1975- On April 29, Operation Frequent Wind went into full effect, evacuating thousands of South Vietnamese, U.S. and Foreign Nationals from the U.S. Embassy and several other points around the city of Saigon, just ahead of the Communist North Vietnamese forces who were poised to take the city. Those that couldn't get out by air crammed on to boats or something resembling them. The pullout of U.S. forces, effectively ended the Vietnam War as the North Vietnamese claimed victory over the South Vietnamese regime.
1992- On April 29, I was in my Af-Am Film Lit class at UCLA when somebody burst into our classroom to exclaim excitedly, "They're about to read the verdict! Hurry!" With that, my professor led everyone out of the classroom in a near sprint to a coffee shop near Bunche Hall. We all watched in disbelief as overseers Briceno, Wind, and Koon were acquitted of the beating of Rodney King within an inch of his life. Even though we had all witnessed the savage behavior of Los Angeles' finest on videotape, the jury failed to convict them. Within the hour, it was goin' down all over the southland. The justice system had gone too far this time, and my people weren't going to just stand there and do nothing about it. People rioted and looted all into the night, committing unspeakable acts of violence in some cases, while burning many neighborhoods to the ground. No retail establishment was safe, even in tony Westwood where I was at school. Many of my friends took to the streets for the shopping spree, but this was minor compared to the devastation over in the 'hood.
On the local, National, and World news for the next 48 hours, the chaos was the top story. No...it was the ONLY story. The city of Los Angeles had been virtually shut down as curfews were put into effect. A State of Emergency was declared. The National Guard was brought in. Ironically, they were dispatched to places like Bel-Air and Brentwood. It was a surreal atmosphere. Classes were cancelled. We really couldn't go anywhere, and the smell of a city on fire was everywhere.
2006- It was April 29 and I was in Ho Chi Minh City (the former Saigon) on a business trip. I had come along with a client that had attended the training class that I had just given in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and he insisted that we had much to get done. I had no idea that it was anything other than Saturday as I stepped off the plane. On the approach, however, I did notice how eerily familiar this place looked. Very rarely do you go somewhere and it looks just like all of the footage you've seen from the old news clips and even the Hollywood movies on the subject. It was as if time had stood still for the past 40 years. We drove past the "Unification" Palace on my way in from the airport, but I didn't think much of it at the time. It all became glaringly apparent how big a deal this date in history was when I woke up the next morning. Tanks rumbled down the street followed by soldiers and there were red flags with a gold star in the middle of them hanging from everywhere. Their parade was quite a spectacle. I had only seen things like this on the nightly news whenever they talked about the Soviet Union or China, now here I was right in the middle of it.
Over the next two days, as I was left with vast amounts of free time, I gained even greater perspective on how significant this holiday was to them as almost nobody was working. Most of the people that I was to train were off until Wednesday. I did meet with the CEO of the company and a couple of his employees at a coffee shop, but they couldn't even get into their own office building. None of them seemed at all worried by the fact that I was there essentially "chillin'" for days. I phoned one of my Vietnamese co-workers back at the office and told him about the holiday and how I wasn't doing anything. Boy did I take him back.
"Holiday!? It was no holiday for me. My family and I barely made it on to a raft with all of our belongings on that day. I was 10 years old and was stuck on that thing for a few days. We lost everything!"
That conversation made me really open my eyes and start checking things out. They say that history is written by the winners, and that was definitely true here. The museum that was across from the Unification Palace proudly displayed a captured U.S. Military helicopter and tank in its courtyard, and images of "Uncle Ho" (Ho Chi Minh) were everywhere. Nowhere more prominent than in the post office which was one of the most beautiful you'll ever see. The armed military police that stood on the corners of the major streets were a constant reminder that somebody was always watching around there, and that if anything went down, they'd quick rise up to squash it. Unification was the polite word that they used for the takeover that occurred on that day.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Back in the Saddle
It's been a few days since my last entry, but I'm back. Judging by all of the fan mail, email, and irate voice mail messages, I was apparently missed quite a bit. Allow me to issue my most sincere apology and a whole truckload of excuses. Okay, I'll spare you the excuses. It's been a busy few days since I last had some free time and a free thought. Well, that's not totally true. I did have some free time, but for much of that, I had no internet access, so we'll chalk it up to being busy. Let me catch you up.
On Thursday, I worked from home, getting caught up with a customer whose whole world was coming crashing down as he was having extreme difficulties making something work while his supervisors breathed down his neck. While I was on this extended phone call/chat/troubleshooting session, I got a call from my daughter reminding me that she wanted me to fry some chicken and bring it to her potluck/presentation/parent's night for the science-for-girls program that she's been a part of this year. I thought I had plenty of time to get this done, but as the day wore on and I was still dealing with this client, I started to have doubts. With 2 hours remaining, I had decided to buy some chicken from Popeye's or the Colonel. However, the amount of money that they wanted for that amount of fowl was downright foul, so I hopped in the car and high-tailed it on over to the store to buy some of my own chicken. I got home and proceeded to fry enough chicken for 20 people in a little under 90 minutes. I had 2 frying pans going at one point and its a miracle that I wasn't covered in flour by the time I had to dash out the door to deliver this bird.
Friday it was jazz, strip steak, and dessert. A wonderful evening indeed. Oops! I almost forgot about the shrimp cocktail. When you get off to a good start like that, you've gotta bring it home with something solid on the back-end. Dessert was so good that it didn't even make it back to the table, indulging right there at the counter.
Saturday, should've been somewhat relaxing and should've contained some idle time but I was put in charge of music by my frantic cousin whose to-do list had become too much to handle. My travel drought was about to end as I would board Southwest flight 1204 to Los Angeles to attend my cousin's 40th birthday party. She said she wanted something cool, but funky. Smooth and sophisticated, but something that might make people want to dance. "I got this...don't worry." She was worried though. Real worried. I came through in grand style. Amoeba records is always a good spot for such a requirement. I grabbed a couple mix-tape selections by DJ Haylow and the latest from Madlib ("Who!?? What the...? I told you Jay-Z!" exclaimed my cousin) and headed for the airport. When I landed at LAX, she was not there to pick me up, but on the other side of town picking up a cake and still in search of the elusive magic purse that she had been trying to corral for the last 4 days (and 4 hours on this day). So I sat and waited...and waited. Finally, she sent a friend of hers to pick me up. Langston and I were making our way out of Soviet Asia so the time flew by. The party was a nice little affair at a swanky Indian restaurant called Tanzore and even though we arrived nearly 3 hours late (yes, I was with the guest of honor)a good time was had by all. By the way, my music was a hit.
Sunday was lounging in La La Land. First it was breakfast at the Coffee Co. and then a stroll through Santa Monica's 3rd Street Promenade. One of my other cousin's was hell-bent on doing a cupcake tour or Los Angeles, so we accompanied her on this leg of it. Yummy Donuts on Wilshire was the spot of the moment. Talk about decadence. There were 6 of us and she ordered 8 huge cupcakes. These weren't your average cupcakes, like you might expect to get from a plastic wrapper in the junk food aisle. Although, they purposely made one to look like a Hostess cupcake, not only complete with the white swirls on the top but also injected with whipped cream in the middle. The 7up cupcake had a gummy lemon and lime on top. My favorite was the Red Velvet. She cut the cupcakes into 1/4s and we all dug in. It was a little too soon after that huge breakfast to do much more than taste, and the exorbitant amount of frosting on these cupcakes made it easy for me to adhere to that plan. Next time, I'll come hungry and bring some milk. We walked this off with a stroll to Pacific Park on the Boardwalk, and then lounged the rest of the afternoon away at the luxurious Loews Hotel, sipping Malbecs by the pool deck, that overlooked Santa Monica Beach.
More wine tasting ensued later in the evening, but why don't I use that as a nice segue for tomorrow's entry? Yeah, I thought you'd agree.
