I complained about having no shoes...

As is so often the case, I was driving my car today with the low fuel warning beaming at me like a spotlight. Times are hard and I like to stretch out each tank of gas as far as possible in hopes that it will make my little bit of money seem a little bit longer. Who am I kidding? Even when I'm not broke I routinely respect the "E" on my gas gauge about as much as L.A. motorists do the red light upon which many of them choose to not only complete their left turns but also initiate them, knowing full well that they had no business trying to make a left turn when the light had been red for that long. When I'm not broke. Wow...when was that?

Well, like it or not, broke definitely sums up what I am at this point. I'm jobless and just about penniless at this point, at least until the next unemployment check comes my way. The economy is indeed bad, and I, along with everyone else around is feeling it. At least I have a place to sleep and a car to drive though. I really feel for those that have had to give up their homes and take to life on the streets. There but by the grace of God, and my credit cards, go I.

I feel like such a fraud. Well, maybe not a fraud. That is a bit harsh as I'm not trying to get over or take advantage of anybody with my little charade. It may look like I've got it all together, but that's just my perverting of the gospel of brother Paul Laurence Dunbar: wearing that mask. This is probably not what he meant though. Perhaps I'm more like Soviet power during the Cold War. My clean clothes, my car, my fresh fade, my smile and confident swagger are merely fresh, brightly colored coats of paint to cover up the rust and decay of finances long since weakened to the point of near crumbling before your eyes. Maybe it's working, my facade, or maybe folks are just kind enough to not call me on it and choosing to smile and "keep it moving" instead. Maybe I'm selling it. Somebody's buying it. I think.

As I pulled into the Chevron gas station on Telegraph Avenue about mid day, I hardly lamented at all about the few more stones that I would be adding to my mountain of debt by filling my tank courtesy of the good folks at Chase Bank. I'm almost numb to it at this point. The running tally in my head has surely exceeded what I think it is, but I'm in the ballpark at least. I put the car in park and fumbled for the aforementioned credit card as I stepped out of the car toward the pump number 2. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a thin, haggard looking woman in a red jacket approaching. We exchanged pleasantries and I braced myself for the request that would undoubtedly come next.

"I'm not going to ask you for any change, brotha...,"

"That's a relief," I thought to myself, feeling bad that I had no coins to offer her even if she did wanted them. I smiled and let her continue, being sure to give her the proper respect due and looking her in the eye.

"I've been living in the park with my twins for about the last year and a half and I haven't eaten in about 3 days so I was wondering if you could just get me something to eat? Qwik way is right there."

I thought this a wonderful idea, but told her that I was pretty sure that they didn't take credit cards over there. The two of us looked around at all of the adjacent corners and briefly discussed the possibility of Taco Bell and what she'd like from their menu. She said that she didn't really know since she hadn't been in there in some time. Meanwhile, the pump was not cooperating so I was not putting gas into the tank. Getting frustrated as the gael-force winds were blowing right through me, I headed inside the station to have the attendant run my card. The lady followed me in there and said that she would be happy to get something from the mini-mart, which was just fine with me.

I ended up charging a chili cheese dog, a drink, and a couple of cookies for her and then she thanked me as we both walked out by my car again. She had a big smile on her face as she walked away and turned back once again to say, "take care, Handsome" as she headed out toward the sidewalk. I smiled too and then got back in my car as the gas continued to pour into my tank.

What is it? It looks like tree roots...

My daughter looked skeptically at the bowl, as she so often does when anything but Cocoa Puffs or chicken strips are put in front of her. She's going to be 12 years old next month and still, pleasing her at mealtime is still a challenge. She hadn't yet verbally objected, but she didn't exactly look eager either.

"What is it?" my son asked, having walked over to the counter to have a look for himself. The both of them have an almost Pavlovian response to ceramic dishes hitting the granite counter top at the bar in my condo. Whether their watching TV, reading, or playing the Wii, like clockwork, they will almost always immediately walk over to see, and at least quickly whip their head around toward the counter. "It looks like tree roots," he said as he too made a face.

This I had not counted on. This child will usually eat anything that I put in front of him, with almost no hesitation. Not so on this day. Purple spaghetti was a little too foreign for even his very indiscriminate palate.

"Why is it purple?" asked my daughter.

I then had to explain that I had boiled the noodles in wine instead of water and that instead of the usual marinara sauce that they were expecting,and that this red-wine spaghetti was dressed up with garlic, olive oil and grated parmigiano reggiano.(Try it yourself: ) My son decided that he was not interested and said as much. My daughter decided to try some as I left the room to continue whatever it was that I was doing before they announced that they were hungry.

It's a good thing that I had a good appetite when I returned to the kitchen where they were doing their homework because I discovered two bowls of pasta that needed to be eaten. Kids....

Raining on my parade

Today was one of those days that started with the best of intentions, but ended badly. Very attainable to-do list in hand, I jumped in the ride with the comforter from my bed, the claim check for the dry cleaners and an optimistic attitude. Trying to do as little back-tracking as possible, I decided to head to the dry cleaners first. This would be the most challenging of the tasks (or so I thought) since parking on Piedmont Avenue is rarely a very readily available. If ever an area of town could benefit from a subway stop, this would be it.

The parking space directly in front of the dry cleaning store was not a mirage, but perhaps I should have looked upon it skeptically and not so wholeheartedly let my guard down so soon. "Wow," I thought, "my errands are going to be a piece of cake today. No stress at all. Smooth sailing."

I chopped it up with the store's owner for a minute(I can't remember his name right now, but that's okay because he usually mixes me up with some guy named Young and we always get a good laugh about that) and then I got in the car for task number 2.

Having previously checked the availability of a couple books online, I knew which library would have what I needed and headed that way. The Dimond Branch even surprised me as it too have an abundance of parking spaces in its lot. Wait! No!
Images of a posted notice that I had seen somewhere flashed through my mind's eye. Was I imagining this? Had I actually seen this? Was I having a de ja vu moment? Was the library closed on April 9th and 10th as the sign read in my head? (I would later discover that the aforementioned notice had been written across the top of the Oakland Public Library site that my laptop was still open too when I returned to my desk). "If it were closed, there wouldn't be any cars here," I reasoned. I proceeded toward the entrance with guarded optimism.
no call back
no change
parking ticket

Nothing kills a good workout like...

It was as if time had stood still. No, I wasn't 19 again, but I felt like I was 35. Yes, I am aware of how peculiar this sounds, but if you had been me for the past year or so and felt the nagging aches and pains that go along with being a young man in a very old man's body, you'd understand. That's not to suggest that I was a picture of health at 35, but rather that at 35, I wasn't wondering if I would be able to play again like I was for most of 36.

Today was the first day that I can remember feeling this good at the gym. Sure, my shoulder has been bothering me a bit, but that's something that I classify as relatively minor since it has yet to be sliced open on somebody's operating table which is more than my left knee or left hand can say. My knee surgery this past September was indeed much more major that I had expected and there were (are) times that I wondered if I would ever be able to return to the strenuous activities that I so enjoy. The mandatory stretching regimen that I have built into the beginning and end of all of my workouts