She was my hero.
I watched her night after night on AFN news feed from Washington, D.C., or wherever in the world they sent her . Or maybe it was the stories she read the leads for. I thought she was just the best Navy journalist I had ever seen. I think her hazel eyes may have had something to do with it. For a while, it seemed like she was my only companion in Italy. I didn't know anyone there, I just knew that I wanted to go. As with most excursions, the fantasy of a place is usually much different from the reality of it.
Italy was hard when I lived in The Agnano crater. It was the most God awful place in the military in Europe. I could see why they called Naples the armpit of Europe, but I was undeterred. The Agnano crater, where the Marine and Navy detachments were stationed, was literally a volcanic fumarole. It stunk of sulfur night and day, but if you didn't think that could get any worse, the farmers who cultivated the slopes of the crater often burned their dried crop waste. When they did I finally understood the Los Angeles smog situation. There was no where for the smoke to go but down and settle where our housing was. I remember one night it got so bad that I couldn't sleep. I got up and got a towel, wet it and went around the floor telling others to do the same. The smoke was like nothing i've smelled before. Every inhale burned the back of my throat. That night - and several others - I spent in a shower stall under running water. It was truly hell on earth and they stationed American enlisted troops there. Most of the officers lived out on the economy. It was bad. But after work, there was always Monica Hallman delivering the news like Walter Cronkite.
Geremy Boorda was a prior enlisted man who rose to the rank of 4-star admiral. He made things a lot better there in the crater. He got back to the states and took a bullet in the chest. They said it was suicide. Allegedly for wearing a medal or ribbon he didn't earn. took a bullet in the chest for making things better for us over there. He was a leader. Chris and I voiced some social commentary on the radio station, that I feel helped make some changes. I don't think they were really ready for people saying, this ain't so bad. Get up and do something. Italy is a vacation spot and our troops were missing out. We brought it to them through our video cameras and our news cast.
Out station went from nowhere to 1st place. Y?
I took a beta cam camera and shot the local news. Chris helped me out a lot. We made that station and that area fun. Naples was not bad. It really reminded me of Brooklyn. It was a little lawless, a little out of control, but it was full of life. It's a place you have to embrace - after you put your wallet in a safe place. And when you did, it embraced you back with more love than most people can handle.
Naples, the great walled city. Parts of the walls are now apartment. The coffee and the food is like no where else in Italy. It's an amazing place. Rome; just two hours north on the Autostrade, but if you're not in a hurry, I like taking the Appian way. The road the Roman legions used to get around. It's still lined with tall pine trees to give shade year-round.
Then I fell in love with Felicia Wyche. An Engineer. like those who went to Brooklyn Technical High School. OMG! B.T. B.T. B.T. (That was my first outside socialization on Earth. Ogranized sports.) And she wsa nooo good. She liked having me around, but she was on a mission. One that has her in Italian prison to this day, I'll bet.
But there was always Monica Hallman.
And the best part of the time I spent in Italy at AFN, was that head-to-head our local news beat out the Washington, D.C. news - the DoD's premiere station. We were the best in the DoD world.
Monday, June 30, 2008
I Got Your Chipotle Right Here!
I am so sick of this south west popular cuisine I could just...
Well. Spit.
Okay, Good Lord, I get it; guacamole, avocado, tacos, burritos, nachos, those hot dogs wrapped in a bacon strip, margaritas, lime and tequila. I get it. Oh, and salsa. Can't forget the salsa.
Not too long ago, everything seemed to be seasoned with Teriyaki. Now, it seems like there is a lack of seasonings or a glut of a few; especially chipotle.
Back in New York, when something goes a bit too far or when enough is enough with one thing or another, some of my Italian neighbors would proudly announce, "I got your (this or that) right here!" Usually accompanied by an emphatic crotch grab and bounce like a baseball player adjusting his cup.
This is a good time to turn that phrase on chipotle.
Go ahead; I'll wait.
Nah, I think I'll join you.
Well. Spit.
Okay, Good Lord, I get it; guacamole, avocado, tacos, burritos, nachos, those hot dogs wrapped in a bacon strip, margaritas, lime and tequila. I get it. Oh, and salsa. Can't forget the salsa.
Not too long ago, everything seemed to be seasoned with Teriyaki. Now, it seems like there is a lack of seasonings or a glut of a few; especially chipotle.
Back in New York, when something goes a bit too far or when enough is enough with one thing or another, some of my Italian neighbors would proudly announce, "I got your (this or that) right here!" Usually accompanied by an emphatic crotch grab and bounce like a baseball player adjusting his cup.
This is a good time to turn that phrase on chipotle.
Go ahead; I'll wait.
Nah, I think I'll join you.
Thank You Q!
I can't remember the last time I've had fast food.
