Gone baby, gone...

So by now you know that I lost my phone and I’ve been pretty tight lipped about how it all went down. I took a trip to “The D” (Detroit for everyone not hip to the hip talk, or that doesn’t watch @JalenRose and Jacoby on the podcast).  Now if you’ve known me for any length of time, you know that sometimes the winding road that is my life has taken me to some Protect Ya Neck  type areas (Kingston, Colombia, Saigon…Oakland J ), so a trip to “The D” shouldn’t be cause for too much alarm. You’ve heard me say “trouble feels the same wherever you are…or whatever language is being spoken…” and heard me explain how the hair on the back of your neck stands up just the same no matter what. You’ve mocked me and rolled your eyes as I’ve repeated such a preface to a story for the 736^th time if your name is Rita.

So you went to Detroit and got mugged on the street and they took your wallet and your phone…right? Believable? I’d love to tell you that this is what happened. Well, actually, I wouldn’t “LOVE” to tell you that because that sounds a little unpleasant. It’s not like I’d be so lucky to be mugged by the perfect gentleman who says “Excuse me sir, please kindly place your iPhone and wallet here and step away slowly” while brandishing a firearm, but in the least menacing way possible. Bill Lumberg stops me on the way out of a Starbucks, latte in one hand, other one in hip pocket and says, “Um…yeaaaaaaaaaaaah…if you could just hand over the smartphone and place the wallet on the table, that would be great….”

 Naw…this was “The D”. I’m supposed to get jammed up by the cat at the beginning of the Slum Village video (Reppin’) https://youtu.be/J2MlSMeu8Jw  who can see the inherent California-ness written all over me and decides he needs a new phone.  No, that’s not what happened. It happened on the way, before I even reached the Motor City. 

What’d you do…take Greyhound? The train? Stagecoach? (Images of the Bobby Brady/Jesse James episode where Mike, Carol, Marsha, Greg, Jan, Peter and the gang get ambushed…or  something in black and white where cats in Fedoras and trench coats with cigars and those cool “Tommy Gun” machine guns with the round piece in front of the trigger

…or some extra grimy hold up  at the back of the ‘old grey dog’ as I attempted to head back up  the aisle from the bathroom  to my seat. No. No…and, No!

I flew. No, it wasn’t some budget airline that you’ve never heard of in case you were thinking, damn…he got got on the plane on one of those janky flights that come out of alternative airports. It was Delta and it connected through Salt Lake City. I was wearing sweats as I seem to always manage to do when I have a lot of flying to do. It was the grey sweat pants, and a blue and gold zip up hooded UANL Tigres sweat jacket. This jacket has two zippered pockets where I generally try to keep valuables that I need to be secure yet accessible throughout the whole airport security process. If I recall correctly, my “wallet” was in the zipped pocket on the right side, and my phone was in the pocket of the sweat pants. 

I had a window seat, 22F,  and Rita the middle. As people boarded the plane and headed up the aisle toward us she kept sizing everyone up like “she’s hella small, I hope she has this aisle seat” since we were told that the flight was severely oversold and promised to be packed to capacity. In fact, they were offering $1300 credit and accommodations for anyone willing to give up their seat and be rescheduled until the next flight out. Of course, she jinxed us and the polar opposite of a ‘hella small lady’ ended up having 22D and spilling over into her personal space, so, naturally, she leaned over into mine. 

I can’t recall why my phone was out during the flight. I must’ve had my phone out and utilizing one  of the apps since they now offer wi-fi during the flights. Well, not really. I wasn’t inclined to pay for $29.95 for 3 hours of wi-fi when I pay less than that for my monthly internet bill. So there’s really no good explanation for why my phone was out. Maybe it was just the notion of not being under the draconian “all phones must be completely powered off and put away” laws of yesteryear  that led me to have the phone in my hand. Furthermore, I was watching the in-flight movie (Night at the Museum 2) so, no, I really don’t remember why my phone was out. 

