An interesting potpourri. For those who conquered the week, I salute you.

Since I like few things more than leaving a warm apartment in order to brave the elements in search of confections post 10 o'clock, I had occasion to do just that with Dancing Feather some hours ago. I did not desire said confections and would have been fine remaining sockless on the couch. But the lady wanted some sweets, so away we went. A few observations and revelations from this sojourn:

• I feel bad for dads-to-be. I mean, I'm not one and I still felt compelled to go, which means they HAVE to go and it's likely they will be making the journey alone. I wonder if there's a point at which they just go to bed fully dressed.
• I know part of me went so that this incident could not be grounds for bringing up old shit at a later date. It's absolutely a tactical move. A guy has to insulate himself from reprisal because, I believe it's 2nd Corinthians that says, "She of Adam's rib is genetically predisposed to remembering and bringing up all old shit." Amen.
• On the way back, I was plotting what the Friday piece would be. I decided on a lighter tone since too much of life is currently the wack juice and sometimes you have to force joy into your life. Of course, my thought train immediately took me to Force of Joy, my awesome name for a Christian Rock group (I'm never not playing Siiick Band Name). I bounced this off The Feath who thought it was OK. I mentioned that it's certainly no Mighty Clouds of Joy, and then paused as we both wonder what, in fact, a Mighty Cloud of Joy was. Final Answer: Blunt smoke.

Like most of us, I am constantly in need of a good laugh and was rewarded by the gods of motion pictures who saw fit for me to see both Shooter and an episode of 30 Rock last night. As I watched, I couldn't help but wonder who would win in a raspy voice-off, Alec Baldwin or Danny Glover. Danny hasn't spoken up since Lethal Weapon and Baldwin Number One hasn't gotten much above a smoky peep since Tina Fey picked his career off the cutting room floor.

Toys R Us is having a "Sale of the Century". Isn't that a little premature? I mean, when OJ was having his "Trial of the Century" not only was that an arguable claim, but it also took place with enough time to think about the statement. Maybe Toys R Us should consider laying claim to the decade, which really isn't a terrible thing. I mean, Obama son. Speaking of Orenthal, one out of  two ain't bad, right?

iPhones are amazing. AMAZING. Still, I'm not sure why a grown ass person needs all those apps, which is adultese for "games to fuck around with without looking like an absolute tool."

Kudos to Pedro Almodovar. Not only is Bad Education gripping storytelling, it left me sexually confused for a good thirty minutes after watching it.

The Feath had a scary dream the other night and woke me up to tell me about it and to gain comfort. While I can't say for certain if she felt safer after telling her tale, I can tell you for certain that it scared the crap out of me, even prompting me at one point to turn the lights on while she moved a chair that was casting a creepy shadow on the wall.

To my good friends at Levi's: I know putting on jeans is usually not interesting unless you're a woman--and here you can replace "interesting" with "gut-wrenching", "soul sapping" and or "spirit siphoning"--but are we so creatively bankrupt that we feel the need to make it a freestyle sport? And while we're on the topic, why would anyone help their buddy backflip into his jeans? Word? I personally would like to see all the footage, which no doubt includes blooper-worthy knee blowouts and ruptured nut sacs.

I sometimes watch American Gangster and wonder if Denzel ever fucked up a take by accidentally doing the one-tear hard cry. In other news, I still get pissed watching the end of Glory.

I'm unemployed at a time when my buddy has vice presidents from Goldman calling him looking for work; the line of work I'm interested in takes an abundance of patience I may or may not possess.  I see all too clearly where my money's going and am in a fog as to where it will come from. Yet I feel chilly feet on my calves every morning and know my head's still above the water.

QUESTION OF THE DAY
If you could ask a person of your choice--living, dead, famous, not famous, real, fictional--one question, who would that person be and what would you ask them?

Since my girl is light but, in fact, not Black, last Sunday we went to the Native American museum on Bowling Green to see what the haps on the craps were. After culturing ourselves, we were riding back on the train when a gentleman with a less-than-convincing toupee boarded the train. My first inclination was to make some snarky remark to Dancing Feather, but seeing as I’m trying to work on some judgment issues of late, I decided to keep the comment to myself. Riding along, I couldn’t help but wonder what series of events brought this guy to make this follicular decision. He wasn’t a bad looking guy; 40s, tall, regular building and somewhat handsome, in a ruddy sort of way. Sitting with my mostly full head of hair, I found myself hoping that I would age gracefully. It’s funny; rather than revert to the knee-jerk heckle, I attempted to try and place myself in this man’s shoes, or, more accurately, hairpiece. Somewhat surprisingly, after deciding not to heckle him, my first emotional response was to feel bad for him, to pity his decision. And while some of the feeling was probably tempered by believing I’ll age into the All-State guy, I can say confidently that my compassion was of the “damn” rather than “awww” variety.

Arriving at my stop, this question of empathy gave me cause to pause. Pushing my way through the turnstile and up the slippery station steps, I could not fully grasp why I felt bad. Chalking it up to  being a sensitive human being was not enough of an answer. And I’m not a person who can force an emotion. I mean, I laughed my ass off when Brad Pitt got tuned up by those cars in Meet Joe Black. So what was it? Fighting of the elements on Lexington Avenue, I saw very clearly the Empathy Stages of life. Why did I feel a weird sort of compassion? Because the man in question was in the right age bracket. The ways in which people feel for others is directly linked to age.

When you’re a young gun, you get Stage One empathy. People feel bad when you are physically hurt. Broke your leg? Sign the cast and try to find some joy in a painful situation. Need stitches? As long as it’s not in some place that will come back to haunt you as adolescent cruelty begins to rear its ugly head, you can rest easy with the knowledge that you will have a scar and a story. Young people, it is reasoned, are supposed to be physically hurt and that hurt needs to be allayed by the proper empathy. There’s a flip side to the coin however. For all the casts and scarring, the empathy isn’t really allocated for emotional hurts, especially from adults to kids. Adults may sort of feel bad that your prom date was a nightmare or you had a bad break-up the summer before sophomore year, but deep down, they’re really thinking, “Man, this shit ain’t even hard yet.” Young gun emotional hurt is dismissed as, well, juvenile.

But one day, all young guns get older. As this process happens, so too does the nature of empathy. At this point you’ve graduated to Stage Two empathy. People certainly still feel bad when you fall off your ladder or slip on the ice and break your leg, but the empathy is more confused. When adults hear that other healthy adults get hurt, they say, “Really? That’s terrible.” Note that the first word is “really,” as in, “Hm, usually only kids seem to have these sorts of things happen to them and I find the fact that it happened to someone who is not a kid somewhat perplexing.” Most adults aren’t foolish enough to think that they’re invincible, but they are also out of practice signing peoples’ legs. Adults are tuned for emotionally damaging situations—lost job, failed marriages, aging and mortality crises—and other adults (or would-be adults) recognize that and respond accordingly. I couldn’t sign this guy’s forehead or be regaled by an interesting tale of balding and how he decided to respond to it. So, I sat and empathized as best I could.

As Dancing Feather and I trudged home through the November rain, we decided that the people with the best compassion bracket are old people. Think about it: If you’re lucky enough to get old—and you better believe it takes luck—people feel bad for you about everything. Your emotional and physical bases are covered. Now you might say ubiquitous pity is nothing to aspire to. I disagree. The way I see it, if you get to a point in your life where people are unequivocally compelled toward compassion; if you’ve been granted enough time and experience to get to Stage Three, you’ve lived a good life. Or at least had the chance for one. Peace to Big Mama.

Penultimate Thought: Somehow, Will Smith’s movies keep dragging me back in.
Final Thought: The air is better in the clouds.

Like most people in the United States--and the world for that matter--I technically don't have enough money to live in the city in which I reside, a city that has been known to cost a more than fair amount to be in. As is the prudent thing, I have spent my days trying to rectify this situation vis a vis the job search. Searching for employment is a somewhat paradoxical pursuit; indeed, you scour employment websites, polish resumes and tweak cover letters to exhaustion and at day's end feel like you've accomplished less than nothing.

I've found that the key to keeping my spirits up is to break up the monotony by either: watching Law & Order, drinking at midday--yes; until I'm somewhat drunk--or reading. The first is always great, though we seem to be in a cycle of episodes I've already seen; the second is problematic on several levels and really isn't an interesting enough pastime; the third always worthwhile provided the literature is up to snuff. Having already exceeded my Stoli and tonic intake for the week--and the next week too--I decided to float over to the bookshelf and peruse the selection. Kafka? No. Camus? Cover letter crafting has melted my brain a little too much for my boy. Into The Wild? I knew it to be a tale of a young white boy who died after dropping out of the world and going back to nature. Seemed engrossing enough, so I settled in and read it.

While I won't sit here and give you an entire book review, I will say it was an enjoyable read. I both admired and despised the young man in question and any time a story can make you feel conflicted, you should chalk that up as a decent day's read. One of the many question I, and others, asked throughout the story is,

"Is man equipped to survive in nature? Is nature natural to us any longer?"

Later that same evening, the misses and I were watching the news and sat in dismay as it appears subway fare hikes are on the horizon, though the broadcasters half-heartedly attempted to keep it a matter of speculation--as if a billion-dollar budget deficit would not come directly out of the pocket of the consumer. I went to bed with that familiar feeling I seem to go to bed with frequently these days; that less-than-hopeful feeling you have when you're down to your last few dollars and don't have any idea where the next few are coming from. It's that foreboding feeling, as if someone slipped a slender hand underneath your chest and is gently massaging your heart in a completely unflattering way.

I woke up this morning and did the price hike figures. A twenty dollar fare increase for a one month unlimited ride metro card. A cool hundred dollars to ride to and fro with the other sad souls with a hand on the heart. Still in bed, I contemplated life as I know it: I'm a college graduate whose real skills and interests people tend to think should come for free, especially when there's not too much money to go around. So, as a true son of Eli, I contemplated the next possible step: Law school. It's the only thing I could think of that I could do that would very likely pay dividends if I so desired. Yes; it costs a lot, but, so does drama school and plenty of those degrees never, ever, ever bear fruit.