If I do break down and patronize one or another while Wandering, I can assure you it won't cost more than $1 dollar - about all any of them are worth. A 'fast' meal can cost as much as a table cloth restaurant's offering and it's processed crap!
On the flip, I haven't had 'healthy' fast food in some time either, but for different reasons.
Let's face it; there's a lot of hooey going around in the food business and the weight loss business. And with one restaurant in particular, I have a special pet peeve. When the chance to buy a sandwich that now skinny guy who was a fat guy hawks presents itself, I rarely buy into their product without a two-fer deal or something. I'm a big guy and those sammies rarely ever hit the spot. I know why their spokesman got skinny; there ain't no meat in those sandwiches. They have more veggies between their buns than anything else. And they have the nerve to charge damn near $8 bucks for it! I got to a point that I got an angry twitch every time I passed one of those stores.
In fairness, it's not all about the franchise, it is partly home sickness. Growing up in Brooklyn, subways were not only the best way to get around town, they were also a pretty decent sandwich shop.
Come to think of it, with all the delis and neighborhood Italian restaurants, there was little need to go to a knock-off sandwich shop when I could go to an authentic one like Katz Deli on Houston St. Mmmm, I can smell the pastrami and knishes now. Imaging a square sliced bread sandwich so big that only one half of the diagonally cut sandwich would fill you up. And the meat was always deli fresh - not frozen.
These franchise sandwich shops even sport NYC subway system maps on their walls, which was inviting, initially, to a NY transplant, but then when they put three slices of triangular cheese, not even three full slices, and little more meat, I'd look at them with rising anger and eventually ask, is that all the meat you're going to put on that? There were several times when, after they prepared it while ignoring my protests, I just walked out.
Then, enter the 'Q.' Tasty. Yeah. I had one of their sandwiches and another a separate time to make sure it wasn't a flirting fluke. Their sammies are ok, but they're a far cry from NY deli sammies.
Quiiznos posed the question, if you're going to eat $5 dollars... Blah-blah, something, something...
Then subway countered with $5 dollar foot longs. About damn time.
Now there's at least more food on those otherwise thin vegetable sandwiches. And now, bowing to pressure and I'm sure, decreasing sales, the $5 dollar sammy is part of their permanent menu. Aint' that nice.
I wonder if they're going to give rebates to all the people who paid all that money for vegetable sammies. What a rip!
If I get hungry and come across one of those franchises while Wandering about, I'll tip my hat to the 'Q' for pressuring the other guys into doing the right thing, and continue to pass by the sub.
In the meantime, if I really want to lose weight, I'll just walk and fast while I keep on searching for a deli.
I got your chipotle right here!
If I do break down and patronize one or another while Wandering, I can assure you it won't cost more than $1 dollar - about all any of them are worth. A 'fast' meal can cost as much as a table cloth restaurant's offering and it's processed crap!
On the flip, I haven't had 'healthy' fast food in some time either, but for different reasons.
Let's face it; there's a lot of hooey going around in the food business and the weight loss business. And with one restaurant in particular, I have a special pet peeve. When the chance to buy a sandwich that now skinny guy who was a fat guy hawks presents itself, I rarely buy into their product without a two-fer deal or something. I'm a big guy and those sammies rarely ever hit the spot. I know why their spokesman got skinny; there ain't no meat in those sandwiches. They have more veggies between their buns than anything else. And they have the nerve to charge damn near $8 bucks for it! I got to a point that I got an angry twitch every time I passed one of those stores.
In fairness, it's not all about the franchise, it is partly home sickness. Growing up in Brooklyn, subways were not only the best way to get around town, they were also a pretty decent sandwich shop.
Come to think of it, with all the delis and neighborhood Italian restaurants, there was little need to go to a knock-off sandwich shop when I could go to an authentic one like Katz Deli on Houston St. Mmmm, I can smell the pastrami and knishes now. Imaging a square sliced bread sandwich so big that only one half of the diagonally cut sandwich would fill you up. And the meat was always deli fresh - not frozen.
These franchise sandwich shops even sport NYC subway system maps on their walls, which was inviting, initially, to a NY transplant, but then when they put three slices of triangular cheese, not even three full slices, and little more meat, I'd look at them with rising anger and eventually ask, is that all the meat you're going to put on that? There were several times when, after they prepared it while ignoring my protests, I just walked out.
Then, enter the 'Q.' Tasty. Yeah. I had one of their sandwiches and another a separate time to make sure it wasn't a flirting fluke. Their sammies are ok, but they're a far cry from NY deli sammies.
Quiiznos posed the question, if you're going to eat $5 dollars... Blah-blah, something, something...
Then subway countered with $5 dollar foot longs. About damn time.
Now there's at least more food on those otherwise thin vegetable sandwiches. And now, bowing to pressure and I'm sure, decreasing sales, the $5 dollar sammy is part of their permanent menu. Aint' that nice.