On Thursday, I worked from home, getting caught up with a customer whose whole world was coming crashing down as he was having extreme difficulties making something work while his supervisors breathed down his neck. While I was on this extended phone call/chat/troubleshooting session, I got a call from my daughter reminding me that she wanted me to fry some chicken and bring it to her potluck/presentation/parent's night for the science-for-girls program that she's been a part of this year. I thought I had plenty of time to get this done, but as the day wore on and I was still dealing with this client, I started to have doubts. With 2 hours remaining, I had decided to buy some chicken from Popeye's or the Colonel. However, the amount of money that they wanted for that amount of fowl was downright foul, so I hopped in the car and high-tailed it on over to the store to buy some of my own chicken. I got home and proceeded to fry enough chicken for 20 people in a little under 90 minutes. I had 2 frying pans going at one point and its a miracle that I wasn't covered in flour by the time I had to dash out the door to deliver this bird.
Friday it was jazz, strip steak, and dessert. A wonderful evening indeed. Oops! I almost forgot about the shrimp cocktail. When you get off to a good start like that, you've gotta bring it home with something solid on the back-end. Dessert was so good that it didn't even make it back to the table, indulging right there at the counter.
Saturday, should've been somewhat relaxing and should've contained some idle time but I was put in charge of music by my frantic cousin whose to-do list had become too much to handle. My travel drought was about to end as I would board Southwest flight 1204 to Los Angeles to attend my cousin's 40th birthday party. She said she wanted something cool, but funky. Smooth and sophisticated, but something that might make people want to dance. "I got this...don't worry." She was worried though. Real worried. I came through in grand style. Amoeba records is always a good spot for such a requirement. I grabbed a couple mix-tape selections by DJ Haylow and the latest from Madlib ("Who!?? What the...? I told you Jay-Z!" exclaimed my cousin) and headed for the airport. When I landed at LAX, she was not there to pick me up, but on the other side of town picking up a cake and still in search of the elusive magic purse that she had been trying to corral for the last 4 days (and 4 hours on this day). So I sat and waited...and waited. Finally, she sent a friend of hers to pick me up. Langston and I were making our way out of Soviet Asia so the time flew by. The party was a nice little affair at a swanky Indian restaurant called Tanzore and even though we arrived nearly 3 hours late (yes, I was with the guest of honor)a good time was had by all. By the way, my music was a hit.
Sunday was lounging in La La Land. First it was breakfast at the Coffee Co. and then a stroll through Santa Monica's 3rd Street Promenade. One of my other cousin's was hell-bent on doing a cupcake tour or Los Angeles, so we accompanied her on this leg of it. Yummy Donuts on Wilshire was the spot of the moment. Talk about decadence. There were 6 of us and she ordered 8 huge cupcakes. These weren't your average cupcakes, like you might expect to get from a plastic wrapper in the junk food aisle. Although, they purposely made one to look like a Hostess cupcake, not only complete with the white swirls on the top but also injected with whipped cream in the middle. The 7up cupcake had a gummy lemon and lime on top. My favorite was the Red Velvet. She cut the cupcakes into 1/4s and we all dug in. It was a little too soon after that huge breakfast to do much more than taste, and the exorbitant amount of frosting on these cupcakes made it easy for me to adhere to that plan. Next time, I'll come hungry and bring some milk. We walked this off with a stroll to Pacific Park on the Boardwalk, and then lounged the rest of the afternoon away at the luxurious Loews Hotel, sipping Malbecs by the pool deck, that overlooked Santa Monica Beach.
More wine tasting ensued later in the evening, but why don't I use that as a nice segue for tomorrow's entry? Yeah, I thought you'd agree.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
My Inspiration
Isn't it funny what inspires us? I was standing outside this evening, waiting for a bus that seemed like it would never come and starting to hunch over and cower to the biting wind that was nipping at my face. I knew it was going to be a little cool when I headed home and I was even prepared, donning a skull cap and gloves for my courageous stand against the elements. But when the bus didn't come when I thought it would, my bravery decided to desert me. I thought it would be there in 5 minutes, not 55 minutes. My hands began to freeze within those gloves. As I gazed across the street at the comfy chairs in the window of Starbucks and the relaxed patrons enjoying hot beverages while sitting in said chairs, I grew even more weary. But then I thought about the frigid plains of Soviet Central Asia that Langston Hughes described in the chapter that I just completed of his autobiographical I Wonder As I Wander.
The damp snow on my hat brim and on my shoulders crusted over and froze into crinkly sheets of thin ice. The snow that stuck to my face made it a white mask, as were all of the other faces around me.
This was his very vivid account of an overcrowded train ride through rural, post-Revolution Soviet Union in which he and his travel companion had to jump off the train into a snowbank as theirs was not a destination big enough to warrant a full stop, only a slowdown. Suddenly, my spine straightened up and I held my head high. I uncrossed my arms, choosing instead to let them hang confidently at my sides. It sounded like the conditions were sub-zero in Langston's recollection. My conditions were easily 45 or 50 degrees ABOVE zero. I wish I could tell you that I did not curse the tardy bus nor the constant wind at all during the final 25 minutes that I waited out there, but at least I had Brother Hughes to get me through.
I find myself doing the same thing at the gym. Well, in theory anyway. When I was working out for more than the purpose of trying to look good in the mirror, I could pretty easily coax myself into shooting 10 more jumpers, or doing 10 more push-ups, or running 10 more laps. Now, I am motivated by more cosmetic things like the aforementioned mirror, and not wanting to have to replace expensive suits in my closet.
My writing pursuits are inspired by several things. My drive to work at the craft as often as possible comes from a statement that another writer that I met made to me last year. He said that "If you're going to call yourself a writer, you have to write everyday." This has been a challenge, but I'm much improved over this time last year.
From the "billboard material" files, I occasionally like to look at an email that I received in response to a writing position I applied for last year. The editor of this rather obscure travel magazine said, among other things that my outlook was too negative and that he didn't think I had the ability to entice people to want to travel, insinuating that I would more likely scare them away from it altogether. Perhaps there was some truth to what he wrote, but the fact that he turned me down for the gig inspires me to prove him, and any others that doubt my conviction, wrong.
Finally, I'm inspired by my 9th grade english teacher, Father Cobb. It was his assigning of a "saturation report" and his less than lukewarm response to my rough draft that sent me down this path. So revamped was my final draft, that he read it to the class , stopping after one rather descriptive passage and exclaiming, "This is GREAT writing!" Thanks, Father Cobb, for making me straighten up, stand tall, and not letting me settle for mediocrity.
The damp snow on my hat brim and on my shoulders crusted over and froze into crinkly sheets of thin ice. The snow that stuck to my face made it a white mask, as were all of the other faces around me.
This was his very vivid account of an overcrowded train ride through rural, post-Revolution Soviet Union in which he and his travel companion had to jump off the train into a snowbank as theirs was not a destination big enough to warrant a full stop, only a slowdown. Suddenly, my spine straightened up and I held my head high. I uncrossed my arms, choosing instead to let them hang confidently at my sides. It sounded like the conditions were sub-zero in Langston's recollection. My conditions were easily 45 or 50 degrees ABOVE zero. I wish I could tell you that I did not curse the tardy bus nor the constant wind at all during the final 25 minutes that I waited out there, but at least I had Brother Hughes to get me through.
I find myself doing the same thing at the gym. Well, in theory anyway. When I was working out for more than the purpose of trying to look good in the mirror, I could pretty easily coax myself into shooting 10 more jumpers, or doing 10 more push-ups, or running 10 more laps. Now, I am motivated by more cosmetic things like the aforementioned mirror, and not wanting to have to replace expensive suits in my closet.
My writing pursuits are inspired by several things. My drive to work at the craft as often as possible comes from a statement that another writer that I met made to me last year. He said that "If you're going to call yourself a writer, you have to write everyday." This has been a challenge, but I'm much improved over this time last year.
