When an active person repeatedly trains movement, often of the same activity, in an effort to stimulate the mind’s adaptation process, the outcome is to induce physiological changes which attain increased levels of accuracy through repetition. Even though the process is really brain-muscle memory or motor memory, the colloquial expression "muscle memory" is commonly used.
Individuals rely upon the mind’s ability to assimilate a given activity and adapt to the training. As the brain and muscle adapts to training, the subsequent changes are a form or representation of its muscle memory. -- from Wikipedia
That's where I'm trying to be right now: at the point where my brain is completely adapted to the daily training that I call myself doing. I say "call myself doing" perhaps because I am my own biggest critic. Even when others may laud something that I produce as "brilliant" or "thought-provoking" I still can be unimpressed and unwilling to accept their compliments. I'm not certain if this is a problem, so much as a mechanism to keep me from growing content with mediocrity be it in my own perception or the consensus. Once in awhile, I will take a step back and actually accept the praise or constructive feedback of a reader, but believe that I am very stubborn on this. Practice makes perfect, however, so I try to approach this as such.
It's amazing how the same principles apply to those striving for greatness in various pursuits. The concert pianist practices a piece over and over again in hopes that during their performance, their manual dexterity and light touch will bring out their own personal expression or interpretation of a time-honored classic. A jump shooter spends hours and hours in a gym taking the same shots hundreds of times from dozens of different angles so that when dogged by fatigue and draped by a very physical defender late in a game, they will be able to relax and execute without being at all disturbed by the deafening screams of the crowd. I strive to apply this same dedication and reap the same personal fulfillment with my writing. I believe that I show flashes of potential at times, but I'm inconsistent at best. Often times, merely practicing is not nearly enough. Greatness is achieved when the quality of the practice sessions is maintained at a high level. When I get to the point where each daily entry is an exercise in precision, then I might be able to measure some progress.
Well, that can't be entirely true. Insofar as writing is an art form and one in which freedom of expression shall reign supreme, precision cannot exactly be the measurable standard. Communication should be an important tenet though, as should provoking thought. In everything I write, my desire is to make the reader understand what was going through my mind as I experienced something and quite possibly how I felt as I attempted to recount said experience. If successful in this way, my reader could conceivably gain understanding as they consider my viewpoint from that common ground. If my view then provokes introspection and maybe even the adoption of another perspective, then it's possible that I have succeeded.
I should have apologized in advance for an entry like this. We'll liken this to that Monday practice in which all of the mundane things must be attended to first and foremost. It's like an exercise in conditioning, as opposed to skills training. It has been my experience that both are necessary. Excessive practice at a mediocre level serves only to produce mediocre results. If I want to get to the next level in my writing pursuits, I'll have to increase the number of quality practice sessions while simultaneously decreasing the days in which I just "phone it in" and sleep walk through the exercises.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Leader
Tonight I saw the future. Surrounded by some 20 friends and colleagues and crowded around a plasma television, I witnessed the coming out party of the man likely to lead the free world into a paradigm shift. Extolling the opportunity for change and new ideas, Mr. Barack Obama stood at the podium before 85,000 people at Invesco Field in Denver, Colorado and graciously accepted the Democratic nomination for the Presidency of the United States of America. Some 38 million others all across America watched on television, and who know how many others tuned in around the world. It was truly history in the making.
Pledging reforms and ushering in an attitude of hope and empowerment he was both eloquent and forthright in his 46 minute speech. In my lifetime of 36 years, I cannot recall being so moved and filled with pride over anything not remotely personal. But maybe it was personal after all as Mr. Obama has become the personification of a dream previously thought to be so far beyond the wildest of all dreams of all that look like me.
At times during his oration, the room was stone silent, while in other instances, some were moved to tears, loud applause, or even jumping out of their chairs to stomp their feet and shout "YEAH!" It was eerily similar to a stirring sermon in which it feels like the preacher is speaking directly to you and your troubles. So proud was I that we were gathered for such a momentous occasion when we often congregate for reasons that hold far less importance like the Superbowl or the finale of a television series. It's as if politics has suddenly become exciting, if not important. Perhaps there is hope for us to be led out of the darkness of apathy and into the enlightenment and responsibility that motivation and action bring forth. At long last, there is a candidate to believe in. I feel as though integrity matters again. I feel as though things that concern me as an African-American man with two young African-American children also concern this African-American man with his own two young African-American children. I feel like he can relate to the world the way that I relate to the world, not as a victim, but as an intellectual citizen of the World, demanding to be reckoned with and respected instead of dismissed and discounted.
My prayers will continue to go out to him and his family, as am sure the prayers of millions of others will as well. I cannot deny being secretly a little nervous for him as he approached the podium and as he channeled great leaders from generations past, all the while speaking with a message for the future. I was encourage, however, and drew strength from his obvious strength as he and his family are surely aware of the evil surrounding them, hoping to be right there to aid in or facilitate his demise. I breathed a sigh of relief when Barack was able to complete his speech and retire safely offstage with his family. I know that he is cloaked in the protective arms of the Lord himself.
Pledging reforms and ushering in an attitude of hope and empowerment he was both eloquent and forthright in his 46 minute speech. In my lifetime of 36 years, I cannot recall being so moved and filled with pride over anything not remotely personal. But maybe it was personal after all as Mr. Obama has become the personification of a dream previously thought to be so far beyond the wildest of all dreams of all that look like me.
At times during his oration, the room was stone silent, while in other instances, some were moved to tears, loud applause, or even jumping out of their chairs to stomp their feet and shout "YEAH!" It was eerily similar to a stirring sermon in which it feels like the preacher is speaking directly to you and your troubles. So proud was I that we were gathered for such a momentous occasion when we often congregate for reasons that hold far less importance like the Superbowl or the finale of a television series. It's as if politics has suddenly become exciting, if not important. Perhaps there is hope for us to be led out of the darkness of apathy and into the enlightenment and responsibility that motivation and action bring forth. At long last, there is a candidate to believe in. I feel as though integrity matters again. I feel as though things that concern me as an African-American man with two young African-American children also concern this African-American man with his own two young African-American children. I feel like he can relate to the world the way that I relate to the world, not as a victim, but as an intellectual citizen of the World, demanding to be reckoned with and respected instead of dismissed and discounted.
My prayers will continue to go out to him and his family, as am sure the prayers of millions of others will as well. I cannot deny being secretly a little nervous for him as he approached the podium and as he channeled great leaders from generations past, all the while speaking with a message for the future. I was encourage, however, and drew strength from his obvious strength as he and his family are surely aware of the evil surrounding them, hoping to be right there to aid in or facilitate his demise. I breathed a sigh of relief when Barack was able to complete his speech and retire safely offstage with his family. I know that he is cloaked in the protective arms of the Lord himself.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Still...
I'm still holdin' it down for the melanin militia out here in the "I". I'm pretty confident that I'm not going to see any other members of the crew. I'm in for the night so there's only one more chance for me to see someone, and that's at 7am for my flight back to what is going to feel like the Chocolate City. I agreed to go to the barbeque spot recommended by my boss in hopes that not only would the ribs be good, but that I also might run into somebody that looks like me. Well, at least the ribs were pretty good. When we were walking out, I heard a car with lotsa bass playing some rap song loudly so I looked around thinking that this might finally be the moment. When I located the car, it was full of hoodied up, teenaged...white kids.
I saw two incredible things on TV today from my Fairfield Inn here by the airport in Boise. First it was yet another sad case of overbearing sports parents trying their best to ruin a child's game. I learned from ESPN that 9-year-old Jericho Scott of New Haven, CT is essentially being banned from pitching on his little league team of 8-10 year olds because he is too good. Yes, I know...RIDICULOUS! An opposing team apparently pulled its players off the field and forfeited when he took the mound. The poor kid feels bad because he feels like he's messing it up for everybody. The adults involved ought to be absolutely ashamed of themselves for tampering with these kids ability to have fun playing a game, and also for not being able to solve their grown up quarrels without involving some little league kids.
The next thing that TV brought me this evening was some sista that CNN dug up following the Hillary speech. Crying hysterically and wearing her Hillary shirt, she pledged her allegiance to Senator Clinton and said that Hillary just gave a presidential speech and should be the next president. All I could do was shake my head. Once again, they've located one of us looking as ridiculous as possible and will probably loop this clip over and over again and turn it into some egregious blanket statement like "Hillary has the black vote". I've been channel surfing since they left this but have been unable to see it again or anyone's commentary on it. Somehow, I know that this won't be the last time I see it. Hannity and Combs will surely have two cents to put in about it. I'm mad that I even mentioned those clowns here, but it's just the kind of nonsense that they usually cling to on their silly little show.
I saw two incredible things on TV today from my Fairfield Inn here by the airport in Boise. First it was yet another sad case of overbearing sports parents trying their best to ruin a child's game. I learned from ESPN that 9-year-old Jericho Scott of New Haven, CT is essentially being banned from pitching on his little league team of 8-10 year olds because he is too good. Yes, I know...RIDICULOUS! An opposing team apparently pulled its players off the field and forfeited when he took the mound. The poor kid feels bad because he feels like he's messing it up for everybody. The adults involved ought to be absolutely ashamed of themselves for tampering with these kids ability to have fun playing a game, and also for not being able to solve their grown up quarrels without involving some little league kids.
The next thing that TV brought me this evening was some sista that CNN dug up following the Hillary speech. Crying hysterically and wearing her Hillary shirt, she pledged her allegiance to Senator Clinton and said that Hillary just gave a presidential speech and should be the next president. All I could do was shake my head. Once again, they've located one of us looking as ridiculous as possible and will probably loop this clip over and over again and turn it into some egregious blanket statement like "Hillary has the black vote". I've been channel surfing since they left this but have been unable to see it again or anyone's commentary on it. Somehow, I know that this won't be the last time I see it. Hannity and Combs will surely have two cents to put in about it. I'm mad that I even mentioned those clowns here, but it's just the kind of nonsense that they usually cling to on their silly little show.
Monday, August 25, 2008
The Only One...
Greetings from Burley, Idaho. I've been here for about 12 hours and I have not seen a single solitary brotha yet. It's just me. I'm convinced. There weren't any on my flight. There aren't any at my hotel. I didn't see any at the Chili's restaurant I ate at for lunch. I didn't see any at Morey's Steak House at dinner. Come to think of it, I didn't even see any brothas throwin' bags at the airport or as skycaps. Even the airport in Salt Lake City, you'll see a brotha throwin' bags if you look out the window. But here? None.
I'm sitting in my room at the Fairfield Inn watching an HBO Special called The Blacklist, and I'm really feelin' this quote that Kareem Abdul-Jabbar just said a moment ago. I'm also wishing I had stuck to my general rule of making sure that I get a top floor room so that I don't have to listen to people with heavy feet stomping around all night. It's bad enough that the wind outside my window seems to have kicked up to a hurricane force gael for some reason. When I got back from dinner about an hour ago, it was easily 70 degrees. I'm tired enough that I should be able to sleep through all of that. I hope. But once again, I've digressed. Let me get back to Kareem.
He said something like "I'd rather be a lamp-post in Harlem than the governor in Georgia," expressing the sentiment that being at home in Harlem is so much more desirable, even if you have to be a lamp post, than to have to suffer through being in Georgia where it's likely that the "other" man is not really treatin' the brotha-man very well. There is something about Harlem that it's hard to explain if you haven't been there. Even before I had ever been there, I wanted to go. It was almost like making a pilgrimage to Mecca for me. It seemed that everything that I had ever read had happened in Harlem. All of my heroes (Malcolm X, Kareem, Dr. J, Langston Hughes, Duke Ellington, etc.) had all been in Harlem and helped to cement its legend in my mind and probably the minds of many others. Maybe that doesn't ring true for everybody, but it does for me. If you've read any Harlem Renaissance poetry or stories or listened to tales of jazz musicians playing jam sessions that lasted all night, or about playground legends holding court in poorly lit asphalt cages, then you should want to go there too. Any neighborhood that has more than a million black people (yes! Neighborhood!) is a place where I want to be. Even, I daresay, as a lamp post. I don't mean to repeat myself, but it bears mentioning, yet again that I can especially say and feel this from here in Idaho.
