy at the end of The Color Purple. My kids got to see their little cousin(she's between them in age, but is comparatively very tiny) and commenced to act crazy all through dinner. It's a good thing that we were just about the last people in the place because otherwise somebody might have complained.

We got up this morning and fueled up on some Belgian waffles before hitting the road. It was a faily uneventful trip other than the sudden 3 lane change that I had to make when we spotted In-n-Out in Fairfield. Rental cars are made to be "driven", right?

Despite the cold that I have now officially succumbed to (thanks to the sickly train riders the other day), it was a nice little visit. I flipped on the TV when we got home and told my kids to watch some TV for a bit while I take a nap, because I was wiped out.

HOT!

For the second day in a row it is absolutely BLAZIN' outside. This may be a normal phenomenon for some of you, but here in The Town, "..this is highly irregular, Captain". Yesterday, I took the train and the bus to work because not much is more miserable than sitting in grid-lock as the sun beats down on one side of your face. If you're wearing sunglasses, you end up looking like a real piece of work. Perhaps that tan line that goes from the corner of your eye, across your temple, and on over the top of your ear will make you look like you're moving real fast. Perhaps it will remind you of haircuts that we had back in the late 80s, and that some kids are trying to bring back today. I remember sitting in the kitchen at my boy Kimani's house for hours on a Friday afternoon as he carved artwork into the back of my fade with a set of Wahl clippers that were scorching hot from prolonged use.

The train was no cup of tea either, as it turned out. On both the way to and from work, we were forced to get off the train in Hayward and board the next one heading in that same direction due to some fires at the switching station earlier in the week. Unfortunately, this made the train rides extra crowded. I could no longer find a relatively remote seat to stretch out and enjoy my reading material unencumbered. Somebody scooted in to share my seat, forcing me up against the window. Somebody else was damn-near breathing down my neck in the seat behind me, and making matters worse kept sneezing. Some other cat standing in the aisle holding on to the rail was coughing. The good folks at BART haven't seen fit to enable any air conditioning units on this particular train, so there we sat, in the still air. I could feel the germs congregating like an airborne cesspool and waiting to close in on my like a boa constrictor. Oh how I wish I'd remembered to take a shot of, yes, Airborne this morning. At least the person next to me isn't wearing something sleeveless and brushing up against my arm like the poor guy in front of me whose sleeve is becoming drenched by perspiration from the chubby little arm belonging to the lady sitting next to him.

I discovered that my condo has no air conditioning. How could I have not noticed this after some 16 months of living here? Well, one of the great things about Oakland is that it has a built in air conditioner called The Bay, and I'm pretty close to it. When it's super hot everywhere else, I'm usually a good 10 to 15 degrees below that, so its not nearly as unbearable. It must've been near triple digits at some point during my first summer here last year, but they kept the a/c in the hallways pumpin' 24/7 so the whole building pretty much stayed cool. Of course, that was when not many people lived here so perhaps they decided that this was a precipitous waste of energy. On the flip side, however, now that there are many more residents and they are also playing the ridiculously high HOA fees that i'm paying, I think we can afford to dip into the pot a little bit to pay the bill. I guess I'll have to bring that up at the next HOA meeting. Meanwhile, I might need to get a fan or something, because my place never dipped below 80 degrees last night. It was like trying to fall asleep in a convection oven.

The heatwave isn't all bad though. It made San Francisco a special treat last night. When else can you stroll around the City after dark without a jacket?(Or during the day, for that matter!) It was so hot that I dared take it even a step further than that, wearing an entirely linen fit, and some sandals. Ordinarily this would be a sure way to freeze my...well, you know.

G.O.A.T.

Kyra Sedgwick stars in the Number 1 drama of all time on cable television.

Catch all new episodes of Tyler Perry's House of Payne, the number 1 comedy of all time on cable television.

The folks in the advertising department down at TNT have struck gold with their current ad campaign. They're making claims in these ads that sound oh so impressive. When they showed Kyra Sedgwick looking like a female super cop in the Clint Eastwood mold, moving in slow motion so that her hair caught the light in just the right way. Number 1 of all time! Wow! Dallas? Hill Street Blues? Lost? ER? NYPD Blue? Nah, none of those are the number 1 drama of all time, on cable television. The Sopranos? The Wire? Six Feet Under? Nope. Those were on HBO and they didn't have commercials. Forget James Gandolfini, Larry Hagman, Joan Collins, or Anthony Edwards and George Clooney from ER. It's all about Kyra Sedgwick. Who? Yeah, Kyra Sedgwick. You know...she was in Phenomenon with John Travolta. Don't remember? Yeah, me neither. Well, maybe. Vaguely. Number 1 drama of all time...on cable television...with commercials.

Tyler Perry's crew has risen to the heights as well. That loud girl in the window from School Daze (Cassi Davis) that uttered the famous, "Your face is cracked...and on the ground!" which would go down in the annals of the greatest lines during a game of The Dozens of all time, is one of the stars. Little Allen Payne has come all the way from stints as the kid from the hood that went bucket for bucket with Will Smith in the battle of kids from the other side of the tracks ballin' at prep schools on The Fresh Prince, to Jason's Lyric and even Vampire in Brooklyn is there too. Number 1 comedy series of all time...on cable television...on a network that starts shows at 5 minutes after the hour. Oh wait, that's TBS. Tomato, to-mah-to...