From the "billboard material" files, I occasionally like to look at an email that I received in response to a writing position I applied for last year. The editor of this rather obscure travel magazine said, among other things that my outlook was too negative and that he didn't think I had the ability to entice people to want to travel, insinuating that I would more likely scare them away from it altogether. Perhaps there was some truth to what he wrote, but the fact that he turned me down for the gig inspires me to prove him, and any others that doubt my conviction, wrong.
Finally, I'm inspired by my 9th grade english teacher, Father Cobb. It was his assigning of a "saturation report" and his less than lukewarm response to my rough draft that sent me down this path. So revamped was my final draft, that he read it to the class , stopping after one rather descriptive passage and exclaiming, "This is GREAT writing!" Thanks, Father Cobb, for making me straighten up, stand tall, and not letting me settle for mediocrity.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Heart of the City
I checked out the Heart of the City Tour with Mary J. Blige and Jay-Z last night and it was worth the wait. After some character that calls himself Dream (he looked and sounded more like the love child of MC Shy D and Baby D from JJ Fad. He's got some song called Falsetto that all the little kids in the crowd seemed to know) came out to open the show, Mary and the Jigga Man were shown in a documentary short, sitting for an interview. After the mere sight of their faces on the screen sent the crowd roaring, they calmed down a bit to hang on the every word of Mary and Jay. They did this whole mutual-admiration, Brooklyn-Love thing and then talked about the impact that each other has had on hip-hop and pop culture. It was pretty cool. They came back to a different portion of this film whenever there was a costume change or some other break in the action.
It was really cool how they, being co-headliners, came out together to do Jay's Reasonable Doubt classic "Can't Knock the Hustle" with Mary singing the hook. The crowd went absolutely nuts. Jay left the stage and then Mary proceeded to give 100% of herself for the next hour and 15 minutes. Jay emerged once during that to do the Biggie Smalls rap on the remixed version of "Real Love". Mary put on a great show and showed strong vocals that even the most die-hard of fans had to admit were much more refined than performances early on in her career. She can bring it for real! She was also doing her role model/inspirational artist thing, giving uplifting messages to sistas out there, as a nice contrast to alot of the other messages being played on the radio. She left it all out on the stage, and then without intermission, Jay-Z came back.
One of the really nice aspects of the show was how both of them played with almost a full orchestra, equipped with a horn section, several guitars, percussions, back-up singers, and even violins. Of course, Jay-Z had a DJ for parts of his performance too. Jay rocked the house for about an hour himself, and then Mary re-emerged for their collaboration on "Dead Presidents", which then led right into Mary's "Take Me As I am".
I've got to say this about Jay-Z. His was not the most entertaining hip-hop show I've ever seen but it was definitely top notch. (I have to give that nod to the Roots, who I've seen rock the house 2 or 3 times, and Run DMC). It was kind of like seeing Clyde Drexler, or Hakeem Olajuwon or Charles Barkley in person during the Michael Jordan Era. They were great, but...well...you know.
It was really cool how they, being co-headliners, came out together to do Jay's Reasonable Doubt classic "Can't Knock the Hustle" with Mary singing the hook. The crowd went absolutely nuts. Jay left the stage and then Mary proceeded to give 100% of herself for the next hour and 15 minutes. Jay emerged once during that to do the Biggie Smalls rap on the remixed version of "Real Love". Mary put on a great show and showed strong vocals that even the most die-hard of fans had to admit were much more refined than performances early on in her career. She can bring it for real! She was also doing her role model/inspirational artist thing, giving uplifting messages to sistas out there, as a nice contrast to alot of the other messages being played on the radio. She left it all out on the stage, and then without intermission, Jay-Z came back.
One of the really nice aspects of the show was how both of them played with almost a full orchestra, equipped with a horn section, several guitars, percussions, back-up singers, and even violins. Of course, Jay-Z had a DJ for parts of his performance too. Jay rocked the house for about an hour himself, and then Mary re-emerged for their collaboration on "Dead Presidents", which then led right into Mary's "Take Me As I am".
I've got to say this about Jay-Z. His was not the most entertaining hip-hop show I've ever seen but it was definitely top notch. (I have to give that nod to the Roots, who I've seen rock the house 2 or 3 times, and Run DMC). It was kind of like seeing Clyde Drexler, or Hakeem Olajuwon or Charles Barkley in person during the Michael Jordan Era. They were great, but...well...you know.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Weekend Mosts
You remember that page in the yearbook where they had the Senior Mosts? You remember! They would tell you who had the prettiest eyes, who was the biggest flirt, and of course who was most likely to succeed. Well, this is like that. But different.
Most Blatant disregard:
I was in line at the Pak n' Save grocery store not far from my house. Ordinarily, this would not have been my store of choice, but it was late, I didn't feel like getting back on the freeway, and I was HUNGRY! I'm never really a fan of the warehouse type grocery stores. I enjoy the order and simplicity of a smaller, more manageable place, that is somewhat organized. If there's too much going on, I don't usually find what I'm looking for very fast, and I get frustrated. Similarly, I can't shop at a place like Marshall's or Ross. People always tell me how they get great deals at these places, but I don't really have the patience to rifle through 563 articles of clothing to find something buried deep under some other stuff. Besides, they rarely have things in my size anyway. So I'm at Pak n' Save on Friday night and I'm hungry and I'm trying to grab some things as quickly as I can, doing a quick plan of the next 4 of 5 meals that I might be able to create out of these $25 worth of groceries (because that's about all I can afford til payday). I also had to grab a $25 gift card for my daughter to give to one of her friends that was having a birthday party, but more on that later.
I've finally got my items (spaghetti sauce, eggs, pinto beans, milk, salad mix, potatoes, etc.) and headed to the line. With this little bit of groceries, I headed straight for the express line, 15 items or less. It was much shorter and should move quickly. There was another line open and most folks in it had big baskets full of stuff. Most of the people in my line had the hand carried baskets, like me, if any at all. Except for this one sista whose turn it now was to move her stuff up to the counter. None of us really noticed that she had a basket until she kept unloading and unloading and unloading. It was like Willy Wonka had invented a never-ending grocery basket that could hold the contents of the whole store. She must've been pulling stuff out of this basket for a solid 4 or 5 minutes. At first she was just doing it at her leisure, as if she were the only person in the room. But then folks started to get visibly perturbed, shifting their weight to their other foot, sighing loudly, sucking teeth, rolling eyes; all of the things from the passive-aggressive handbook. Then Shaqwuita got in line behind me and I thought it was 'bout to go down.
"Oh hell to the naw!" she exclaimed, head almost rolling right off her shoulders as she invoked the Reverend Dr. Whitney Houston. "This b**** is trippin'! What? She cain't count? She know that's waaaaaay more than 15!"
Ol' girl with the Whole World in her Cart ("she got the whole world, in her cart...she got the whole wide world, in her cart...she got the whole world, in her cart...") looked up from over the rim of the basket (she had climbed inside it at this point to continue extracting groceries from its depths, placing them on pulleys to get them up to the conveyor belt). Even the lady at the register had her hand on her hip now, as she scanned this mother lode of processed foods with robotic precision using her free hand. Shaqwuita felt like she had to reach out and touch someone at this point. Luckily, she had a cell phone.
"You would not believe dis b*****! Yeah! I'm still here. I know...this b***** is crazy!"
Fifteen minutes later, I was finally through the line and getting into my car. Clearly her time was more valuable that all of the rest of ours. Especially Shaqwuita's.
Most Annoying:
Remember the gift card that I bought? Well, my daughter didn't end up going to the party so I went back to Pak n' Save and tried to return it. (That $25 would be a nice addition to the $1.72 that's in my checking account until Friday). With receipt in hand, I walked up to the customer service counter and met with the very "friendly" Michelle who didn't even look up from her magazine when she asked "can I help you?"
I explained that I had purchased the Best Buy gift card here the previous evening and was here to return it.
"We can't do anything with that, you need to go to Best Buy," as she promptly went back to reading her magazine.