I'm sitting in my room at the Fairfield Inn watching an HBO Special called The Blacklist, and I'm really feelin' this quote that Kareem Abdul-Jabbar just said a moment ago. I'm also wishing I had stuck to my general rule of making sure that I get a top floor room so that I don't have to listen to people with heavy feet stomping around all night. It's bad enough that the wind outside my window seems to have kicked up to a hurricane force gael for some reason. When I got back from dinner about an hour ago, it was easily 70 degrees. I'm tired enough that I should be able to sleep through all of that. I hope. But once again, I've digressed. Let me get back to Kareem.
He said something like "I'd rather be a lamp-post in Harlem than the governor in Georgia," expressing the sentiment that being at home in Harlem is so much more desirable, even if you have to be a lamp post, than to have to suffer through being in Georgia where it's likely that the "other" man is not really treatin' the brotha-man very well. There is something about Harlem that it's hard to explain if you haven't been there. Even before I had ever been there, I wanted to go. It was almost like making a pilgrimage to Mecca for me. It seemed that everything that I had ever read had happened in Harlem. All of my heroes (Malcolm X, Kareem, Dr. J, Langston Hughes, Duke Ellington, etc.) had all been in Harlem and helped to cement its legend in my mind and probably the minds of many others. Maybe that doesn't ring true for everybody, but it does for me. If you've read any Harlem Renaissance poetry or stories or listened to tales of jazz musicians playing jam sessions that lasted all night, or about playground legends holding court in poorly lit asphalt cages, then you should want to go there too. Any neighborhood that has more than a million black people (yes! Neighborhood!) is a place where I want to be. Even, I daresay, as a lamp post. I don't mean to repeat myself, but it bears mentioning, yet again that I can especially say and feel this from here in Idaho.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Simply Beautiful
I always laugh when I find myself sitting here at my laptop on a wonderfully spectacular Bay Area day like today. This is one of those "this is why we live here" type days where the sky is a perfect shade of powder blue, the breezes are gentle, and the sun warm and comforting, while not at all overbearing. I challenge you to find a more amiable 74 degree day anywhere in the World, especially since we simply do not do humidity in these parts. Any normal person would be out enjoying this weather. Does that make me abnormal? No, I'm just enjoying a rare moment of free time. With the type of weather that we so routinely get in these parts, I've got such a luxury. Really I do.
I'm reminded of my time in Washington, D.C. as a college student always eager to be in the happening spot, enjoying myself. That is, of course, when I wasn't studying or at basketball practice. The great thing about D.C. was that the party-of-the-year happened about 5 or 6 nights per week. There was always something going on. Sometimes I'd be studying and although my roommates and/or teammates would try their best to get me to go to a certain spot on a Tuesday night, I could take a raincheck with the knowledge that even though they'd probably see dozens of the Chocolate City's finest co-eds, I would see an equally impressive assortment of beauties the next time that I was able to got out. It was as close to a virtual certainty as one 20-year old could expect. That's how I feel about our weather here. However, if there's an event that I'm missing that is accompanying this fabulous weather, it will surely be gone with the wind, never to return. Such is life in the Bay Area. People would kill for our weather, but if you've ever experienced other "faster" cities in this country, it's not surprising that you could get a little bored here. It's not that bad, though. Really! It's just a little different.
But once again, I digress. I'm still in my room, looking out the window at the Sun causing the buildings of Downtown Oakland to cast ever lengthening shadows upon one another. But I'm writing, so I'm not bothered by this. It's only 5pm, so there's plenty of daylight left, and I haven't had a spare moment to just "flow" in what seems like weeks. Lately, it seems like I'm sacrificing sleep, being pressed for time, or battling with Olympic telecasts that have kept me captivated and just pre-occupied enough to send my creative juices flowing down a river whose shore I cannot seem to find. It's been a veritable Kalahari Desert for me here lately. Perhaps this beautiful day spent indoors, with the instruments of high-tech haters of the outdoors, is that elusive oasis that I finally caught up with. Whatever it is, I'm at peace with it. Life is good. With any luck, I'll even do the impossible and get to bed early tonight. Now that would really be something. I'm fairly confident that my trip to Idaho will help me out in the sleep department. That is if I don't get carried away writing late into the night. Just color me the personification of a catch 22.
I'm reminded of my time in Washington, D.C. as a college student always eager to be in the happening spot, enjoying myself. That is, of course, when I wasn't studying or at basketball practice. The great thing about D.C. was that the party-of-the-year happened about 5 or 6 nights per week. There was always something going on. Sometimes I'd be studying and although my roommates and/or teammates would try their best to get me to go to a certain spot on a Tuesday night, I could take a raincheck with the knowledge that even though they'd probably see dozens of the Chocolate City's finest co-eds, I would see an equally impressive assortment of beauties the next time that I was able to got out. It was as close to a virtual certainty as one 20-year old could expect. That's how I feel about our weather here. However, if there's an event that I'm missing that is accompanying this fabulous weather, it will surely be gone with the wind, never to return. Such is life in the Bay Area. People would kill for our weather, but if you've ever experienced other "faster" cities in this country, it's not surprising that you could get a little bored here. It's not that bad, though. Really! It's just a little different.
But once again, I digress. I'm still in my room, looking out the window at the Sun causing the buildings of Downtown Oakland to cast ever lengthening shadows upon one another. But I'm writing, so I'm not bothered by this. It's only 5pm, so there's plenty of daylight left, and I haven't had a spare moment to just "flow" in what seems like weeks. Lately, it seems like I'm sacrificing sleep, being pressed for time, or battling with Olympic telecasts that have kept me captivated and just pre-occupied enough to send my creative juices flowing down a river whose shore I cannot seem to find. It's been a veritable Kalahari Desert for me here lately. Perhaps this beautiful day spent indoors, with the instruments of high-tech haters of the outdoors, is that elusive oasis that I finally caught up with. Whatever it is, I'm at peace with it. Life is good. With any luck, I'll even do the impossible and get to bed early tonight. Now that would really be something. I'm fairly confident that my trip to Idaho will help me out in the sleep department. That is if I don't get carried away writing late into the night. Just color me the personification of a catch 22.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Brotha!?
You ever get the feeling that people would rather not be agreeable? It's almost like all of us are keeping this running score and don't want to give up anything, lest we fall behind in the standings. It happens everyday in traffic. If I let that guy merge, I'll be one additional car length away from my destination. Heaven forbid I fall off the pace a whole three seconds. You scowl at me and I maintain my icy resolve. It's really rather comical, when you think about it. Why must we treat each other so bad? My gain does not necessarily spell your immediate loss or vice versa. In most cases we are not inversely connected.
You might come across some customer service employee that will have you believe that your very request is the singular thing that will push them over the edge. If this person has had a rough day and is down to counting the minutes until their 5pm quittin' time, that's one thing. But if it's 10:30am and the eye rolling and heavy sighing are already in full effect, you kind of have to question whether they are really there to serve any customers at all. Nevermind the fact that with no customers to serve, their position and likely their company would cease to exist. They are not deterred by such trifling details. If you're not cut out for such a job, then do yourself and all of the rest of us a favor and please find another.
Such was my experience on this fine Friday morning. Having been a bit "caught up" this week with work and various other running around, I neglected to put the dry cleaners into my plans. I had to attend a wedding today and needed to press a suit and shirt for the occasion. I was thinking that I could get this done near my house, but the suspect business hours of the cleaners on my street made this impossible this morning. I had to go into the office, so I jumped on the computer to Google a dry cleaner in the area near my office. I found one and promptly placed a call that was fielded by what seemed like the lowest man on the totem pole. When I asked if he could press a suit for me, and how long it would take, he first said that they couldn't do it because they had already turned the pressing machine off for the day. I thought it rather peculiar, so I, um...pressed (no pun intended) a bit until he said he'd go find out from the boss if it would be possible. When he returned, he said he could handle it and to come on by.
About an hour later, I was strolling through their doors with my suit and shirt in hand. Instead of the phone guy, I was greeted by what appeared to be the owner this time. He was a clean cut guy who sort of resembled Byron Allen, and his store was one of the most clean and orderly looking dry cleaners I had seen in some time.
"You were the one that called on the phone," he said, after hearing my answer to his obligatory 'how can I help you' salutation/inquiry. "We usually don't do this. We turn off the machines by a certain time each day and it is a really big deal for us to turn them back on...blah blah blah...," he continued. You remember when you were a kid and some grown-up playing gatekeeper to something you wanted to do was giving you the business about how grateful you ought to be that they were taking time out of their busy schedule to accomodate you and going on and on about the 10 million other things that they should be doing right now instead of wasting their time helping you out, when, in actuality, if they just went ahead and did it without the Shakespearean soliloquy they could've conserved vast amounts of your time and theirs, as well as taken major steps toward preventing an even speedier deterioration of the ozone layer by not emitting so much CO2 with their rambling? I was SO there at that moment, as I was thinking, "Surely in the last 60 minutes since you told your minion that it was indeed okay to grant my request you would've gotten over the need to get all 'Four Score and 7 years ago' on me, as I too am busy and would like to get back to my office to do the work that I came in to do...and oh by the way, I'm paying you, so it's not like you are being totally put out by this." I just nodded and let him finish as I hung my suit on the rack.
"So what time do you need this?" he asked, still a little winded from his diatribe.
"If I could get it at 2pm, that would be great," I said.
"Do you have to go out of town today? Do you really need it at 2pm, or could you take it at 3pm? Do you have somewhere to be?"
A little surprised at the questioning, I kept my cool and shared with him that I had to go to Livermore and that I would need to be gone by 3pm at the latest, starting to sense that there might be something else underlying here. He proceeded to write me a receipt and then said that I could pick it up between 2pm and 3pm. With all my might, I successfully fought back the awkward facial expression that surely would've taken over my countenance as I tried to fathom why it could possibly take more than 10 minutes to get this done with the big permanent press machines that are standard at most dry cleaning establishments in the free world. My shirt had those fresh out of the washing machine, balled up in a tote bag and stuffed in the back of the closet wrinkles, but if I had the time, I could've probably worked it all out in about 20 minutes on my own ironing board. What happened to "sure thing, sir" or "not a problem, we'll have it for you at 2pm"?
He started in again about how hard all of this was to do and threw in a few more, "we don't usually do" this-es so I gathered the receipt and started to backpedal like I really needed to be going now, but then thought of one last question.
"How much is this going to be?"
"Twenty!" he said.
"Do you take credit cards?" I asked, from a place of convenience as well as being so cash poor this month that I have been overdrawn since 2 days after the last pay day. Going to the ATM would only put me further into debt and incur an additional fee for dipping into my reserve account.
"I want cash for this!" he said in a tone of voice that suggested my "special" circumstance was causing him such a hardship that it called for a special cash only policy.
Now had me and my broke self even thought for a second that it would cost $20 to get my suit and shirt pressed I would've awakened 20 minutes earlier or even stayed up 20 minutes later the night before to attend to this. However, at this late hour, I wasn't really feeling like arguing, nor did I have time to seek out another alternative. I had precious little time and decided not make like Dr. Phil and not "sweat the small stuff".
When I was about to leave, he had one last question. "By the way, how did you find us?" At the time I was quick to reply that I had Google'd dry cleaners in Menlo Park near my job and his was closest, but in retrospect I'm not so sure that both his question and his tone weren't suggesting something else. More on that later.
I went back to work and methodically worked through the day's to-do list. I let the clock approach 2:20p before I got in my car to go get my suit, having already bit the bullet and gone to the teller on the way back to the office earlier.
"I'll be with you in just a moment," he said as he rang up an older lady that was paying with a credit card as I walked in.
He subsequently went to the back to get my suit and hung it from the rack as I handed him the crisp $20 bill, essentially financing this transaction anyway, credit card or not.