This isn't a long, convoluted way to explain my decision to go to law school--though I suppose I'm still considering it--but rather I'm spelling out a thought process. Why would I ever consider doing something I have little interest in? Money, of course. And what does telling you of my sitting unemployed and enriching my mind through literature tell you? Hopefully something about man in his natural habitat.

I woke up this morning and did my figures and pondered law school and pondered this book I read while unemployed and came to this thought:

Modern Society--as man now knows it--is his most natural habitat. To survive in said habitat the only tangible resource necessary is money. Money is of singular importance because it allows man to gather what he needs to survive in the habitat and the pursuit thereof is thus amoral.

Now, I acknowledge that there is a particularly Western point of view inherent in the above. I also acknowledge that it is predicated upon a society that places value on money. Certainly the matter will be different when that is no longer the case, but until then I'm inclined to explore this further.

One of the common refrains from those who thought Chris McCandless was a delusional dreamer who had no respect for the Alaskan wilderness is that modern man is no longer equipped to survive the way he was attempting to survive. And those that can survive in that way are far more knowledgeable about the way to do it. Without the proper preparation, man simply no longer has a place in the wilderness. We've just plain forgotten what it takes.

Still, it's not an utter impossibility. Man is still atop the food chain. Why? Because of our ability to be prepared, our ability to acquire knowledge, set rabbit traps, preserve meat and stay warm over the winter months. Fortunately and unfortunately, we're not only able to adapt to a habitat, we're also able to bend it to our will--until it bends back of course.

The stakes for modern man are different than they once were and here is where the question of amorality in pursuit of the only resource that matters comes into play. Save for our friends in PETA and the like, no one thinks those who hunted and trapped game were wrong for doing that which they deemed necessary to survive. Before we started overdoing it, felling trees so you could build a house was alright. Why? Because it was cold outside. But the question is different now. Man has money as an intermediary to the jobs he used to do. Want food? Pay for it. Need shelter? Pay for it. In fact, money's something more than an intermediary because it affects every aspect of life; indeed, it costs money to do things that don't cost money.

But there's another piece to this puzzle. Immoderation is, and has been, the new moderation. To have enough is to have too little. This is where man's ability to bend his habitat to his will comes into play. Being reasonable simply isn't any fun. It isn't simply a matter of surviving; rather, it is a matter of surviving comfortably.

Money is the means by which modern man survives. It's both gun and deer; ax and shelter. Show me a person who is surviving well without money and I'll show you a college student with a benefactor. Currency matters because it has a limitless amount of influence; it is able to do the work we no longer wish to do or are capable of doing. The things you can't get with money--love, contentment, self-esteem--are the same things you can't get without it. Yes; mo' money, mo' problems, but I think we often fail to see money for what it is: A resource. Money is often the patsy for human shortcomings. Perhaps, more fairly, it's mo' people, mo' problems. Is money the root of all evil or is the desire to consume?

As I pondered this question of the interplay between money and morality--and under the umbrella of morality I'm placing generally agreed upon tenets of character, integrity, decency, etcetera--I found that money and morality were both powerful forms of currency, but only one can help you survive without prejudice. Am I saying that there's no room for decency? Of course not; I am a person who is consistently awed and humbled by human decency. I'm merely pointing out that but having the first and last month's rent does the work that the favors of friends eventually cannot. 
I have to admit that this argument gets entirely more complex for those individuals who no longer have to hunt. When the need to pursue is no longer there, what is the impulse? Perhaps it's simply a matter of desire which can no longer be governed. But the question being raised is based on having that which allows him or her to survive, not indulge.

For those of us still in the hunt, for those of us who have neither venison for the winter or a comfortable place to store, does the question of morality truly apply? On the physical plane on which we exist, would we not concede that mere righteousness rarely puts food in your mouth or a roof over your head? This is not to say that I'm all for survival at any cost; I still find infringing upon another's life to be generally out of bounds, though I am willing to give a degree of latitude to that which a person considers self-defense.

Truly, this question hinges greatly on the matter of socialization. I, and others, have been shown time and again that money matters and, by and large, we believe that. We've also been told otherwise so we don't go bat-shit crazy and truly give way to our baser instincts i.e. the pursuit of the truly important resource. Does this exonerate the drug dealers and gun runners and robber barons of the world? Kind of. Not fully, but kind of. As we tend to forget, most drug dealers and the like--and yes Wall Street, you get grouped in there too--are not wealthy and take part in the business for no other reason than to make money, the resource they need to survive. Period. If they could make the same kind of money selling fruit baskets, I'd wager most would (there's always that percentage that like the danger. Idiots). We find them to be a tricky bunch because they work outside the law to give the society something it quietly craves and will cause bloodbaths and destroy communities in order to give society that which it quietly craves. We don't so much begrudge them their money as we don't like to see the blood and the mess.

This is a question of man's nature. We tend to forget that we are animals. We do that which needs doing to survive, live in a society that appeals to that survival instinct and then hope that we have the decency to be "better than that."  We are animals. Yes; I'd argue we are the most complex in the animal kingdom but members of the kingdom nonetheless. It's not essential that I know how to preserve a moose--though it probably should be. It matters little that I don't know how to find water in the desert--though I may one day regret that. It does matter however that I find a solution to a twenty dollar hike in my monthly expenses. And righteousness isn't it. Peace to John Krakauer.

Just now I took a look into the future
Something only the foolish or dying would dare
Just now I took a look into the future
To see if my living had been in vain
Just now I took a look into the future...

This morning, I woke up on the same futon and heard the rush of traffic outside my homegirl's window. This morning, I woke up with the same couple of dollars in my pocket, threw on my same black jeans, the classic red and black North Face, my newly-polished old Dunks and headed out in search of some newspaper. This morning, I stepped outside my door and heard the din of children's screams and laughter from across the street; the same din from the same kids at the same school. Looking into the silver gray sky, standing in so much sameness, I knew the world was a completely different place.

I saw a fruit tree dripping with dew
The sky full of wild birds homeward bound
I saw a man bend down and drink water from a river
Ten thousand children playin' in the rain...

Since last night, everyone I've spoken to is working hard to somehow grasp this moment. What will we say to our children? What will we tell them of this day? While I have never been one to shy away from hyperbole, I'll do so now. There is no exaggeration worthy of this moment, so, for my children, I begin with this...

Just now I took a look into the future
I saw Red people
Black people
White people
Yellow people
I saw Brown people, Red people, Black, Yellow, White people
Gathered at the rainbow place chanting...

Before November 4th, 2008 at around 11:30pm EST, The single most important event of my lifetime took place on the 11th of September, 2001. I was a junior at the Abbey then and a morning assembly had been called. My pals and I were in the student center at the time and a sudden all for assembly  gave me cause to pause.  As we made the sojourn from student center to auditorium, the only thing going through my mind was, "Crap, someone shot Bush." Interestingly, when the thought crossed my mind,  I felt a  pang of conflicted sorrow--I doubted I would mourn him as I would have mourned  my own presidential  choice, but I was struck by  the fact that it made me sadder than I thought it would when the theoretical arose. We reached the assembly hall and our headmaster calmly told us a plane had hit the World Trade Towers. His voice was even-toned; concerned but not alarmed. I think the general sense was that a biplane had gone off course and clipped one of the towers. Things seemed a bit more fishy when they released us from our morning class obligations.

Some of the guys and gals headed down to St. Bede's--the day student dorm--to see what the fuss was all about. We clicked on the TV and watched the greatest action movie everyone never wanted to see. A 747 was flying into a giant building, just like the movies. Windows blowing out for forty stories in each direction as the plane burst into flames. Except there was no cut to our hero or villain delivering some pithy one-liner. There was only a terrifying silence accented by the sound of everyone attempting to call anyone and everyone they knew in New York and DC.  It took me a long time to get through to my brother in DC. The whole time, the only thing I could think was, "If these mufuckas killed my brother, it's on. For life." The only thing I remember distinctly is that the whole world was making a phone call and no one was getting through.

On and on
Times moving on and  on and
On and on
Times moving on and on...

November 4th, 2008 was tantamount to 9/11. Except the complete opposite. After spending seven years living in a state of perpetual fear, sometimes real and often imagined, living in times that seemed increasingly cynical and devoid of hope, 52% of the American public took a chance. With the future at stake, the people threw their support behind a man with dreams on his mind.

I was living in New York City at the time. My girlfriend Kim and I had gone home the day before so we could vote. We knew we weren't about to be swing state heroes, but this election was important. It was the most important. And while I was too lazy to fill out an absentee ballot anyway, I was glad I went home. I got up with mom and pop and we all went and exercised our right. And it felt good. Once I submitted my ballot, I avoided all election talk. Now the shit was real and I didn't want to stress myself out.  We hitched a ride back to New York with Melissa, one of my dunnies from the day. We listened to cd's the whole way. While riding through Harlem on the way to 109th street, I saw a video screen saying Obama was getting crushed in electoral college votes, sixteen to three. That immediately gave me an extreme sense of foreboding, not unlike the feeling I had after Plaxico Burress beat Ellis Hobbs for that touchdown in the Super Bowl the year before, except about something that would alter the destiny of my country. The whole rest of the ride, I sat in silence and stewed; we'd all known it was a possibility he could lose, but I never imagined how bad I would feel about the actual possibility of it happening. Obama losing would have signaled the end of...everything. His defeat would be our Kennedy assassination. Maybe worse, because we didn't see any Bobbies coming down the pike.