Not to take anything away from Kyra or the House of Payne folks, but I can't help but be amused by these commercials every time that I see them. I haven't seen The Closer, but calling it the Number 1 show of all time is a pretty bold statement, considering the heavy hitters mentioned above. It might actually be a good show. I may have to check it out. I HAVE seen House of Payne though, and couldn't even make it through an entire episode. You know that look that those guards that stand out in front of Queen Elizabeth's crib have when they're on their post? That was my face as I watched that show. I couldn't even crack a smile, let alone laugh. Maybe what the TNT advertising department meant was Number 1 Comedy Show of All Time...on a cable television network...based in Atlanta...whose matriarch is from Holly Springs, Mississippi...and created by a guy that sometimes wears a dress in his movies. Yeah, they've definitely got that category on lock. That would be like me saying that I'm the greatest writer of all time...that wears size 15 shoes...that is the product of a bi-racial marriage...and loves to watch cartoons...and flys business class...and that has fingers on his left hand that are perpendicular to one another. Yeah, I've got that on lock.

Silence is Golden

Unless I'm in some hyper-aware, suspended time state right now, I must report that there is a strange silence on the street below my window. Just to be sure, I turned off the TV and can only hear the dull whirring of the fan in my laptop. Only 3 cars have gone by in the last 15 minutes. No one is standing on the corner. There's no street level conversation of which I can make out every word up here on the 6th floor.

The fire trucks have not rumbled out of Fire Station No. 1 behind me with their wake-the-dead sirens blaring. It's downright quiet over here. This is indeed not the norm. I almost feel like I'm in one of those dusty little Central Valley towns where you only hear the occasional train rolling by in the distance or the sound of an 18-wheeler pulling into a Flying J truck stop some 10 miles away. What's going on? Did all of the usual characters decide to get some rest tonight? Do they have job interviews tomorrow at 8am? Is somebody plotting something nefarious off in the basement of one of these big downtown buildings?

It's a nice night which makes this phenomenon even more exceptional. Unfortunately, in a town that is rife with criminal activity and violence, warm whether tends to hasten rather than curb their capers. I can't call it. Maybe law enforcement has actually decided to enforce the law tonight. I'm skeptical, although I did see an unmarked patrol car (well, as unmarked as a black Crown Victoria with a spotlight can be) rolling through the parking lot across the street the other night and peering into all of the parked cars to see if any tricks were being turned. I'm even a little worried, as odd as that may seem. The science is kind of eerie, especially when I consider something that my uncle once told me about his job as a guard at some of California's penitentiaries. He said that the job was dangerous, but they never really got nervous about anything until it was really quiet. That usually meant that the inmates were up to something. Maybe something is about to go down, but I can't really see myself losing any sleep over it. Maybe its some kind of street hustler's holiday or a prolonged moment of silence in honor of some particularly established East Bay wise guy. Perhaps I'll never know.

Oh, wait a minute. I guess I spoke too soon. Somebody is now engaged in a shouting match...and what's that? Oh, its the loud music from somebody's car. Downtown Oakland is coming back to life.

Can you top that?

Who saw Lebron James dunk on Kevin Garnett tonight? That guy is amazing. Just when you think they've figured out a way to keep him under wraps, he explodes to create yet another spectacular highlight. He dribbled through and around a couple defenders and when he got that one glimmer of daylight he turned on the accelerator and went full steam ahead at the rim. He would not be denied. The force with which he threw that ball down was tremendous, probably creating a vacuum in the plane that contained the path of the ball as he tomahawked it to and through the rim. Surely, the Celtics' hopes for winning game 4 were sucked right down into the rim on that one too. K.G. looked like Michael Cooper when Dr. J. got him years ago, realizing just a hair too late that he was...well, um...too late! No need to jump, just get out of the way of this train and try not to get hurt. Try not to make the poster look any worse by getting an elbow across your nose or an armpit on your head.

Lebron looked like he even amazed himself. He had a big smile on his face, in stark contrast to the warrior's intensity that his countenance usually wears for those 48 minutes between the lines. He has been relatively shackled in this series, all but stifled by the Celtics suffocating defense. He broke out in a hurry on that one. I doubt not that this single play will have a huge impact on his performance for the remainder of the series. Not that he wasn't playing hard already, but the adrenaline rush will surely raise him to another level.

As a fan, you've got to be surprised when you witness something like this. You know that this an exceptional cat, and you expect to be entertained every time, but this is one of those special moments. You ask yourself, "How can he top THAT?" He probably asked himself the same question. But he'll go out and try, no doubt. That's the wonderful thing about human body and physical prowess and CONFIDENCE. When you're at the height of your physical abilities and your mind and body are in tune and acting as one, there is no tangible thought that takes place. I'm quite sure that as he dribbled to the basket, he wasn't saying "I think I can, I think I can...,". He wasn't wondering whether or not he could score. His eyes saw the opening and like a wolf that has just spied a pork chop he was on it like white on rice. It happened in an instant. In the moment, it was all action. There would be time to think, analyze and reflect on things later. That's what highlights and super slo-mo's are for.