"Oh my, that shirt will look beautiful with that suit!" said another elderly lady that had walked in behind me.
"Thank you," I said, blushing a bit as I so often do when given a compliment, and reaching for the door to get on my way.
"Be careful when you drive after you've drank too much at the wedding," Byron called out as I left. "You don't want to be driving drunk."
Had I just been stereotyped? Had this black man been condescending, slightly unfriendly, and downright unethical because he does not expect to see anything but little old white women walk into his store in this rather exclusive area? Was his question about my discovering his store a view into the fact that he was alarmed that other black people like me might start to frequent his establishment and maybe change the demographic that perhaps he had become accustomed to and even preferred? Furthermore, was the drunk driving comment his not so subtle jab at me, trying to insinuate that even dressed up in a $1200 Hugo Boss suit, I would still not be above consuming far too much alcohol and then, very irresponsibly getting into my vehicle to drive, probably with a 40 oz. of 'crooked I' between my legs as I left?
Perhaps I'm overreacting, but perhaps I'm not. As I write this I think I've come up with a far better idea than letting these emotions get the best of me. In what we'll term a social experiment, in the manner that would make Randolph and Mortimer Duke proud, I would like to test a theory on ol' Byron. Do you think he'd give the same treatment to someone that did not look like me (and ironically HIM!)? I'll let you know if I actually get around to it. Hopefully this brotha won't be predictable.
You might come across some customer service employee that will have you believe that your very request is the singular thing that will push them over the edge. If this person has had a rough day and is down to counting the minutes until their 5pm quittin' time, that's one thing. But if it's 10:30am and the eye rolling and heavy sighing are already in full effect, you kind of have to question whether they are really there to serve any customers at all. Nevermind the fact that with no customers to serve, their position and likely their company would cease to exist. They are not deterred by such trifling details. If you're not cut out for such a job, then do yourself and all of the rest of us a favor and please find another.
Such was my experience on this fine Friday morning. Having been a bit "caught up" this week with work and various other running around, I neglected to put the dry cleaners into my plans. I had to attend a wedding today and needed to press a suit and shirt for the occasion. I was thinking that I could get this done near my house, but the suspect business hours of the cleaners on my street made this impossible this morning. I had to go into the office, so I jumped on the computer to Google a dry cleaner in the area near my office. I found one and promptly placed a call that was fielded by what seemed like the lowest man on the totem pole. When I asked if he could press a suit for me, and how long it would take, he first said that they couldn't do it because they had already turned the pressing machine off for the day. I thought it rather peculiar, so I, um...pressed (no pun intended) a bit until he said he'd go find out from the boss if it would be possible. When he returned, he said he could handle it and to come on by.
About an hour later, I was strolling through their doors with my suit and shirt in hand. Instead of the phone guy, I was greeted by what appeared to be the owner this time. He was a clean cut guy who sort of resembled Byron Allen, and his store was one of the most clean and orderly looking dry cleaners I had seen in some time.
"You were the one that called on the phone," he said, after hearing my answer to his obligatory 'how can I help you' salutation/inquiry. "We usually don't do this. We turn off the machines by a certain time each day and it is a really big deal for us to turn them back on...blah blah blah...," he continued. You remember when you were a kid and some grown-up playing gatekeeper to something you wanted to do was giving you the business about how grateful you ought to be that they were taking time out of their busy schedule to accomodate you and going on and on about the 10 million other things that they should be doing right now instead of wasting their time helping you out, when, in actuality, if they just went ahead and did it without the Shakespearean soliloquy they could've conserved vast amounts of your time and theirs, as well as taken major steps toward preventing an even speedier deterioration of the ozone layer by not emitting so much CO2 with their rambling? I was SO there at that moment, as I was thinking, "Surely in the last 60 minutes since you told your minion that it was indeed okay to grant my request you would've gotten over the need to get all 'Four Score and 7 years ago' on me, as I too am busy and would like to get back to my office to do the work that I came in to do...and oh by the way, I'm paying you, so it's not like you are being totally put out by this." I just nodded and let him finish as I hung my suit on the rack.
"So what time do you need this?" he asked, still a little winded from his diatribe.
"If I could get it at 2pm, that would be great," I said.
"Do you have to go out of town today? Do you really need it at 2pm, or could you take it at 3pm? Do you have somewhere to be?"
A little surprised at the questioning, I kept my cool and shared with him that I had to go to Livermore and that I would need to be gone by 3pm at the latest, starting to sense that there might be something else underlying here. He proceeded to write me a receipt and then said that I could pick it up between 2pm and 3pm. With all my might, I successfully fought back the awkward facial expression that surely would've taken over my countenance as I tried to fathom why it could possibly take more than 10 minutes to get this done with the big permanent press machines that are standard at most dry cleaning establishments in the free world. My shirt had those fresh out of the washing machine, balled up in a tote bag and stuffed in the back of the closet wrinkles, but if I had the time, I could've probably worked it all out in about 20 minutes on my own ironing board. What happened to "sure thing, sir" or "not a problem, we'll have it for you at 2pm"?
He started in again about how hard all of this was to do and threw in a few more, "we don't usually do" this-es so I gathered the receipt and started to backpedal like I really needed to be going now, but then thought of one last question.
"How much is this going to be?"
"Twenty!" he said.
"Do you take credit cards?" I asked, from a place of convenience as well as being so cash poor this month that I have been overdrawn since 2 days after the last pay day. Going to the ATM would only put me further into debt and incur an additional fee for dipping into my reserve account.
"I want cash for this!" he said in a tone of voice that suggested my "special" circumstance was causing him such a hardship that it called for a special cash only policy.
Now had me and my broke self even thought for a second that it would cost $20 to get my suit and shirt pressed I would've awakened 20 minutes earlier or even stayed up 20 minutes later the night before to attend to this. However, at this late hour, I wasn't really feeling like arguing, nor did I have time to seek out another alternative. I had precious little time and decided not make like Dr. Phil and not "sweat the small stuff".
When I was about to leave, he had one last question. "By the way, how did you find us?" At the time I was quick to reply that I had Google'd dry cleaners in Menlo Park near my job and his was closest, but in retrospect I'm not so sure that both his question and his tone weren't suggesting something else. More on that later.
I went back to work and methodically worked through the day's to-do list. I let the clock approach 2:20p before I got in my car to go get my suit, having already bit the bullet and gone to the teller on the way back to the office earlier.
"I'll be with you in just a moment," he said as he rang up an older lady that was paying with a credit card as I walked in.
He subsequently went to the back to get my suit and hung it from the rack as I handed him the crisp $20 bill, essentially financing this transaction anyway, credit card or not.
"Oh my, that shirt will look beautiful with that suit!" said another elderly lady that had walked in behind me.
"Thank you," I said, blushing a bit as I so often do when given a compliment, and reaching for the door to get on my way.
"Be careful when you drive after you've drank too much at the wedding," Byron called out as I left. "You don't want to be driving drunk."
Had I just been stereotyped? Had this black man been condescending, slightly unfriendly, and downright unethical because he does not expect to see anything but little old white women walk into his store in this rather exclusive area? Was his question about my discovering his store a view into the fact that he was alarmed that other black people like me might start to frequent his establishment and maybe change the demographic that perhaps he had become accustomed to and even preferred? Furthermore, was the drunk driving comment his not so subtle jab at me, trying to insinuate that even dressed up in a $1200 Hugo Boss suit, I would still not be above consuming far too much alcohol and then, very irresponsibly getting into my vehicle to drive, probably with a 40 oz. of 'crooked I' between my legs as I left?
Perhaps I'm overreacting, but perhaps I'm not. As I write this I think I've come up with a far better idea than letting these emotions get the best of me. In what we'll term a social experiment, in the manner that would make Randolph and Mortimer Duke proud, I would like to test a theory on ol' Byron. Do you think he'd give the same treatment to someone that did not look like me (and ironically HIM!)? I'll let you know if I actually get around to it. Hopefully this brotha won't be predictable.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
By the numbers...
I have always been fascinated by numbers and have been known to be the keeper of many an odd statistic, at least as they relate to athletics. Tonight, I found myself obsessing over the progression of World Records in track and field, both the standard records for men and women as well as the Junior and High School records. Luckily, many of these records have been pretty solid and the marks so spectacular that they rarely change. Furthermore, I committed most of them to memory as an adolescent and was acutely aware whenever one of them fell.
Along came 2008, and a Big Blur from Jamaica, by the name of Bolt. To the casual fan, it looks like this guy came out of nowhere, but, in point of fact, he has been on the scene for 7 or 8 years now. That's kind of hard to believe since he just turned 22 today, but it is indeed true. In 2002, he equalled the World Junior Record or 20.13 in the 200 meters set by Roy Martin (from Carter High School in Dallas, Texas back in 1985...see..I told you...extraneous facts just floating around...committed to memory for life. I promise you that I did not need google or wikipedia for that...just the Bolt part.) The following year, still a junior, he crushed that record in becoming the first junior under 20 seconds in the 200 meters in a time of 19.93 seconds. So really, his marks at the Beijing Olympics this week should not come as that much of a surprise when you consider that this man, is just now becoming a man, even if he makes all of the other so-called World Class sprinters look like boys. The scary thing is that he may not have run his best time yet, nor even found his best event. Conventional wisdom would tell us that a man of his stature and impressive stride should run the Q (quarter or 400 meters for the casual fan). He has posted a personal best of 45.28 at that distance, a mark that would be quite competitive in most World Class races. In fact, it would've put him just out of the medals in this year's Olympic 400 meter final.
I had to laugh at myself after I noticed that I had been staring at these records on my laptop for some 25 minutes, studying them as if there will be an exam given in the morning. When I was a kid, I was quick to calculate an ERA (earned run average) for my favorite major leaguers (Dwight Gooden and Nolan Ryan at the time) and sometimes my own. I think mine was 1.12 when I was in little league, once notching 17 strikeouts (but walking 5!) in a no-hit victory. I remember knowing that I needed 2 hits to reach .300 as an 11 year old and 2 hits to reach .400 as a 12 year old on the final day of the season and falling short both times, managing only a single hit. I must've been tired. As a pee-wee football quarterback, I recall having half of my completions go for touchdowns. Halfway through the basketball season in college at the University of the District of Columbia, I was shooting 64% from the three point line.
I remember nearly every address and zip code where I've ever lived and just about every phone number I've ever had. I can tell you that my daughter was born at 9:38pm on a Sunday night before Memorial Day in 1997. It's a damn shame that I can't remember anything related to work or grocery lists on any given day when I need it. Oh well. The mystery's of the human mind shall never cease to produce wonderment.
Along came 2008, and a Big Blur from Jamaica, by the name of Bolt. To the casual fan, it looks like this guy came out of nowhere, but, in point of fact, he has been on the scene for 7 or 8 years now. That's kind of hard to believe since he just turned 22 today, but it is indeed true. In 2002, he equalled the World Junior Record or 20.13 in the 200 meters set by Roy Martin (from Carter High School in Dallas, Texas back in 1985...see..I told you...extraneous facts just floating around...committed to memory for life. I promise you that I did not need google or wikipedia for that...just the Bolt part.) The following year, still a junior, he crushed that record in becoming the first junior under 20 seconds in the 200 meters in a time of 19.93 seconds. So really, his marks at the Beijing Olympics this week should not come as that much of a surprise when you consider that this man, is just now becoming a man, even if he makes all of the other so-called World Class sprinters look like boys. The scary thing is that he may not have run his best time yet, nor even found his best event. Conventional wisdom would tell us that a man of his stature and impressive stride should run the Q (quarter or 400 meters for the casual fan). He has posted a personal best of 45.28 at that distance, a mark that would be quite competitive in most World Class races. In fact, it would've put him just out of the medals in this year's Olympic 400 meter final.