What I do remember however is that Rita was laying on me and I couldn’t quite reach the pants pocket to put the phone away, so I must’ve put it in the zippered jacket pocket, and neglected to zip it up. I had been sucking down beverages and was dreading the thought of having to climb over Rita and the mountain of a man that stood between me and a clear path to the lavatories in the rear of the plane for a bio break. I was hoping that they would wake up when the movie ended but they didn’t. Oh well. Nature was calling. They were just going to have to be awakened. 

They both stood up and stepped out into the aisle, and I made my way into the clear, trying to look cool and not do “the dance”.  Who was I kidding? If it weren’t for the fact that at my height, you have to be acutely aware of all of the TV monitors that are at about shoulder level as you walk through a plane, I probably would’ve Usain Bolt-ed to the back of this Airbus 321. Oh…and the captain had put the fasten your seat belt sign on because of some serious turbulence. 

Since we’re on the topic of height, imagine me in an airplane lavatory. Let me help you. First, imagine you, and how you probably have not only plenty of clearance between your head and the curved ceiling, but can probably fully extend your arms and spin around if you’d like. Now think of me. When I’m in there, it’s like being in a phone booth with another person. Remember phone booths? Anyway, I digress. 

It’s a tight fit to say the least.  I can just barely maneuver enough to do what I came to do. So I step up to the …uh..plate and boom! Turbulence! I throw one hand up and one to the side to catch my balance. Unfortunately, considering where my hands were, throwing one up and one to the side was all bad. Had the zippered pockets been zipped up as per the plan, then you wouldn’t have been 1,167 words in to this nonsense right now. Had I been in an exit row or first class or somewhere with more personal space, my phone might have been safely in the pocket of the grey sweatpants. But since they weren’t, they went flying…in slow motion. Now you know how in the movies when the slow mo scene  happens and the audio gets chopped(?)..or is it screwed? I don’t know. Anyway, it was like that. 

I neglected to mention that I don’t carry a conventional wallet, but instead a money clip with credit cards and ID in it. All of that went flying. If I had taken 2 steps back and did and attempted an underhand toss into the toilet, I couldn’t have  thrown it directly in the center. As I held on to the wall and the ceiling, I saw my credit cards fanned out of the money clip right on the flap that opens up for your “business” to go down.  The phone, apparently flying on a slightly different trajectory seemed like it must’ve been in the air a little bit longer. That little flap was starting to slowly open and the cards  were about to slide down and maybe under normal circumstances I may have had a chance to lunge with precision and even make the save, immaculate reception style . Just  then, the phone it that exact same flap and its weight took  it all down the chute. Defeated. My shoulders slumped. I shook my head. It was like watching Richard Sherman tip  that pass in front of Crabtree all over again. 

After staring at the flap that had swallowed my belongings for a minute, I again shrugged, and…um…finished.  My license must’ve been out of the money clip from when I went through TSA security because it landed just to the left of the toilet seat.  I collected it, washed my hands and did the walk of shame back down the aisle to my seat. Rita looks at me and says, “what’s wrong? What happened?” 

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway, even if I told you,” I said.

Rita: “You flushed your wallet down the toilet?”

Me:  not audibly, but with a deadpan stare that said, “Really!??”

Down with the King

By popular demand, I bring you the tale of one man's quest. Okay, perhaps popular demand is too strong. For that matter, perhaps "quest" is too. By "popular demand", I mean at the request of one Fernando Lemus from the fabled city of Pico Rivera. As far as the "quest" goes, let's just say that this journey was fueled by a 19 year old's appetite. Enough build-up, here goes...

It was a typical Wednesday night in West Los Angeles as my study group of 2nd year UCLA Engineering students burned the midnight oil trying to finish a physics project, circa 1991-92. As was customary, we had waited until the last possible moment to start thus ensuring that no one would be getting much sleep before we compiled something worthy of being turned in by the 8am Thursday morning deadline. As was also customary in this group, the amount of tangential conversations diverged early and often from the topic of Physics as an eclectic mix of Pancho Sanchez, Wynton Marsalis, and Tito Puente played in the background. I don't recall all of the myriad of topics discussed, but, invariably with a group of starving students, the subject of food came up.

