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?

My Element

It's a bit disconcerting to think about the fact that the desk in my room seems to have become the kryptonite to my writing creatively of late. The last 3 things I've written have been at locations other than said desk. As I type this right now, I am lying down on my bed to the right of that desk. I just can't quite figure out why.

Oh sure, the fact that my desk is covered in a mountain of mail, random papers, and some CDs among other things is the obvious scapegoat. I don't buy it though. I've penned some of my best work under much more wretched conditions at this very desk. However, the content and personal action items contained in this random paperwork might be a bit daunting. Maybe my desk is becoming too much of a handle business or face reality place. I sit there and I inevitably pick up the phone and start to make some sense of things like my finances (or lack thereof).

I called myself getting my so-called mojo back last week at Starbucks. There's something about that place that has historically made me write. I might not write the most coherent things but I write. Maybe I feel a kinship with the other writers (i know that...that's so cliche!) and coffee shop types that are there. The music is always good and despite all of the people coming and going in and out of the door, I manage to maintain focus. Perhaps it's a concentration thing. At home, being focus takes discipline the way shooting 1000 jumpshots in a gym by yourself does. You can shoot 675 and nobody will know but you. Being at Starbucks is like being in a noisy arena and heading to the free throw line with :02 on the clock and you're down by 1. You focus on that spot on the back of the rim, block out the crowd and calmly knock down the shots. I guess I'm not so coherent here either. Maybe I am. I'll read it again tomorrow to be sure.

But back to the matter at hand. My desk just doesn't seem to be "where the magic happens" anymore. For that matter, not much magic has happened anywhere lately. Just for the sake of science, I vow to clean that desk and make it functional again. Maybe that will allow me to get organized. If you had asked me last week, I would've probably given you some excuse about how being too organized will make my writing too methodical and less creative. That would be precisely the antithesis of what I aim to do. As they say, though, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I ran

As soon as my eyes opened this morning I already knew that today was going to be one of those days. Just what “those” would exactly encompass would not be immediately revealed, but my funky attitude was poised to take the reigns and lead me down a path. It wasn't at all a we-want-the-funk-give-up-the-funk-gotta-have-that-funk type of attitude. There was no real type of thing going down nor any getting down. There surely was not a whole lot of rhythm going round. There would be no images of Soul Brother #1 and the JB's dancing at the foot of my bed, Maceo belting out the first few bars of “Make it Funky”. Not even a more cooled out, Pop-Top-40, R ‘n’ B,Urban-Contemporary, Easy-Listening, Funk Love. Mine was more of a toxic leak, contamination, foulest stench in the air so thick you can cut right through it with a knife kind of funk. There was nothing positive about my funk.


I most definitely had a scowled countenance. Pretty foul indeed. I know. Especially given that my morning rise-and-shine ritual starts with “Thank you, Lord for waking me to see another glorious day....” Foul. Try as I may to shake this off, I hoped that He couldn't sense an ounce of disingenuousness in my mental recitation. (I don't do the 8-year-old-now-i-lay-me-down-to-sleep-kneeling-next-to-my-bed-out-loud-prayer...do you?). Omniscience is a funny thing and yet I dare to wonder. In the words of the immortal Marvin Gaye, I woke up with that “make me wanna holler, throw up all my hands” (all 2 of 'em) type feeling, and it was all because I got up late. Seriously. That's all it was.

It was as if my whole day would be ruined, and subsequently the whole balance in the universe would be upset because my clock showed 8:19am. I didn't have anywhere to be. No meeting. No interview. Nothing. I was instantly Mr. Doom and Gloom all because of this notion that I have developed that my days are all down hill if I haven't finished working out by 8am. That's what I get for going to bed at 130am. The theory goes that if I don't get it done by then, something will undoubtedly come up and as the day drags on, somehow I won't get to work out and in addition to a dark cloud following me all day, parking tickets being placed on my car, and the IRS sending me a notice of their intent to audit me, I'll feel like a slacker for having missed that day.

