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.