Lebron might catch a glimpse of himself on ESPN 30 or 40 times today, and he might raise an eyebrow at himself and maybe even say, "DAMN!" But will he suffer any anxiety between that moment and the start of the next game, wondering if he can do it again? Probably not. That's the wonderful thing about basketball or athletics in general. Well, at least through the eyes of most athletes. The creativity coupled with the physical skills makes the whole thing like one grand ballet. It's all at once, spectacular, graceful, and awe-inspiring.

I was always the type that loved game-time because I knew that I had run the sprints, lifted the weights, done the drills, taken the extra shots in preparation for the game. Sure, there is always the possibility that things just don't go your way, but its not for lack of effort. Practice makes things become second nature, and repetition makes it so that you don't have to have the "I think I can...I wonder if I can" type episodes right in the moment. I think I've done 2 things in my life where I was pretty impressed with myself and probably could not do again if you asked me. One was on the basketball court in one of my high school games. Oddly enough, this was one of those "wasn't my day" kind of games, but I contorted my body up over and around 3 defenders for a dunk that, like I said, I probably wouldn't even attempt again in a gym by myself. The other was a time when, as a 9-year old on my bicycle, I drove through oncoming traffic on an expressway because that was the only reasonable path to safety. There was no time to think about this one, it just kind of happened. I was riding bikes with my uncle and wasn't paying attention, as 9-year olds are wont to do, and as a result, didn't notice that he was making his way across the street without me. I probably should've remained there on the median and waited until the light turned red before venturing across, but I went anyway. I made it past one car, recognized that the second one would hit me if I tried to get past it, so I turned right, drove between the two cars, and calmly turned left after the 2nd car passed and strolled on over to safety on the other side of the street. Again, I wouldn't dream of trying this again, but even this seems much more do-able than the dunk, although the fact that these cars just went straight and didn't swerve or anything was a variable that I don't want to chance again.

But what about creativity in the more creative sense? I find writing to be one of those creative arts that trouble me from time to time. Let me first state emphatically that, despite any natural ability I may have as a writer, I by no means feel that my writing skills have endeavored into the expert realm of Lebron's basketball skills, or even my own, for that matter. I may show a glimpse of some promise from time to time, but there is definitely the need for much more repetition here. But sometimes I fear that even repetition won't quite get it done. In a basketball game, even if I'm having a spell like another guy in that game, Ray Allen of the Celtics, where I can't make a shot to save my life, I can always play some good defense, make a steal or get a rebound by sheer will and determination. However, I don't feel like I can "will" a literary masterpiece out of my head on demand. Whenever I write something that friends and colleagues particularly enjoy, I am prone to feel some pressure to do it again the next time.

The mind is a funny thing. It can be so consumed with the fact that it alone controls everything that goes on with you, that it can unilaterally shut down your ability to "think". Well, not actually shut down your ability to "think", but perhaps your ability to focus and produce your desired output. In writing, its a little harder to just "play some defense" or go "get a rebound", at least literally. Figuratively, I guess, I can do the written equivalent of "doodling" until I get inspired and hit my stride. Sometimes that works. Other times that just produces an off the wall entry like you see here in the "Daily" sometimes. We'll let you decide how to classify this one.

Playfakers

It's amazing how lazy one person can be. I've been sitting in this same spot on the couch for the last 2 hours. I stood up briefly to look in the refrigerator but that was a very quick exercise. Not a lot to look at in there. I'm not even really sure I'm hungry anyway. I had Cuban food this afternoon and that has a way of sittin' on you for awhile. I watched the end of the Spurs/Hornets game and then Kenny, Chuck, and Ernie for the re-cap. When they went off, I was reading emails so I didn't bother reaching for the remote control. They started playing some movie with Tony Soprano and Robert Redford about some military prison. It looked mildly interesting, but I had never heard of it, so it probably wasn't going to be Earth shattering.

I flipped through the channels. I no longer have Comcast, so I can't turn to the channel guide and see what's on. Well, I can sometimes, on 67 (or is it 68?) but I think that's only when the Sun is up. Otherwise it shows some Vietnamese programming or something. I think something like The Simpsons or Family Guy would've sufficed, but I didn't see those. I did stumble upon something though. It wasn't Earth shattering, but it was jaw-dropping. It was something called The Game.

It was some line where this little guy who was apparently supposed to be a sports agent from the Bob Sugar/Drew Rosenhaus mold said something like "it's all about the ho's we knows...," or something like that. That made me stop and check to see if somehow I was still getting HBO. Nope...this was regular free television. I guess this channel is called the CW. I think it used to be the WB. Why'd they get rid of the frog? The frog was a classic. I wonder if they still do the "pet of the day" thing during commercial breaks. That is this channel, isn't it? Or do I have that confused with UPN? I don't know.