We got back to Morningside Heights--we were staying with my homegirl TIng while we got on our feet in the city--around 8:15.  My mood was something far beyond salty. When we hit the buzzer, Steve Biko--he was doing his Columbia Law thing at the time--answered, sounding fairly light of heart. That pissed me off. The future's falling to the wayside and he's playing intercom jokes. When we reached Thug's Mansion--or apartment 5A as the super called it--the mood in the room was light; not arrogant but cautiously optimistic. Alogn with Steve Biko and of course Ting, Aileen, one of Ting's nursing school goonies was there, posted up on the couch. There was beer and wine and vodka, and Mexican grub--you might say we were prepared either way.  When I expressed my frustration at Obama's being dominated in the electoral college votes, my friends looked at me quizzically. "Jon," they said, "It's 103 to 16." Apparently I didn't see the screen right. But it was still early.

We flipped between multiple news channels trying to get the latest and most accurate-seeming scoop. Jokes abounded as we tried to not jinx the enormity of the moment. Biko, more of a wonk than the rest of us, sat more confident than most, he knew how the college worked and knew the math of it. Still, we were nervous. We'd seen how math could do funny thing in times like these.

It was around 1130 or so, when they called California and we knew it was over.

I cried a little. We all got on our phones. Just like 9/11, you could barely get a call through. Unlike 9/11, we felt like we had been delivered from fear. I called my dad and just kept screaming, "They tried to kill us but they couldn't! THEY TRIED TO KILL US BUT THEY COULDN'T!" I asked him to put my mom on the phone, but apparently, she was at Rhode Island's democratic headquarters huckabuckin'. Then I called my various cohorts and henchpeople and shouted essentially the same thing I had to my dad. The roar from the streets was too loud to ignore, so Kim and I took to the streets.

Out on Amsterdam, Brown people, red people, black, yellow, and white people danced in the streets. People hugged, pumped fists, took random pictures and rejoiced. A cacophony of car horns never sounded sweeter. We knew we needed to stay out and savor it, so I called AJ and we went over to post up at his homegirl's place.  On the way there I called both my grandmothers and thanked them. We were truly standing on the shoulders of giants. When we got to the crib, we drank a little more and waited for Obama's acceptance speech. We had two computers set up, just in case any of the streaming feed got screwed up. These words were going to be too important. As he spoke, we all sat in silence, just nodding our heads. Then we went home because there was nothing left to say.

Just now I took a look into the future
I had to see if we made it through
Just now I took a look into the future
I had to see if what it would be...

I cannot at this moment articulate what this means. It's still too early and too giant and too...everything. So like I said, I won't use hyperbole. I'll merely state the facts, facts that cannot be altered or quibbled with:

I heard a newborn baby cry
While a mother and father smiled at the child
I saw a man bend down and drink water from a river
Ten thousand people singin' in the rain...

The most powerful person in the world goes by the name of Barack Hussein Obama. The son of an Kenyan father and Irish-American mother, he is the 44th president-elect of a nation which had, less than 150 years earlier, not considered people such as himself human, much less citizens.  That's to say nothing of the subsequent 150 years which could be considered less than comfy. On November 4th, 2008 at around 11:30 EST, Barack Hussein Obama was elected the 44th President of the United States of America. And I saw it happen.

Just now I took a look into the future
I saw Red people
Black people
White people
Yellow people
I saw Brown people, Red people, Black, Yellow, White people
Gathered at the rainbow place chanting

We crossed over from the Madness Time
We crossed over from the Madness Time
We crossed over from the Madness Time
And we're never going back again
No we're never going back again
No we're never going back
Are you gonna be ready?

I almost ruined a subtly life-altering event so I could sit down and write about the experience. Sometimes people can't get out of their own way. Peace to G Band Free.

Me and Bacchus would have been homeboys.

Though I'm not one to indulge too often in the earthly libation known to our Native American friends as fire water--and have exactly one minus one times in man sex--I thoroughly appreciates those evening in which I pour a few glasses ( or tie one on as my old white duns call it). While drinking like a freshman that gets found passed out in their entryway is less than agreeable, a few drink over a fish dinner in which you discuss: how much you want to hit Sarah Palin with a hammer, being a a Yale graduate, car insurance, and how much you want you want to hit Sarah Palin with a hammer--probably in the knee but maybe the mouth depending on the situation--certainly qualify with "gangbusters" status in my book.

As most of you probably aren't aware, my girl The Michelle is heading to the Nati that she might be able to one day take over the good people who make both Crest and Magic Erasers. For me, there is a good deal of emotion involved, namely because it was around six years ago this week that a young freshman scrap in maroon wifebeater attempted to woo her outside her apartment after having grossly miscalculated the distance from Zeta Psi to her residence. There is also a bit of emotion attached to the fact that she has been there through think and thin; through chocolate and vanilla and everything in between. In some less-than-sober way, hers is the only opinion I care for when it comes to my maturation from young scrap to older scrap because, in the best and worst ways, she has seen the arc in its entirety.

I won't lie: This back-to-school time makes me feel somewhat nostalgic. Unlike your first fall out of school when you're still trying to figure out why real life doesn't involve a meal plan and no work on Friday--which I've still managed to finagle because I'm ill like that--your second fall is one in which you're a bit more familiar with how this new phase of life is supposed to work. In this sophomore season, you have more of an opportunity to not only look wistfully upon those who still have the opportunity to live in an alternate reality, but also fondly ponder those times in which your "work" began at the crack of 11.

Over dinner, I found myself doing that. Whereas your last year of college is memorable, wistful reflection has more to do with missing circumstances that are far removed from the present. When your trip down memory lane goes longer, when you think about the early days of black roommates paired together, of five dollar couches and breaking the belt loop on that junior's pants at your first college party EVER, you start to clear your throat and pour a glass of prune juice. Unlike the little effort it takes to remember when you were a sophisticated senior who had mastered the art of  holding the inhalation of a marijuana cigarette while downing a shot of whiskey, navigating the waters of being a "not lame but rather a semi-cool version of lame because you didn't have quite the right seasoning to keep you from being anything other than not lame but rather a semi-cool version of lame" seventeen year old is both rough and enticing.

As I recounted the story of meeting The Michelle to my parents, I couldn't help but be struck by how vivid the memory seemed. I've forgotten many frames of the movie of my life, but this one--and many from that era--are my Zapruder. In some I'm waving at the crowd; in others, Jackie's crawling on the back of the limo to grab my skull cap. For some odd reason all these frames appear to be sunny. These images capture a sunshine I secretly miss, even when Jackie's going to the back of the limo. It's funny; despite the fact that I know some of these days were a bright, shining lie, I remain dazzled and want one more chance to wave from that motorcade.

Sometimes I want just one more glass of water after a night at Zeta Psi. Peace to The Michelle.

Penultimate Thought: If "liberal elite" means I don't like the dumb, so be it.

Final Thought: Michigan with an Adidas contract is crime against the universe.

It's often assumed that working a job that does not jive with your interest (or wallet) serves the purpose of "telling you what you don't want to do" or "makes you appreciate jobs you like that much more." The above platitudes, of course, tells you absolutely nothing. With the exception of jobs that you honestly thought you would like but turned out to be terrible, you were probably already aware that you didn't really want to do the job; indeed, as your bank account dwindled and some loan officer or another kept blowing your phone up, your decision came down to which form of prostitution--including prostitution itself--you would subject yourself to for financial gain. Of course, in those instances, there are some who have epiphanies; in a pressure situation, life slowed down just enough to make some employment desire or interest abundantly clear to them. For most of us doing jobs we don't particularly care for, that is not the case.

Because life has a funny sense of humor, jobs we don't care for often times do not point us in the direction of jobs we would care for. In fact, jobs we don't care for only make us yearn for not doing any job at all. Jobs we don't care for seem to only serve the purpose of making us tolerate eight hours at work that we might gain the weekend as a reward. I've found in the five or so years in which I've had myriad jobs that ranged from "hm, this isn't terribly engaging" to "God, I hope I have a slip and fall accident at work" we spend a good deal of time being catty and bitchy about the jobs we don't care for, intermittently accenting said cat bitchery with bittersweet exultations about what we plan to drink this weekend and doing little else. Having been both torch bearer and pitchfork wielder in this familiar mob, I can tell you it has only helped me to determine I didn't particularly care for whatever job I was doing. This is somewhat redundant since I not only knew I didn't particularly care for the job before applying, but was very likely brandishing my pitchfork while I grumbled my way to the stockroom to get more hats/sweaters/sneakers/Endorush.

(Sidebar 1: Lest I sound like a hypocrite to the Crookeds and The Straights project, understand that no matter if you love or hate your job, there is someone or something about the job that chaps your ass. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, just keep reading and don't trouble yourself with the above clarification. But if you really want to know, go check out www.crookedsandstraights.blogspot.com)

The other day on my day off, a day in which I was contemplating turning in my nametag for the umpteenth time, I decided to chat up The Michelle. Having known her for some time, I should have known it was less than prudent to begin haranguing against my job, but I of course did. Here's a dramatization of conversation:

Me: This job is beneath me!
TM: Yes; it is.
Me: I'm gonna just quit! I went to too much school to abide this garbage. I'm taking too many lateral steps.
TM: So make a decision, take a forward one and call me back when your testicles drop.

*SCENE*

So I put out my torch, dropped my pitchfork, and did just that.

Perhaps because we fear self-reflection and evaluation, people don't realize that the answers to their fulfillment, at least with regard to employment, is a question that must be asked of the self. It's a fairly tall order to ask a job you never wanted to sate your passion. In my case, I have much less of an excuse because--for the time being--I have a very good idea of how I want to spend my hours. In fact, I've probably always known it, but shied away from it as I grew older and learned what fear and "knowing better" was. The depth of self-evaluation and reflection it takes to accept the facts can be staggering. The journey to discovering your passion often reveals exactly who you are, good and bad, to the one person it is impossible to lie to. If you don't know what you want to do with your life, the first thing you have to do is ask the question.