I had to laugh at myself after I noticed that I had been staring at these records on my laptop for some 25 minutes, studying them as if there will be an exam given in the morning. When I was a kid, I was quick to calculate an ERA (earned run average) for my favorite major leaguers (Dwight Gooden and Nolan Ryan at the time) and sometimes my own. I think mine was 1.12 when I was in little league, once notching 17 strikeouts (but walking 5!) in a no-hit victory. I remember knowing that I needed 2 hits to reach .300 as an 11 year old and 2 hits to reach .400 as a 12 year old on the final day of the season and falling short both times, managing only a single hit. I must've been tired. As a pee-wee football quarterback, I recall having half of my completions go for touchdowns. Halfway through the basketball season in college at the University of the District of Columbia, I was shooting 64% from the three point line.
I remember nearly every address and zip code where I've ever lived and just about every phone number I've ever had. I can tell you that my daughter was born at 9:38pm on a Sunday night before Memorial Day in 1997. It's a damn shame that I can't remember anything related to work or grocery lists on any given day when I need it. Oh well. The mystery's of the human mind shall never cease to produce wonderment.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Waiting
I'm waiting here, wondering what the future holds.
What will I be doing when I get old.
For me, nothing quite so scary as being stationary.
This running and running is like a series of falls, narrowly catching my balance and continuing to stand tall, just keeping it moving.
I don't mind stumbling to get where I'm going, just so long as I'm going.
I'm waiting for this fatigue to pass.
Waiting to see this kid name Bolt to run fast.
Again!
Waiting patiently to be inspired, but sometimes it's that I miss
Just roll wit' it, things just ordinarily work out for me, right?
Tis what I tell myself anyway, don't know how true the words are
No conflict, but clarity and peace is where I'm at, what about you?
I'm waiting and waiting and hoping and expecting that I'll stay ready
To do whatever is in the plans, however majestic or grand for me.
What will I be doing when I get old.
For me, nothing quite so scary as being stationary.
This running and running is like a series of falls, narrowly catching my balance and continuing to stand tall, just keeping it moving.
I don't mind stumbling to get where I'm going, just so long as I'm going.
I'm waiting for this fatigue to pass.
Waiting to see this kid name Bolt to run fast.
Again!
Waiting patiently to be inspired, but sometimes it's that I miss
Just roll wit' it, things just ordinarily work out for me, right?
Tis what I tell myself anyway, don't know how true the words are
No conflict, but clarity and peace is where I'm at, what about you?
I'm waiting and waiting and hoping and expecting that I'll stay ready
To do whatever is in the plans, however majestic or grand for me.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
&^%
I've got to start going to bed earlier. The amount of sleep that I get on a nightly basis seems to be getting shorter and shorter. I can't totally blame the Olympics either, even though I have been pretty well nailed to the couch in front of the 42" plasma that is nailed to my living room wall each day and night for the last week.
I get home from running around wherever I am and there's always a stack of dishes or a pile of laundry or some unfinished business on my laptop beckoning. It's oh so hard for me to do those dishes by hand lately. I really need to save my nickels and buy some dishwasher detergent. I rather miss the quiet hum of my KitchenAid's 75 minute cycle. Oddly, the sound provides a comforting contrast to the rampant chatter that goes on all hours of the night on the street below.
Getting some sleep might get me back on the routine of the early morning workouts that get my day started off right. I'm feeling like a bit of a slacker these days with the limited cardio workouts I'm doing because of the increasing amount of pain in my left knee. I'll undergo arthroscopic surgery on September 5 that will hopefully straighten me out and get me back to normal. I promise to take it easy this time and not play as much basketball. Really, I do. Do you believe me? Yeah, I don't really believe me either.
I might now have much of a choice though because as I sit here, I am reminded by a sharp pain that my lower back is pretty "sometimey", as they say. Nobody ever tells you about getting old. Youth is truly wasted on the young. If I had the presence of mind to look for all of the angles and wait for the game to slow down to a snails pace so that I could approach it with the precision of a surgeon disecting the defense with methodical grace, perhaps my joints wouldn't be so worn, nor my cartilege so frayed. As always, hindsight is truly 20/20.
I get home from running around wherever I am and there's always a stack of dishes or a pile of laundry or some unfinished business on my laptop beckoning. It's oh so hard for me to do those dishes by hand lately. I really need to save my nickels and buy some dishwasher detergent. I rather miss the quiet hum of my KitchenAid's 75 minute cycle. Oddly, the sound provides a comforting contrast to the rampant chatter that goes on all hours of the night on the street below.
Getting some sleep might get me back on the routine of the early morning workouts that get my day started off right. I'm feeling like a bit of a slacker these days with the limited cardio workouts I'm doing because of the increasing amount of pain in my left knee. I'll undergo arthroscopic surgery on September 5 that will hopefully straighten me out and get me back to normal. I promise to take it easy this time and not play as much basketball. Really, I do. Do you believe me? Yeah, I don't really believe me either.
I might now have much of a choice though because as I sit here, I am reminded by a sharp pain that my lower back is pretty "sometimey", as they say. Nobody ever tells you about getting old. Youth is truly wasted on the young. If I had the presence of mind to look for all of the angles and wait for the game to slow down to a snails pace so that I could approach it with the precision of a surgeon disecting the defense with methodical grace, perhaps my joints wouldn't be so worn, nor my cartilege so frayed. As always, hindsight is truly 20/20.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Now it has really started!
Usain Bolt officially got the Olympics started for me on Saturday night. Did you see it? This 6'5" Jamaican sprinter blasted through the field of world class competitors to a World Record time of 9.69 seconds. Almost as scary as the notion that he looked like he was a grown man running against elementary school kids, was the fact that had he not slowed down and put his arms out with 15 meters remaining in the race, he may have run something ridiculous like 9.59 or something. The next closest runner finished in what seemed like a very pedestrian 9.89 seconds. How ridiculous is it that one could win a 100m race in the Olympic games by two-tenths of a second? I thought that he would at least get some sort of a challenge from his countryman and former world record holder, Asafa Powell, but that yardman could only manage a 5th place finish.
Not to take anything away from the Phelpsian feats that have taken place over in the "Swimming Cube", but for me, the Olympics are really all about what happens on the track. From as far back as I can remember (1976 to be exact), I have been completely intrigued by the Track and Field action at the Olympic Games. All I really remember about those Montreal Games was Edwin Moses and Evelyn Ashford. Little did I know that both of them would win gold again in 1984 in Los Angeles, but Mr. Moses would also win some 100 races in a row in a span of 11 years.
It seemed like NBC was holding us hostage this time around. I can't remember it ever taking a whole week for any Track and Field events to start. It's a good thing that Michael Phelps was so phenomenal because I was hard pressed to even find any Olympic Basketball coverage to hold me over. It's too bad that these Games weren't in July because that's always the roughest month of the year for sports coverage. I would've watched just about anything to pass the time. Baseball seemed to be especially slow this time around. Usually, I could look at an A's game here and there, but Mr. Billy Beane traded everybody away in what has become his annual purge of anything that might remotely excite the fans of Oakland. The man is supposed to be a genius and said to really know how to find diamonds in the rough, but it's awfully tough as a fan to wait for those chunks of carbon to shine up and look pretty. It often seems like we are just grooming guys for the Yankees to steal away in a contract year. But I digress. We were talking about the Olympics.
This has been a truly amazing 10 days thus far. Although I'm a track guy, I too was glued to the tube like everyone else whenever Phelps hit the water. I have even made it a point to ratchet up my swimming workouts at the gym lately. I figure that my size 15 feet can be better than his size 14s when it comes to acting like flippers. He only has a 6'7" wingspan, while mine is about 6'10". My hair is cut shorter than his. I don't have that body suit though, so he'd probably have the slight edge if we raced. We'd hit the turn neck and neck and do that dolphin-kick maneuvre for about 10 or 15 meters before returning to the surface of the water. I'd really push him to the limit just as my alarm clock rang out, waking me from this deep slumber. He'd wipe the water off his brow as he touched the wall, thankful that he just managed to touch the wall before me and simultaneously relieved that my dream ended before I could let him see what the silver medal tasted like.
While the gymnastics did not exactly show me the 2nd coming of Mary Lou Retton, the competition was nonetheless pretty entertaining. I did tire, however, of the commentators going on and on about how unfairly the Americans were being judged and also taking issue with the Chinese gymnasts looking a little too young to be in the competition. One guy said something like , "Now, I know that many cultures are different, but you look at her and tell me she's 16...," sounding oddly the same as a statement one of my roommates once made after meeting one of the high school kids that I coached at a local night club.
Back to Bolt now. Could this lightning fast man-child possibly have a better name to go along with his world's fastest man title? I mean, even if his name were Flash or Quick, it wouldn't be quite this good. Bolt! To top it off, the yellow jersey of his native Jamaica drives home the point even further, as it screams, "I'm faster than you, and there's nothing you can do about it. Cover your eyes as this streak of yellow may blind you as it roars down the track with strides so smooth it seems as though he is running on a surface made of angel food cake. I can't wait to see what he's going to do in the 200 meters and really can't wait for the day that he makes the transition to the Q one day.
Not to take anything away from the Phelpsian feats that have taken place over in the "Swimming Cube", but for me, the Olympics are really all about what happens on the track. From as far back as I can remember (1976 to be exact), I have been completely intrigued by the Track and Field action at the Olympic Games. All I really remember about those Montreal Games was Edwin Moses and Evelyn Ashford. Little did I know that both of them would win gold again in 1984 in Los Angeles, but Mr. Moses would also win some 100 races in a row in a span of 11 years.
It seemed like NBC was holding us hostage this time around. I can't remember it ever taking a whole week for any Track and Field events to start. It's a good thing that Michael Phelps was so phenomenal because I was hard pressed to even find any Olympic Basketball coverage to hold me over. It's too bad that these Games weren't in July because that's always the roughest month of the year for sports coverage. I would've watched just about anything to pass the time. Baseball seemed to be especially slow this time around. Usually, I could look at an A's game here and there, but Mr. Billy Beane traded everybody away in what has become his annual purge of anything that might remotely excite the fans of Oakland. The man is supposed to be a genius and said to really know how to find diamonds in the rough, but it's awfully tough as a fan to wait for those chunks of carbon to shine up and look pretty. It often seems like we are just grooming guys for the Yankees to steal away in a contract year. But I digress. We were talking about the Olympics.
This has been a truly amazing 10 days thus far. Although I'm a track guy, I too was glued to the tube like everyone else whenever Phelps hit the water. I have even made it a point to ratchet up my swimming workouts at the gym lately. I figure that my size 15 feet can be better than his size 14s when it comes to acting like flippers. He only has a 6'7" wingspan, while mine is about 6'10". My hair is cut shorter than his. I don't have that body suit though, so he'd probably have the slight edge if we raced. We'd hit the turn neck and neck and do that dolphin-kick maneuvre for about 10 or 15 meters before returning to the surface of the water. I'd really push him to the limit just as my alarm clock rang out, waking me from this deep slumber. He'd wipe the water off his brow as he touched the wall, thankful that he just managed to touch the wall before me and simultaneously relieved that my dream ended before I could let him see what the silver medal tasted like.
While the gymnastics did not exactly show me the 2nd coming of Mary Lou Retton, the competition was nonetheless pretty entertaining. I did tire, however, of the commentators going on and on about how unfairly the Americans were being judged and also taking issue with the Chinese gymnasts looking a little too young to be in the competition. One guy said something like , "Now, I know that many cultures are different, but you look at her and tell me she's 16...," sounding oddly the same as a statement one of my roommates once made after meeting one of the high school kids that I coached at a local night club.
Back to Bolt now. Could this lightning fast man-child possibly have a better name to go along with his world's fastest man title? I mean, even if his name were Flash or Quick, it wouldn't be quite this good. Bolt! To top it off, the yellow jersey of his native Jamaica drives home the point even further, as it screams, "I'm faster than you, and there's nothing you can do about it. Cover your eyes as this streak of yellow may blind you as it roars down the track with strides so smooth it seems as though he is running on a surface made of angel food cake. I can't wait to see what he's going to do in the 200 meters and really can't wait for the day that he makes the transition to the Q one day.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Home Training
“It takes a special type of discipline to stay motivated in the confines of your own room.”