I dropped to the floor and did 25 push-ups, as if that would lessen the impact. I turned on the television and every news outlet was all abuzz about Iran and the demonstrations that were going on over there due to some suspect dealings surrounding the results of their presidential election. Tens of thousands of people marched down Tehran's main thoroughfare in a show of their dissatisfaction with the outcome. Incumbent President Ahmadinejad would remain in power. Well, sort of. There's still the Supreme Leader or Ayatollah by the name of Khamenei who is commander in Chief of the military among other things. Who's really in charge? Through my democratic-republic goggles, it seems a tad confusing if not thought provoking. I listened as some CNN talking heads referenced a quote from President Obama that suggested either choice would probably have the same sort of policy toward the U.S. In other words, Iran is still gonna do what they're gonna do. Without getting too deep into thought about the political ramifications of the situation, I started to think about how it would affect me. Is this going to put a damper on any plans to cross Iran off as a place that I've visited on our planet? It's been tenuous at best these last few years as it is. I still tell myself that I'll go anywhere (with the exception of any war zones like Baghdad or Fallujah) despite the crazy facial responses and otherwise negative reactions that I get from friends and loved ones when I say such things. No, I'm not really that shallow. I'm aware of the tremendous civil rights gains that are potentially at stake for the first time in that country, especially for women. Recall that I'm still sitting at the edge of my bed at this point, in my boxers. Deep thoughts are not exactly raging through my mind yet.

As fate would have it, I managed to salvage the day. Not only did I get through a couple items from a very ill-conceived to-do list, but I ran. Forgive me for the shameless play on words, but this was actually a big deal. I haven't run in a year. What turned out to be a much more major knee surgery (September '08) than previously thought has not only kept me very far removed from the basketball courts that I love to roam but has also made me seriously consider taking up another past time like water polo or becoming the black Michael Phelps. (Why do WE always have to become the black-something? Do you think the folks at Harvard are calling themselves the Morehouse of the North? Food for thought for another time...). Yes, I've spent a lot of time in the pool when I'm not at a physical therapy session. I like swimming a lot but not being able to run has made me feel rather confined. Shoot, sometimes I feel downright invalid.

I love to run. I always have. There have been times over the last 10 months that I didn't know if I'd ever be able to run again. Running has always been such a big part of my life. In addition to being a fairly necessary part of all of the sports that I've played my whole life it has often been quite therapeutic. It has the power to clear my head. It has the unique ability to allow me to find out what my physical limits are like no other exercise can. I don't know what it is , but I haven't often been able to get the desired amount of intensity in my workouts when they don't include some running. The void left by running has indeed been tough to fill.

How ironic it is that the long dormant spirit of revolution in a people long kept under wraps by their circumstance and societal norm is emerging on the same day, at the same time that my long (well, not quite as long, but it seemed like it) unfulfilled desire to lace up my Nike's and blaze a trail down the street would be satisfied. Iran. Hmmmm? I think I'm ready for that deep thought now.

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

Blind as a bat or No Attention to Detail!

As I revisit this entry a mere 20 days later, I have absolutely no idea what my train of thought was. Such is the problem with that proverbial train stopping at every station. Perhaps I should have jotted down some notes or given myself some keywords to trigger a memory and get me going again the next time that I sat down. I guess that's why they say that hindsight is 20/20. None of these ideas presented themselves the last time I was looking at this entry and choosing what seemed like such a clever "same bat time, same bat channel" title.

But past is indeed prologue. Now I know what should be done the next time I can't finish an entry. I guess that makes this rambling entry a necessary evil to be referred to whenever I can't recall why exactly I should be making some notes or a succinct little outline about what is on my mind. Okay, I'll spare you any further deliberating. I really don't have anything further to say here.

Pure Genius

I almost got a Darwin Award nomination today. You're familiar with these, aren't you? They're the ones that you usually read about in a forwarded email from one of your friends or maybe the morning commute DJ on the radio will read them. Inevitably, there will be some yahoo that came to his or her premature demise in the most ridiculous of manners.

Some border on urban legend, while others seem downright plausible. One of my favorites is about the guy that somehow commandeered a jet engine and strapped it to the top of his sedan. Ultimately, said tool ran into the side of a cliff as he was unable to stop his car after reaching speeds in excess of 300 mph. Allegedly, this is how it went down, but this might be one of the stories that falls into the legend category.