I wonder if they're going to give rebates to all the people who paid all that money for vegetable sammies. What a rip!
If I get hungry and come across one of those franchises while Wandering about, I'll tip my hat to the 'Q' for pressuring the other guys into doing the right thing, and continue to pass by the sub.
In the meantime, if I really want to lose weight, I'll just walk and fast while I keep on searching for a deli.
I got your chipotle right here!
God, Party of Three
I was at El Toritos in Marina Del Rey yesterday when I could have sworn I heard the Maitre D' say, "God, party of three!"
I laughed for a moment, then spun around to see if maybe God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit were descending from heaven to have Mexican food for Sunday night dinner.
Nope. Didn't see them, but what boon that would have been for that restaurant, huh?
God eats here, must be great food! The line of hungry people and pilgrims would make it next to impossible to get a meal there for the average Joe for years.
Holy Frijoles? You can bet on it.
But then, I thought, hey, this is L.A. Where are the paparazzi?
You know if God, His Son and The Spirit were to show up somewhere the paparazzi couldn't be far behind. Pop, flash, pop, pop,flash, flash, flash...
Jesus! Over here! Hey! Creator of the universe.. One smile, huh? Holy Spirit, will you take form or something? You're killing me here...
But no. No paparazzi.
Then I thought what kind of pics they'd get if they did show. Would they come out? Would God make their pictures look like the Marx Brothers or something? Would each shooter have different images? Would all the paparazzi everywhere suddenly disappear? Would they get hooked up? Would God's Holy Trinity really need the publicity? That'd be one hell of a coup for the Christians and I'd be one hell of a portfolio shot.
Can you see the interview? There's my shot of the president, there's the NBA champs and that's God, Jesus and that blur... That's the Holy Ghost. They were in L.A. for dinner.
If that didn't get you the job, then there's definitely some nepotism or something going on.
As we stood outside, waiting to be seated, I thought that God probably wouldn't have to wait on line. I don't think anyone would get their order wrong either and I don't think they'd have to pay. Could you see the chaos? Oh, the pollo, rice and refried beans would be a-flyin' and the waiters and waitresses would be clamoring over each other to serve them. And all the washing of feet and anointing with extra virgin olive oils other wise meant for 'garden' salads...
But, alas, even an evening as good as this would come to an end. Could you see Jesus haggling over a bill or a 20% gratuity? Imagine the eternal tip their table server would get.
As my imagination Wandered, I was just a little embarrassed when I laughed audibly and my companions focused their attention on me. It was one of those, "What? Share?," moments that I had to explain.
Good thing I have kind of a reputation for being just a little left of center - I like to think of it as someone on the creative side -, so that when I shared what I thought I heard with my two companions, and after they looked at each other with raised eyebrows and wagging heads, we all laughed. They even added scenarios that made us laugh until our orders came from the kitchen.
It was a good evening; better than I've had in some time. We talked about photography and took long exposures through large bay windows looking across the thousand-yard wide marina. At one table, a birthday party celebration; at another, lovers; at others, families surrounding each other in tasty eats, conversation, laughter and love.
As the sun set over the marina, small motor craft and chartered party boats slid by, cool breezes accompanied the end of this summer day and not a cloud in the sky.
I have been in California longer than I like to be in one place, and in that time I have had enough south western food to last me for the rest of my life. But, wouldn't you know it. That evening, I had some of the best Mexican food I've had here in California.
God, party of three...
I believe...
I laughed for a moment, then spun around to see if maybe God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit were descending from heaven to have Mexican food for Sunday night dinner.
Nope. Didn't see them, but what boon that would have been for that restaurant, huh?
God eats here, must be great food! The line of hungry people and pilgrims would make it next to impossible to get a meal there for the average Joe for years.
Holy Frijoles? You can bet on it.
But then, I thought, hey, this is L.A. Where are the paparazzi?
You know if God, His Son and The Spirit were to show up somewhere the paparazzi couldn't be far behind. Pop, flash, pop, pop,flash, flash, flash...
Jesus! Over here! Hey! Creator of the universe.. One smile, huh? Holy Spirit, will you take form or something? You're killing me here...
But no. No paparazzi.
Then I thought what kind of pics they'd get if they did show. Would they come out? Would God make their pictures look like the Marx Brothers or something? Would each shooter have different images? Would all the paparazzi everywhere suddenly disappear? Would they get hooked up? Would God's Holy Trinity really need the publicity? That'd be one hell of a coup for the Christians and I'd be one hell of a portfolio shot.
Can you see the interview? There's my shot of the president, there's the NBA champs and that's God, Jesus and that blur... That's the Holy Ghost. They were in L.A. for dinner.
If that didn't get you the job, then there's definitely some nepotism or something going on.