This show seemed to be a cross between the critically acclaimed Playmakers from ESPN and maybe Scrubs and/or Love American Style for the old school set. Suffice it to say that this show took every stereotype of the athlete world to an extreme. Couple that with some bad acting by Wendy Raquel Robinson (not like she set the world on fire on the Steve Harvey Show, but she was better than this), Rick Fox (i know, i know...this is the second time in a couple of month that Rick's thespian chops have been called out in one of my entries, but...), and Tia Lowry of Sister Sister fame (well, she was on her usual level).

I gave this show about 10 minutes. Once I got over the sheer surprise about what I was actually seeing on the TV, I could only stand so much of this nonsense. Maybe I'm getting old and can't appreciate a new comedy sensation like this. More likely this is just a poor show that happens to reside on the CW (and not a real network) for a reason.

Double Standard

Today I saw something on TV that made me laugh aloud. No, it wasn't a commercial. We won't count those because that would be like me reporting that I saw a car stop at a stop light today. Nothing special there. I'm frequently moved to outbursts of laughter while watching commercials. Much to the chagrin of the advertisers, I have no idea what they were trying to sell me 99% of the time, but I remember their commercial. This was actually something amusing from the endless reel of highlights that I and many other men and America watch everyday.

Sometimes, we don't even really watch them. They're just kind of "on". It's background noise. This is especially the case when the TV has been on for more than 30 minutes because they start showing the same stuff over and over again. Very few things are worthy of breaking your neck to see again and again, but I think I will indeed look for this one again the next time that I'm in front of a TV.

It was in the 6th inning of the N.Y. Mets massacre of the Los Angeles Dodgers that the noteworthy highlight occurred. With nobody out in the top of the 6th, New York's Ryan Church sent Scott Proctor's pitch over the wall in right-center field for his 6th round-tripper of the year. What's so special about that? Well, nothing. It wasn't a particularly towering shot. It wasn't like he went down to get a bad pitch and by sheer will and determination, muscled it out of the yard. In fact, it had absolutely nothing to do with Ryan Church nor Scott Proctor. This highlight was all about where the ball ended up. A guy sitting right near the rail stood up and caught the ball. Big deal, right? Consider this. He caught the ball with his un-gloved left hand. Still not impressed? He had a newborn cradled up against his chest with his right arm.

The concentration that it must've taken for him to pull this off must've been tremendous. Any hesitation or reservation about attempting this and he doesn't make the catch. Even worse, any second guessing and the kid could get hurt. This guy ought to win an ESPY for this one. Better yet, he ought to get a Miller Lite commercial saluting him as "Mr.Bare-hand-catch-holding-an-infant-guy". (Okay, so that one falls within the 1% of commercial products that I actually do retain.) But then the father in me blurted out, "His wife's going to kill him." He's probably cursing ESPN and YouTube now, the way Barack Obama has been doing for the last few months knowing that it's going to be virtually impossible for his wife not to see this clip at least once. I'm sure all of the moms out there were outraged, while dads everywhere were silently saying "Atta-boy!" as they glanced at their wives to make sure that their faces didn't show any appreciation for his unspeakable act.

Who knows? Maybe the wife was there at the game with him. Maybe it all happened so fast that he didn't have time to hand the baby to her so that he could catch the ball. I know that I would've never heard the end of it if it were me. Shoot. That's the kind of thing that might've had me reduced to supervised visits. But let's not be so quick to condemn this man. Instead, let's applaud his focus as well as his ambidextrous abilities. He's probably right handed, since that's the hand with which he was holding the baby. This was no small feat. Just think of the teaching moment that this will afford him. Years down the line, he can use this as an example for his kid.

"You see, son, you've got to be able to multi-task. You've got to go to work everyday to bring home the bacon, and also come home and be a good family man. It's like that time at the ballpark, when you were a baby..."

"You see, son, you've got to be able to do your best on the field, AND in the class room, all at the same time. It's like that time at the ballpark when you were a baby...."

So once again, I salute you, "Mr.Bare-hand-catch-holding-an-infant-guy". You might want to disconnect the phones and your cable box when you get home, just to cover your tracks.

way way back machine...

When I brought my kids home from practice today, my son started talking to his mother about the card that he had made for her in class. Mother's Day will be upon us in a few days so, as is tradition, school-age kids everywhere are putting their creative minds to work and constructed masterpieces that they will proudly present to their mom's on Sunday. He went on and on about the cards and the gift that they had made in the class. You could see the excitement overflowing from within as his face lit up. You'd have thought that he were in some special lab at that school making a Rosie the Robot maid that will cook mom breakfast and bring it to her in bed on Sunday. You could tell that he wasn't supposed to reveal what exactly it was that he had made, but he could hardly contain it. He was about to burst at the seams. Luckily, mom changed the subject by asking him to get something out of the kitchen. It was pretty hilarious how this little diversion made him lose his train of thought and move on to the next.