My situation as much more of what I like to term an "honest mistake". I didn't do anything crazy like drop a frozen turkey into a pot of hot peanut oil and wake up in the hospital with 3rd degree burns wondering if anyone saved any sweet potato pie for me. I actually followed the directions on the box and didn't see any reason why my situation might be the least bit tenuous. What I didn't account for, however, was the fact that not even the meteorologists ever really have an idea what is going to happen with the weather.

I've had a fruit fly situation for the past 5 or 6 days and after several failed "natural" attempts at eradicating them, I opted to get a "fogger" from the store and take care of them once and for all. The instructions said to start the fogger and leave the premises for 4 hours, and upon your return, open the windows to allow proper ventilation for about 30 minutes before remaining in your domicile. That seems easy enough, right? Yeah, I thought so.

Initially, the only grey area was in the specifics. The devil in the details as they say. It said that one can was sufficient for an area 625 square feet. My place is close to 900 sq. ft. and I didn't want to "under"-do the situation, so I guess what I did amounted to slightly over-doing it. Theoretically, two cans should take care of 1250 square feet so while I'd be laying it on kind of thick, I'd be assured of my problem going away.

I returned from hanging out in my building's lobby after about 30 minutes and found that the poison in the air was still thick enough to make one choke, so I left again for another 30. I had opened all of the windows, but I guess this was just that rare night when the wind wasn't whipping around my top floor condo. At the two hour mark, I went back in to turn the fans on in the bathroom, on the stove, and plug in the little portable fan as well. At this point, I was cursing my decision to not get this done in the afternoon as it was now approaching 1am. I tried holding my front door open for the next 30 minutes to get some air flow, but that didn't prove to solve the problem very quickly either.

Finally, at about 245am I decided that my place was about as aired out as it was going to be and I returned to clean the counter tops and such so that I might return to normal operations the next day.

To make a long story short, my lungs reminded me of how lucky I had actually been when I awakened at about 730am in a fit of coughing.

And the winner is...

Morning Inspiration

I was having trouble sleeping this morning. This is nothing new in my post-knee-operation existence. The pain isn't always bad like it was right after the surgery 6 months ago (wow...exactly 6 months ago today!), but it comes and goes. This was the first time in recent memory, however, that the pain awakened me. I was probably in and out of good sleep from about 3am on and could more than faintly hear the various sounds that my Blackberry Storm makes whenever a text or email comes in.

Since at this hour, the only thing that might be coming in would be junk mail of some sort, I didn't see the need to reach for the phone and stop trying to pretend that I could still go back to sleep. When the email sound chimed at 445am, I finally did. It was some stupid message from Amazon.com that I immediately deleted without even opening. Since I already had the thing in my hand, I decided to scroll down and see what other junk had come in since the previous evening. Except for a forwarded message from an old friend, everything else was of the Spam variety. The forwarded message might have ordinarily been deleted on sight, but at this hour, I needed something to distract me from the pain.

I figured I'd look at the first little bit of it before hitting the delete button, but it kept me quite intrigued. By the time I was finished reading, I didn't know whether to shed a tear or get up and tackle the day. I was blown away. I chose the latter, and with great enthusiasm. I haven't jumped out of bed at that hour and with such vigor in a long time. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the gym working out. I have included the message below. I trust that you will enjoy it as much as I did.





Woman and a Fork

There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things 'in order,' she contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.

She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.

Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her. 'There's one more thing,' she said excitedly.

'What's that?' came the Pastor's reply.

'This is very important,' the young woman continued. 'I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.'

The Pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.

'That surprises you, doesn't it?' the young woman asked.

'Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request,' said the Pastor.

The young woman explained. 'My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your fork.' It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!'

So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder 'What's with the fork?' Then I want you to tell them: 'Keep your fork ..the best is yet to come.'

The Pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She KNEW that something better was coming.


At the funeral people were walking by the young woman's casket and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Pastor heard the question, 'What's with the fork?' And over and over he smiled.

During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told th e people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either.

He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come.

Nine is just fine

I think it was last year that I had an entry called "8 is great" or something like that. Wait...I'll look it up. Ah yes! Here it is

KNDOFBLU

I was heading East on 580 today when I saw it. I was probably playing taxi, going to get my kids from school or maybe taking them to one of their practices. I had just made the curve around the Lake and was passing the Park Boulevard exit.