It probably started out with wondering what was still open and what was nearby to where we were studying on this particular night (Hector's apartment), and quickly moved on to a wish list akin to that made by the inmates of the Mississippi penitentiary where Martin Lawrence and Eddie Murphy were being held in the movie Life http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dChFxLjuomE

"I wish I had some chicken and waffles right now," I might have said.

"I could go for a Tommy's Burger," Steve might have said.

"I wish I had a burrito from King Taco...they're the best ever!" Hector exclaimed, reminiscing about the legendary taco stand near where he grew up in  East Los Angeles. Feliciano and Johnny, also from the greater Los Angeles area, quickly concurred. "Yeah! King Taco!" they yelled out, eyes subsequently glazing over as if silently recalling the embrace of a long lost love. They then proceeded to describe every savory item on the menu as if it were indeed food handed down from the heavens. While these 3 Angelenos continued to discuss King Taco with such reverance, even Steve and I were starting to drink the proverbial kool-aid. We resolved that we must try this "King Taco" as soon as possible. In fact,  it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility that we embarked on that mission the next day. In what would be  just one  in a long list of poorly planned, ill-conceived journeys that we would take in the name of food or entertainment, we battled the afternoon commute traffic for 21 miles from Westwood to 3rd Street in East LA. As with any time you go somewhere in LA, once you reach your destination, you feel like the Griswolds, just out of the car from a cross country trek, badly needing to stretch your limbs and get your bearings. So there we stood in the parking lot of Wally World, er..um..King Taco eagerly anticipating the deliciousness that surely awaited within. To make a long story short (yes, I realize that this is something of which I am incapable), it was okay. Yes, I was unimpressed.

The following week when this group (think White Shadow meets Big Bang Theory) reconvened to do some more physics, I let them know what I thought of their King Taco burritos.

 You would have thought I told them that Tommy Trojan was a better mascot than our beloved Joe Bruin the way that they reacted.

"No way!"
"You're crazy!"

I then started to tell them stories of a far superior burrito from the far away land of Northern California; San Jose to be exact. I'm talking about none other than Guadalajara Market No. 2 on the corner of 10th and Empire Streets in downtown San Jose. So sure was I about my claim that I vowed to bring them one the next time that I went home. They probably gave me a few "whatever, man..." type glances and we probably went back to finishing our physics homework.

Several weeks passed and they probably had forgotten all about our Super Burrito Challenge, but I didn't. In fact, I happened to go home for a weekend but made sure to stop by and grab a Super Burrito before I headed back. Well...two actually. I ate one, and set the other one on the seat next to me, wrapped tightly in foil, surrounded by tortilla chips, and empanadas, and strapped in with the seat belt. (Okay, I didn't really put the seat belt on it.)

Keep in mind that this drive from San Jose to Los Angeles was and still is every bit of 335 miles and no less than 5 hours. Not wanting the product to be compromised any further, I did not go to my dorm first, but instead headed straight to the Minority Engineering Program Center ("Tha' Center") where I knew I would find everybody studying. It was kinda like "Cheers" for nerds.

Triumphantly, I dropped the monstrous Super Burrito right in the middle of the table where they were poring over some equation.

"THUD!"

"THIS....is the best burrito in...THE WORLD!"

They all looked at me like I was crazy while I scared up a knife and some napkins for them to do some taste testing. Recall that this burrito is now 6 hours old and room temperature. A silence fell over the room as "the crew" tried the Guadalajara offering. They looked like the judges in a Food Network challenge, trying to keep their poker faces as they chewed slowly. "Man! This is GOOD!"

I-told-you-so's ensued...

Let's get ready to rummmmmmmmmble.....

My boy Imani Groce likes to pose a question a day on his Facebook page to solicit opinions from his group of friends.

"Who has the better falsetto: Curtis Mayfield or Philip Bailey?"

" Better rapper: Jay-z vs. Nas?"