As we stood outside, waiting to be seated, I thought that God probably wouldn't have to wait on line. I don't think anyone would get their order wrong either and I don't think they'd have to pay. Could you see the chaos? Oh, the pollo, rice and refried beans would be a-flyin' and the waiters and waitresses would be clamoring over each other to serve them. And all the washing of feet and anointing with extra virgin olive oils other wise meant for 'garden' salads...
But, alas, even an evening as good as this would come to an end. Could you see Jesus haggling over a bill or a 20% gratuity? Imagine the eternal tip their table server would get.
As my imagination Wandered, I was just a little embarrassed when I laughed audibly and my companions focused their attention on me. It was one of those, "What? Share?," moments that I had to explain.
Good thing I have kind of a reputation for being just a little left of center - I like to think of it as someone on the creative side -, so that when I shared what I thought I heard with my two companions, and after they looked at each other with raised eyebrows and wagging heads, we all laughed. They even added scenarios that made us laugh until our orders came from the kitchen.
It was a good evening; better than I've had in some time. We talked about photography and took long exposures through large bay windows looking across the thousand-yard wide marina. At one table, a birthday party celebration; at another, lovers; at others, families surrounding each other in tasty eats, conversation, laughter and love.
As the sun set over the marina, small motor craft and chartered party boats slid by, cool breezes accompanied the end of this summer day and not a cloud in the sky.
I have been in California longer than I like to be in one place, and in that time I have had enough south western food to last me for the rest of my life. But, wouldn't you know it. That evening, I had some of the best Mexican food I've had here in California.
God, party of three...
I believe...
Saturday, June 28, 2008
East Coast vs. West Coast
This could easily have been titled common courtesy vs.lack thereof.
I saw a Jack in da Box commercial this morning and in it a large, sweaty man - apparently in the middle of an exercise routine - runs into a 'Box' and places an order. While doing so he begins stretching in front of a curly haired, seated man in unflattering ways. First his butt is a little too close to the man's face, then his crotch, then his butt again. Then Jack says something Californian like, 'Don't you wish you could just use the drive through?'
Drive through my ass.
If he tried some nonsense like that in New York or Boston or just about any east coast city, that unfortunate man would have a foot drive through his ass after getting it chewed and then his angus whupped.
In my travels, that commercial wreaks of social commentary. Where else would something like that work? Spain? Where machismo will make men run with 600 pound bulls? I don't think so. Italy? Where the mafia was born? I don't think so. Brooklyn? Fughedaboudit! Those folks will tell you with a quickness, 'You wanna get your ass out of my face!?!' And you stand a good chance of getting a beat down just on principal of lack of social, environmental awareness.
Fights in California seem to only originate over turf disputes or when opposing teams dare wear their colors in the other's turf. Hmmmm. A picture is forming here.
Ah, but in California... Hmmm.
Personal affronts without alcohol involved don't seem to cause a stir. It almost seems like a pack animal or pack predator that doesn't want to engage in a tangle for fear of injury and predation against it.
This 'Box' commercial would only work in California. Just the thought of such an affront makes me want to jump through the screen and accost that jerk, not buy what old round head is selling. It'd smell like butt to me.
The more I stay here, the more a socially bizarre place this appears top be.
There's a ghost mining town up the I 5 or 99 somewhere and somebody is trying to sell tickets to see it. Hellooooo... It's a ghost town. Abandoned buildings, boarded up mine shafts. Reminds me of the South Bronx back in the gang days.
But in California, an abandoned wooden tenement is a tourist attraction. Unless I see some ghosts, I ain't-a-goin'! Maybe if they built with brick instead of wood, there'd be some historic value to it, but from what I've seen out here, folks would build a 'ghost town' throw dirt and dust on it - like a Hollywood set - and sell tickets. Hell, I think I can get someone to sell me snake oil without looking too far or trying too hard.
Jack, a butt or a crotch in someone's face is not appetizing.
I saw a Jack in da Box commercial this morning and in it a large, sweaty man - apparently in the middle of an exercise routine - runs into a 'Box' and places an order. While doing so he begins stretching in front of a curly haired, seated man in unflattering ways. First his butt is a little too close to the man's face, then his crotch, then his butt again. Then Jack says something Californian like, 'Don't you wish you could just use the drive through?'
Drive through my ass.
If he tried some nonsense like that in New York or Boston or just about any east coast city, that unfortunate man would have a foot drive through his ass after getting it chewed and then his angus whupped.
In my travels, that commercial wreaks of social commentary. Where else would something like that work? Spain? Where machismo will make men run with 600 pound bulls? I don't think so. Italy? Where the mafia was born? I don't think so. Brooklyn? Fughedaboudit! Those folks will tell you with a quickness, 'You wanna get your ass out of my face!?!' And you stand a good chance of getting a beat down just on principal of lack of social, environmental awareness.