Unless you live an abundantly charmed life, there will be a time when you have to do a job you don't want to do. What purpose does such a thing serve? The easy answer is that it helps you bridge the gap to your passion. If you're a photographer, that job at Foot Locker helps buy film. I've found recently that the work has gotten light to me because I have no illusions as to why I am there. Perhaps this is coming from a place of detached arrogance or perhaps I just believe I can close the gap, but I sweat this situation much less because it is temporary.

But there's more than that. Unfortunately, the following statement applies more soundly to people that have an idea of what they want to do, but if you're willing to put the leg work in with regard to discovering your passion or interests, this will still be holding water when you get back. Jobs you don't care for tell you why you don't care for them and why you do care for your other interests. While wearing a nametag and punching a clock every day is abhorrent to my sensibilities, they are merely annoyances in the face of what I feel the essence of my actual job is. No matter how good it feels to close a membership deal and get a few more coins in my pocket--and believe me, I do get a kick out of the chess match and the resultant pennies--I can never feel fully invested in the work.

As I sat at my desk earlier this week, using gamesmanship and my gabbing gift to sign a young woman on a fixed income to a membership that both suited her income and my commission check--while I never cross ethical lines, I am a salesman; hence, I can always give a person a better deal than they are getting, but to do so would hurt my income--I had a simple yet profound insight. Though, on a technical level, my professional interests lie in quarterbacking the make-believe, I never feel like I am lying when I do it. Peace to Willy Loman.

Penultimate Thought: Though Jamaican, I'm glad the fastest man in the world is 6'5.

Final Thought: I have no idea where they throw dumpsters out.



 

Yesterday, I woke up around 8am, put on my black and yellow sneakers, black shorts, two black long-sleeved shirts and Yale track and field Boathouse and went to the bus stop to wait for the 8:50 bus--number 79--to take me to Bally Total Fitness, arriving approximately at 9:01. Glad to be out of the rain and having deposited my change upon boarding, I sat down in one of the first four rows of seats, feeling oddly out of place among the morning shifters and bummish derelicts that tend to frequent the number 79 at that time of morning. Being dressed for the gym and then getting on a bus not driven by Skip and not headed to or from Payne Whitney has a tendency to make me feel oddish. Perhaps I merely yearned for the halcyon days of yore, but it's more likely that getting eyeballed by bummish derelicts had an adverse effect on me. I'd probably have felt entirely out of place had I not been a morning shifter in disguise.

The bus having made its stop for a lady who works at Papa Gino's, it was my turn to disembark. Having made sure I didn't leave anything behind on the seat, I thanked the bus driver and stepped off the bus. Though it was on its way to being a warm day, I knew the two black long-sleeved shirts would come in handy as I made my way through the double doors of Bally's. Melody, the good-natured blonde who does works there on the side while pursuing her music career--a Berklee grad no less--smiles and waves as I make it through the inner door. I do the same. Passing a few elliptical machines, a take a left into the office I share with two other co-workers. It being 9am, I'm the first one in, so I put my bag down and head down to the personal trainer's office where I collect four jump ropes of various weights. Having begun to work out seriously in the last two months, jumping rope has not only become an exercise I enjoy mastering, but also a good way to do cardio when I don't ahve an iPod, which is always.

Having collected the ropes, I go into the PT section, where Colin, a Nigerian and Caucus mash-up, a trainer and collegiate high hurdler, begins the morning with the standard heckle for using the black speed rope which, of the ropes, is by far the lightest. Kerry, the fitness director--a jolly Black giant of sorts--joins in while he stretches out a client. I reply that the other ropes burn my forearms something terrible and they reply with something in the neighborhood of "get the sand out of your vag." Sufficiently heckled, I begin my rope workout. Two feet, one foot, switching feet, double jump. I don't break an honest sweat for ten minutes, but after that point I've got a decent lather going. At the thirty minute mark, I put the ropes away and finish my workout, which is a full body circuit. Having stressed out my body, I hit the showers and unsuccessfully try to ignore the ball smell, old man ball sightings and the old man conversation--often had while their balls are out.

Finally dressed in my red t-shirt, too-short black Champion swishies and the same black and yellow sneakers I sat at the bus stop in, I exit the locker room and punch in at the front desk. By this time, Justine, an affable Puerto Rican lass of 23, is at the desk and we shoot the breeze a bit. Breeze satisfactorially shot, I head to my office and open my file cabinet drawer--third from the top--and take out my nametag. Clipping it on the upper left part of my red t-shirt, I remove a file from the cabinet and sit down and checked my appointments for the day. Having none till the afternoon, I go to our phone list and began making calls, urging people to come in and check the gym out. I also manage to call Kim and see how her red shirtedness goes across town. That being done, I sit and work out prices and different pricing scenarios until I'm called to the front desk by my manager Darren, an energetic jock-like white boy, not unlike many of my former Eli goonies. At the desk I got some tip or other about membership sales and then, for clarification, I asked some questions back.

The story really gets started in the afternoon. I spent some time at the front desk, where I answer phones and swipe cards. Once Teresa, my sassy assistant manager, comes to relieve me from this, I get the black heckle rope and do some jumping. Though I jump during the dead part of the afternoon, I returned to the front desk area to find people waiting to be toured around the club. Quickly changing back into my red t-shirt, I go into my office with various characters and ask them some preliminary question concerning their lives and fitness goals. After that, I toured them around the club--spin bikes, free weights, pool--and get to know a little about them. Arriving back in my office, I threw out a few numbers to see what would stick. Three of the people didn't have the money but would "be back"; the other group knew exactly what they wanted because they had talked to someone else before meeting with me. Now here's where it gets interesting.

Contract printed out, gone over and signed, I made this couples' ID cards and got them set up for their first workout with Dana, one of our hulking and good-natured PTs. Shift over, I head to my office to collect my things and get called into my manager's office. We sit down and discuss not letting people walk out without memberships no matter what. I explained that I did my best. Now here's the kicker: He says OK, just work on refining your technique.

That being over with, I collected my things, punched out and sat and waited for Kim to come pick me up, feeling out of place in my Yale track and field Boathouse as I watched varying degrees humanity stream out of the club and towards their cars. Upon Kim's arrival, we went to my house and sat in my parents' living room until she had to leave at 1am (house rules).

Multiply by five, accounting for changes in weather patterns, and that is my life, ending one day at a time. Peace to Second.

Penultimate Thought: If you're a member at a gym and remain fat, you should probably ask for fitness advice.

Final Thought: Or stop wasting money on the gym altogether.

Since I now spend most of my waking hours doing work that only seems to serve the purpose of keeping me from doing that which I enjoy--and yes; I do wear a name tag while doing it--this is my first opportunity to wax eloquent about two-week old backlogged material. Fear not; the information has been kept from spoiling and is indeed ready to be loosed onto the world.

So, two weeks ago, I found myself in the Lenexa Triangle, a region of the middle western United States in which life as we know it is relegated to second chair in the symphony of the bizarre. One must fight to keep the mind's autonomy for only then can they truly appreciate the strangeness of this business. Did my two buddies really just get married? This indeed was so. Can I now say I have stood in an orchard in Missouri to witness the nuptials of people I know? Yup. Did someone really show up falling down drunk to the wedding? If I said no, you sir must hold me in contempt of this court, for I have perjured myself. Had I seen Amelia Earhart or Jimmy Hoffa in the buffet line of this buddy nuptial in an apple orchard in Missouri, I'd have thought little of it, other than to calculate how much free booze their stomachs would be denying mine.

For cert, there is more to know about this -than-abominable-but-still-rather-bizarre Triangle, but I must forge on to inform thee farther of the most treacherous demonstration of its temporal stranglehold: The airport.

While over the course of two and a half days I'd grown accustomed to the delicate temperance of the Triangle--Yes; I guess you can have a Pflumm Road and expect people to be able to pronounce it--it was from the airport that this deadly shrew displayed her most unmitigable rage. Only a Triangle such as this would allow an airport to be run by the criminally insane and the old timers that couldn't get that Wal-Mart greeters job. Only a wench nonpareil would replace my one-stop flight with a non-stop flight...on an airline with run decidedly less precision than the evacuation from Saigon. Oh, I got my direct flight. Thirteen hours later.

Finally on a coast that makes sense and having been thoroughly flagellated by this Triangle, this demidevil, I found myself on the train home drafting some notes on how best to save my time and wallet from the clutches of the world's other Triangles, known and unknown, that sit with maws wide open, waiting to strike.

Thusly, friends, I give you the Quahog Corollary, a formula and set of guidelines to help determine the worth of a leisure adventure involving the support of a friend or family members happening or event. Obviously, the final arbiter in the situation is the individual applying the Corollary, so the outcomes in every different circumstance are different. Even more obviously, this Corollary is based upon those of us with tight financial circumstances and/or time.

 To help you better understand it, I will apply it to my own life and circumstances.

Sometimes, you do stuff in the summer and that stuff keeps you from doing other stuff, which in this case is writing in this fair journal. Fear not; I have words galore to share and, provided that I haven't immolated someone from Midwest Airlines, I will have something up and running by Friday morning.

Penultimate Thought: Kindred spirit sounds better than soul mate.

Final Thought: Never ever ever ever in your life fly Midwest Airlines. Ever.

Stumbled across this while working on another piece. Wrote it three years ago for my American Studies class. Enjoy.

Dark and Light: Life in the Shadows

Color consciousness is an issue that has ensnared the American psyche since the European settlers first brought men and women from Africa as slave labor four centuries ago. Dark-skinned people of the world were considered barbarians and in America, the social divide was clear: to be White was to be civilized and to be Black was to be inhuman altogether. On the matter of color, Whites found the strangle-hold which would allow them to maintain positions of power and influence from that moment until the present day. This tactical psychological warfare has encumbered Black Americans for generations. Though the institution of slavery did create a contentious relationship between Blacks and Whites that may never be resolved fully, it is inaccurate to say that full responsibility can be placed on European settlers. Within Black America, there lurks the notion of “colorism”, the prejudices of Blacks towards other Blacks on the grounds of skin tone.