"East San Jose vs. South San Jose?

"McDonald's vs. McDowell's?"

You get the idea. 

Most days, I might weigh in with  something very brief. "McDowell's. Definitely McDowell's, because of the Big Mick. Sesame seeds on a bun are highly overrated." But every once in awhile, his inquiry requires so much more depth of explanation that I have to really commit to it. Some subjects require a legitimate discourse as they aren't adequately investigated in a line or two.

Such was the case with the following topic. Imani dared to ask "What's the better album: Thriller or Purple Rain?" After getting over the initial reaction ("Now why'd he go and do that???) I had to resist the urge to make an emotional decision. Make no mistake about it, both of these albums played a pivotal role in my personal history. Events and happenings of my youth took place with these two classics providing the soundtrack. Phrases like "I remember where I was when..."  are spoken often about one of Michael Jackson's videos, or key parts of Prince's movie. Both of these musical efforts transcended all other things that were happening during that time period. Everything stopped for these two. Yes, it really was that major. To think that one could actually quantify these albums and be so bold as to put the comparative adverb "better" in front of one of these is almost mind boggling in itself.

Having given you the proper context by which to consider this bold question, I can actually share with you now how I chose to approach the matter at hand.  Enjoy...

I chose to break it down track by track. Curiously, both albums had only 9 tracks. THAT'S ALL THEY NEEDED! There are no interludes, no skits, or random conversations. This is not a Juelz Santana album. This is serious business.

TRACK 1- its very important to get outta the gate strong in my humble opinion. Both the purple one and the gloved one clearly agree as both first tracks are super high energy dance classics that were hot singles in their own right. Let's Go Crazy actually charted at #1 while Startin Somethin' peaked at #5. However, Startin Somethin' gave us the unforgettable "mama say mama saw mama cu saw". I want to call this one even, but we'll give prince the nod for reaching #1.

 TRACK 2- Baby be Mine vs. Take me With you. This is Prince by a landslide. Baby be Mine was a very danceable track as was pretty much everything Quincy Jones produced, and was listenable (i.e. you don't have to FF past this track), but it was mediocre in the grand scheme of things. Prince went with a string section for his music and Appolonia in the video so he wins easily here. 

 TRACK 3- The Girl is Mine vs. The Beautiful Ones. Advantage Prince. This is starting to look like that bad first couple of games that the OKC thunder came out with vs. the Spurs, or a boxing match in which prince and his purple high heeled boots has Mike's ass moonwalked up against the ropes in the early rounds and its looking grim. So Paul McCartney is seen by some as one of the greatest musicians of all time and is equally as famous as both Prince and Mike, I never really cared for this song. Prince's guitar work and transitions from falsetto to his deep voice put this one way over the top. If you're keeping score at home, this is Prince in a 10-9 round, and after 3 the judges have it 30-26.

 TRACK 4- Thriller vs. Computer Blue. Mike's got the jab going now. In fact, he may have even scored a knock down here. Computer Blue is one of my favorites, but this is Thriller we're talking about. Not convinced? Okay, we're playing a pickup game at Cherry Park and I have first pick. Chris Webber is available for that first pick, but so is Michael Jordan. Umm....I'm taking Jordan. 10-8 for MJ. 

TRACK 5- Beat It vs. Darling Nikki. This is a tough one, but then again, not really. Darling Nikki would've made one of the slow jam tapes back in the day, but Beat It is maybe one of Mike's 2 or 3 best songs ever. Definitely a great video. Although, I wonder what kinda XXX ratedness Prince's crazy lil' a$$ would've come up with for a Darling Nikki video. Hmmm. It really should be 10-8 here, but we'll call it 10-9. 

TRACK 6- Billie Jean vs. When Doves Cry. Maybe the toughest battle of the whole album here. Billie Jean IS Mike's best song ever. Video nod goes to Mike.

   

 But this is a great Prince song. I mean GREAT. This is two GIANTS at the peak of the powers going toe-to-toe, throwing their best punches and landing them from start to finish.