This was not the end of the world. At least Best Buy was in the adjacent parking lot. I walked out and went over to Best Buy and waited in their customer service line. Some lady in front of me was giving this poor high-school kid, who probably wished she were home doing homework instead of collecting minimum wage at this retail establishment, the business about some faulty steam cleaning vacuum that had destroyed her carpet. When it was my turn, I stepped up calmly and explained my situation. She retired to her manager's office and then came back to tell me that I would have to take care of this at Pak n' Save. No I was annoyed. On the way back to my car I called Pak n' Save in hopes of talking to some manager instead of having to deal with Ms. Congeniality again. I talked to Cary who gave me a very encouraging, "No problem, come on in!" as I pulled into his parking lot.
No one was at the desk when I returned to Pak n' Save but a security guard asked me if she could be of assistance. She went looking for Cary and when she couldn't find him, asked Michelle where he was. Michelle was now working at a register (I guess she finished her magazine) and started loud talking when the security guard went over to tell her that somebody needed some customer service.
"I already TOLD him that we can't help him. He NEEDS to go to Best Buy!"
Just then Cary appeared and was very helpful. He looked at my receipt and made some phone calls and then finally came back to me where I was standing to give me the bad news, but is effort softened the blow a great deal. I was stuck with the gift card, unless I wanted to mail it in and wait for them to send me a check.
Most Random Thought:
What does motor oil really taste like? Yeah, I know. That's even more random than you thought that I, the Red Baron of Randomness (yeah, I know...that's lame, and there's no real practical similarities there, but it was better than the other choice , Rick James, that came to mind) could come up with. You're probably still trying to get your head wrapped around just how my brain, scrambled as it is, would ever stumble upon this. Well, this is something that I usually say whenever somebody says something like "..it's an acquired taste...,". I usually follow that up with, "you could probably acquire a taste for motor oil too, but that doesn't make it a delicacy...," quite pleased with myself, countenance giving this very fact away. I never really give it much thought, but as I was pumping gas on Saturday, with nothing else to fill up those few minutes of watching my last few dollars go into that gas tank, I gazed at a can of Castrol GTX on a rack near the pump. It looks like it would go down kind of smooth. It kinda looks like something that they make at Starbucks. It would stick to your ribs. It would probably be a good real replacement, like a protein shake or something. No? No! Yeah, I know. Hey, I told you it was random.
Most shocking development(s):
Pistons lose to Sixers in game one of their first round playoff match-up. And...it was at the Palace. Detroit knows they're not supposed to lose their and to the Sixers! The Jay-Z and Mary J. Blige concert was postponed. The reasons surrounding this one were very mysterious. One of the theories caused me to learn something new (see below).
I know there was something else shocking that happened but my a.d.d. is kickin' in so I can't remember. Perhaps it was my team losing to a bunch of geriatrics in our "old-man's-used-to-was-league" game. Before I start pointing out the fact that we had only 5 guys (among them, 1 guy with a blood clot in his leg who has strict orders not to be doing anything strenous, ESPECIALLY basketball, and another that collapsed and nearly passed out 2 minutes into the game the week before because the severe respiratory infection that he had been suffering from was not allowing him to take in enough air), and they had 3 subs on the bench giving them 8, let me remind you of how youth should've prevailed here. The youngest guy on the other team had the salt and pepper greying going on. Several others were very bald. Most were certifiably silver citizens. One of the guys I was guarding was actually about my height, but had those shiny shorts with the belt in them like the Fort Wayne Pistons or Minneapolis Lakers used to wear. I think he was the power forward that played with George Mikan in the '50s. Yeah...that's where I recognize him from. He's the guy whose shot Bill Russell redirects in those old black and white highlights. On one of the rebounds that I grabbed over him, he got mad and swung his cane at me after I was undeterred by his attempts to knock me off the post with his artificial hip.
One thing about old cats though, is that you KNOW they can shoot. It's true what they say about shooting a jump shot. It's like riding a bike. You never forget how to do it. Well, maybe you adjust it to a set shot, but it still leaves your hand the same way. They wouldn't be playing if they couldn't still shoot, because they sure can't jump anymore and aren't blowing by anybody. At least I didn't think they would be. At one point, I had to ask one of my teammates if he were in foul trouble because surely that had to be the reason why he was making Old Man River look like Sweetwater Clifton. This dude was scoring at will, dribbling with one hand, navigating his walker with his other. And when somebody is moving that slow, you're in such disbelief that you just watch them score. I came over and blocked some of the shots from the weakside, but on others I didn't bother, because I didn't think I had to. On one play, I left my man to go all the way to the other side of the key to block a guy's shot, but my man was still in the way, so I could only get enough of my hand on the ball to slap it off the glass. But some other old guy grabbed it, so I blocked his shot too, again to one of his teammates. This happened about 4 times as I was up and down like a pogo stick, while my teammates stood and watched, one of them in my way still. None of them thought to grab the ball, so eventually somebody grabbed it that I couldn't get to and he scored. Can you believe that we were actually down by 17 at one point? Well, when the other team is giving you a steady dose of uncontested layups and 3-point set shots that they were given enough time to line up with their scopes like army reconnaissance snipers, you're going to be down. We made a valiant comeback though, pulling to within 6 with a minute left. I hit two late 3-pointers to cut it to 3, and had another roll around the rim 3 times with 11 seconds left that would've tied it. We had to foul them after that, and of course they made the free-throws. Could there have been anything more shocking? Hmmm. I can't recall.
Most laugh out loud moment:
We were heading to the car on our way to the park and my daughter decided that she wanted to take the stairs and see if she could get to the bottom (6 floors down) before my son and I did on the elevator. Usually, the two of them would race, but my son was starting to feel the effects of a cold and wasn't quite up to it. The elevator doors opened and we stepped in as she darted out the door to the stairwell. As the door to the elevator started to close, I could hear her feet pounding down the stairs, probably annoying whomever lives in the unit on the other side of that wall. Hey, you know what they always say: location, location, location. My place is at the other end of the hall. My son was leaning against the far wall nearest to the touch pad since he fashions himself a modern day Marco Polo, always wanting to be in charge of getting us to the correct floor, beating the "door close" button to death in the process. As soon as the door was secure and at the precise moment before we started our descent he looked up at me, across to the opposite wall that I was leaning on, fixed his eyes upon mine and proceeded to let out some sufficiently foul smelling and quite audible flatulence. Pleased with himself, his blank look turned to a wry smile as a look of sheer horror took over mine. I ceased to inhale another breath. Thinking to myself, "this is what it must feel like when a fish is lying on it's side, outside of the bowl like in those asthma commercials, wishing it had air". Was the elevator even moving? The bell signifying the passing of each floor seemed to come as infrequently as church bells ringing at high noon on a Wednesday afternoon. Like an evil villain now, my son's smile was quite pronounced at this point, his lips finally bursting with laughter that he could no longer contain.
I practically fell out of the elevator when the door finally opened. But after that first big gulp of air that my lungs sucked down, I too let out a hearty laugh.
Most playing on their juvenile sensibilities:
When you're broke, as I frequently am in these days of high gas prices and recession, you have to find creative ways to entertain yourself that won't break the bank. When these ways are free, its even better. This becomes more difficult by an order of magnitude when you're talking about kids. They want to go to the movies, eat at McDonald's, go to Six Flags or anything else that the myriad of commercials and billboards tell them every second of every day that they should want to do. Saturday, I found a nice free activity as Target was having an event at the Museum of the African Diaspora in San Francisco, and even had catered hors d'oevres to go along with it. (The pomegranate meatballs were wonderful!) Sunday, however, seeing ol' dad's team get dismantled by Naismith's original 5 wasn't quite enough entertainment for my two little rascals.