I'm sure I was like that too. I remember spending whole days mixing up some plaster concoction to make an imprint of my hand or my face and then doing my best to color inside the lines to make the card look like Hallmark had made it. Maybe Hallmark should hire some kids to make their cards. How cute would that be? They could put a bunch of kids in a room with a box of crayons and some white walls and let them make giant cards. They could then take those images and mass produce them and sell them all over the place. They could pay them in cookies and milk, and if a kid accidentally smeared some chocolate on the wall where he was creating the card, they could leave that in for authenticity. As usual, I'm getting way off the subject and probably suggesting some sort of twisted Simpsons' style child-labor camp that would make Nike sweatshops seem like Disneyland. Speaking of which, when my kids ask me "Hey Dad, where are we going? what are we going to do today?" I sometimes reply with "We're going to a child labor camp. You guys are going to make toys all day." Half confused and half mortified at the notion, they always pause to give me a funny look before saying, "No...you're just kidding...right?" I smile and try to keep from laughing. They cease to ask that question anymore until we get to wherever they are going. What? Is that mean? It's better than the one I borrowed from Jack Handy's Deep Thoughts when they were younger.

"Dad, I want to go to Disneyland!" my son would exclaim as if putting an imaginary stake in the ground.

"Disneyland burned down," I would explain, motioning to an old vacant lot that we would drive by. He would survey the situation very closely and would start to look very concerned. My daughter, 2 and a half years his senior, would be my straight man, having adopted my sense of humor at an early age. Sometimes she would even add her own twist to it. "Yeah...it's true! Mickey and Donald were able to escape on one of the spaceships from Space Mountain." He doesn't fall for that one anymore.

But I have digressed. Mother's Day gifts. How sweet the memories of childhood were. For much of my adult life, my mother has called me to tell me precisely what I am to get for her, where I am to get it, and how much it costs for every single birthday, Christmas, and Mother's Day. It takes the fun right out of it. I stopped wrapping them years ago.

Stepping back into the way way back machine...

Remember when kids would walk to school? When I was in kindergarten and first grade, a group of us when meet up on our block and walk to school in a big pack, getting into varying degrees of mischief along the way. We'd kick rocks, throw rocks, jump in puddles, and taunt scary dogs from the safe side of the fence. Some of the older kids would leave even earlier and play tan-bark tag on the jungle-gym in the park adjacent to our school until the bell rang. We'd do it all again on the way home. Those were the days. I had a key that sometimes was worn around my neck, sometimes carried in a pocket, and sometimes just lost. It's a good thing that my parents didn't have those double-paned windows with the locks on them or an alarm system back then, because I was frequently climbing through the bathroom window in the back of the house to get in whenever my keys had disappeared. It was quite a feat too. The window was up about 7 feet off the ground, so I had to climb up to it and pop the screen off, and it wasn't a full sized window, so I had to slither through it. Once inside, I had to reach across to the rail that held the shower door for balance, my body fully horizontal at this point. Then I'd slide my legs through and swing down into the shower while hanging on to that rail for dear life. I'd usually remember to put the screen back on the window, but had I ever thought to clean the muddy footprints off the floor of the shower, my mom would've never known.

Those were the days. Chores, Tom and Jerry, and eating leftovers. That was the life. I'd do all of this before my parents got home. One of my friends might even come over to help me. Then I might get dressed and get on my bicycle and head to practice, wherever that might be. I might have a friend of mine riding on my handlebars as we rode to practice. Of course, this was before kids wore helmets while riding their bikes and Amber was not an alert, but probably just some girl in your class.

Butterflies

I can't stand it! The excitement is too much for me. I've got butterflies like my team is down by 1 with 30 seconds left. I've been watching CNN's coverage of the Indiana primary for the past 3 hours. It's definitely MUST SEE TV if I may borrow NBC's term. I had to go on to ESPN.com to see who actually won Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Semi-final match-up between the Celtics and Cavaliers. I was watching that game, but I couldn't help but keep hitting the "previous channel" button back to see what was happening on CNN. Ray Allen and Paul Pierce weren't quite as engaging as Anderson Cooper and Wolfe Blitzer. I'm on the edge of my seat. I almost feel like inviting some folks over and watching this coverage like its a Superbowl or something. (Yes, this is me. Don't worry, I haven't bumped my head. Still don't believe me? What? Prove it? Okay...how 'bout this? My first date was walking with Nicole Bell down to Baskin-Robbins after school in the 6th Grade and she gave me the cutest little peck on the lips after I walked her to the door at 397 Bluefield Drive.)

I don't think I've watched the news for this many consecutive hours since September 11, 2001. I can almost taste victory. When they finally do say that Barack Obama has indeed edged out Hillary Clinton to win Indiana, I think I might open my windows and get out some pots and pans and bang them together like its New Year's or something. When they announce that Barack has won, I feel like black folks are going to spill out into the streets and celebrate like Joe Louis just beat Max Schmeling or something. It could be one of those wild nights. This is great! Am I in a time warp? Is it 1938 again?