KNDOFBLU

No, it's not a long acronym for something. It was the license plate on the car that was in front of me. "How cool is that?!" I thought. I wished I had thought of that. Oh..what? You don't get it? Kind of Blue. Yeah...THAT Kind of Blue. Yes, my mind is always on the Miles Davis channel. "Wouldn't it be even more perfect if KCSM 91.1 were playing some Miles right now," I mused. But they weren't. It didn't matter. I was lost in the moment.

Who's car was it? This must be one cool cat. In my mind I started to create a picture of the owner of the vehicle upon which these plates sat. He was probably some late 40s to mid 50s cat with a thick beard, wearing a muslim kufi cap. He was Yusef Lateef. No...wait. He's driving a BMW. It's not just any BMW but a Dinan 5 series wagon. Okay...scratch the kufi. It's gotta be a beret now. Keep the bald head, but now he's Delroy Lindo. His air freshener probably smelled like incense and surely he was also listening to 91.1 like I was.

Traffic was pretty thick so I couldn't get up next to the car to confirm my suppositions. I was still stuck on how cool this was. How cool this cat must've been. I started thinking like a 7-year old. This cat oughta be my friend. If you had a cool bike or a really cool collection of Legos or if you TOO could sing along to the Sugarhill Gang's Rapper's Delight or maybe if you played basketball, you had a good shot at being my friend. I was using the same logic here. This Kind of Blue license plate and the BMW and the imagined beret and incense were the equivalent of the Star Wars Lego set with the X-wings and the entire Death Star. Simply Cool!

I felt so inadequate. My Murano didn't seem as cool as his Dinan BMW, and my state issued license plate with the random alphanumeric characters had exactly NO character. It was like I just had the run-of-the-mill Lego set that could only make square houses and stuff like that.

Who likes Miles Davis more than me? Shouldn't I have some expression of my Miles-ness somewhere? Maybe I should turn up my radio. I should switch to disc 4 in the changer and "pump" Miles version of Autumn Leaves so that everybody can hear it. I should have these plates. Pump your breaks chief. Last I checked, envy was indeed one of the seven deadlies.

Traffic finally broke and I was able to switch lanes and almost get up to wear I could sneak a peek at the "new" coolest cat on the freeway (my title had been relinquished instantly upon sight of the plates). The brake lights were making me nervous though. Each time I'd almost get to wear I could see the driver, the car in front of me would slow down and I'd lose ground again. The suspense was killing me. Then, just like that it was over. The car in front of me moved, I hit the gas just enough to gain ground on Mr. KNDOFBLU, glanced to my left and saw...a frazzled, nervous, middle-aged white woman, gripping the steering wheel like it were her only salvation from falling off the side of a cliff in a tornado. Oh well. At least I'm still the coolest cat on the freeway during rush hour.

Easiest $100 I ever made...

Renaissance man that I am, I tried my hand at substitute teaching for the first time today in the Oakland Unified School District. Now, I'd definitely accept the label of try-anything-once-type (with the possible exception of eating something like a cockroach are taking any illegal drugs) but if you had told me a few months ago that I'd be a substitute teacher on a Friday in February of 2009, I would've looked at you like you were crazy. Unemployment will send you down some interesting roads indeed. I daresay that there will be sojourns down the less traveled in my immediate future. That's okay though. It all gives me interesting things upon which to reflect.

All these years I've wondered where substitutes come from. Well, actually, I haven't really, but that just sounded good. This is truly one of those things that I have given zero brain energy to in my 37 years. We've all had substitutes take the reigns in our respective classrooms at one time or another, but never did I wonder, "Hmm...i wonder how they arrived here this morning?" I guess I tend to save my curiosities for much more pertinent questions like, "How did she get all that into that?" I'm dangerously close to digressing here, so I'll right the ship.