I had to go to the old standby, the Park. Unfortunately, with a splint on her finger, my daughter could not play basketball or climb on the monkey bars, so we I chose one that had lots of grass and vast open spaces. Other than that, there's not alot to do at this place. For views, it's an A+ as its bay side location gives the best unobstructed view of the City of San Francisco, The Bay Bridge, and the big metal, trojan-horse looking cranes that decorate the port of Oakland. If you're not flying a kite or having a barbecue, there's not much else to do, however. Banking on the fact that my kids are so competitive (I wonder where they get that from?) it was not too difficult to devise a plan to keep them occupied. I had them engage in a series of races that would both keep them busy and keep them from freezing as the 85 degree temperatures from earlier in the week were distant history as the mercury now dipped to 49 late on this Sunday afternoon. First it was the bear crawl race (which, she said she could do with no problem. What? I checked first...geeez!). Next was the hop on one leg race. After that, the running backward race. The crab walk race was next, followed by the duck walk race. The grand finale was the regular sprinting foot-race. However, to make sure that my son didn't hip check my daughter into next week like you may recall from a previous post ( http://dailywithdestah.blogspot.com/2008/01/8-is-great.html ) I used the park's unique configuration to my advantage. There are converging paths that run from the corners of the big grass field, making a big X right in the middle of the park. I stood at the middle and instructed them to each pick a corner to start in. They stood there, revving their little engines waiting for me to give them the starting signal as they glanced across the field at one another out of the corner of their eyes. With much less fan fare than Rizzo getting Danny Zucco and the boys started in their race through the Los Angeles Canal system or Pinky Tescadero popping bubble gum and blowing huge bubbles as she dropped the handkerchief to get the race between Fonzi and some other guy on Happy Days going, I gave them the "on your marks, get set go" as I dropped my right arm. Like they were shot out of cannons, they took off, giggling and thundering down the asphalt paths just as fast as they could go. Near the end of the race, I became quite concerned that I was going to find myself smack dab in the middle of an August Wilson play, as these Two Trains were running on a course right for me and looked to be getting there at the same time. Doing a timely two-step though, I was able to get out of the way just enough and to grab my daughter at the same time so that we all didn't go down in a heap. They were ready to go at this point.
Most educational moment:
One of the good rumors I heard about the cancellation of the Jay-Z/Mary J. show was that April 20 was a "holiday" of sorts. A holiday? Hmmm...news to me. I thought I was going to be outta luck until at least Memorial Day. Cinco de Mayo is a celebration, but nobody stops work for it, at least not around here. Apparently, April 20th is observed as a counterculture holiday by folks that often partake in a friendly game of puff-puff-give. You can look this up on wikipedia. Seriously. Apparently, back in 1971 some clever co-eds from San Rafael High School in Northern California started convenening at the Louis Pasteur statue at 4:20pm each day to take a toke. And so were born the phrases 420 Louis!, 420 friendly (as you might see in an ad "wanted: roommate...420 friendly") and the cleverly titled album by Method Man 4/21: The day after. I'm not quite sure what the significance of Louis Pasteur's statue was here (other than a place to meet), since I don't think he had any scientific breakthroughs involving cannabis or under its influence. Nor am I aware that Ms. Blige nor Mr. S. Carter had a particular affinity toward it either. It shall forever remain a mystery.
Most Blatant disregard:
I was in line at the Pak n' Save grocery store not far from my house. Ordinarily, this would not have been my store of choice, but it was late, I didn't feel like getting back on the freeway, and I was HUNGRY! I'm never really a fan of the warehouse type grocery stores. I enjoy the order and simplicity of a smaller, more manageable place, that is somewhat organized. If there's too much going on, I don't usually find what I'm looking for very fast, and I get frustrated. Similarly, I can't shop at a place like Marshall's or Ross. People always tell me how they get great deals at these places, but I don't really have the patience to rifle through 563 articles of clothing to find something buried deep under some other stuff. Besides, they rarely have things in my size anyway. So I'm at Pak n' Save on Friday night and I'm hungry and I'm trying to grab some things as quickly as I can, doing a quick plan of the next 4 of 5 meals that I might be able to create out of these $25 worth of groceries (because that's about all I can afford til payday). I also had to grab a $25 gift card for my daughter to give to one of her friends that was having a birthday party, but more on that later.
I've finally got my items (spaghetti sauce, eggs, pinto beans, milk, salad mix, potatoes, etc.) and headed to the line. With this little bit of groceries, I headed straight for the express line, 15 items or less. It was much shorter and should move quickly. There was another line open and most folks in it had big baskets full of stuff. Most of the people in my line had the hand carried baskets, like me, if any at all. Except for this one sista whose turn it now was to move her stuff up to the counter. None of us really noticed that she had a basket until she kept unloading and unloading and unloading. It was like Willy Wonka had invented a never-ending grocery basket that could hold the contents of the whole store. She must've been pulling stuff out of this basket for a solid 4 or 5 minutes. At first she was just doing it at her leisure, as if she were the only person in the room. But then folks started to get visibly perturbed, shifting their weight to their other foot, sighing loudly, sucking teeth, rolling eyes; all of the things from the passive-aggressive handbook. Then Shaqwuita got in line behind me and I thought it was 'bout to go down.
"Oh hell to the naw!" she exclaimed, head almost rolling right off her shoulders as she invoked the Reverend Dr. Whitney Houston. "This b**** is trippin'! What? She cain't count? She know that's waaaaaay more than 15!"
Ol' girl with the Whole World in her Cart ("she got the whole world, in her cart...she got the whole wide world, in her cart...she got the whole world, in her cart...") looked up from over the rim of the basket (she had climbed inside it at this point to continue extracting groceries from its depths, placing them on pulleys to get them up to the conveyor belt). Even the lady at the register had her hand on her hip now, as she scanned this mother lode of processed foods with robotic precision using her free hand. Shaqwuita felt like she had to reach out and touch someone at this point. Luckily, she had a cell phone.
"You would not believe dis b*****! Yeah! I'm still here. I know...this b***** is crazy!"
Fifteen minutes later, I was finally through the line and getting into my car. Clearly her time was more valuable that all of the rest of ours. Especially Shaqwuita's.
Most Annoying:
Remember the gift card that I bought? Well, my daughter didn't end up going to the party so I went back to Pak n' Save and tried to return it. (That $25 would be a nice addition to the $1.72 that's in my checking account until Friday). With receipt in hand, I walked up to the customer service counter and met with the very "friendly" Michelle who didn't even look up from her magazine when she asked "can I help you?"
I explained that I had purchased the Best Buy gift card here the previous evening and was here to return it.
"We can't do anything with that, you need to go to Best Buy," as she promptly went back to reading her magazine.
This was not the end of the world. At least Best Buy was in the adjacent parking lot. I walked out and went over to Best Buy and waited in their customer service line. Some lady in front of me was giving this poor high-school kid, who probably wished she were home doing homework instead of collecting minimum wage at this retail establishment, the business about some faulty steam cleaning vacuum that had destroyed her carpet. When it was my turn, I stepped up calmly and explained my situation. She retired to her manager's office and then came back to tell me that I would have to take care of this at Pak n' Save. No I was annoyed. On the way back to my car I called Pak n' Save in hopes of talking to some manager instead of having to deal with Ms. Congeniality again. I talked to Cary who gave me a very encouraging, "No problem, come on in!" as I pulled into his parking lot.
No one was at the desk when I returned to Pak n' Save but a security guard asked me if she could be of assistance. She went looking for Cary and when she couldn't find him, asked Michelle where he was. Michelle was now working at a register (I guess she finished her magazine) and started loud talking when the security guard went over to tell her that somebody needed some customer service.
"I already TOLD him that we can't help him. He NEEDS to go to Best Buy!"
Just then Cary appeared and was very helpful. He looked at my receipt and made some phone calls and then finally came back to me where I was standing to give me the bad news, but is effort softened the blow a great deal. I was stuck with the gift card, unless I wanted to mail it in and wait for them to send me a check.