 I wish i could give a tie here, but that would sell somebody short, so I gotta go Mike again here. After six rounds, we are tied at 56! 










TRACK 7- Human Nature vs. I would Die 4 U. Another tough one. We'll give Prince props for his hand signals (you know you can still do it). Another great one with alot of energy from Prince, but Mike's Human Nature was soo sooo sooooo smooth that its actually a song that you like better and better as the years go by and it has had tremendous Remixability. (Chris Brown, SWV...Miles Davis cover...yeah...I said remixability). Almost too close to call here, so we'll go the charts. Human Nature peaked at #7 and IWD4U peaked at #8. 10-9 to Mike on this one. 


 TRACK 8- PYT vs Baby I'm a Star. Another super close one. About as Close as Ryan Bailey and team USA to Usain Bolt and Jamaica in that relay.
Mike wins this one, but not by much. Both really solid efforts, but c'mon! This is PYT we're talkin about. 10-9 Mike. Okay, one round to go...Prince needs a knockout here. (You can't win a decision over the champ, right?). 

TRACK 9- Lady in My Life vs. Purple Rain. Oh my Goodness! This is absolutely ridiculous. We're talking Irish Mickey Ward vs. Arturo Gatti ridiculous.  

Lady in my life is soo strong that if you ever hear an instrumental version you  STILL love it.

 "And I Will Keep You Warm
Through The Shadows Of The Night
Let Me Touch You With My Love
I Can Make You Feeeeeeel So Right"

against Prince's

 "Honey I know, I KNOW, I know..times are changing...."
Prince performs the hell outta this song! Actually, this is like Rocky vs. Apollo Creed and they both knock each other down

 ......but Purple Rain gets up just before the 10 count!

Who's got it better than us?

I like a little playful ribbing as much as the next guy, so when confronted with this rather unflattering representation of my team I couldn't help but hit back. Of course, the fact that a member of haider nation posted this on my Facebook page added a little extra incentive to retort (and that's why it's written "to" a hating raider). First, here's the article. (Go ahead and right click and open in another window so you flip back to my musings for the last word.) http://deadspin.com/5930455/?utm_campaign=socialflow_deadspin_twitter&utm_source=deadspin_twitter&utm_medium=socialflow

 So here's what I had to say... To the writer's first point, Palmer will break your heart again as he completes more and more passes to the guys in the other colored jerseys. Shoulda sacked up and kept your boy Jason Campbell. Smith will dump off to Gore, James, Davis and will do so long enough to lull you to sleep for a bomb to Moss. Alex threw long strikes last year, guys just dropped several of them. The west coast office is not sexy like Air Coryell . Similarly, the triangle offense is not as fun to watch as Lob City but it makes guys like Armstrong, Kerr, Longley, Cartwright, Caffey, and Paxson look pretty damn good while they're making major contributions.

To his second point, yes, poor Kyle Williams has to get over that mental hurdle but short memories are key to every great athlete. Just ask your boy Sea Bass of Wide Right U. http://www.foxnews.com/sports/2010/09/26/cardinals-finally-play-home-face-gradkowski-led-raiders/.


  Our defense IS that good. The NFC West offenses do leave something to be desired but the QB play in the AFC WEST isn't exactly likely to produce many hall of famers either. I bring that up to say that you guys STILL couldn't stop any of those *cough* gun slingers. Philip Rivers is the only decent one in the division and he wasn't scared as he dropped 38 pts on y'all fearsome frontline. Oh and at least we didn't get Tebowed. Giving up 38 to Rivers is understandable, but Tebowed? Really??? And you don't stop the run. What do you stop other than serving beer after the 3rd quarter?

 I'll concede the point about shopping at farmer's markets and antique stores on Sundays while sipping wine and eating artisan cheeses. Touché . Some of our fans are kinda wack and don't love the raiders more than they love their own mothers like your silver and black bandits. For that matter, you have s better song, a better poem, and better tailgates. Keep your poetry. We'll take the W's.