The history of relations between dark and light-skinned Blacks in America is tenuous at best. As European slave owners began to reproduce with the Africans they enslaved, a different kind of slave caste was formed. They were still slaves, but they differed in many regards from other Africans in bondage. A mixture of European and African features, their skin was lighter, hair straighter and noses more narrow. For slave masters, they were the best of both worlds: slave labor that was socially acceptable. Unlike the dark-skinned property that toiled in the fields, light-skinned Blacks, it was believed, had some of the trappings of a civilized person despite the Negroid blood that ran through their veins. As a result, light-skinned Blacks received preferential treatment in the way of chores within the master’s house and the opportunity to travel with the master, thus being exposed to learning opportunities that were illegal for their dark-skinned counterparts. The notion that “light was right” did not die with the institution of slavery.

Sadly, the pitting of dark versus light gained even more steam after Emancipation. In the Black American community, to be light-skinned was to be at the pinnacle of beauty and social polishing. Those who were of the more “desirable complexion” often held this perceived superiority over the heads of those who were not. At a time when Blacks with influence and prestige could have truly uplifted the race, many chose to use this influence to show they were better than somebody. After years of being kicked, the rationale may have been that it was time to kick someone else down, regardless of phenotypic ties. In higher education, Black sororities and fraternities such as Alpha Kappa Alpha and Alpha Phi Alpha placed a premium on skin tone. If a person could not pass the brown paper bag test (a test in which a person had to be lighter than a brown paper bag to gain admission to a group or function), one of these groups was not worth his or her pursuit. Dark-skinned Blacks were perceived to be everything light-skinned Blacks were not. They were savage, aggressive, criminally-oriented beings that were too far gone to be civilized. Though Whites may have implanted this type of thinking to divide and conquer the Black American populous, it remains that Blacks perpetuate this thinking. As a result, an adversarial relationship between dark and light-skinned Blacks exists to this very day.

As a dark-skinned male, I have experienced many of these prejudices first hand. Growing up in America during the 1980’s and 1990’s, it was clear to me at an early age that complexions like my own were less than desirable. If a Black person was on television or in a magazine at all, they were light-skinned more often than not. Image after image was the type of Black I was not. I wish I could say that I was just a child and these images did not have an effect on me. Indeed, they had a profound effect. Though I did not have the same understanding of these feelings as I do now, I felt something all the same. The world told me my being was wrong but, if I relaxed my hair just right or used this certain face cream enough, I could be close to being the right kind of Black. In what was portrayed as the “natural” order of things, I was unnatural. I was convinced was that being dark was not only detrimental, it was outright wrong and potentially dangerous. Being born to parents who are dark-skinned themselves, I was still clearly the darkest person in my immediate family. Family portraits could be rather torturous as I could see constant reminders in my own home of just how Black I was. I was too Black to be the right kind of Black. Mainstream media only helped to perpetuate the stereotype that haunted me and others like me.

Many films speak volumes about the issue of race and colorism, though they rarely ever made direct reference to it. One such film is the 1988 comedy, “Coming To America”. The film stars Eddie Murphy as Akeem, an African prince who has gone to America in search of his bride. The eventual object of his affection is Lisa McDowell (played by Shari Headley), the daughter of his employer. A tall, virtuous, light-skinned beauty. In doing so, Akeem must also fend off Lisa’s dark-skinned sister Patrice (Allison Dean), a feisty tramp of a supporting character who, at best, is presented as a promiscuous gold digger. Though I was not aware of this at the time, this film reaffirmed the hierarchy in beauty of light and dark-skinned women. Lisa, light and pure, was far more desirable than Patrice, dark and morally loose. The movie told me not to like Patrice and I did not.  I doubt it was even a thought in the producer’s mind to have a dark-skinned woman as the romantic lead. How could it be when in 2005, Will Smith, an Academy Award nominee, was denied in his request to be cast beside a Black love interest in the romantic comedy “Hitch”? Clearly, the de facto practice of discrimination on the grounds of skin tone still exist, especially in what the society deems to be examples of beauty.  

            Even more biting are the messages sent in the 1991 crime drama, “New Jack City”, particularly in the figure of Nino Brown. Portrayed by Wesley Snipes, Brown is a formidable figure; dark, cruel and driven. His manner of dress on the movie’s poster-- black cap turned backward, black sunglasses and black leather jacket, casually holding a pistol in one hand, while a burning cigarette rests in the other—deliberately evokes a very particular image in the mind of those that view it. Wesley Snipes’ character is supposed to be frightening, stirring up memories of a time when Black men, dressed in a similar fashion, let the world know they were enraged and priming for revolution. Nino Brown is Black radicalism coupled with the lucrative drug trafficking that defined much of the 1980’s and 90’s in America, especially the Black community. He wed the rage of the 1960’s with the ideals of a consumer culture to become one of America’s worst nightmares.

The light-skinned characters in the film—most of whom are portrayed as weak, untrustworthy, and incompetent in some regard--,  not only play into a stereotype that many dark-skinned Blacks hold for light-skinned Blacks, but also make Brown seem more powerful and compelling as well. As a young viewer, I was taken in by Brown’s aura. He was strong and dynamic; he shucked and jived for no man. Any who stood in his way felt his wrath. In some ways, I wished to be him. The film and the character of Nino Brown told me what a real Black man should be like, especially if he is dark-skinned. Many still credit Snipes and this role for bringing dark complexions back to a place of prominence and prestige. I was always conflicted by this. On one hand, Nino Brown was a strong, dark-skinned character that possessed many admirable qualities. On the other hand, he also brought death in many forms to the Black community. Does one circumstance outweigh the other? Are Black men with power inherently dangerous? Nino Brown is one of cinema’s greatest and most complex villains, yet in the context of how Black men are portrayed in media, he is merely one dark-skinned man in a line of many to live and die by the streets that made him famous.

            Color consciousness and the desire to be acceptable has been a reality I have struggled with every day of my life. The Black community has been acculturated in such a way that Blacks themselves are their own worst enemies. Society is structured in such a way that what is considered an acceptable representation of the race, especially in film and print, is limited to one portion of the color spectrum. Moreover, it is the notions of colorism, continually tolerated from within, that allow such limitations to occur. I would be lying if I told you the barbs that have come from divisive remarks and attitudes have not hurt me, but I would also be lying if I said that I have not taken part in such divisive thinking at one time or another.

It is very difficult to be sidled with a notion of “other-ness”. It is even more difficult to be told you are not the best you could be due to circumstances you could not control. The mass media has not helped to dispel such notions; indeed, they perpetuate and sensationalize them for their own ends. However, it is of utmost importance to see colorism exactly for what it is. Perpetuation of adversarial relations between dark and light-skinned people helps no one. Indeed, a continuation of these attitudes merely does the work of the oppressor for them. History and social construction are not easy obstacles to overcome and those you look to as tyrants are the same people you must look to for change. For Black America and its community, this change must come from within.

While restless last night, but in no mood to do anything one might consider productive, I decided to hop online and get a little AIM chat sesh fired up. Having once been heavy in the game, I now only use it every now and again, on those occasions in which I wish to do something but not something productive. Having reconnected with a few of my dunnigans and gotten their various life updates--marriage, Post-Graduation Psychosis, etcetera--I had occasion to get a nice little dialogue going with Ma Barker--known in some parts of the world wide web as Darth Vader--, one of the handful of '06ers with whom I shared a redshirt year. In fact, while we knew of each other by virtue of being Black in an un-Black place, we didn't really become properly acquainted until the summer after we were supposed to have begun our Psychosis. Instead of entering into the rat race, we flung caution to the wind and pursued that elusive white whale known as Spanish, and in that pursuit began the crew thickery.

Our affections for one another stem from not only mutual appreciation for the other's intelligence, but also the fact that we could trade war stories and revel in our collective griminess. Because like T.D. Jakes says, "Those who grime together, rhyme together." Or something. I'm Gracchus--For my elder-statesman status among the Elis--and she's Ma Barker--a lovable, semi-criminal figure who would seem like a made up character in a John Waters movie if she wasn't entirely real. Trust me, homegirl has a very particular brand of thuggery that just makes me happy that I know her. To further belabor this point, I supposed our interactions are something like when pirates get together and "arrrrrr" and drink pitchers of beer, except with collared shirts and college educations.

Anyway, like most people, Ma's darthliness has been somewhat stifled by the fact that she has a real job. Much like every single other place in life, the rules of college don't quite translate (especially if you don't have money). Rather than roll to class twenty minutes late after being a shitshow at karaoke, she has to roll to work on time (after possibly having been a shitshow at karaoke). Still, her predilection for carousing with strippers has not been stamped out; indeed, it was the reinvigoration of said predilection that gave me cause to spin this yarn. Although, I suppose this isn't a yarn if yarns are supposed to be fake for, this tale is utterly true.

Ma likes strippers. And I'm not talking about "she likes to see naked women", I'm talking "she frequents strip clubs, dancers know her by name, and she has had out-of-champagne-room relationships with them." Now, because she is a friend of mine, I give her lifestyle the latitude to be fascinating and not seem pathetic. This is also helped by the fact that she sees the decided amount of absurdity in it--a fact that we'll come back to later. Perhaps I find it mostly acceptable because A: It doesn't matter what I think and B: her tastes seem to be genuine; she likes strippers like women like tall guys. The whole thing is compelling in it's ability to seem entirely regular.