Most Random Thought:
What does motor oil really taste like? Yeah, I know. That's even more random than you thought that I, the Red Baron of Randomness (yeah, I know...that's lame, and there's no real practical similarities there, but it was better than the other choice , Rick James, that came to mind) could come up with. You're probably still trying to get your head wrapped around just how my brain, scrambled as it is, would ever stumble upon this. Well, this is something that I usually say whenever somebody says something like "..it's an acquired taste...,". I usually follow that up with, "you could probably acquire a taste for motor oil too, but that doesn't make it a delicacy...," quite pleased with myself, countenance giving this very fact away. I never really give it much thought, but as I was pumping gas on Saturday, with nothing else to fill up those few minutes of watching my last few dollars go into that gas tank, I gazed at a can of Castrol GTX on a rack near the pump. It looks like it would go down kind of smooth. It kinda looks like something that they make at Starbucks. It would stick to your ribs. It would probably be a good real replacement, like a protein shake or something. No? No! Yeah, I know. Hey, I told you it was random.
Most shocking development(s):
Pistons lose to Sixers in game one of their first round playoff match-up. And...it was at the Palace. Detroit knows they're not supposed to lose their and to the Sixers! The Jay-Z and Mary J. Blige concert was postponed. The reasons surrounding this one were very mysterious. One of the theories caused me to learn something new (see below).
I know there was something else shocking that happened but my a.d.d. is kickin' in so I can't remember. Perhaps it was my team losing to a bunch of geriatrics in our "old-man's-used-to-was-league" game. Before I start pointing out the fact that we had only 5 guys (among them, 1 guy with a blood clot in his leg who has strict orders not to be doing anything strenous, ESPECIALLY basketball, and another that collapsed and nearly passed out 2 minutes into the game the week before because the severe respiratory infection that he had been suffering from was not allowing him to take in enough air), and they had 3 subs on the bench giving them 8, let me remind you of how youth should've prevailed here. The youngest guy on the other team had the salt and pepper greying going on. Several others were very bald. Most were certifiably silver citizens. One of the guys I was guarding was actually about my height, but had those shiny shorts with the belt in them like the Fort Wayne Pistons or Minneapolis Lakers used to wear. I think he was the power forward that played with George Mikan in the '50s. Yeah...that's where I recognize him from. He's the guy whose shot Bill Russell redirects in those old black and white highlights. On one of the rebounds that I grabbed over him, he got mad and swung his cane at me after I was undeterred by his attempts to knock me off the post with his artificial hip.
One thing about old cats though, is that you KNOW they can shoot. It's true what they say about shooting a jump shot. It's like riding a bike. You never forget how to do it. Well, maybe you adjust it to a set shot, but it still leaves your hand the same way. They wouldn't be playing if they couldn't still shoot, because they sure can't jump anymore and aren't blowing by anybody. At least I didn't think they would be. At one point, I had to ask one of my teammates if he were in foul trouble because surely that had to be the reason why he was making Old Man River look like Sweetwater Clifton. This dude was scoring at will, dribbling with one hand, navigating his walker with his other. And when somebody is moving that slow, you're in such disbelief that you just watch them score. I came over and blocked some of the shots from the weakside, but on others I didn't bother, because I didn't think I had to. On one play, I left my man to go all the way to the other side of the key to block a guy's shot, but my man was still in the way, so I could only get enough of my hand on the ball to slap it off the glass. But some other old guy grabbed it, so I blocked his shot too, again to one of his teammates. This happened about 4 times as I was up and down like a pogo stick, while my teammates stood and watched, one of them in my way still. None of them thought to grab the ball, so eventually somebody grabbed it that I couldn't get to and he scored. Can you believe that we were actually down by 17 at one point? Well, when the other team is giving you a steady dose of uncontested layups and 3-point set shots that they were given enough time to line up with their scopes like army reconnaissance snipers, you're going to be down. We made a valiant comeback though, pulling to within 6 with a minute left. I hit two late 3-pointers to cut it to 3, and had another roll around the rim 3 times with 11 seconds left that would've tied it. We had to foul them after that, and of course they made the free-throws. Could there have been anything more shocking? Hmmm. I can't recall.
Most laugh out loud moment:
We were heading to the car on our way to the park and my daughter decided that she wanted to take the stairs and see if she could get to the bottom (6 floors down) before my son and I did on the elevator. Usually, the two of them would race, but my son was starting to feel the effects of a cold and wasn't quite up to it. The elevator doors opened and we stepped in as she darted out the door to the stairwell. As the door to the elevator started to close, I could hear her feet pounding down the stairs, probably annoying whomever lives in the unit on the other side of that wall. Hey, you know what they always say: location, location, location. My place is at the other end of the hall. My son was leaning against the far wall nearest to the touch pad since he fashions himself a modern day Marco Polo, always wanting to be in charge of getting us to the correct floor, beating the "door close" button to death in the process. As soon as the door was secure and at the precise moment before we started our descent he looked up at me, across to the opposite wall that I was leaning on, fixed his eyes upon mine and proceeded to let out some sufficiently foul smelling and quite audible flatulence. Pleased with himself, his blank look turned to a wry smile as a look of sheer horror took over mine. I ceased to inhale another breath. Thinking to myself, "this is what it must feel like when a fish is lying on it's side, outside of the bowl like in those asthma commercials, wishing it had air". Was the elevator even moving? The bell signifying the passing of each floor seemed to come as infrequently as church bells ringing at high noon on a Wednesday afternoon. Like an evil villain now, my son's smile was quite pronounced at this point, his lips finally bursting with laughter that he could no longer contain.
I practically fell out of the elevator when the door finally opened. But after that first big gulp of air that my lungs sucked down, I too let out a hearty laugh.
Most playing on their juvenile sensibilities:
When you're broke, as I frequently am in these days of high gas prices and recession, you have to find creative ways to entertain yourself that won't break the bank. When these ways are free, its even better. This becomes more difficult by an order of magnitude when you're talking about kids. They want to go to the movies, eat at McDonald's, go to Six Flags or anything else that the myriad of commercials and billboards tell them every second of every day that they should want to do. Saturday, I found a nice free activity as Target was having an event at the Museum of the African Diaspora in San Francisco, and even had catered hors d'oevres to go along with it. (The pomegranate meatballs were wonderful!) Sunday, however, seeing ol' dad's team get dismantled by Naismith's original 5 wasn't quite enough entertainment for my two little rascals.
I had to go to the old standby, the Park. Unfortunately, with a splint on her finger, my daughter could not play basketball or climb on the monkey bars, so we I chose one that had lots of grass and vast open spaces. Other than that, there's not alot to do at this place. For views, it's an A+ as its bay side location gives the best unobstructed view of the City of San Francisco, The Bay Bridge, and the big metal, trojan-horse looking cranes that decorate the port of Oakland. If you're not flying a kite or having a barbecue, there's not much else to do, however. Banking on the fact that my kids are so competitive (I wonder where they get that from?) it was not too difficult to devise a plan to keep them occupied. I had them engage in a series of races that would both keep them busy and keep them from freezing as the 85 degree temperatures from earlier in the week were distant history as the mercury now dipped to 49 late on this Sunday afternoon. First it was the bear crawl race (which, she said she could do with no problem. What? I checked first...geeez!). Next was the hop on one leg race. After that, the running backward race. The crab walk race was next, followed by the duck walk race. The grand finale was the regular sprinting foot-race. However, to make sure that my son didn't hip check my daughter into next week like you may recall from a previous post ( http://dailywithdestah.blogspot.com/2008/01/8-is-great.html ) I used the park's unique configuration to my advantage. There are converging paths that run from the corners of the big grass field, making a big X right in the middle of the park. I stood at the middle and instructed them to each pick a corner to start in. They stood there, revving their little engines waiting for me to give them the starting signal as they glanced across the field at one another out of the corner of their eyes. With much less fan fare than Rizzo getting Danny Zucco and the boys started in their race through the Los Angeles Canal system or Pinky Tescadero popping bubble gum and blowing huge bubbles as she dropped the handkerchief to get the race between Fonzi and some other guy on Happy Days going, I gave them the "on your marks, get set go" as I dropped my right arm. Like they were shot out of cannons, they took off, giggling and thundering down the asphalt paths just as fast as they could go. Near the end of the race, I became quite concerned that I was going to find myself smack dab in the middle of an August Wilson play, as these Two Trains were running on a course right for me and looked to be getting there at the same time. Doing a timely two-step though, I was able to get out of the way just enough and to grab my daughter at the same time so that we all didn't go down in a heap. They were ready to go at this point.