Thirty days to Enlightenment

I became a Spanish teacher today. No, really...I did. Well, sort of. I am covering the classroom as a substitute teacher for a high school class of Spanish students. Yes, me, Mr. Sometimey-Spanish. Sure, I got A's in Spanish class in high school, but I've skated by on a very crude understanding of the language ever since, often drifting in and out of being able to form intelligible sentences depending on my necessity to use the language. I always promise myself that I'm going to practice and make dramatic improvements but it has yet to happen.

I've never tried teaching Spanish though. Perhaps that is the key to my getting over the proverbial "chepa". I would've thought this a ridiculous plan for improving my Spanish language skills, but desperate times indeed call for desperate measures. Stay tuned for the next 30 days as I chronicle this experience and please do wish me luck. Well, I'll wish myself luck because I'm not convinced that anybody reads this except for me.

Letting the air outta Jordan

Like most other kids I knew, I wanted to be a professional athlete when I grew up. I guess my parents didn't see anything terribly wrong with this, even playing enablers to some extent by satisfying my desire to wear whatever Dr. J or Magic was wearing on their feet. I always did all of my school work first, so I guess they figured that I had my priorities in the right place. Besides, they were educators and anything short of that wouldn't have been acceptable. Unlike most of my friends, however, I refused to utter this aloud after about the age of 12. A very confident child, I fashioned myself on being more rational and complete in my thinking, realizing that I would indeed need a “real” profession to hang my hat on in addition to that pipe dream.

I wanted to dribble like Isiah dribbled, run like Edwin Moses ran, and say “Hi, Mom!” at the appropriate time when the camera panned over to me on the sideline. The walls of my bedroom were covered with posters of Doc, Magic, Kareem, and even Bird. I played all the sports, so Dwight Gooden and Joe Montana also had their place as well. About the time I started to replace some of these with a picture of Ola Ray, or Janet Jackson that I clipped out of Right On or Jayne Kennedy out of Ebony, along came a guy named Mike. He changed everything.

That guy was must see TV. This was back when Sportscenter was only on late at night, and only for those that had cable. The rest of us would have to check for his highlights during the sports news on channel 2, then 5, then channel 7 and channel 4. (You had to memorize the order to make sure that you didn't miss anything amazing that he did). He came to town only once per season and even though he was on a bad team, the tickets would still sell out. Luckily for me, my hometown Golden State Warriors weren't any good so with some planning it was pretty easy to be one of those in the stadium when Jordan and the Bulls came to town. At $15 per ticket for GOOD seats, my parents didn't mind taking me either. During one spring break while visiting an aunt in Chicago, I got to see him score 61 points in old Chicago Stadium. They were playing the Hawks and Dominique Wilkins had 34 points and the game winner. Losing a game like that was typical of the Bulls during those years.

Off the court, anything he touched turned to gold. He could make you buy burgers at McDonald's. He made Gatorade a drink that you actually wanted and not just when the doctor suggested that your mom get it for you to keep your fluids up after a bout with the flu. But where he really cemented his iconic status was in the sneaker game with Nike and the creation of his Air Jordan brand. For fifteen years straight, my wardrobe contained at least one article of clothing donning this winged logo. I finally came to my senses around 2000 when it occurred to me that paying $185 for a pair of sneakers was absolutely absurd. At 28 years old, already having reached my basketball mountaintop, I had come to the realization that they would not make me jump any higher and that I was only putting more money into his already very full pockets. I haven't bought any of his stuff since. This was about the time when he decided that he wanted to be a Washington Wizard. Even he wasn't magical enough to make that situation a winner. In fact, the only unbelievable thing that he did in that uniform was to fail to be unbelievable, showing that even Superman loses a step and gets old.

I really wish he would've stayed retired after that famous shot against B-Russ and the Jazz in the 1998 NBA Finals. It doesn't get any better than that. All of us, in all of our driveways as kids, made that shot as we counted down the imaginary clock audibly, falling out of bounds, jumping over the bushes and falling on to the lawn as we made the buzzer sound and the ensuing artificial crowd noise. You make that shot and you go in the house. Game over. His coming back with Washington was like me missing my next 5 shots after the out-of-bounds, over-the-bushes shot and then going in the house and you KNOW that's against the rules.