No, it is indeed 2008, but I do feel some of the old 1938 undercurrent creeping in to this news telecast. When I first started watching, they had only reported about 25% of the precincts and Hillary had about an 8% lead, but as the hours have dragged on, her lead has diminished from 40,000+ votes to about 15,000. Lake County, Indiana is one of the last counties at issue. However, as her lead has diminished, the insinuations by the CNN folks have increased. First it was the CNN guy with the touch screen map, John King, whose incessant questioning of why it was taking so long for the ballot results to be reported. He was very methodical in his approach. First, he stressed the proximity of Lake County, Indiana to Chicago. The city of Hammond, Indiana is the first place you hit when you cross the Illinois/Indiana border. The city of Gary, Indiana is also in Lake County. Then Mr. King touched his map again to change to a view that demonstrated where the urban vs. rural areas. Of course, Lake County was one of the urban areas. After much deliberation, it was articulated that Lake County has a large African-American population, one of the largest in the state. In other words, he finally called a spade a spade.

But I digress. I was talking about insinuations. All night, the CNN crew was hinting that something was wrong in Lake County. Why hadn't they reported their votes? What was taking them so long? At about midnight East Coast time, Larry King joined the broadcast on the inset and started asking the same tough questions, but with even more pessimism in his voice. It was almost like they brought him in to be the heavy. Shortly thereafter, they got Tom McDermott, Mayor of Hammond, IN (and a Clinton supporter) on the broadcast to all but brag and boast about how efficient his city was in counting their votes and distributing their results to the folks at the county. He stressed his ability to get on the spot updates from any of his polling places at any moment.

When there still were no results out of Lake County past 1am EST, and CNN's broadcast was getting stale, they reached back into their bag of tricks and pulled out an old standby. John King had touched the screen every which way he could. Wolfe Blitzer had walked across his simulated stage to give yet another update that was eerily familiar to the update that he had given every 10 minutes all evening. Anderson Cooper and his band of merry men (and women) had speculated, postulated, and also insinuated all that they could. The viewers were about to tune out and read about it in the morning. Then they got Mayor Rudy Clay of Gary on the line. First John King took a crack at him, asking why it took so long. As cool and collected as your uncle explaining the fine points of adjusting the timing belt on an old Chevy, Mayor Clay explained that they had taken in some 11,000+ absentee ballots, a number that translated to more than 3 times the usual amount for that area. He said that they wanted to be sure not to disenfranchise these voters who had been conscientious enough to get their vote in on time. That wasn't good enough for King, so he asked him again and again and again. The network cut away to a commercial to regroup and then came back and let Larry King have a crack at him. Mayor Clay was steadfast, giving the same answers to cousin Larry. On Anderson, on John again, on Larry and Blitzer.... All of them asked the same thing over and over, trying to get a rise out of Mayor Clay. Cool like Antonio Fargas' Huggy on Starsky and Hutch, Clay didn't budge.

Finally, they got the clean cut Mayor McDermott on one side of the split screen and Blitzer talking to Mayor Clay on the phone in the other window and tried to make them spar. McDermott took it there. Suggesting that it seemed fishy and that something seemed improper or tainted, he mentioned words like re-count, hanky-panky, and even corruption. I just knew, at any moment, that he was going to say hanging chad. I was so glad that Mayor Clay resisted the urge to retaliate. They were fishing for an angry black man but he didn't give it to them. Stay strong brotha, because they won't stop coming. They WILL be back. They'll be back tomorrow, they'll be back the day after that, and the day after that. When you think they've taken a break, they'll try to seduce you into another speaking engagement. The allure of the cameras and international media outlets will be great. You'll think, "what could be the harm in doing an interview here or there?" Two words, brotha: You. Tube. Stay strong brotha.

Well, with 99% of the votes counted in Indiana, they've finally given the split decision to Hillary. It was by the narrowest of margins. Her camp will have some clever spin tomorrow, but it won't really matter. We're not having our Joe Louis celebration out there tonight, but we soon will.

chinks in the armor...

Today I was reminded of my mortality yet again. Well, let me stop being so dramatic. I did not have a brush with death. I was not diagnosed with some serious illness. No, I didn't go to a fortune teller and receive word that I would meet my maker in 30 days. (But if I had, wouldn't that be something!? What would I do with the next 30 days..starting now? Sounds like the subject for another entry...). No, today it was my basketball mortality, if you will.

Sure, that sounds silly, but that's just one overly-dramatic way to put it. Basketball is indeed a young man's game. Before you start playing the violin for me as a tell this sad story about not being able to do things that I used to do, let's put it in the proper context. I am not old. Well, not that old. I've just got a body that has lots of wear and tear on it. Unfortunately, I was given the heart of a prize fighter but the body of a flamingo. Appropriately, I too am now standing on one leg. My left knee has been swollen pretty good for about a week.

A little swelling? Big deal. I can ice that. That's what I've been doing but it won't seem to go away. It feels fine once I get warm. Well, maybe fine is a bit strong. It feels good enough to run after I get warmed up. But I definitely think about it when I make a quick move and that's a problem. The bad thing is that this is probably a chain reaction brought on by several other injuries. My chronically sore lower back may or may not have contributed to the patella tendonitis pain I've had in my right knee for the past 3 or 4 weeks. Compensating for the right knee, coupled with my ever decreasing flexibility, probably caused me to put extra stress on the left knee.