Most educational moment:
One of the good rumors I heard about the cancellation of the Jay-Z/Mary J. show was that April 20 was a "holiday" of sorts. A holiday? Hmmm...news to me. I thought I was going to be outta luck until at least Memorial Day. Cinco de Mayo is a celebration, but nobody stops work for it, at least not around here. Apparently, April 20th is observed as a counterculture holiday by folks that often partake in a friendly game of puff-puff-give. You can look this up on wikipedia. Seriously. Apparently, back in 1971 some clever co-eds from San Rafael High School in Northern California started convenening at the Louis Pasteur statue at 4:20pm each day to take a toke. And so were born the phrases 420 Louis!, 420 friendly (as you might see in an ad "wanted: roommate...420 friendly") and the cleverly titled album by Method Man 4/21: The day after. I'm not quite sure what the significance of Louis Pasteur's statue was here (other than a place to meet), since I don't think he had any scientific breakthroughs involving cannabis or under its influence. Nor am I aware that Ms. Blige nor Mr. S. Carter had a particular affinity toward it either. It shall forever remain a mystery.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Planning on Points
Today I'm daring to be proactive. I'm endeavoring not to do something at the last minute. I'm actually going to plan. I know. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up also. I'm trying to convince myself that this is really the best course of action. Believe me, it is not easy to step out of your comfort zone like this.
My dilemma is whether or not to pay for hotels for some upcoming trips or to attempt to use my Marriott Rewards points. If I choose to pay for the hotel for a 5 day trip, I'm looking at a bill of at least $700. The only way to significantly lower the cost is to find a hotel further away from where I need to be. Also complicating the issue is whether or not to rent a car, which would be an additional expense. Ideally, I'd fly in, take a shuttle to the hotel, and then just be a foot soldier to and from where I need to be each day. See the problem? If I'm far away from the venue, then I need a car, so I'm not really saving any money by being further away.
If I had my own car, this might be doable. But then I'd have to embark on a long drive and buy gas. This far in advance, I'm fairly certain that buying gas will be much more expensive than keeping gas in the car. Okay, scratch that. I think? Yeah, scratch that. Okay...where were we? Oh yeah. I'm flying in, and trying not to rent a car. Hotel points are the next option. Somehow, this brings up the same dilemma. All of the higher category hotels (translated: requiring more points per stay) are closer to the venue. However, if I do stay further away to save on points, then I can afford a rental car, can't I? Well, no...probably not. The goal is to not spend on anything but food. Will I even have enough points by then? Right now I'd be good for about 3 nights at most point categories. Presumably, with my travel frequency, I will accumulate more points. But what if, for some reason, I don't get the opportunity to stay at a Marriott on these upcoming business trips.
This is why planning travel sucks. If I just had to go all of a sudden, I'd probably just figure it out on the fly. Oh well. I've held you captive in my thinking out loud long enough.
My dilemma is whether or not to pay for hotels for some upcoming trips or to attempt to use my Marriott Rewards points. If I choose to pay for the hotel for a 5 day trip, I'm looking at a bill of at least $700. The only way to significantly lower the cost is to find a hotel further away from where I need to be. Also complicating the issue is whether or not to rent a car, which would be an additional expense. Ideally, I'd fly in, take a shuttle to the hotel, and then just be a foot soldier to and from where I need to be each day. See the problem? If I'm far away from the venue, then I need a car, so I'm not really saving any money by being further away.
If I had my own car, this might be doable. But then I'd have to embark on a long drive and buy gas. This far in advance, I'm fairly certain that buying gas will be much more expensive than keeping gas in the car. Okay, scratch that. I think? Yeah, scratch that. Okay...where were we? Oh yeah. I'm flying in, and trying not to rent a car. Hotel points are the next option. Somehow, this brings up the same dilemma. All of the higher category hotels (translated: requiring more points per stay) are closer to the venue. However, if I do stay further away to save on points, then I can afford a rental car, can't I? Well, no...probably not. The goal is to not spend on anything but food. Will I even have enough points by then? Right now I'd be good for about 3 nights at most point categories. Presumably, with my travel frequency, I will accumulate more points. But what if, for some reason, I don't get the opportunity to stay at a Marriott on these upcoming business trips.
This is why planning travel sucks. If I just had to go all of a sudden, I'd probably just figure it out on the fly. Oh well. I've held you captive in my thinking out loud long enough.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Somebody please make it stop...
"If I see another unwed mother pushing a stroller, baby in one arm, another one on the way, I don't know what the hell I'm gon' do...," -- Dick Anthony Williams as Bigstop in Spike Lee's 1990 film Mo Betta' Blues
I hear you Bigstop. I really do. I'll tell you another thing that is driving me absolutely crazy also. If I see anotha young brotha dressed like a clown, walking like he's wearing the Forrest Gump Limited Edition Ricketts collection leg braces, belt strapped tightly around his thighs, pockets hanging somewhere near the back of his knees, white t-shirt long enough to be worn as a wedding dress, plaid boxers showing as the cuffs of trousers start to fray on the bottom from dragging on the floor, I don't know what the hell I'm gon' do! When did it become cool to have your little behind hanging out for all to see?
Are you really so "hood" when you leave your Sponge Bob briefs for all to see? If your underwear were meant to be seen, you wouldn't wear it UNDER your clothes. Why is this popular? How ridiculous is it that you must constantly pull up your pants and can scarcely walk without your hand holding your britches by the waist? It's not comfortable. We've all had that day where we didn't have a belt and had to wear something that didn't quite fit right. This usually happens to me if I go to the gym and pack my duffle bag full of something other than sweats on the occasion that I have somewhere to go when I'm finished working out. I'll double and triple check while I'm packing the bag, but somehow belt just doesn't make the checklist. So there I am the rest of the day, holding my pants up and feeling ridiculous.
Let's take a closer look at this though. Why is sagging necessary? Well, I can understand wanting to be as far away from the achey-brakey culture and their Wranglers that seem to have a strangle hold on more than just the denim industry. The skinny jean look sported by the goth/mod/skater/logo-t-shirt-dyed-black-hair-earring-in-the-lip-nipple-pierced-guy crowd is not terribly masculine either. But this is not the way. I'm even up for a compromise. You can go ahead and keep sagging as long as we can put some guidelines in place. First, why not just buy longer jeans that don't fit you in the waist? An awful lot of you are 5'9" or smaller (at least according to the statistics), so why not shop where I shop. I guarantee that if your little behind tries to wear my jeans, they will bunch up around your ankles and drag on the floor like you like and will be plenty baggy. Shoot, you might even be able to fit two of you in there. You can still wear the belt, but now it can be loosely fastened around your waist. That way if you're late for school or work and have to run for the bus, you can really stretch out and run, and swing both arms back and forth instead of that crab-lookin' walk that you usually do. If you wanna sag your basketball shorts, buy them in the big-boys section. If they go to my knees, they'll surely go to your ankles, so I'm sure you can swing it and still look cool. Is this too much to ask? I think y'all can do it.
We can even have a buddy system. Brothas can keep each other in line and make sure that no one looks like an idiot. Back in the day, a brotha might've told anotha that the cuff on his zoot suit was flipped the wrong way or that the feather in his fedora was looking kinda shabby. You brothas can help each other out can't you? You must be doin' it a little bit because at least I haven't seen anybody in some BVD briefs saggin'. Clearly there are at least minimal guidelines. Let's just add some common sense to them. If you can still fit into Tuff Skins, then get your jeans in the Men's department. If you can shop in the Men's department, head on over to Big and Tall. If you really need the Big and Tall sizes, well.... If you're that damn big you probably play for somebody and if you don't you ought to borrow yo' mama's sewing machine and get a frequent buyer card at New York Fabrics.