In the theatre, I'm of the opinion that it's the artist's duty to tell the audience something they already know in an interesting way. Last night's conversation with Ma was certainly that. Though I knew her affinity for women that remove their clothing for money, I knew not its particular nuance. I mean, it's interesting enough to take Apple home and attempt to sweat her out. It's even more interesting when you befriend Apple at her place of business--clearly with the intent to pump her out--and end up getting strung along through her life while clothed.

It's one thing to see the inside of a stripper's apartment--tough in it's own right considering how dangerous such a scenario is for the stripper in question--it's another thing to meet her hare krishna family at a hare krishna festival. No, you didn't read that incorrectly (Sidebar 1: For the life of me, I didn't even know there were hare krishnas in Ma's neck of the woods and didn't know one of their ilk could be a stripper). It's something entirely different to discuss her college experience and getting her biology degree, an experience that didn't include stripping because stripping is her post-bach work. Word.

It's not totally crazy to sit on a stripper's non-work couch; however, it is a bit peculiar to get drunk and watch Disney movies with them while not bumping uglies. Such things and others--like the purchase of organic shampoos and the like--might lead you to forget this person's particular line of work, until you find yourself again in her apartment and said professional offers to dance for you. For a grand (Sidebar 2: Say what you want about stripping, but more than they are women who take their clothes off for money, they are hustlers. And I don't say that in a disparaging way. Yes; the fact that they are getting naked or close to naked certainly helps their money-making venture, but in order to get people to continue to reach into their wallets, you gotta have a little something extra). It is only then, feeling mildly insulted by the business proposition and fully embarrassed for not seeing it coming from a mile away that you say, "Wait. You're a stripper."

Sure, there's more than the Apples of this world. There are also the Danas; strippers of the middling sort who seem to be more in line with what the masses (who have little idea what they're talking about) are wont to think: exotic looking and obsessed with astrology. Yet even they have a quirky wrinkle. According to Ma, strippers love Whole Foods. Her explanation was because they are often near the trendy spots in her given metropol. And since the decent to above average stripper, who, at the reputable club, can pull down between 2000 and 5000 a week tax-free, it stands to reason they can afford a close proximity to trendy. Though I also imagine Whole Foods has an appeal in being devoid of cheap cologne and middle-aged hard-ons.

Although we online cackled about this excerpt from her marginally hot mess personal life, Ma did at one point submit soberly that she needed to find some friends. Of all the absurdity that she spoke, this was easily the most profound in our conversation. As I stated way earlier, the reason I don't worry about or pity Ma is that she's fully aware of her situation for good or ill. Indeed, her own admission was not made with sarcasm or an attempt to troll for pity; it was merely the utterance of someone who is trying to navigate her way through "her quarter-life crisis."

I've recently discussed the slim margin for error when having real life sex, but I think the margin for error for friendship is more slim. In this regard, the necessary critical mass that is found in school is less important than the variety found within said mass. Sure; there's a friend group for just about everyone and often people don't leave those groups, but should a person feel the need to change groups--which happens often enough--there's usually something there for them. It's not hard to move between the "scenes." After school ends, as I've said previously, the access to multiple scenes is exponentially more difficult. But there's more than that. Most people are not likely to say, "Oh, I can't access a scene so I will do absolutely nothing at all." Most give nothing a try at first--because they don't know what to do--but eventually, the loneliness overwhelms to the point that they have to do something.

Outside of the easy route--going to a bar--I'd argue that people allow their predilections to more narrowly dictate their free time. Since that free time is much more precious than it used to be, most don't waste that time trying new things. It happens sometimes--most often with a companion I would think--but people, for the most part, spend their free time doing something they know they like. Eventually the practice becomes a routine in and of itself--kind of like a leisure job--and the routine continually dominates because the only alternative is loneliness. While Ma enjoys the nakedness being shaken in her face, she more enjoys the connection to something familiar, something other than nothing.

Unfortunately, like everything else outside of college, Ma pays through the nose to sniff at companionship. And that's what strip clubs count on. That's not an indictment; it's just more a realization that these clubs don't sell in sex; they sell in a reprieve from loneliness.  The ladies over at the Pink Pony are  what your friends used to be. Not in depth, but in availability. Just give them that thumb print so you can get into VIP. Connection is just a credit card away. Ain't that 'bout a bitch? Peace to Anakin Skywalker.

Penultimate Thought: I'm mesmerized by people who jump rope well.

Final Thought: Peoples' guilty pleasures are exceedingly fascinating.

Sometimes, tears at a funeral come in unexpected ways, particularly for those of us who aren't prone to getting misty about much. Having only hours before driven into Michigan for my uncle's service, I can't say I felt sad in a particularly visceral way; sure, I felt a sadness at the loss, a sadness for my aunt's loss, but I can't say a felt that sorrow known to wrench the guts. My sadness was fairly detached upon, which is, frankly, a very awkward emotional response in the midst of sadness of the other sort. Often times, situations like these--which I usually avoid for multiple reasons, not the least of which the following--leave me more concerned about how I am going to navigate my emotions with relation to the emotions of those around me.

As the organ player began the proceedings, I looked over at O, my brother's old lady, and saw that she was already moist about the eyes. Typically, I made a comment somewhere in the neighborhood of "don't be doin' all that cryin' shit, girl." She smiled wryly and said she'd see what she could do.  Having stamped out that fire, I continued preparing myself for the emotional awkwardness of this process. Feeling confident, I flipped the program, noting pallbearers and the dedications to my uncle. It was at this time that family members and friends were invited to come up and say a few words. My aunt's son Kenny slowly approached.

A man in his mid 30s, he's a cousin that I know less well because of our age gap. He's no stranger to me certainly, but he's one of the first--if not the first--of my grandmother's grandkids. Considering my grandmother made ten kids of her own and they, in turn, had several children between them, you can see how a little unfamiliarity could creep in. But what I did know of Kenny was his toughness and general street savvy. From the little I've gathered over twenty-three years, he's no one's punk. Yet at the podium, he was visibly shaken, speaking about a man--not his father--who not only loved his mother in the way she deserved, but also served as proof to him that it was never too late to get your act together.

Kenny was crying. Yikes. Not one to give it up easily, I was still stricken by seeing one of my big cousin's publicly hurting. It wasn't dusty in the room or anything, but it was something of a rabbit punch to the face. While Kenny spoke, I looked over and there my brother was, breaking down. The rabbit punch had been followed up by a straight right. Still no mistiness on my part, but the sight of my brother hurting was entirely troubling. Troubling turned to blubbering when my brother got up to speak.

I couldn't even tell you what he said. I'd reverted to age six, completely destroyed by the seeing my big brother cry. Kenny was bad enough, but Ric? Forget it. All I know was I felt a lot of hands: O's hands on my left shoulder, my mom's on my right, some unknown person's on my back, all attempting to ebb the flow of my tears. But I'd have none of it. When I'm upset like that, I need to be alone (I imagine the Greeks would be proud). So I got up and, feeling extremely tall at that moment, made my way outside. I sat out in the sunshine and just wept.

My dad came out and, with his impeccable sense of man moments, just stood there. Not looking at me, not even near me really. Just...there. I eventually crossed to him, cried on his shoulder a bit, as I'm sure I did when I was an infant, and then we just stood there, taking in a sunny day in Detroit. I stuttered something about my uncle and, in G dad fashion, he said something comforting and headed back inside. It was at that moment, a moment not directly due to my uncle's passing--at least I don't think it was--that I truly got to consider the loss. It was in my tears that I found my feelings.


Ron Polk believed in me. Now, it'd be a lie to say he was the first or one of the only people that did, but the nature of his belief was impacted me in a  certain way. Ten years ago, he married into our family and over the course of that decade, showed a consistent support for our family, particularly the younger cats in it. Understand something: Marrying into my family isn't easy. Not because we're hard on people--we're quite the opposite really--but because we take being a member very seriously. Just because you marry in don't mean nothin.' I can say for myself that newcomers are on a probationary period in which I watch them very closely. Again, I'm not unkind by any means, but you don't get to be a Wiley because you showed up.

Looking back, I think I most appreciate Uncle Ron's genuineness; I never got the sense that he was involved and supportive at the behest of my aunt. I'd go out on a limb and say his devotion had to my family and to my aunt were almost separate entities. It's true; if you succeeded--a graduation, a swearing in, whatever--Aunt Blin and Uncle Ron would be there. Check the stat sheet. While their commitment to the achievement of others was equal. his seemed more pronounced because he really didn't have to try as hard as he did, but he still did so with a cheerful heart.

He was there on my way into Yale and he was there on my way out. Consistent. When we spoke during family gatherings, I always got the sense that my achievements and the achievements of my cousins brought a small degree of vindication to a sometimes hard life. Because I'd made it, he'd made it. While the treatment wasn't limited to myself, it was special all the same, even when I didn't know it.

I'm going to miss Uncle Ron and our talks, which were energizing without seeming daunting. He wasn't asking that I be a star; I need only make good on my gifts, give him an excuse to come celebrate.  Reunions and gatherings are going to be a little different now, not hearing his semi-nasal growl drawl out, "Hey Jonot man, come on and run to the sto' wit' me right quick." No more discussions of this or that. No more calling me or my brother over to slip us a few dollars on the low to help us along our way, whether we needed it or not. Sure, there are more than a few seasoned Black men men in my family, several that can rock slacks and a crisp shirt with a mean hat--as any seasoned Black man worth his salt is wont to do--with ease. And I don't doubt that another will marry into our family, another whose head I'll never want to whoop; but it's not easy to replace those people you can run to the sto' wit' right quick. Peace to a G.

So, seeing as I not only work for my parents--who are Black--and live in their place of residence--where they are still Black--a good deal of my social agenda takes place in automobiles. Whenever I get down about this fact, I try to just tell myself that I live in the Iberian peninsula and shouldn't move out until I get married anyway. This doesn't actually help, but losery loves company. Anyway, while recently partaking in some vehicular shenanigans, lost in the throws of post-graduate catharsis, I broke one of my cardinal rules: I let out an orgasm noise.