Add a bitter and downright pompous acceptance speech to the Basketball Hall of Fame last Friday night to that list of things that I wish he hadn't done. Keep in mind that in addition to that Wizards washout, this man also had a very lackluster stint with the Birmingham Barons of the Chicago White Sox farm system. He was grieving the loss of his father and had just won his 3rd championship in a row, so I gave him a pass for this. Besides, dropping 55 on the Knicks at the Garden about a week after his return to basketball made for good theater and forever cemented his legend, or so I thought. Following inspiring and impassioned speeches by fellow greats John Stockton and David Robinson and legendary coaches Vivian Stringer and Jerry Sloan, Michael Jeffrey Jordan once again left me looking at my television screen in utter disbelief when he took the podium. This time, however, that was not a good thing. Where they were gracious and humbled by the honor, he was arrogant and bitter. All that preceded him had something complimentary to say to or about their mentors or coaches that may have challenged them and forced them to overcome adversity. Michael all but chastised the high school coach that cut him from the varsity team as a sophomore, saying “I wanted to make sure you understood. You made a mistake dude.” Not that it's 30 years later and you're a 46 year old man or anything, Michael. Whereas John Stockton thanked his wife and kids, saying something nice about them and highlighting what made each of them special to him, His Air-ness could only muster “I wouldn't want to be you guys” to his.

I've seen my share of retirement speeches and been to countless awards dinners in my short time on this earth. Michael's remarks will not be in the conversation of “greatest ever” speeches that I've ever heard, as would be fitting a legend of his stature. Unfortunately, his will more likely be stored along with the regrettable ramblings of drunken best men and maids of honor, slurring embarrassing and unintelligible gibberish to the masses during the slot on the program alotted for tributes to the bride and groom.


We all knew you were the greatest, Michael, and since you have not yet stepped in the ring as a professional heavyweight boxer, there is no need for you to alert us to that fact. I was embarrassed for you up there. I wished that somebody would laugh with you when you attempted to be humorous, but then I realized that humor was not your intent. I daresay that the outspoken Muhammad Ali would've been infinitely more humble than you were. But then again, he is truly the Greatest.

Last to know

Ever feel like everyone around you knows something that you don't? I've been dogged by this troubling feeling for a few days now. I can't quite put a finger on it, and no one has said as much, but still I am uneasy. I guess it's more what they are not saying that has been eating at me.

I feel like my life has been one big question that everyone else seems to know the answer to, and has taken the liberty to act accordingly, neglecting to inform me however. Meanwhile, I run around like the hamster on the wheel thinking that I'm going to make progress. Like that hamster, I fear that I will discover that no progress at all has been made despite my best efforts. Chapter 9 of my beloved Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison comes to mind. The main character, who by Ellison's sheer genius shall and does remain nameless throughout the entire epic, is finally enlightened by some sympathetic soul that is incensed and disgusted by the atrocity that has been committed against this man. The man presents our hero with the very letter that said hero had been carrying around and presenting to prospective employers, not at all knowing its content. To make a long story short, the letter detailed a rather discouraging account of how our hero was to be made to think he would be working toward making his way back to finish his studies, and to becoming successful when in actuality, the letter's recipients were commanded to see to it that our hero never made it to the end of his rainbow and furthermore that he must never be made aware of the impossibility of his reaching that goal. Could that be me? Is the current rut in which I'm residing an exercise in futility that all of my close confidants have come to terms with in their own way? Is their silence their way of concealing their pity?


Not too many things in life are more disconcerting than feeling that others know your fate and won't share with you, but that those trusted individuals in your camp hold out on you. That's how I'm feeling. Loneliness is not nearly a strong enough word to describe the void in the pit of my stomach. Is it that I can only truly trust myself and my maker?