I don't want to hear the "i'm expressing my individuality" argument either. Whether this stemmed from prison culture or not, you were emulating somebody in an effort to get some street cred. Think about it. Once upon a time, a guy whose clothes didn't fit wasn't cool. He was the laughingstock of the neighborhood. But maybe one day he got tired of all that and hit somebody in the jaw and nobody messed with him again. Now the next chump comes along and sees that homey with the clothes that don't fit is feared and respected and decides that he too wants to be respected and feared, so he starts to dress like him.
We all can relate to this, can't we? I know I can. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Dr. J. I wanted to wear the Converse All-Star's that he wore and I wanted my afro to be big like his. I didn't want to comb through my nappy hair though, so my mom had to egg me on with "You want to be like Dr. J, don't you?" That was usually enough for me to bite the bullet and suffer through that black, plastic pick with the fist above the peace sign on the handle blazing a trail through the knotted curls on my scalp. But eventually, I found my way and a hairdo that was more sensible for me. Luckily I didn't have to experiment with a gheri curl to arrive there. And I'm almost strictly a Nike man now.
But are we really being individuals when the very dark blue denim dungarees and white t-shirt issued by an institution that incarcerates us is the attire of choice? Prisoners are all dressed alike and all locked up alike to remind them of the freedoms to which they no longer have the right. So what if you're not in jail or have never been in jail. You're still allowing yourself to be institutionalized. Maybe the media is serving as warden out here on this side of the walls. BET issues the image of your wardrobe, feeds you a steady diet of misogyny, and gets you hooked on that modern day Blue Magic that is apathy and you and hit it extra hard.
But I'm free to do whatever I want!
Are you really? Everyone in saggin'jeans and hyphy white tees looks a little communist or socialist or some kinda -ist laden institution to me. What does your sagging signify for you? Are you unified? Is there an increased sense of brotherhood? The statistics say otherwise. Is it a reminder to you of the foot that the Man has firmly planted on the side of your neck as he laughs at the minstrel show that is your life, as you prance around with sunglasses that you could weld in and a mouth with so much metal that you forego toothpaste in favor of Nevr Dull? People have always broken their necks to be like us. People go to tanning booths to look like us and refuse to wash or comb their bleached-blonde hair for months to try to get dreaded out like us. Why not bring the proud tradition of trend setting back to life in a way that won't make your mamas and grandmamas cringe whenever they see you?
I hear you Bigstop. I really do. I'll tell you another thing that is driving me absolutely crazy also. If I see anotha young brotha dressed like a clown, walking like he's wearing the Forrest Gump Limited Edition Ricketts collection leg braces, belt strapped tightly around his thighs, pockets hanging somewhere near the back of his knees, white t-shirt long enough to be worn as a wedding dress, plaid boxers showing as the cuffs of trousers start to fray on the bottom from dragging on the floor, I don't know what the hell I'm gon' do! When did it become cool to have your little behind hanging out for all to see?
Are you really so "hood" when you leave your Sponge Bob briefs for all to see? If your underwear were meant to be seen, you wouldn't wear it UNDER your clothes. Why is this popular? How ridiculous is it that you must constantly pull up your pants and can scarcely walk without your hand holding your britches by the waist? It's not comfortable. We've all had that day where we didn't have a belt and had to wear something that didn't quite fit right. This usually happens to me if I go to the gym and pack my duffle bag full of something other than sweats on the occasion that I have somewhere to go when I'm finished working out. I'll double and triple check while I'm packing the bag, but somehow belt just doesn't make the checklist. So there I am the rest of the day, holding my pants up and feeling ridiculous.
Let's take a closer look at this though. Why is sagging necessary? Well, I can understand wanting to be as far away from the achey-brakey culture and their Wranglers that seem to have a strangle hold on more than just the denim industry. The skinny jean look sported by the goth/mod/skater/logo-t-shirt-dyed-black-hair-earring-in-the-lip-nipple-pierced-guy crowd is not terribly masculine either. But this is not the way. I'm even up for a compromise. You can go ahead and keep sagging as long as we can put some guidelines in place. First, why not just buy longer jeans that don't fit you in the waist? An awful lot of you are 5'9" or smaller (at least according to the statistics), so why not shop where I shop. I guarantee that if your little behind tries to wear my jeans, they will bunch up around your ankles and drag on the floor like you like and will be plenty baggy. Shoot, you might even be able to fit two of you in there. You can still wear the belt, but now it can be loosely fastened around your waist. That way if you're late for school or work and have to run for the bus, you can really stretch out and run, and swing both arms back and forth instead of that crab-lookin' walk that you usually do. If you wanna sag your basketball shorts, buy them in the big-boys section. If they go to my knees, they'll surely go to your ankles, so I'm sure you can swing it and still look cool. Is this too much to ask? I think y'all can do it.
We can even have a buddy system. Brothas can keep each other in line and make sure that no one looks like an idiot. Back in the day, a brotha might've told anotha that the cuff on his zoot suit was flipped the wrong way or that the feather in his fedora was looking kinda shabby. You brothas can help each other out can't you? You must be doin' it a little bit because at least I haven't seen anybody in some BVD briefs saggin'. Clearly there are at least minimal guidelines. Let's just add some common sense to them. If you can still fit into Tuff Skins, then get your jeans in the Men's department. If you can shop in the Men's department, head on over to Big and Tall. If you really need the Big and Tall sizes, well.... If you're that damn big you probably play for somebody and if you don't you ought to borrow yo' mama's sewing machine and get a frequent buyer card at New York Fabrics.
I don't want to hear the "i'm expressing my individuality" argument either. Whether this stemmed from prison culture or not, you were emulating somebody in an effort to get some street cred. Think about it. Once upon a time, a guy whose clothes didn't fit wasn't cool. He was the laughingstock of the neighborhood. But maybe one day he got tired of all that and hit somebody in the jaw and nobody messed with him again. Now the next chump comes along and sees that homey with the clothes that don't fit is feared and respected and decides that he too wants to be respected and feared, so he starts to dress like him.
We all can relate to this, can't we? I know I can. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Dr. J. I wanted to wear the Converse All-Star's that he wore and I wanted my afro to be big like his. I didn't want to comb through my nappy hair though, so my mom had to egg me on with "You want to be like Dr. J, don't you?" That was usually enough for me to bite the bullet and suffer through that black, plastic pick with the fist above the peace sign on the handle blazing a trail through the knotted curls on my scalp. But eventually, I found my way and a hairdo that was more sensible for me. Luckily I didn't have to experiment with a gheri curl to arrive there. And I'm almost strictly a Nike man now.
But are we really being individuals when the very dark blue denim dungarees and white t-shirt issued by an institution that incarcerates us is the attire of choice? Prisoners are all dressed alike and all locked up alike to remind them of the freedoms to which they no longer have the right. So what if you're not in jail or have never been in jail. You're still allowing yourself to be institutionalized. Maybe the media is serving as warden out here on this side of the walls. BET issues the image of your wardrobe, feeds you a steady diet of misogyny, and gets you hooked on that modern day Blue Magic that is apathy and you and hit it extra hard.
But I'm free to do whatever I want!
Are you really? Everyone in saggin'jeans and hyphy white tees looks a little communist or socialist or some kinda -ist laden institution to me. What does your sagging signify for you? Are you unified? Is there an increased sense of brotherhood? The statistics say otherwise. Is it a reminder to you of the foot that the Man has firmly planted on the side of your neck as he laughs at the minstrel show that is your life, as you prance around with sunglasses that you could weld in and a mouth with so much metal that you forego toothpaste in favor of Nevr Dull? People have always broken their necks to be like us. People go to tanning booths to look like us and refuse to wash or comb their bleached-blonde hair for months to try to get dreaded out like us. Why not bring the proud tradition of trend setting back to life in a way that won't make your mamas and grandmamas cringe whenever they see you?
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