I could probably keep this going and suck it up. I had a stretch in tonight's game where I had about 8 straight points, on some nifty moves that ended in bank shots of varying degrees of difficulty. As I ran back up the court, the referee commented that "the bank" was "definitely open". I heard some "ooohs" and "aaaahs" on the last one, a nifty base line move where I shot the bank over a defender with a low trajectory on the right side while floating left. I even ended the game with a two-handed dunk as time ran out. But why? I've got nothing to prove. There is no Larry O'Brien trophy waiting at the end of this old-man's-washed-up-used-to-be-and-never-was league. I'll get no endorsement money. So, you've heard it here first. Until further notice, I'm going to shut it down for the foreseeable future.

Yeah, I know that's vague. I make a living out of vague. I can say unequivocally that "foreseeable future" means at least the rest of this week, and probably even longer than that. Hopefully, the rest will do my body some good. It's tough being Fido Dido battling it out with the Incredible Hulk all the time.

Of Sunny Saturdays, Shims and Skinny Jeans...

What a glorious day it was today! It was comfortably sunny and slightly breezy as I walked with my kids in their walk-a-thon. What a herculean effort they put in. Well, most of the time. They kept me out there for 5 hours. I was in no way expecting to be out there that long. I think they did close to 10 miles. I did about 6 myself before manning a popsicle station as a parent volunteer. As it got warmer in the afternoon, these were quite popular. I think a couple kids must've had about 17 popsicles. It was unbelievable. Right next to the popsicles, I had a tray of oranges but nobody touched those. It's amazing how you can't get kids to touch any real fruit these days. I remember at halftime of my soccer games as a kid, we'd tear up some orange wedges while the coach gave me and the other 8-year-olds the all important pep talk which we surely took to heart while making faux orange smiles with the peels in our mouths. Now the kids get bagels or even donuts and/or some sort of energy drink. As if THAT's healthy.

While walking with some other parents at the walk-a-thon we got into a conversation about, among other things, skinny jeans. Now here is a fashion trend that I do not understand. Why are teenage (and even 20 somethings) wearing jeans that would make Robin Hood proud? Does this make them really popular with the ladies? Probably not, but who knows? Then again, these are usually the same cats that have noses, lips, or eyebrows pierced and even have those National Geographic stretch-out-your-earlobe-hoop-spacer-things, so maybe making yourself attractive to the opposite sex is quite far from high on the priority list. Even more puzzling here is that these boys are not only almost always very thin, but they also wear the biggest shoes they can find, thereby accentuating the skinniness of their trousers. Maybe that too is by design. No one was able to offer any valuable insight on the "why" of this situation, but I did manage to learn something from one of the parents. Apparently, the guys are both finding their skinny jeans in the girls Juniors department as well as trading with jeans with girls at school. Back in my day, getting into her jeans meant something else.

Driving home around twilight, I noticed a rather motley crew congregating on the corner in front of the fire station. Call it a Shim Summit or Cross-Dressers convention if you want, but instead of the one shim that usually works the corner of MLK Blvd. and 17th, there were 3 of them. This was an interesting development indeed. I wonder what they were talking about? Was this like a meeting amongst super powers? Were they defining new territories? Would there be a treaty or an accord signed when they were all done? Maybe they were talking about recession proofing their occupation. Maybe high gas prices were hurting them too since their customer base has to hit them on the drive-by. At these prices, maybe cats aren't cruising around to find them as often. And who are their customers anyway? They MUST know what they are getting. Maybe they DO know. If they do, is this like some unwritten rule of same sex encounters that its not as bad if one of them is dressed up like a woman? Who knows. These are questions that my little brain is not advanced enough to process. Besides, armed with such information, I couldn't do anything but have further random thoughts to think about, so its pointless. So this too will remain a mystery, right up there with Skinny Jeans and how cats always land on their feet when they fall out of a tree.

Joke's on me...

You ever have those days that just don't turn out how you thought they would when you first set your feet on the floor in the morning? That was today. I woke up just before 6am, with no alarm clock. I wanted to go to the gym first because I know how the day can get away. I also wanted to get some writing down because I had a deadline that was fast approaching. Then I had to go to the office for the second day in a row.

I took a minute or two to get my bearings. Trying to sort things out while still lying on my back and staring at the ceiling after finishing my morning prayer of thanks is never my most effective way of developing a plan. With sleep still tugging at me, and my mind not yet firing on all cylinders, I often drift from this to that and back over there and in and out of whatever. Sensing this, I sat up and grabbed a bus schedule to figure out just when I might be able to get to work if I went to the gym right now. I floundered around with that for a few minutes too long. I dropped to the floor and knocked out some push-ups. At least I had accomplished something today now. I finally managed to dress myself, gather my things and head out the door. I worked out, grabbed something from Jamba Juice and headed to the train. Since I narrowly missed the 759am train and caught the 814am, I arrived in Union City just after the last Dumbarton Express took off. Defeated, but only for a moment, I recalled that the M also goes my direction and makes me walk only about 1 extra block so I jumped on that at 910am. There was no wi-fi on this express bus so I couldn't do any work. However, this did give me the chance to start the writing that I had been meaning to do. Ideally, I would've awakened at 430 or 5am and been bright eyed and bushy-tailed and, more importantly, creative. Since that didn't happen I made do with what did. I got to work to discover that my project carried over from yesterday was not without a few bugs so I spent the next few hours getting the kinks out.