Fights in California seem to only originate over turf disputes or when opposing teams dare wear their colors in the other's turf. Hmmmm. A picture is forming here.
Ah, but in California... Hmmm.
Personal affronts without alcohol involved don't seem to cause a stir. It almost seems like a pack animal or pack predator that doesn't want to engage in a tangle for fear of injury and predation against it.
This 'Box' commercial would only work in California. Just the thought of such an affront makes me want to jump through the screen and accost that jerk, not buy what old round head is selling. It'd smell like butt to me.
The more I stay here, the more a socially bizarre place this appears top be.
There's a ghost mining town up the I 5 or 99 somewhere and somebody is trying to sell tickets to see it. Hellooooo... It's a ghost town. Abandoned buildings, boarded up mine shafts. Reminds me of the South Bronx back in the gang days.
But in California, an abandoned wooden tenement is a tourist attraction. Unless I see some ghosts, I ain't-a-goin'! Maybe if they built with brick instead of wood, there'd be some historic value to it, but from what I've seen out here, folks would build a 'ghost town' throw dirt and dust on it - like a Hollywood set - and sell tickets. Hell, I think I can get someone to sell me snake oil without looking too far or trying too hard.
Jack, a butt or a crotch in someone's face is not appetizing.
Friday, June 27, 2008
North Korea Destroying Nuke Plants?
If anyone thinks that they did it out of the goodness in their hearts, they have another think coming.
And if anyone thinks that all the money earned from all those cheap Chinese products that are flooding our markets is just going to China, they also have another think coming.
Think about it.
Our government cannot give North Korea money to stop their military aggression - like firing a missile over Japan without a military response - without public outcry but, we sure can pay them to cut it out. Kim, Jung Ill may talk a good game, but we have a forward deployed carrier group stationed in Japan and it wouldn't take too long to shoot down a N. Korean missile and send a few of our own. Not too many dictators want to tangle with US, especially after what happened to Saddam. Any if any dictator thinks that our military is 'that' overstretched, they too would get a swift and painful lesson and, yes, another think.
So, here's to the wise guys who know how to work diplomacy in its most basic form;
pay them off. Or better yet, get someone else to.
And if anyone thinks that all the money earned from all those cheap Chinese products that are flooding our markets is just going to China, they also have another think coming.
Think about it.
Our government cannot give North Korea money to stop their military aggression - like firing a missile over Japan without a military response - without public outcry but, we sure can pay them to cut it out. Kim, Jung Ill may talk a good game, but we have a forward deployed carrier group stationed in Japan and it wouldn't take too long to shoot down a N. Korean missile and send a few of our own. Not too many dictators want to tangle with US, especially after what happened to Saddam. Any if any dictator thinks that our military is 'that' overstretched, they too would get a swift and painful lesson and, yes, another think.
So, here's to the wise guys who know how to work diplomacy in its most basic form;
pay them off. Or better yet, get someone else to.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Are You From Africa?
I was working on an online course at a North Hills library when a Latina, who had seen me there several times before but never spoke to me, asked me if I was an African.
I paused, looked at her and said, "Well, not for a few generations; why?"
Her reply - the one I usually get - was, "You look African."
"Well, I should sincerely hope so," I thought. I'd feel really bad if, at this point in my life, that suddenly I began to look Nordic or Mongolian or something. Then, I said to myself, with all the variety of Black and White and all the colors and races in between who are Africans, I began to think that was just an ignorant statement. Not so much biased or racially motivated in malice, just ignorant. Everybody is ignorant to something. Labels are so much more convenient than talking and getting to know someone. If I just thought, oh, she's just another Mexican, I could have ignorantly missed that many Latinos here in L.A. are from all over central and south America - that's more than 20 nationalities.
I told her, my father is from the Caribbean, but that I am from here; America.
We nodded congenially to each other, I returned to my work and her to web searching and that was about as far as our conversation went. In my travels, the one thing I genuinely look forward to is cultural exchange - of ideas, of ways of life, of cultural identity.
While wandering in Egypt, a young man approached me at an outdoor market and in his best English he said, "I very much admire your Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr." It was a proud moment for me and my Ex-Successful travel buddy, but it said to me, he knew I wasn't "African" but that he found something unique and admirable in me being an American - a Black American - that he made a point of sharing with me. It also said to me that peoples around the world are watching us Black Americans. I remember reading somewhere that the measure of America, after slavery, was to be how Blacks were treated and how we developed an overcame our oppressions.
That library inquiry was not the first time people of other races have asked me that question, but each time I hear it, I always stop and wonder why.