“It’s not for everybody, that’s for sure.”
That was the tail end of a conversation that I had today with a friend of mine as we both took a break for a mid-afternoon, non-work related phone call. He was explaining how he had been ultra-productive today, pulling his laptop up into bed just after awakening at 8am and working almost non-stop until we spoke around 3pm. To me, a fellow toiler in the ranks of the work-at-home soldiers, it sounded impressive, but maybe for a slightly different reason than you might think. Staying in bed and being productive was the part that struck me. My bed is far too comfortable to want to do anything but sleep on it. Many a morning workout has been scrapped by the false notion that I could hit the snooze button one more time or lay there for a moment with my eyes open and think about the day that lay ahead. That is simply a losing battle for me. His strategy was that by pulling his laptop into bed and getting right to work, he could start immediately before anything else in his environment had the chance to become a distraction. To each his own, I guess. For me, getting up and out of bed is the pivotal moment for productivity no matter what I’m trying to do that day. On a perfect day, I will roll out on to the floor and do some push-ups before anything else to get the blood flowing and to ensure that just in case the day starts to get away, that I did SOMETHING. I don’t know why, but if there is not at least an ounce of exercise or physical activity in my day, I feel like it was a waste.
“Taking a shower and getting dressed are huge for my productivity,” I interjected.
He laughed, but in a knowing way that let me know that he could relate. Exercising a little hygiene is the least that I can do. The VERY least. But that’s pretty major when you know that you’re not going to run into anybody. Working at home means not having to shave, comb your hair, or obsess over whether or not your clothes match. You don’t have to iron and actually, don’t even have to wear them if you don’t want to. Those George Jetson video phones are not standard issue in everybody’s house yet, so you can still sound professional while taking a conference call lying on your couch watching Sportscenter in your boxers. Clothes truly do not make the man, but they don’t have to know that.
Those naysayers that doubt that anything productive goes on outside of the office are usually the ones that don’t possess the “discipline” or skills to do it. I am perfectly comfortable having some music or television on in the background, talking on the phone, and cooking something with my free hand while peeking at the laptop that I have placed on the countertop. Working at home clearly enhances my multi-tasking skills. At work, I’d be sitting in a cubicle and doing one thing at a time. Making matters worse, there’s always that person that wants to stop by your cubicle and tell you all about their weekend. It usually starts out innocently enough. It’s often even a work related conversation. Where they go wrong, however, is when they can’t seem to nail the dismount. Yes, I’m still fully in Olympic mode right now. It’s like when you watch a gymnast do a near flawless routine and you are on pins and needles as they execute each intricate twist, turn, and flip only to take that extra step or even fall down on the landing. I almost want to let out the same disappointed sigh when somebody does this at work. “Ah…you were doing so well,” I think to myself. “Even with that high degree of difficulty, you were technically flawless and yet graceful,” I might say to them if they were looking to me like an athlete does at the judges marks on the scoreboard. “But you just couldn’t finish.” It’s like I always tell kids that are so impressed by the And 1 streetballers that are making a clown show out of my beloved game of basketball. You can do all of those side to side moves, but if you miss the shot after all of that, what was the point? Believe me, I’m the first one to hold up the 10s when someone does the get-in, get-out question in my cube. But it happens so rarely though that navigating your way to a productive work day can be no small feat. It’s bad enough that I have to waste more than 2 hours a day in travel to and from the office. If I don’t get what I wanted to get done while I’m there, I’m really feeling defeated.
That is why I stay home whenever possible. Without that commute time, I can interface with my customers in other time zones as soon as I get out of bed. I can enjoy the luxuries that my suuuuuuuuuper fast internet connection affords me. I can work until I’m done working and not have to worry about leaving early to get into that traffic jam so that I can hurry to take one of my kids to practice. I’m truly blessed to be able to work this way, and if definitely suits me. Life is good when you get to essentially manage your own schedule.
“It’s not for everybody, that’s for sure.”
That was the tail end of a conversation that I had today with a friend of mine as we both took a break for a mid-afternoon, non-work related phone call. He was explaining how he had been ultra-productive today, pulling his laptop up into bed just after awakening at 8am and working almost non-stop until we spoke around 3pm. To me, a fellow toiler in the ranks of the work-at-home soldiers, it sounded impressive, but maybe for a slightly different reason than you might think. Staying in bed and being productive was the part that struck me. My bed is far too comfortable to want to do anything but sleep on it. Many a morning workout has been scrapped by the false notion that I could hit the snooze button one more time or lay there for a moment with my eyes open and think about the day that lay ahead. That is simply a losing battle for me. His strategy was that by pulling his laptop into bed and getting right to work, he could start immediately before anything else in his environment had the chance to become a distraction. To each his own, I guess. For me, getting up and out of bed is the pivotal moment for productivity no matter what I’m trying to do that day. On a perfect day, I will roll out on to the floor and do some push-ups before anything else to get the blood flowing and to ensure that just in case the day starts to get away, that I did SOMETHING. I don’t know why, but if there is not at least an ounce of exercise or physical activity in my day, I feel like it was a waste.
“Taking a shower and getting dressed are huge for my productivity,” I interjected.
He laughed, but in a knowing way that let me know that he could relate. Exercising a little hygiene is the least that I can do. The VERY least. But that’s pretty major when you know that you’re not going to run into anybody. Working at home means not having to shave, comb your hair, or obsess over whether or not your clothes match. You don’t have to iron and actually, don’t even have to wear them if you don’t want to. Those George Jetson video phones are not standard issue in everybody’s house yet, so you can still sound professional while taking a conference call lying on your couch watching Sportscenter in your boxers. Clothes truly do not make the man, but they don’t have to know that.
Those naysayers that doubt that anything productive goes on outside of the office are usually the ones that don’t possess the “discipline” or skills to do it. I am perfectly comfortable having some music or television on in the background, talking on the phone, and cooking something with my free hand while peeking at the laptop that I have placed on the countertop. Working at home clearly enhances my multi-tasking skills. At work, I’d be sitting in a cubicle and doing one thing at a time. Making matters worse, there’s always that person that wants to stop by your cubicle and tell you all about their weekend. It usually starts out innocently enough. It’s often even a work related conversation. Where they go wrong, however, is when they can’t seem to nail the dismount. Yes, I’m still fully in Olympic mode right now. It’s like when you watch a gymnast do a near flawless routine and you are on pins and needles as they execute each intricate twist, turn, and flip only to take that extra step or even fall down on the landing. I almost want to let out the same disappointed sigh when somebody does this at work. “Ah…you were doing so well,” I think to myself. “Even with that high degree of difficulty, you were technically flawless and yet graceful,” I might say to them if they were looking to me like an athlete does at the judges marks on the scoreboard. “But you just couldn’t finish.” It’s like I always tell kids that are so impressed by the And 1 streetballers that are making a clown show out of my beloved game of basketball. You can do all of those side to side moves, but if you miss the shot after all of that, what was the point? Believe me, I’m the first one to hold up the 10s when someone does the get-in, get-out question in my cube. But it happens so rarely though that navigating your way to a productive work day can be no small feat. It’s bad enough that I have to waste more than 2 hours a day in travel to and from the office. If I don’t get what I wanted to get done while I’m there, I’m really feeling defeated.
That is why I stay home whenever possible. Without that commute time, I can interface with my customers in other time zones as soon as I get out of bed. I can enjoy the luxuries that my suuuuuuuuuper fast internet connection affords me. I can work until I’m done working and not have to worry about leaving early to get into that traffic jam so that I can hurry to take one of my kids to practice. I’m truly blessed to be able to work this way, and if definitely suits me. Life is good when you get to essentially manage your own schedule.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Where are the Sklar Brothers when I need them?
While I was getting ready for work this morning, I flipped on the Olympic coverage being provided by MSNBC. They were showing Team Archery. Now you know I'm sports/olympics starved when I actually decided to leave it here. I'm pretty high on the Olympics right now after that super exciting swimming relay last night. Did you see it? No? Do a Google or YouTube on 4x100 free relay. Michael Phelps, the golden boy of these Olympics swam iiiight, and the brotha on the 3rd leg, Cullen Jones, held his own, but this cat named Jason Lezak got BUSY!. He made up a whole body length on the French guy that had been talkin' MUCH stuff in the last 25-30 meters. Even the TV commentator thought it was a wrap.
"It looks like Phelps run for 8 Golds will end, and the Americans will get sec....WHOA! Hold on! HERE COMES LEZAK!"
I think it was Rowdy Gaines, who was actually a very decorated gold medalist back in the 84 games. The networks are pretty good about having a former athlete in the booth to give that valuable insight and nuances that us casual observers may have missed. About 99% of the time this formula works as the networks also usually take care to get somebody who either has the starpower of a Supernova or that is so well spoken that you can't help but respect what they're saying. Some sports don't lend themselves to that, however. Case in point, this morning's archery broadcast.
I'm sure there are many technical aspects of archery that separate the Robin Hoods from the guys that lick their rubber darts in hopes that they stick to the wall. The Koreans and the Italians were downright spectacular, repeatedly hitting the bullseye from 70 meters away, but you wouldn't know just how difficult it was by hearing the commentators.
"Look at that! the Korean team's precision is incredible...they just keep getting their arrows in that inner circle."
Really? Yeah, that's what I saw too.
"You've gotta admire the Koreans. They just have the incredible ability to concentrate harder than the other teams."
I stopped ironing my clothes when 3-time Olympic Archery Gold Medalist Denise Parker uttered that one. Wow, I thought. Maybe the Koreans have special concentration...um...academies where they spend hours and hours concentrating to the hardest degree of concentrationism. They play that card game over and over again and then drink some special, from concentrate Kool-Aid that makes them have a special ability for focusing on the task at hand.
Give me a break. Were the Italians sitting over there in the other dugout (I know, i know...there probably wasn't a dugout since it's not baseball, but work with me here) engaging in the tomfoolery and hijinks that you'd expect from Peter, Bobby and Greg or maybe even Larry, Curley, and Moe while they waited for their chance to shoot arrows at the target. At any moment, you just knew that "Larry" was going to replace Curley's arrows with some thing that went limp like a spaghetti noodle when he tried to take aim at the target.
"The key to this one for the Italians is just to get more bulls-eyes than the Koreans until the end of the match."
Yeah, I fell down laughing at that one too. But not until after I was finished being confused because I had been misinformed. I mistakenly thought that the key for them was to send text messages to the Koreans while they were shooting, serving the dual purpose of figuring out where the kegs would be flowing after the match as well as slightly distracting the very focused and concentration kings from Korea. I guess there's a reason why this stuff doesn't get televised all of the time, even on one of ESPN 37 networks, and it's by no fault of those competing.
The Sklar Brothers would've had a field day with this stuff. I really wish that Cheap Seats was still on the air. This is exactly the type of material that they absolutely feast on. This might rank right up there with their coverage (Mystery Science Theater 3000 style) of the 1992 National Cheerleading Competition or the 1978 telecast of the Battle of the Network Stars. This is classic television and side-splitting laughter all at once. Check it out.
"It looks like Phelps run for 8 Golds will end, and the Americans will get sec....WHOA! Hold on! HERE COMES LEZAK!"
I think it was Rowdy Gaines, who was actually a very decorated gold medalist back in the 84 games. The networks are pretty good about having a former athlete in the booth to give that valuable insight and nuances that us casual observers may have missed. About 99% of the time this formula works as the networks also usually take care to get somebody who either has the starpower of a Supernova or that is so well spoken that you can't help but respect what they're saying. Some sports don't lend themselves to that, however. Case in point, this morning's archery broadcast.
I'm sure there are many technical aspects of archery that separate the Robin Hoods from the guys that lick their rubber darts in hopes that they stick to the wall. The Koreans and the Italians were downright spectacular, repeatedly hitting the bullseye from 70 meters away, but you wouldn't know just how difficult it was by hearing the commentators.
"Look at that! the Korean team's precision is incredible...they just keep getting their arrows in that inner circle."
Really? Yeah, that's what I saw too.