Now I'm no one's WASP--though my friend thinks I'm something of a prude/not terribly gully because I wouldn't observe art in the British gallery nude--one of my general no no's is is the nut noise. I mean, I barely like to make a face in the course of an orgasm. I don't have anything against it per se--well, that's kind of a lie, seeing as I have a cardinal rule against it--I just don't care to express myself in that way. Clearly, I don't look like a dead body when I fire off, but I try to keep the emoting to a minimum. I prefer to clench in such a way that you might think I'm holding in a sneeze, and then exhale as if I'd done some good reps on the squat machine. If it's a particularly good session, I will allow myself the "I just dunked on you and got fouled" yell. Stuck pig squeals? Never. 'Just kicked in the pills' grunt? Please.

I suppose it stems from self-awareness. For as many times as I've been to the rodeo, I find myself wondering how much I've fully enjoyed the show. It's not to say I haven't had some stellar tussles, I just think there's some disconnect between me and the moment (Sidebar 1: I know this feeling extends to other arenas that do not involve fornication, such as live concerts. I've also found that surprisingly, alcohol is a swell gap-bridging lubricant, but I shy away from its frequent use. I hear it's known to cause fatness and alcoholism). I am fully a participant, yet fully a spectator. Couple this with the fact that, as my friend quipped, "sex was my business," and I wonder if I've in some way squandered the opportunities I've been afforded. I've been lucky; I once enjoyed a certain kind of life and that life was generous to me. Of late though, I've been wondering more and more about this disconnect and what contributes to it.

On one level, I know it can be contributed to a former lifestyle. I operated under a certain group of assumptions that dictated my actions. Firstly, I devoted myself to the pleasure of the other person. The thinking being, if they're happy, they're more likely to be bout it which, in turn, makes me happy. Secondly, I believed--and still believe--that having sex with someone once is not noteworthy; indeed, repeat performances are worth talking about (though that's counterintuitive seeing as repeats are often predicated on being able to keep your mouth shut, unless of course your dealing with a known floozy who has no respect for herself, which you should generally avoid). Put the above together, and sexual encounters become a semi-nerve wracking experience. It's akin to high school sports: still very enjoyable, but with a seriousness about it that prevent it from being given the label "fun." If you get into that routine long enough, sex indeed becomes more business and less pleasure.

A this juncture, a person could certainly make the argument that I cheapened the point of sex. Where I can't go all the way there--refer back to the various stellar tussles about which I have little to no regret--but I can say the business approach takes the fun out of it.

All that doesn't really answer the question though. So why don't I make sex faces or squeal like a stuck pig? I think it comes down to being sensitive but not openhearted. With no hint of sarcasm, I can say I have the sensitivity part down; frankly, I think that's the reason--and not necessarily my stroke--that I was once a success (Sidebar 2: Don't get me wrong; my stroke's OK, I just wouldn't say, gun to my head, that is key to the magic). Sensitivity works with all people on all levels I believe, and I think it's particularly important in the bedroom, or car for that matter.

But openheartedness is different. Being openhearted requires something that sensitivity does not: the entirety of your heart. Your heart and all your passions and fears and insecurities and hopes and all other things that make us feeling creatures. Sensitivity doesn't require us to exist in the uncertainty of a moment; sensitivity, while when sincere is still governed by the heart is still influenced by the mind. To be openhearted, the mind cannot be given the same amount of influence. To be truly openhearted is to be utterly devoid of bullshit, willing to stand in the awesome and terrifying light of truth. If it sounds dramatic, that's because it is.

And more important than this, the openhearted must possess the courage to ignore fear and step into the void. At its most epic, that is what sex is: a demonstration of one's open heart. I believe this to be a truth that can't be dictated by social mores or religious doctrine or any other external influence. Openheartedness is determined by the individual. That is where I am disconnected. That is where I struggle.

So for my many memorable rodeos, those of the openhearted variety are few and far between. This is one of the "it's not you, it's me" scenarios that actually exist. I suppose it's because I'm afraid of being vulnerable, afraid that someone would know something about me. Revealed secrets can't be gotten back. The great question I've been afraid to ask is this: What happens when you put your heart in someone's hand?

I didn't write all this to find a clever way of saying I found someone to hold my heart. That I'm still trying to figure out like everybody else. No, I guess I'm just realizing that squealing like a pig might be the first step to open your heart. Peace to American Graffiti.

Penultimate Thought: I'm tired of wearing jeans.

Final Thought: When you hate on other countries, It's not a great idea to ask them produce more oil so you can lower your gas prices.

I was napping the other day and for some reason I can't remember now and probably wouldn't understood fully if I did, my mind drifted to one of the great comedies of all time, 'Coming To America.' The stellarness of this movie is beyond reproach; it's got classic one-liners, Eddie in his prime, Arsenio before he fell off the face of the Earth, Sexual Chocolate...I mean, the list goes on.

And if that weren't enough, it is, in my less than humble opinion, one of the great date/icebreaking videos ever. Think about it: If you have a honey coming over, it's a movie with just the right comedy to romance quotient, which is one of the great macking subterfuges.

As you might imagine, I've seen this film more than a few times. Frankly, I think you have to have renew your viewings every year just to keep your Black card in working order. Obviously, as I have grown, I've seen more flaws in the film, most of those being on the bougie Blackademic level that is useful and compelling in heavily regulated doses. Eddie is won over by the pure and virginal light-skinned girl while her dark-skinned sister comes off as a floozy. When you step back, that's mildly problematic. It's not right to demonize dark-skinned sisters, especially when light-skinned girls are stank anyway.

But I digress. After many viewings and cackles of delight, I came out of my slumbering stupor and realized this incontrovertible fact: Lisa McDowell had no reason to be all pissed at Akeem and throw the earrings he gave her at him before getting off the train, obstensibly breaking up with him because Akeem's dad came into her room and said he was in America merely sowing his wild oats and had no intentions of being serious with her. If you think about it her reaction was borderline absurd for the following reasons:

1. While I can see being hurt by such a revelation, the facts of the matter leading up to that point belie what King Jaffi said. If you recall the movie, there's nothing that should really lead us to believe Lisa and Akeem do anything other than have long talks, cultural outings and a romantic kiss or two. And also if you consider the device of Lisa's sister Patrice being cast in the light of a harlot, it stands to reason that her (light-skinned) sister does not spread her legs so easily. Let's not forget this simple movie fact: Unless the movie shows you or tells you, a hypothetical act DID NOT happen thus, Lisa and Akeem did not go to Pumptown.

2. She's hurt by being deceived, but let's consider what the guy lied about. He was a prince with the heart of a romantic who wanted to find true love and felt his power and influence would get in the way of that. He didn't hide a baby mother or a stint up north; he said he was a goat herder rather than the eventual ruler of a nation. Upon finding this out, can a person really be all ticked off?

3. If Akeem was truly sowing his wild oats why would he: A) Lie about being wealthy and only demonstrate his wealth in a covert manner, which backfired anyway because another person was given the credit for his lavish monetary deeds and gifts and B) Befriend a woman he finds intriguing, endure the insults of her wack boyfriend while never mentioning the fact that dude could never see money like his, and C) Do meaningful relationship-type things--minus sex of course--with said chick after wack boyfriend is out of the picture? That makes no sense. Now, I could possibly see a person posing as a commoner for sport, just to see if he could bag chicks without the money, but this wasn't the case. And while she didn't know if he was creepin' or not, her gut and logic should have told her otherwise. I mean, come on, Lisa. When have you ever known a dude to treat a mere wild oats sowing jump-off like Akeem treated you, in public no less? It does not happen. And if anything that resembles his actions were for the spoils of a jump-off, you would have needed to been spreading your legs.

4. She didn't have the moral high ground to go throwing the earrings back in his face. She didn't seem to have a problem wearing them beforehand, even after the note attached said they were from a secret admirer who was not Darryl, her man at the time (Sidebar 2: What if Darryl hadda been like, "Where'd you get those earrings?" What could she say? I thought they were from you? If she said that, she'd hae been a liar because she had good enough reason to believe they were from him, but wore them anyway. She can only stand on the fact that Darryl was douchely). So when the truth finally comes out, she treats dude like she caught him red-handed. Akeem shoulda been like, "Yeah, these were from the same guy who has made no overt attempts to reveal his wealth or extort a sexual compensation to recoup the cost of said earrings, dinners, etc."

5. Even with all the evidence casting him in a favorable light, the guy STILL renounced his throne. Sure, you could argue that people will do anything when desperate, but to say he had truth and righteousness on his side and did not need to do such things is a gross understatement.

Again, I can understand why she would be taken aback by the truth coming out. That's pretty heavy stuff, but her reaction does not hold water. He treated right, wasn't sleeping with her and the only thing that you could classify as a lie was his withholding the fact that he was filthy rich in order to possibly meet a woman who loved him for him, though this lie did not prevent him from being anonymously generous with his wealth to not only her but others.

No; you can't refute the above and yes; I do need a job. Peace to Frenchie Faison.

Penultimate Thought: Text messaging is the devil.

Final Thought: I think the best Law & Order team was Brisco and Green.

Seeing as I'm trying to write a bit before I'm inevitably compelled not to, I went ticking through possible topics and came back to the only thing worth talking about--because it encompasses most things worthy of discussion--sex. And just so you don't think I didn't really give it an effort, here's a bit of how my process went:

- Family? Generally fine, and anything worth talking about is none of your business.
- Politics? The Black guy, some of the female folk are salty, saying it's an example of how sexism supersedes race, but never neglect to mention that a Black guy won. Yes, they even let a nigga try to be president before a white lady. Considering who benefited most from Affirmative Action over the last forty years, I'm willing to make that trade. And frankly, Hillaryites, he won because he didn't seem like "business as usual." Your girl did. If it makes you feel better, I think Michelle Obama could've given you a run for your money.(See that was only about a paragraph).
- Gas prices? They're high and I ride the bus.
- Economy? We're not at the point of using the dollar as wallpaper. Yet.
- The environment? We are fucking up. And going green costs green.
-Religion? They're might be a God. Or they're might not.
-R. Kelly? WOW.