Of course, my first thought is to go straight to the protect-the-race mode and ask , "Why!" You ain't neva seen a Black American man reading before?" But I don't. Though, one day, I'd really like to, just to see the reaction. Sometimes I think it's a compliment. Sometimes, I attribute it to the region I'm wandering through and think she must not get the opportunity to speak with too many Black people. How unfortunate that this region is so diverse, but yet so disconnected.
I always wonder if they are making a racist remark, a condescending remark, an ignorant one or are really trying to make contact and get a better understanding - the latter is what I always hope for. The questions bounce around my mind like several pinballs released in a bonus round - lights flashing, bumpers bumping and all.
Then I stop myself and ask the next question, "Is it really that odd for a Black man to be in a library? So much so that you'd think they were African?" Then I ask my self if I'm making too much out of this simple question.
I work to keep my jaws clinched to stop several thoughts and snippy remarks trying to make their way out of my mouth. Then, I usually, smile, and let out a small laugh and ask why. They never seem to answer. And I never really know how to respond.
In general, I don't think too much about it but when people of my own race ask me the same question, then I'm really puzzled.
But, thank God, Black folks will talk straight with you.
The explanation I usually get is, "You look African and you talk kinda proper." So, what does an African look like? Me, I guess; by the sound of it.
"I'm not an African, nor am I an African American," Smokey Robinson said in a You Tube video. "I'm Black! Black is not our color, it's who we are," he continued.
I don't want to dwell in the past. But my race and I - in America - will never get away from it.
I guess the question I should be asking myself is, "Who am I?" Who am I today? How do I define myself?
I think the next time someone asks me if I'm an African, I'll just answer,
"I am an American."
And I'm Black. And I'm proud.
I paused, looked at her and said, "Well, not for a few generations; why?"
Her reply - the one I usually get - was, "You look African."
"Well, I should sincerely hope so," I thought. I'd feel really bad if, at this point in my life, that suddenly I began to look Nordic or Mongolian or something. Then, I said to myself, with all the variety of Black and White and all the colors and races in between who are Africans, I began to think that was just an ignorant statement. Not so much biased or racially motivated in malice, just ignorant. Everybody is ignorant to something. Labels are so much more convenient than talking and getting to know someone. If I just thought, oh, she's just another Mexican, I could have ignorantly missed that many Latinos here in L.A. are from all over central and south America - that's more than 20 nationalities.
I told her, my father is from the Caribbean, but that I am from here; America.
We nodded congenially to each other, I returned to my work and her to web searching and that was about as far as our conversation went. In my travels, the one thing I genuinely look forward to is cultural exchange - of ideas, of ways of life, of cultural identity.
While wandering in Egypt, a young man approached me at an outdoor market and in his best English he said, "I very much admire your Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr." It was a proud moment for me and my Ex-Successful travel buddy, but it said to me, he knew I wasn't "African" but that he found something unique and admirable in me being an American - a Black American - that he made a point of sharing with me. It also said to me that peoples around the world are watching us Black Americans. I remember reading somewhere that the measure of America, after slavery, was to be how Blacks were treated and how we developed an overcame our oppressions.
That library inquiry was not the first time people of other races have asked me that question, but each time I hear it, I always stop and wonder why.
Of course, my first thought is to go straight to the protect-the-race mode and ask , "Why!" You ain't neva seen a Black American man reading before?" But I don't. Though, one day, I'd really like to, just to see the reaction. Sometimes I think it's a compliment. Sometimes, I attribute it to the region I'm wandering through and think she must not get the opportunity to speak with too many Black people. How unfortunate that this region is so diverse, but yet so disconnected.
I always wonder if they are making a racist remark, a condescending remark, an ignorant one or are really trying to make contact and get a better understanding - the latter is what I always hope for. The questions bounce around my mind like several pinballs released in a bonus round - lights flashing, bumpers bumping and all.
Then I stop myself and ask the next question, "Is it really that odd for a Black man to be in a library? So much so that you'd think they were African?" Then I ask my self if I'm making too much out of this simple question.
I work to keep my jaws clinched to stop several thoughts and snippy remarks trying to make their way out of my mouth. Then, I usually, smile, and let out a small laugh and ask why. They never seem to answer. And I never really know how to respond.
In general, I don't think too much about it but when people of my own race ask me the same question, then I'm really puzzled.
But, thank God, Black folks will talk straight with you.
The explanation I usually get is, "You look African and you talk kinda proper." So, what does an African look like? Me, I guess; by the sound of it.
"I'm not an African, nor am I an African American," Smokey Robinson said in a You Tube video. "I'm Black! Black is not our color, it's who we are," he continued.
I don't want to dwell in the past. But my race and I - in America - will never get away from it.
I guess the question I should be asking myself is, "Who am I?" Who am I today? How do I define myself?
I think the next time someone asks me if I'm an African, I'll just answer,
"I am an American."
And I'm Black. And I'm proud.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Real Super Heroes and Mortality
I got a call from a childhood friend recently.