"You've gotta admire the Koreans. They just have the incredible ability to concentrate harder than the other teams."
I stopped ironing my clothes when 3-time Olympic Archery Gold Medalist Denise Parker uttered that one. Wow, I thought. Maybe the Koreans have special concentration...um...academies where they spend hours and hours concentrating to the hardest degree of concentrationism. They play that card game over and over again and then drink some special, from concentrate Kool-Aid that makes them have a special ability for focusing on the task at hand.
Give me a break. Were the Italians sitting over there in the other dugout (I know, i know...there probably wasn't a dugout since it's not baseball, but work with me here) engaging in the tomfoolery and hijinks that you'd expect from Peter, Bobby and Greg or maybe even Larry, Curley, and Moe while they waited for their chance to shoot arrows at the target. At any moment, you just knew that "Larry" was going to replace Curley's arrows with some thing that went limp like a spaghetti noodle when he tried to take aim at the target.
"The key to this one for the Italians is just to get more bulls-eyes than the Koreans until the end of the match."
Yeah, I fell down laughing at that one too. But not until after I was finished being confused because I had been misinformed. I mistakenly thought that the key for them was to send text messages to the Koreans while they were shooting, serving the dual purpose of figuring out where the kegs would be flowing after the match as well as slightly distracting the very focused and concentration kings from Korea. I guess there's a reason why this stuff doesn't get televised all of the time, even on one of ESPN 37 networks, and it's by no fault of those competing.
The Sklar Brothers would've had a field day with this stuff. I really wish that Cheap Seats was still on the air. This is exactly the type of material that they absolutely feast on. This might rank right up there with their coverage (Mystery Science Theater 3000 style) of the 1992 National Cheerleading Competition or the 1978 telecast of the Battle of the Network Stars. This is classic television and side-splitting laughter all at once. Check it out.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Come as you are. Just don't be different...
I had a case of deja vu today. It wasn't one of those good memories either. Instead, it was one of those regrettable situations that I had hoped not to experience again.
I went to Catholic school for high school and somehow after having to regularly attend mass and taking religion class every semester, I was very anti-religion for about 10-12 years after that. It's really no mystery why that is and it's not quite what you might think either. I didn't get overdosed on religion. I didn't feel as though much of the dictating that the Catholic church does was too overwhelming, or socially outdated, or too stifling for the way that I wanted to conduct my life. I just ultimately got turned off by the hypocrisy of the people associated with the religion. I just saw too many things that weren't God-like to me and I couldn't resolve that in my mind at the time.
The Jesuits that were running my school were supposed to have a vow to poverty and yet I saw them driving Mercedes-Benz and wearing expensive Italian suits. That didn't really bother me, although it took a chink out of that armor of integrity that you expect them to have. They took a vow of celibacy, but some of them got caught up in some scandals with little boys. That part didn't really bother me though, although it was absolutely deplorable. The part that got me was the complete disregard for the "man for others" concept that was drilled into us during every one of those religion classes and masses.
Okay, perhaps "complete disregard" is a bit strong. I will say this though. Some of our community service activity and charitable contributions were a little sanitized. I wouldn't exactly call us disciples of Mother Teresa.
I guess I got tired of seeing the really downtrodden, the really shunned, the outcasts being turned away. As far as I was concerned, these were the ones we should absolutely be welcoming. These were opportunities to set the example for the rest of society, but I think we missed some of these.
So, back to my deja vu. At church today I had the exact same feeling twice within a 20 minute period. In the first scenario, one of our deacons turned away a man at the door and even gestured that he should see his way off the grounds. I was not within earshot of what was being said, but as soon as I could momentarily leave my post as an usher handing out bulletins at the entrance to the sanctuary, I sought out that deacon and asked what that situation was all about.
"Oh, I don't know what he wanted, I don't speak Spanish."
I told him that I do and would've been happy to see what the guy wanted. I withheld a few other choice words that I had for him and then chastised myself for not reacting quicker and lending assistance. If I had been there a little sooner, maybe I could've caught up with the guy up the street or something and invited him back. When I walked out of the gate to look for him, he was nowhere to be found. About 20 minutes later, the sermon had begun and one of the members walked over to tell me that I ought to "take care of this situation and maybe get a couple of deacons to assist". It took me about a full minute to figure out what he was saying to me, partly due to his accent and the fact that I perceived no threat.
He was referring to an oddly dressed gentleman with the most interesting of hairstyles (his afro actually looked like a mushroom cloud). For as strange as he may have looked though, I didn't see that he was disturbing anybody, and I was sitting directly behind him. It's always interesting to hear everyone's viewpoint as three or four different people made comments to me about this cat's menacing stares, his stoicism, and his wandering around outside the church before finally deciding to come in. What is he supposed to be like? Is he supposed to have a Joker smile like Jack Nicholson and be in a great mood. This man may have had some heavy stuff on his mind and perhaps was trying to sort it all out. Maybe he was pacing outside trying to figure out if this church could solve what was troubling him on this Sunday morning. Maybe he was even talking to Jesus and finally was convinced to come in and sit down, and I said as much to the person that brought this up. I was growing steadily disappointed in my fellow Christians who were seemingly very quick to deny this man a place in the Lord's house, which, last I checked, was not governed by mere mortals. It's amazing how we're so quick to write somebody off for looking a little different from the rest of us.
Brotha man sat in that pew well after the service was over so something was clearly up with him. Hopefully, Jesus kept him there after the sermon to give him some additional individual attention. I was pleased to see that some of the elder sistas had engaged him in a conversation after awhile, when I walked back by after making my rounds. I hope that he and the other gentleman won't be too discouraged to come back and seek the Lord with us again some time.
I went to Catholic school for high school and somehow after having to regularly attend mass and taking religion class every semester, I was very anti-religion for about 10-12 years after that. It's really no mystery why that is and it's not quite what you might think either. I didn't get overdosed on religion. I didn't feel as though much of the dictating that the Catholic church does was too overwhelming, or socially outdated, or too stifling for the way that I wanted to conduct my life. I just ultimately got turned off by the hypocrisy of the people associated with the religion. I just saw too many things that weren't God-like to me and I couldn't resolve that in my mind at the time.
The Jesuits that were running my school were supposed to have a vow to poverty and yet I saw them driving Mercedes-Benz and wearing expensive Italian suits. That didn't really bother me, although it took a chink out of that armor of integrity that you expect them to have. They took a vow of celibacy, but some of them got caught up in some scandals with little boys. That part didn't really bother me though, although it was absolutely deplorable. The part that got me was the complete disregard for the "man for others" concept that was drilled into us during every one of those religion classes and masses.
Okay, perhaps "complete disregard" is a bit strong. I will say this though. Some of our community service activity and charitable contributions were a little sanitized. I wouldn't exactly call us disciples of Mother Teresa.
"the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the crippled, the blind, the lepers, all those people who feel unwanted, unloved, uncared for throughout society, people that have become a burden to the society and are shunned by everyone."-- Mother Teresa
I guess I got tired of seeing the really downtrodden, the really shunned, the outcasts being turned away. As far as I was concerned, these were the ones we should absolutely be welcoming. These were opportunities to set the example for the rest of society, but I think we missed some of these.
So, back to my deja vu. At church today I had the exact same feeling twice within a 20 minute period. In the first scenario, one of our deacons turned away a man at the door and even gestured that he should see his way off the grounds. I was not within earshot of what was being said, but as soon as I could momentarily leave my post as an usher handing out bulletins at the entrance to the sanctuary, I sought out that deacon and asked what that situation was all about.
"Oh, I don't know what he wanted, I don't speak Spanish."
I told him that I do and would've been happy to see what the guy wanted. I withheld a few other choice words that I had for him and then chastised myself for not reacting quicker and lending assistance. If I had been there a little sooner, maybe I could've caught up with the guy up the street or something and invited him back. When I walked out of the gate to look for him, he was nowhere to be found. About 20 minutes later, the sermon had begun and one of the members walked over to tell me that I ought to "take care of this situation and maybe get a couple of deacons to assist". It took me about a full minute to figure out what he was saying to me, partly due to his accent and the fact that I perceived no threat.
He was referring to an oddly dressed gentleman with the most interesting of hairstyles (his afro actually looked like a mushroom cloud). For as strange as he may have looked though, I didn't see that he was disturbing anybody, and I was sitting directly behind him. It's always interesting to hear everyone's viewpoint as three or four different people made comments to me about this cat's menacing stares, his stoicism, and his wandering around outside the church before finally deciding to come in. What is he supposed to be like? Is he supposed to have a Joker smile like Jack Nicholson and be in a great mood. This man may have had some heavy stuff on his mind and perhaps was trying to sort it all out. Maybe he was pacing outside trying to figure out if this church could solve what was troubling him on this Sunday morning. Maybe he was even talking to Jesus and finally was convinced to come in and sit down, and I said as much to the person that brought this up. I was growing steadily disappointed in my fellow Christians who were seemingly very quick to deny this man a place in the Lord's house, which, last I checked, was not governed by mere mortals. It's amazing how we're so quick to write somebody off for looking a little different from the rest of us.
Brotha man sat in that pew well after the service was over so something was clearly up with him. Hopefully, Jesus kept him there after the sermon to give him some additional individual attention. I was pleased to see that some of the elder sistas had engaged him in a conversation after awhile, when I walked back by after making my rounds. I hope that he and the other gentleman won't be too discouraged to come back and seek the Lord with us again some time.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Late Freight
It seems that no matter what I do, I am keeping strange hours these days. Nearly all day, I have been sitting at this desk looking over at my wonderfully comfortable and luxurious bed, looking forward to the moment when I can retire to it and sink into its plush pillow top, and submerge into the friendly confines of dreamland. My customers have kept me from enjoying any free time as their issues continued to mount. They'll be waiting for me again in a few hours, so I'm writing my daily entry right now in hopes that I'll be firmly within the clutches of a deep sleep at this time tomorrow. Hopefully, I will have been asleep for many hours by this time tomorrow.
I could barely tear myself away to eat let alone do the dishes or finish my laundry as my customers seemed to be getting stuck on the most elementary of functions all day long. We made some significant progress late in the day, but we are still scheduled to reconvene in the morning to tie up loose ends. I hope that is all that we are doing. I really would like some time in the afternoon to pursue something other than one of their issues. In addition to the other work related items on my to-do list, I would surely like the time to exercise my creative side and finish my weekly submission to Urban Thought Collective blog. I'll also have get creative with a meal because my kids will be showing up hungry tomorrow evening and the back of my refrigerator is indeed in plain view right now. I think I have enough ingredients to make them some spaghetti or some chicken. It will be one of those weekends-on-a-budget that we so often enjoy. Second Sundays at the Museum, here we come!
The Olympics start tomorrow as well. Sure, it's just the opening ceremonies and I'm never terribly excited about those, but I'd love to be relaxing and getting into the spirit of the games even if its just for background noise. Well, that's enough of my musings for this late hour. With any luck I'll sneak in another workout at the gym in a few hours before I get bogged down with work again. Wish me luck.
I could barely tear myself away to eat let alone do the dishes or finish my laundry as my customers seemed to be getting stuck on the most elementary of functions all day long. We made some significant progress late in the day, but we are still scheduled to reconvene in the morning to tie up loose ends. I hope that is all that we are doing. I really would like some time in the afternoon to pursue something other than one of their issues. In addition to the other work related items on my to-do list, I would surely like the time to exercise my creative side and finish my weekly submission to Urban Thought Collective blog. I'll also have get creative with a meal because my kids will be showing up hungry tomorrow evening and the back of my refrigerator is indeed in plain view right now. I think I have enough ingredients to make them some spaghetti or some chicken. It will be one of those weekends-on-a-budget that we so often enjoy. Second Sundays at the Museum, here we come!
The Olympics start tomorrow as well. Sure, it's just the opening ceremonies and I'm never terribly excited about those, but I'd love to be relaxing and getting into the spirit of the games even if its just for background noise. Well, that's enough of my musings for this late hour. With any luck I'll sneak in another workout at the gym in a few hours before I get bogged down with work again. Wish me luck.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Is it enough?