See? I'm forced to go with what I know. Now the question is, what am I going to say? After wrestling between two topics--I'm gonna keep the truly juicy one in the hopper for now--I decided to let a summer Saturday morning guide me. At this time of day, I feel relaxed and reflective. And it is with this mood that I type. This is something of an open letter to the women who have made my life interesting.

To Whom It Does Concern:

As I stroll down memory lane, there isn't a question in my mind that I have some degree of G. Though I am human and am unfortunately subject to bouts of wackness, I tend to think that I am worth a young woman's time and energy. I blame my dad. Loyal to my mother, a devoted husband and father, never mistake for a second his swag. The guy's a Scorpio. I blame my mother, a woman of grace and passion who set the bar for thoroughness so high that I could always proceed into situations with the notion, "Girl, you ain't badder than my mama."
Shit, I even blame my brother, who stayed leanin' with that nice guy swag. What can I say? It's a family affair.

Still, despite my genetic dispositions, I must take the time to say thank you. Without you, Id be just another clown spouting off with sad hypotheticals and far-fetched innuendo. Because of you I never have to lie. Now I could easily spend the time worrying about the pathos and effects of such a life--and I have. But those are night time thoughts. Right now, the sun is out and I can spend a lot of time smirking at the follies of my youth. Did we really try to do it one hundred times in a month?

Let's set possible beef aside for a second. On days like these, I cackle with delight at the thought of too-small sweatpants, senior film projects, broken futons, extra-long twins, sultan beds, no bed, trundle beds, guest beds--with your cousin in the next room. We even got it done before the cops could catch us.

Some people might think it's crass that I would spend time to say, "Hey, I appreciate that we did the do," but when I think about, I think most show a lack of respect because they don't. The do ain't no right. And while I appreciate a a go at the rodeo as much as the next man, I'd be lying if I said that any vagina would do. Whether you knew it or not, no matter the level of our seriousness, you very likely had sex with my frontal lobe before you did with my lower one. As Aristotle noted, "A man should steer clear of chickenheads."

I appreciate that you allowed to learn and improve. If wish I could say you always got more than you expected. But we know that's not true. Sometimes I wasn't "ready"--things could happen so fast that my manly parts were on tape-delay--; sometimes I feel asleep and sometimes the fight was over before it started. And while I'm sure you might have cackled with a homegirl or two, you generally kept my name out the streets, as I attempted to keep yours. At times, I wonder why you didn't let me get chewed up. I've come to the conclusion that it came down to respect, and that humbles me still.

Thanks for being there when I got it right.

But mostly I want to say thanks for letting me lay in your hair. Curly, wavy, straight, weaved, relaxed, braided, brushed, teased, tossed and occasionally sweated out. If you do the math, I'd say a staggering majority of our time spent in bed wasn't spent tussling. It was spent talking, laughing, debating; wasting whole days naked for the sake of the skin. And you would bring me safety as I slept. Warm milk has nothing on you.

It's always good to see you on the lane. Take care of yourself.

So while sifting through bills I can't pay and mail I neglected to open because it resembled a bill I couldn't pay, I couldn't help but notice how many ways in which my name gets butchered on a daily basis. While I understand it's a doozy, I don't get why two middle names and a hyphenation just cause people filling out paperwork to go into anaphylactic shock.

Jonathan T Pittswiley? Jonathan M Wiley? I mean even my own school, a place that's supposed to be well-brained, doesn't have the computer capacity to do anything other than spell Jonathan Toussaint M Pitts-Wiley on anything official. Word? Nobody thought, "Hm, that looks kind of stupid. Why don't we just go two middle initials? Sonsobitches even put that on my diploma after I filled out the paperwork requesting that they do exactly not that. This was especially annoying considering that, given the various internationals and ethnics in the joint, my name probably ranks in the bottom third with regard to degree of difficulty.

The above aggravation of course all assumes that people get the "P" of Pitts-Wiley. Many a time people have heard an "F" and stand somewhat amazed when they see the first blackest Irishman their eyes have e'er before seen. And yet, the whole ball of wax can still be surpassed by the fact that people cannot read and thus have neglected to remember their fundamental. W-I-L-E-Y. There are two definite vowels, one sometimes vowel, and one crucial "L". It's a long "I", people, a long "I". Somehow, people manage to read "Willy." Really? Really?

Still, the one that chaps my ass the most--and the one that worked me into a lather enough to sit down and write this--is when people think my name is John. My first name is Jonathan; J-O-N for short. I detest the name John; it's common and bland. Jon? That has a little mystery. It kinda forces you to say, "There's gotta be more there." John? That's about it. And don't get me started on those clowns with the Johnathan spelling. That's wacker than John because it tries to play both sides against the middle and incorporate it all. You're either Jonathan or John, buddy. Pick one. And while we're on the topic, I'm not terribly fond of the Jonathan derivative, Jonathon. It lends itself to jon-a-thon, which would only be cool for a 21st birthday party theme, and the rest of the time it's probably being uttered by that annoying acquaintance that you don't actually like. That's just no good.

Obviously, there are instances in which a person could just not know. If I introduce myself as Jon and you never see my name in print, the onus is essentially on me. But if you've known me and had occasion to see my name in print, I'm damn near offended by the error. In the digital age, there's almost no excuse because we very likely communicate in some electronic form that states my proper government (kind of like on this page). So many times, on invitations, place settings, mail, I've seen my government just abused. It's gotten to the point that I approach these scenarios with a touch of apprehension. I'm a guy that's big on names, you know that, so imagine my disappointment when I see my name spelled wrong by people who are supposed to know better. My name is Jonathan; my peoples call me Jon for short.

Speaking of which, if I introduce myself as Jonathan--which it looks like I'm going to have to go back to--do not automatically shorten it to Jon; one, because you don't know me like that and it's rudely assumptive and two, because your dumb ass will probably make the mistake of thinking "John" in your head, then you'll very likely type "John" into your phone and the next thing you know, you're on the slippery slope toward pissing me off with a John Pitts-Wiley evite. I can see it in your eyes when you do it.

Now, as I've stated in the past, I have about eleven different appellations derived from my government. Eleven. Depending on who you are and where you fall in my life, you're free to use any number of them--I really stress the who you are and where you fall thing because people who use nicknames out of their jurisdiction get liked less. I wish I could say that wasn't true, but it is. Still, sometimes it's good to get refreshed with the basics:

My name is Jonathan Toussaint Miller Pitts-Wiley; my peoples call me Jon.

Peace to the Last Real Niggas Alive.

The Bay Area has, of late, had an interesting knack for providing revelatory moments in my life. A little over a year ago, while grubbing on some olive bread, I had A Yale Moment; a moment in which I had a casual yet intimate understanding of the legacy of Yale and the gravity of being a part of that. It was truly one of the more important moments of my college career.

Today in the San Francisco Bay Area, I came to the realization that I am not only wack, but will become more wack with age. Allow me to explain. The reason I am here in the first place is because my dad's musical collaborator buddy lives out here and seeing as we're all working on the same musical currently, I shall be sleeping on a loveseat for the next few days. Anyway, Bob--we'll call him Bob--has two sons, the eldest being my brother's god son and the youngest being mine (the degree to which this deserves its own hilarious sidebar is entirely earth-shattering). The oldest is 16 and the youngest is 13 give or take a few years.

At any rate, today while taking a break from work, I came into the kitchen the find the oldest standing there with a girl from school who had dropped him off. Nothing untoward was happening; really it was just to people talking about the earth science homework or some such. The oldest was facing me and the girl's back was to me, thus setting the scene for my aforementioned wackness. As I walked through the kitchen and saw this little harmless scenario, I did something so parental and so lame that it would bring me shame were I not me: I grinned at him and gave him the 'oh she's a cutie, who's she?' grin and eyebrow raise.

Now, this look is not to be confused with the one you give your buddy or buddette when you know they're about to go to pump town with someone either stellar or regrettable (funny how that works); remember, he's 16 and I haven't quite reached the age minimum where I can be that sleazy uncle type. This cheesing was the kind Daniel LaRusso's mom absolutely nailed in the Karate Kid Part I (Sidebar 1: I still love the Karate Kid and it was only just now that I realized how stupid the title sounds). Remember when they have to push their station wagon to get it going after picking up his lady friend and she gives Daniel the eyebrows of approval coupled with some mom quip just before the start shoving the car around? It was almost like that.

What's worse is, it was completely natural. It's not like I was floating through the kitchen so I could mess with him; I just saw this youngster, a kid I've known since he was an infant, and the first thing I did was a goofy ass cheese. Yikes. Really, this has thrown my world mildly into disarray because I figured if I was ever a parent that I would at least be cooler than that. Apparently I'm only more washed up than I thought. Peace to my cool.

Penultimate Thought: Hot water is is right up there with the printing press and sliced bread.

Final Thought: Nice cats are like getting a real compliment from a gay man.

Scalawags and Rabblerousers-

I'm doing a little project and I need the help of the masses to triumph over the forces of evil (or something entirely less dramatic than that). The project is this: I need people to provide 1-3 random pleasures of life and 1-3 random annoyances.

Example:
1. The scan button on the radio
2. Finding money in your pocket
3. Getting to class and finding out a test has been moved back.

1. The DMV
2. Forgetting your phone charger
3.Overdrafting your account by five cents and getting hit up for $33.

This is something of an on-going project, so if you think this is interesting, pass it along to others (unless of course I know every single person you know). You can leave the stuff in the comments section or at crookedsandstraights@gmail.com. Enjoy.