He told me that Brian F., one of my neighborhood heroes had died.
I don't think he even knew how much of an impact he had on my life.
I thought about it for a minute, trying to digest what my friend just said. I waited so long that he repeated it.
Images of Brian and his team mates returning to the Red Hook housing project in Brooklyn's south west, 76th precinct, in a boisterous celebration, loudly cheering themselves and extolling their school name while standing next to a shimmering gold-colored trophy that stood as tall as him at about six-feet five.
That year, they were the best high school basketball team in the city and more importantly, Brooklyn, taking the title for John Jay High School located in Park Slope. I never went to neighborhood schools and only saw the local young men playing in the park. They were a lively bunch of guys who, to me, seemed like lusty pirates. They seemed to always be working out, or playing b-ball., softball or working out. But they were always laughing, and when the day turned to night and there was not enough light to play anymore, they drank and were having a great time.
Another of my heroes, Jimmy J., lived in my building. It was the oddest thing. He and the fellas were cool. I was the bookworm and they tolerated me. If they needed to know something they'd ask, but they rarely did. I'd over hear them saying things like, so, you're smart, can you kick my ass? Luckily I was much younger than they were. Too young to understand the peril I may have been in otherwise.
In any event, on some summer days, I'd just sit and watch them play. It was better than front row seats in the Garden. I really wouldn't know, the only games I saw were on TV, but theze guys were as good as Earl the Pearl and had jump shots and moves and trick shots I had never seen in the NBA. These guys were good, even when they were just playing a pick up game.
Nothing was worse than being the guy who was playing the absolute best defense they possibly could only to have one of the fellas back you into the pain or take you to the corner, call the shot, say, "Game!" end the contest, call, "Next!" or walk to the bench, pick up their light jacket or warm ups and coolly walk off the court. That was the kind of playa I wanted to be. They were my Michael Jordan before MJ came on the scene.
"I'm Blackman!" Born Black would yell and run around the court with a towel tied around his neck. He'd jump into the air at full run, with his arms stretched in front of him. It was the funniest thing I ever saw. And still ranks as one of the funniest things I've seen in my life.
Sometimes an ass****, too drunk to play or just lacking the skills to keep up with these Titans, would get on the court and realize they were about to lose, of course - some folks just hate to lose. So, they'd begin making bad calls to hold on to the losing battle.
But, as they realized the result was inevitable, in a fit of rage, they'd take beer bottles from steel-drum trash cans and smash them on the court - sending shattered glass flying, effectively ending the game and any games to follow. The park attendant locks the thick bristled broom locked up in the park house.
Sometimes the contests would shift to Wine Park, tucked next to PAL Miccio - the Police Athletic League center across the street from the Larsen's Bakery that Entenmann's later bought out. Wine Park was painted and seemed like the home of the old skool Red Hook playas who, like most people drank wine there. It was a park you really didn't want to pass by alone - at least I didn't when I was a kid. It could be cool, but it could be dicey too - drugs, alcohol and criminals seemed to congregate there. How did I know there were criminals there? I knew...
Oh, I'd also stop and watch them play a dice game called C-Low there - that was the first time I saw a dice game first hand.
The cool thing about Wine Park was that local artists has been commissioned by the parks department and the Police Athletic League to paint a mural on the brick wall on the north side of the park. They painted pimpin' Dolomite with a full 'Fro and a depiction of a Troglodyte and Bertha from the song Bertha Butt Boogie. I knew I was close to home whenever I saw that mural. I smiled every time I saw it.
Those games and tournaments in Wine Park were legendary too, but the court wasn't regulation. I didn't know it right off, but Coffee Park was. The think Wine Park had was that it had night lights. There was something about playing into the evening.
Moose and his weekend pPark parties, break dancers and the fool who stole Moose's power amp. Once, and never again. Moose and his friends began carrying firearms.
As I grew and they began to hold tournaments in Coffee Park, I noticed how clean it was. It was one of the cleanest parks in the area because they made sure it stayed that way. I was always an wearly riser either biking, swimming or Wandering, so I went to the park one day and to my surprise, I saw a few of them sweeping glass shards from the court. I'm not jockin', but these were young toughs with the best game in the region who respected the court. That opened my eyes. The court and that area seemed to be a neutral place; Anyone could come out as long as they did so respectfully. Some didn't and regretted it, so didn't and got laid out. Others just got chased out, never to return. Fighting was a necessary part of life there.
No one dared mess with them be it the Italians, the Puerto Ricans or Blacks from other projects.