As I angled my car into the parking space, nose first, gently tapping the curb with the passenger side front tire, I spotted him out of the corner of my eye. Tall, with a navy colored v-neck sweater and a closely cropped haircut, he had his back to me, but I know he saw me as he was wrapping up his brief conversation with the lady walking by on the Lakeshore Avenue sidewalk. Perhaps more deliberately than usual, I turned off the ignition, unfastened my seat belt, gathered my phone and keys and opened the door. Instead of taking the most direct route to my destination, I walked around the car parked to my left, taking care to look straight ahead with the insouciance of a football fan at a futbol match, and yet acutely aware.
You'd have to be crazy or absurdly careless not to pay attention to your surroundings around here, especially at night. I don't necessarily feel like I'm in danger when I'm out and about in this town, but I am always on my p's and q's. It's in those details where the Devil lies, many times. So, while I was not intimidated or frightened, I was not at all taking the situation lightly. Just when I thought that I might be in the clear, he spoke.
"Say, brotha, could you spare a little something?" he asked.
Irritated that my invisible juice had clearly worn off and simultaneously ashamed of myself for trying not to acknowledge this man, I made that universal gesture that suggested I hadn't clearly heard all that he had said.
"Perhaps I'll get you on the way out," I said, patting the pockets in my sweatpants for something that even remotely resembled some spare change.
"I'd appreciate it...I haven't eaten all day," he continued.
In actuality, I had a very precise amount of money in my pocket, just enough to get a Laurel Salad at Hollywood Pizza. I didn't really anticipate any change. But then it started tugging at me. My conscience, that is. This man said he was hungry. While I too was hungry and rather short on funds these days, I did have something. That put me squarely ahead of him in this scenario. But why should my belly be full while this man goes without? I took 3 more steps and as I was nearing the entrance to my destination I took 2 more rather indecisive steps, stopped, did an about face and sought out this man.
"You say you're hungry? Would you like something from here?" I inquired.
"Nah...um..my teeth..um..there's a chicken special 'round the corner...," he mumbled, as I now noticed his nearly toothless countenance.
Did he say he'd rather eat chicken because he had no teeth? Is he turning down food that I'm offering to buy him? Is he really hungry? Does he really need money to eat, or to feed some other habit? Is it wrong for me to be doubting or questioning this hungry man? I left it alone and walked back into the restaurant to place my order. I looked at the 4 one dollar bills in my hand and the 9 quarters that I pulled out of my pocket. This was going to be just enough for me to get the salad that I wanted. But if I did, there would be nothing left to donate to his cause. Momentarily, I struggled with this. I guess I could get something smaller. Perhaps I'd even use the credit card that I can ill afford to increase the balance any further upon. If I did that, then we could both eat. But, I almost forgot, he doesn't want to eat here. Perhaps I should walk down to the chicken spot with him to get him some food there. "What chicken spot?" I thought to myself. It's dark out here and the street is pretty deserted. Should I really be walking down the street with some cat that I don't know? This scene seems all too familiar.
A few weeks ago, I haggard looking lady hurried across the street to ask me to give her some money so that she could get some french fries. Again, not wanting anyone to go hungry, I walked with her into a restaurant some 20 feet away and offered to buy those fries. For about 30 seconds, she listened as I started to order the fries.
"I don't want these nasty fries..these china man can't make no fries...," she protested. "I want to get mine from JJ's!"
Surprised and yet unamused at the outburst, I cancelled the order and considered cancelling this whole charade, since I didn't really feel like walking a block to JJ's so that she could get some fries, or worse, make up some other excuse as to why she would rather have the cash. I gave her a dollar and went about my merry way.
Back to this evening again, I contemplated the same thing. Ultimately, I charged some food for myself, and gave him $2 cash on the way out. Was that enough? Did my money really do enough to help him? Should I have taken the time to walk him somewhere to get the food? He said thank you and I guess I felt good about having helped him eat. I tried not to watch him as I got into my car, but I couldn't help but notice that he had started up the street and then stopped again to ask somebody else for something. I really hope that I helped to provide a temporary fix for his hunger issue and I didn't finance his latest fix. Is it my business to worry about such things? Wouldn't the Lord have me be charitable all the time with the knowledge that he will provide for me regardless? I guess I'll let Him handle this one because only he knows that man's heart and mine.
You'd have to be crazy or absurdly careless not to pay attention to your surroundings around here, especially at night. I don't necessarily feel like I'm in danger when I'm out and about in this town, but I am always on my p's and q's. It's in those details where the Devil lies, many times. So, while I was not intimidated or frightened, I was not at all taking the situation lightly. Just when I thought that I might be in the clear, he spoke.
"Say, brotha, could you spare a little something?" he asked.
Irritated that my invisible juice had clearly worn off and simultaneously ashamed of myself for trying not to acknowledge this man, I made that universal gesture that suggested I hadn't clearly heard all that he had said.
"Perhaps I'll get you on the way out," I said, patting the pockets in my sweatpants for something that even remotely resembled some spare change.
"I'd appreciate it...I haven't eaten all day," he continued.
In actuality, I had a very precise amount of money in my pocket, just enough to get a Laurel Salad at Hollywood Pizza. I didn't really anticipate any change. But then it started tugging at me. My conscience, that is. This man said he was hungry. While I too was hungry and rather short on funds these days, I did have something. That put me squarely ahead of him in this scenario. But why should my belly be full while this man goes without? I took 3 more steps and as I was nearing the entrance to my destination I took 2 more rather indecisive steps, stopped, did an about face and sought out this man.
"You say you're hungry? Would you like something from here?" I inquired.
"Nah...um..my teeth..um..there's a chicken special 'round the corner...," he mumbled, as I now noticed his nearly toothless countenance.
Did he say he'd rather eat chicken because he had no teeth? Is he turning down food that I'm offering to buy him? Is he really hungry? Does he really need money to eat, or to feed some other habit? Is it wrong for me to be doubting or questioning this hungry man? I left it alone and walked back into the restaurant to place my order. I looked at the 4 one dollar bills in my hand and the 9 quarters that I pulled out of my pocket. This was going to be just enough for me to get the salad that I wanted. But if I did, there would be nothing left to donate to his cause. Momentarily, I struggled with this. I guess I could get something smaller. Perhaps I'd even use the credit card that I can ill afford to increase the balance any further upon. If I did that, then we could both eat. But, I almost forgot, he doesn't want to eat here. Perhaps I should walk down to the chicken spot with him to get him some food there. "What chicken spot?" I thought to myself. It's dark out here and the street is pretty deserted. Should I really be walking down the street with some cat that I don't know? This scene seems all too familiar.
A few weeks ago, I haggard looking lady hurried across the street to ask me to give her some money so that she could get some french fries. Again, not wanting anyone to go hungry, I walked with her into a restaurant some 20 feet away and offered to buy those fries. For about 30 seconds, she listened as I started to order the fries.
"I don't want these nasty fries..these china man can't make no fries...," she protested. "I want to get mine from JJ's!"
Surprised and yet unamused at the outburst, I cancelled the order and considered cancelling this whole charade, since I didn't really feel like walking a block to JJ's so that she could get some fries, or worse, make up some other excuse as to why she would rather have the cash. I gave her a dollar and went about my merry way.
Back to this evening again, I contemplated the same thing. Ultimately, I charged some food for myself, and gave him $2 cash on the way out. Was that enough? Did my money really do enough to help him? Should I have taken the time to walk him somewhere to get the food? He said thank you and I guess I felt good about having helped him eat. I tried not to watch him as I got into my car, but I couldn't help but notice that he had started up the street and then stopped again to ask somebody else for something. I really hope that I helped to provide a temporary fix for his hunger issue and I didn't finance his latest fix. Is it my business to worry about such things? Wouldn't the Lord have me be charitable all the time with the knowledge that he will provide for me regardless? I guess I'll let Him handle this one because only he knows that man's heart and mine.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
If I do it now...
If I do this now, I can go to the gym and come back and relax without feeling like there's something left to do this evening. If I do it now, I can come back and throw in the Netflix movie that I got yesterday and just chill out on the couch for the rest of the evening. If I do it now, perhaps this pile of laundry on my bed will actually get tended to and the other pile on the floor in my hallway will actually get laundered. The "this" that I refer to here is my daily blog entry. It's that time of day where I go on and on about something or nothing at all, as I so often do.
Today was one of those days where I probably should have gone right to the gym before doing anything else. I would have faint hopes of dipping over to Club One at lunch time or maybe even in the early afternoon, but it was not to be today. Had I done that, I might really be chillin' right now. But then again, maybe I wouldn't have. I helped a customer from Chile for 8 hours straight and then another guy from Australia started to chime in around 5pm. That's what happens when you have a timezone difference. No one shares your motivation for lunch breaks or close of business when their day starts 3 hours or 17 hours ahead of yours. I didn't make as much progress as I would've liked to, but at least there's a plan for tomorrow.
I'm slightly distracted as I write, listening to Nolan Ryan speak on his Rangers and watching Derek Jeter punch one into right-center for an RBI double after fouling off the previous 4 pitches. If I don't hurry up, my stomach will become a serious distraction. I had a bowl of oatmeal and an egg salad sandwich today, but I could surely eat again right now. Hopefully, I'll have just enough in the tank to get through a fairly decent workout. I'm thinking that baked chicken, some rice and some steamed brocolli will be on the menu tonight. I'd like to do something more spectacular, but I neither have the ingredients nor the patience to do much beyond that tonight.
I'm kind of excited. I'll actually get to watch Casino Royale in its entirety tonight. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Okay, wait. One last thought before I round up my gym clothes. Ruby Tuesday has a commercial (i know, i know...) that talks about how they mistakenly blew up some other restaurant in Mt. Holly, Ohio. Is that that for real, or just an attempt to garner some publicity by making me Google or YouTube that? They'd probably really like it if I went to their website to check it out. There's not much danger of me doing that. There's probably not even such a place as Mt. Holly, Ohio. Until tomorrow...
Today was one of those days where I probably should have gone right to the gym before doing anything else. I would have faint hopes of dipping over to Club One at lunch time or maybe even in the early afternoon, but it was not to be today. Had I done that, I might really be chillin' right now. But then again, maybe I wouldn't have. I helped a customer from Chile for 8 hours straight and then another guy from Australia started to chime in around 5pm. That's what happens when you have a timezone difference. No one shares your motivation for lunch breaks or close of business when their day starts 3 hours or 17 hours ahead of yours. I didn't make as much progress as I would've liked to, but at least there's a plan for tomorrow.
I'm slightly distracted as I write, listening to Nolan Ryan speak on his Rangers and watching Derek Jeter punch one into right-center for an RBI double after fouling off the previous 4 pitches. If I don't hurry up, my stomach will become a serious distraction. I had a bowl of oatmeal and an egg salad sandwich today, but I could surely eat again right now. Hopefully, I'll have just enough in the tank to get through a fairly decent workout. I'm thinking that baked chicken, some rice and some steamed brocolli will be on the menu tonight. I'd like to do something more spectacular, but I neither have the ingredients nor the patience to do much beyond that tonight.
I'm kind of excited. I'll actually get to watch Casino Royale in its entirety tonight. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Okay, wait. One last thought before I round up my gym clothes. Ruby Tuesday has a commercial (i know, i know...) that talks about how they mistakenly blew up some other restaurant in Mt. Holly, Ohio. Is that that for real, or just an attempt to garner some publicity by making me Google or YouTube that? They'd probably really like it if I went to their website to check it out. There's not much danger of me doing that. There's probably not even such a place as Mt. Holly, Ohio. Until tomorrow...