Here's the drill. Subs must declare their availability for a given day either through some sort of automated system or by calling in for a job. Since my info is not in the automated system yet, I'm relegated to the call in method for now. The wind was almost totally out of my sails this morning at 630am when for the second day in a row I had not discovered any available assignments. I decided to attempt to take care of another errand after leaving the gym this morning, dipping over to the courthouse to make a 3rd (and unsuccessful) trip to straighten out this traffic ticket situation. More on that another day. I was at the front of the line, arguing with the volunteer information clerk about how absurd a process their process was that kept causing me to come back when my phone rang and went to voicemail. I called back as soon as I was outside heading for my car to discover that there was indeed a late assignment for me. Actually, there were 3!

It was already 855am, and school had already started, but they still had some openings. I had the choice of 3rd graders or middle school kids. I tried to quickly weigh my options as to which would be the smoothest transition for me as a newbie. To make a long story short, I went to the middle school. The funny thing is that the middle school is exactly half a block from my old house in East Oakland.

Boy did I stumble upon a cushy assignment. You want small class sizes? Twenty students in a class? How 'bout 25 students in the whole school!?? There were 5 boys in my first class and 4 girls in my second class. (For some reason, they separate the boys from the girls.) After those two classes, there was a Black History Month assembly/presentation that lasted almost 90 minutes and was followed by a soul food pot luck.

When all of this was done, it was after 2pm so they let the kids essentially have "recess" on the playground until school was out. How will any future assignment EVER top this. The bar has perhaps been set too high.

Sign of the Times

I absolutely love it when I'm on time to something. That's not to say that I am chronically late, but I am the type that prefers to arrive right on time rather than get there early and wait. As you can imagine, airports are annoying to me in this way. Not all of them are, but definitely the ones that aren't equipped with a whole lot of stimulation. If I could get there right when it's time to board, I'd be a happy man. I manage within the confines of their time regulations though.

In my perfect universe, I'd knock off all of the items on a particular day's to-do list methodically, and simultaneously very precisely within the supposed allotment of time. Things like traffic, long lines at the bank or post office, or a lack of parking spaces are rarely figured in and usually derail my best laid plans ever so slightly. Today, however, I had actually managed to do the impossible: I tricked myself with the very elementary method of setting an alarm earlier. On my virtual organizer, I had slated 3-5pm as the time when I would need to be at the Oakland Unified School District's office to participate in the Substitute teacher's fair. The event actually started at 330pm, but somehow my body and mind were proceeding as though I needed to be there by 3pm. I was dressed by 2pm and decided that I could stroll over to the credit union to make my car payment prior to heading for the fair. No traffic (i walked) and no lines set me back and I was back in my place making a sandwich by 250pm. At 320pm I was doing the unthinkable. Having already parked the car, I was walking up to the building thinking that I just might get a jump on the crowd and as a result be able to leave early.

Jim Carrey's Dick Harper (Fun with Dick and Jane)had the same pep in his step that I had as I walked into the OUSD office. Like Dick, I may have even been whistling the most care-free of tunes. Unlike Dick, there was no mad dash up the stairs, racing against other would-be candidates for the "hot" job opportunity, nor would I have to sabotage their progress with a well aimed brief case. However, reaching the top of the stairs, I experienced the exact same kicked-in-the-stomach-by-an-old-mule feeling that Dick must've felt as he emerged to find himself in a line 200-deep with guys in suits like his, carrying brief cases like his.

There were a mere 96 people in my crowded hallway, but that was more than enough for me to get the picture that a) our economy is pretty bad and b) i wasn't the only one with the brilliant idea to be a substitute teacher and c) it was going to be a little tougher than I thought to secure consistent work on a day-to-day basis in this camp. The folks at the district office were clearly overwhelmed as well. Had they known there were going to be that many folks, they might have re-thought their strategy.

They started out by calling in people to interview one at a time, but this proved to be much too slow and the line in that hallway was not getting any shorter. I had purposely not brought anything to read because I figured I would be fully engaged by some presentation or by someone asking me questions. I ended up surfing the internet on my Blackberry Storm (it's a good thing that the touch-screen has a zoom function) for the bulk of the 90 minutes that I sat there waiting at the end of the hall.

By the time I finally got called, they were taking folks in 6 at a time for group interviews. I guess none of us said anything to make the red flags go up (well, actually one lady definitely did!) because they offered all of us employment; well, employment in the sense that "hornaleros" are workers as they sit and wait to jump in the back of somebody truck in the Fruitvale district.

And so begins another chapter in my interesting life....