I told the guys to go ahead on to lunch without me so I could keep working. I figured I'd just run across the street and grab something in a little bit after I was done. I didn't expect them to make a big deal out of it either. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. At about 330pm, I discovered that my laptop power supply was missing from my desk. I had been using my laptop in the demo room and when I started running low on juice, I went back to re-charge. That's when the fun started. I did a thorough check of my workspace, both at my desk and back in the demo room. Then I started asking questions. I went to the usual suspects first. The poker faces were in full effect. Nobody had any answers. Clearly, my power supply had grown legs. I guess I should've asked everybody in the office, but I'm pretty sure that such tomfoolery usually has a single source in our office. I needed to send an email to a customer that notified me at 445pm that what I thought we had fixed for them was not quite working yet. While I was testing it on our set-up, my laptop died. I laughed. Sharing this with the guys did not cause my power supply to magically appear. These guys are good.

As fate would have it, these last two developments had me in limbo just long enough to miss the bus. I'd have to wait about 45 minutes for the next one. I spoke to my boss on the phone as I was waiting for the bus and shared the day's shenanigans with him after we had discussed the issues. He too fingered the same suspect. We laughed together. Oh well. At least I keep a spare at home. I'll give them credit for pulling a good prank.

Northside

I got off the 101 Freeway at Julian Street this evening and it was as if I were 9 years old again, sitting next to my dad in his big red truck. For some reason, this neighborhood always does this to me. I don't get around there much anymore, but it always kind of takes me back. Winding around the off-ramp I would like at the large warehouse with the sign on top that said SAN JOSE STEEL CO. and know that we were just about there. Now, the sign says Monarch Trucking, but the building still looks the same. My dad would turn onto Julian and cross the railroad tracks at 28th Street. As I crossed the tracks, I glanced at the somewhat run down apartments off to the right and thought about how Conrad Gonzales used to live over there. He was the point guard on the basketball team that my dad coached at San Jose High School. He along with many others that played for my dad were my idols. I adored those guys. My dad would frequently pick-up or drop-off guys after games or practice and I probably remember where all of them lived.

We would pull up to the light at 24th Street and wait to turn left. There, on this block, was the greatest school in the world. At least it was to me, as a 9 year old kid that served as ball boy, statistician, water boy and halftime show for home games. Sometimes I would go into the locker room and listen to the pep talks. I had the run of the place. Nobody else could go in and out of the coaches offices, locker room, equipment room, weight room. To me it was like my dad was the bass player for Earth, Wind, and Fire, and I had permanent backstage passes. It was great.

My dad would eventually leave to teach and coach at another school when I was about 13, but I still loved this neighborhood. The neighborhood where we lived in the much more suburban side of town was much nicer, but that didn't matter. I loved that we'd go to Orange Julius and get a hot dog and whatever they called that whipped orange thing they served as a drink. We'd go get tacos on Santa Clara street or dip into the El Chapparal Supermercado on occasion to grab something to drink. We might have to go to the Roosevelt Community Center on 21st street for whatever reason and my dad knew everybody. I was "Lil' J.O." to everybody. During the summer, he'd open the gym and I might lift weights on the Universal Machine. I would bet him that I could lift a certain amount of weight and when I won the bet, we'd go over to Der Wienerschnitzel (the didn't drop the "Der" until the late '80s) where he'd have to pay up and watch me make four chili-cheese dogs quickly disappear. Sometimes, I'd make him take me to Foster's Freeze on Fourth and Taylor for a Pineapple Shake.

On some days, we'd head on over to Guadalajara Market No. 2 and have the best burritos in the world. Yes, I do mean the WORLD! (One time in college, I was home for the weekend from UCLA and before heading back, I grabbed a burrito from here and set it on the seat for the five hour drive back to Los Angeles. Instead of going home, I went straight to campus where I knew my friends would be studying. I used to study with a group of guys from East L.A. that swore up and down that King Taco on 3rd Street in East L.A. was the gold standard for all things burrito and taco. We even drove all the way out there, about 40 minutes from campus, to check it out one time. I wasn't impressed. So I marched into the Minority Engineering Center and dropped this 5-hour-old burrito into the middle of the table and told them they were about to taste the best burrito ever. After nuking it for 30 seconds or so, I cut it up and let them try. Their looks of satisfaction said it all. There was never any further argument on this subject.) Dad and I might eat ours in the truck, or maybe take some home for everybody else. Of course, the burritos had been prepared by some of his students. It was like rollin' with Don Corleone around there. Everybody knew the Red Truck.

I love North San Jose. Some people see blight, but I see memories; fond memories of a happy childhood spent pal-ing around with my dad in his Big Red Truck, dreaming of one day donning a red, white, and grey S.J. Bulldog uniform and jumping center as my dad looked on from the bench.