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Captains Log...Star Date August 3, 2008 11:39AM EST
"You sang beautifully just then...,"
"I sang for you." --Intro to
I'm sitting in apartment C-4 of the 1629 Building on Walton Avenue near 174th Street in New York City. Indeed I am straight up in the middle of the Bronx sittin' in my boy Darryn's crib listening to some of the Wu's greatest. It's not as hot as it has been in here, although I am still sitting squarely in front of the fan, straddling it like black women braiding hair on a stoop. I'm just glad not to be sweating right now as I wait to go eat at La Fonda Boricua in Harlem and then head back to the Bronx to see da Bombers (aka The New York Yankees) take on the Angels in the house that Ruth built. We tried to go to this restaurant last night but it must be understood that speed is not a strong suit up in this camp. When you're rollin' with a cat whose nickname is "Pretty" you can't expect that he can ever get "ready" to go anywhere in an expeditious manner.
We gave him this moniker back in junior high after repeatedly sitting and waiting for him to iron his clothes, comb his hair, file his nails, floss his teeth, braid his fat laces, or whatever else it is that takes him so long. Let no one ever say that the brotha does not take pride in his appearance. That's my man 20 Grand though, so it's all good. I had hoped to get some arroz con pollo before the game, hear the national anthem and see the whole game at Yankee Stadium, but the schedule is steadily slipping. Perhaps my plans are a tad bit unrealistic. No worries though. Catching up with a good friend far outdistances any ball game or plate of chicken and rice. Wow! He's almost ready. I'll check back in later....
August 3, 2008 9:45pm EST
I'm back, but now it IS hot. No, I'm not in a hot little apartment in the Bronx any more, but rather in seat 14A of Continental flight 650 sitting at Gate C-131 of Newark's Liberty International Airport. We've been sitting here for over an hour now, sweating like slaves. Well, that's how long I've been here. Everyone else has been here a little longer. By some miraculous act of God, I was allowed to board this flight even though they had closed the door and the Customer Service Agent at the counter told me that I'd have to re-book for the following morning. No sooner than I had left the Customer Service counter, I noticed that the sign at Gate C-131 said "San Francisco, DELAYED...NOW 8:45PM" and there was now a Gate Agent where before there had been none. Mr. Andrew Carty is now my new favorite Continental Airlines employee as he made a way out of no-way, not only getting me back on this flight that traffic and a long security line seemed to have caused me to miss, but he also got me an exit window. That's what I call going above and beyond the call of duty. So here I sit in one of those special New York corridor airport delays where the pilot doesn't bother leaving the gate because there's too much traffic on the runway and when he finally does, your silver-skinned bird is 23rd in line for take-off. It would've been really frustrating to look at this plane sit there and not be able to get on it.
"This is your.........uh...Captain speaking....uhhhhh...," the captain started in.
"..just wanted to...uhhhh....give you an....uhhhh....update from up here in the uhhhhhh...flight deck. We...uhhh...apologize for the temperature. It should start to cool down once the...uhhhhhh...engines kick on and the air conditioner starts working." Public speaking was clearly not a requirement to finishing flight school. I'll...uhhh...try to give you another update after we hear from...uhhhh...air traffic control...and...uh...we have a better idea...of...uhhhh...when we're closer to take-off."
Then he finished it off with that requisite line that all pilots are entitled to utter when closing out their little soliloquys and putting down the radio. I'll let you say it with me. "So just sit back, relax...," I practically lip synced it from my exit row seat. Oh, by the way I did finally get that arroz con pollo, but not until after the game. I made an executive decision to go to 27 Sports Bar and Cafe on West Mount Eden Avenue to get a Cuban Sandwich and then jump on the number 4 train to 161st street for Yankee Stadium.
It was quite an ordeal getting into see some baseball on these hallowed grounds, but we saw plenty of action. We dipped back to the house before taking one last crack at La Fonda Boricua. As it so often is, the 3rd time was the charm as I finally got a taste of this Bobby Flay slaying Puerto Rican chef's signature dish and washed it down with a couple glasses of sangria. A fabulous weekend without a single dull moment. You gotta love it!
"I sang for you." --Intro to
Rainy Daysfrom Raekwon's Built 4 Cuban Linx
I'm sitting in apartment C-4 of the 1629 Building on Walton Avenue near 174th Street in New York City. Indeed I am straight up in the middle of the Bronx sittin' in my boy Darryn's crib listening to some of the Wu's greatest. It's not as hot as it has been in here, although I am still sitting squarely in front of the fan, straddling it like black women braiding hair on a stoop. I'm just glad not to be sweating right now as I wait to go eat at La Fonda Boricua in Harlem and then head back to the Bronx to see da Bombers (aka The New York Yankees) take on the Angels in the house that Ruth built. We tried to go to this restaurant last night but it must be understood that speed is not a strong suit up in this camp. When you're rollin' with a cat whose nickname is "Pretty" you can't expect that he can ever get "ready" to go anywhere in an expeditious manner.
We gave him this moniker back in junior high after repeatedly sitting and waiting for him to iron his clothes, comb his hair, file his nails, floss his teeth, braid his fat laces, or whatever else it is that takes him so long. Let no one ever say that the brotha does not take pride in his appearance. That's my man 20 Grand though, so it's all good. I had hoped to get some arroz con pollo before the game, hear the national anthem and see the whole game at Yankee Stadium, but the schedule is steadily slipping. Perhaps my plans are a tad bit unrealistic. No worries though. Catching up with a good friend far outdistances any ball game or plate of chicken and rice. Wow! He's almost ready. I'll check back in later....
August 3, 2008 9:45pm EST
I'm back, but now it IS hot. No, I'm not in a hot little apartment in the Bronx any more, but rather in seat 14A of Continental flight 650 sitting at Gate C-131 of Newark's Liberty International Airport. We've been sitting here for over an hour now, sweating like slaves. Well, that's how long I've been here. Everyone else has been here a little longer. By some miraculous act of God, I was allowed to board this flight even though they had closed the door and the Customer Service Agent at the counter told me that I'd have to re-book for the following morning. No sooner than I had left the Customer Service counter, I noticed that the sign at Gate C-131 said "San Francisco, DELAYED...NOW 8:45PM" and there was now a Gate Agent where before there had been none. Mr. Andrew Carty is now my new favorite Continental Airlines employee as he made a way out of no-way, not only getting me back on this flight that traffic and a long security line seemed to have caused me to miss, but he also got me an exit window. That's what I call going above and beyond the call of duty. So here I sit in one of those special New York corridor airport delays where the pilot doesn't bother leaving the gate because there's too much traffic on the runway and when he finally does, your silver-skinned bird is 23rd in line for take-off. It would've been really frustrating to look at this plane sit there and not be able to get on it.
"This is your.........uh...Captain speaking....uhhhhh...," the captain started in.
"..just wanted to...uhhhh....give you an....uhhhh....update from up here in the uhhhhhh...flight deck. We...uhhh...apologize for the temperature. It should start to cool down once the...uhhhhhh...engines kick on and the air conditioner starts working." Public speaking was clearly not a requirement to finishing flight school. I'll...uhhh...try to give you another update after we hear from...uhhhh...air traffic control...and...uh...we have a better idea...of...uhhhh...when we're closer to take-off."
Then he finished it off with that requisite line that all pilots are entitled to utter when closing out their little soliloquys and putting down the radio. I'll let you say it with me. "So just sit back, relax...," I practically lip synced it from my exit row seat. Oh, by the way I did finally get that arroz con pollo, but not until after the game. I made an executive decision to go to 27 Sports Bar and Cafe on West Mount Eden Avenue to get a Cuban Sandwich and then jump on the number 4 train to 161st street for Yankee Stadium.
It was quite an ordeal getting into see some baseball on these hallowed grounds, but we saw plenty of action. We dipped back to the house before taking one last crack at La Fonda Boricua. As it so often is, the 3rd time was the charm as I finally got a taste of this Bobby Flay slaying Puerto Rican chef's signature dish and washed it down with a couple glasses of sangria. A fabulous weekend without a single dull moment. You gotta love it!
Friday, August 1, 2008
Just like college...
I don’t think I’ve done this since college. I feel alive tonight. Well, come to think of it, I did catch flight on a whim like this about 4 or 5 years ago, but this one seems like it’s going to be better. In college I would do stuff like this all the time. I’ve got no money and no real business flying all the way across the country, but I do have miles to burn and a place to crash. It’ll be great to see my boy in his
element, especially since his marriage has been on the rocks and sounds like he just needs to see a familiar face. The goal is to not spend money on anything unnecessary. I think I’m up for the task.
There are so many people here tonight. Gate 32 looks like a street bazaar in a crowded exotic metropolis. It’s been a long time since I have flown on a Friday night redeye, but I can’t remember them being like this. This is the way the airport usually looks after several flights have been canceled and folks are just hanging around and being miserable, hoping upon hope that they will soon depart. Not surprisingly, there are no shortage of short tempers . Shortly after making my way to seat 4F, I started to witness some of them up close. A short little whisp of a man with round spectacles expressed his extreme displeasure at finding someone already sitting in his first class seat, 3E right in front of me. With all of the indignance of The Church Lady (Dana Carvey, circa 1980-something), he stood there with arms crossed in front of the rather cool and collected Sir Laurence Olivier look-a-like already seated there.
“This is my seat!” snapped The Church Lady.
One of the male flight attendants quickly appeared on the scene to keep the peace, asking both men to produce boarding passes.
“They took mine!” the Church Lady whined.
“They didn’t give you a copy?”asked the flight attendant.
“I would be glad to show you mine,” said Sir Laurence. The flight attendant promptly left and got the gate agent that was taking tickets at the entrance to the jetway. The gate agent returned and asked to speak to Sir Laurence outside. It seemed so dramatic. It looked like Sir Laurence were going to be bumped yet again (I overheard him say something about having been a standby passenger). At last, he re-emerged, looking none too pleased. Church Lady had nestled in and got comfortable as soon as Sir Laurence stood up to go to the principal’s office, even though Sir Laurence had left all of this things there. Do you think that the Church Lady got out of the way to let Sir Laurence collect his things? Yeah, of course he didn’t, hardly allowing his-knightship to have any dignity as he gathered his stuff and promptly moved back to 4B. Yes, that’s right. I said 4B. All of that drama to move a guy one row back. Who needs television when I’ve got this gripping drama right here?
element, especially since his marriage has been on the rocks and sounds like he just needs to see a familiar face. The goal is to not spend money on anything unnecessary. I think I’m up for the task.
There are so many people here tonight. Gate 32 looks like a street bazaar in a crowded exotic metropolis. It’s been a long time since I have flown on a Friday night redeye, but I can’t remember them being like this. This is the way the airport usually looks after several flights have been canceled and folks are just hanging around and being miserable, hoping upon hope that they will soon depart. Not surprisingly, there are no shortage of short tempers . Shortly after making my way to seat 4F, I started to witness some of them up close. A short little whisp of a man with round spectacles expressed his extreme displeasure at finding someone already sitting in his first class seat, 3E right in front of me. With all of the indignance of The Church Lady (Dana Carvey, circa 1980-something), he stood there with arms crossed in front of the rather cool and collected Sir Laurence Olivier look-a-like already seated there.
“This is my seat!” snapped The Church Lady.
One of the male flight attendants quickly appeared on the scene to keep the peace, asking both men to produce boarding passes.
“They took mine!” the Church Lady whined.
“They didn’t give you a copy?”asked the flight attendant.
“I would be glad to show you mine,” said Sir Laurence. The flight attendant promptly left and got the gate agent that was taking tickets at the entrance to the jetway. The gate agent returned and asked to speak to Sir Laurence outside. It seemed so dramatic. It looked like Sir Laurence were going to be bumped yet again (I overheard him say something about having been a standby passenger). At last, he re-emerged, looking none too pleased. Church Lady had nestled in and got comfortable as soon as Sir Laurence stood up to go to the principal’s office, even though Sir Laurence had left all of this things there. Do you think that the Church Lady got out of the way to let Sir Laurence collect his things? Yeah, of course he didn’t, hardly allowing his-knightship to have any dignity as he gathered his stuff and promptly moved back to 4B. Yes, that’s right. I said 4B. All of that drama to move a guy one row back. Who needs television when I’ve got this gripping drama right here?
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