The Monarch luggage factory, right next to Coffee Park, was broken into one summer. It was liek something from a cartoon. One minute you're just shooting some hoops and then a local runs past holding a suitcase in either hand at track speed. Then another. Then another. Folks soon began running in the direction they came from. Soon, police car sirens wailed and the running ceased. I walked in that direction to see what was going on, only to come across a set of luggage lying in the grass. As I approached it, a voice came out of the tall grass to my left where one of the fellas was lying in concealment from 5-0. "That's mine!" he said, moving the grass with his breath. I wento around to see a factory gate wide open. No one was arrested. Later that evening and for the next few days, the fellas and others coursed through the projects selling nice suitcase sets at reasonable prices.
Fish was removing some parts from an abandoned car. So I thought I'd remove the windshield. I had no idea what I was doing. Nor any idea what to do with it. I didn't even have a car. I didn't understand why he was shaking heis head at me, but I do now. Hooker with the jump shot style that was near impossible to stop when he cocked it behind his head and nearly released it from there in a high arc. Jimmy J's smooth moves and just plain silky jumper. If I could defend these guys I could defend anyone. Of course I never really could. By the time I was old enough, they were moving on to different things. Few of them went to on to play serious college ball. But in the Hook, they still had their legends.
I remember getting up the courage to play on their court one summer. When the ball pounds at a certain tempo in the Hood, it calls the brothers and sisters out like an African drum. I had been watching the NBA season and been practicing. I thought I had enough Red Auerbach fundamental, basketball training in me to know the game. So, full of false pride, I took to the Coffee Park court.
The handball court was my domain. I learned it from Michael E. and we soon dominated the handball courts. All comers sat down and waited. And sat down again.
Before I discovered b-ball, I feel like i was playing kids games like skelly and spinning tops and swinging in swings. Of course it was a girl's attention I was after. It was a Fonseca. She was mixed, Latin, Black and Indian. Her brother was a bad ass, but she was worth the risk. She was very beautiful and very cool, until crack infected the projects and took her from me. Not that I was cool enough or had enough game to snare her. I was still a bookworm, nerd learning the game; not quite a playa yet.
That summer, I got the lesson of my life.
Brian F. heard the drum of the ball and came out with the fellas.
With trepidation and the desire to prove myself, I waited for them to take the court after we beat our last pick up opponents.
It was like the new jacks taking on the elders.
It was like a disaster in slow motion. Everything we threw at them, they had a defense for. They picked up apart with a combination of trash talking and skill.
He blocked several of my shots and generally humiliated me in front of the Fonseca. God, she was beautiful. Not as gorgeous as Nadine Goody, probably the hottest young women in the area - she was out of my league for a while.
That day we were embarrassed on the court motivated me to practice, practice, practice; starting with the fundamentals.
I dribbled around the court for miles before I ever took a shot and with both hands, shot with both hands, spun, crossed over , between the legs, around the back, and watched every televised game I could. I biked, I swam, I ran, I did road work. I also did a painful routine where I stood under the basket and dead jumped - not running jump - and touched the backboard, ten times in a row in sets. If that wasn't bad enough, after that became easier, I started dead jumping and touching the rim with both hands.
I had done miles of roadwork, had played in nearly every park in Brooklyn, Manhattan - downtown on West 4th where the best play, Harlem when the semi-pros play and at Cromwell, Staten Island's indoor facility on the waterfront. I'd go home exhausted many days.
The next summer a similar game situation occurred - he and his crew took to the court and began dominating the game. The game was on and we were hanging tough.
At one point in the game, he out positioned me and grabbed an offensive rebound. He ignored me behind him and casually went up for the easy layup when I timed my jump and stuck his shot to the backboard. He came down and went up stronger than the first time. I jumped and stuck his shot to the board again. Then, he did something that made my day and started my career. He turned with a WTF look on his face to see who was sticking his shots. It was me.
He bumped me out of the way and scored, but that look meant a lot to me he looked at me, like who the F*** was that. That's when I knew I was becoming a playa too. They won the game, but only by one or two points; nothing like the year before. I had changed and he had changed me. No, I didn't have much thug in me, but I was willing to learn. Besides they were more malum prohibitum bad boys not malum inse. More importantly, he gave the the desire to be better and gave me a goal, a level of excellence I wanted to reach. That was something my nerd mentality could understand.
E, C-Moore, Talley and I came along at about the same time. 4-on-4 we were just about unbeatable. If we had a big man, fughettabout it!
Looking back, those times were kinda like the Odyssey for me. Like at the end of the movie Troy, after Achilles was killed, the voice over talked about how they lived in the time of the great ones like Agamemnon, Ajax and Achilles. It was a nice tribute, but I too lived amongst real life, flesh and blood heroes. I grew up watching them succeed and fail. Lose and love, come up and fall down. I've seen them selling illegally and doing a 9-5. I've seen them as playas and then as loving fathers. I've seen them live and now I've lived to see them, at least one of the great ones, die. Good or bad, right or wrong, they are still my heroes.
And sometimes the best thing about a superhero is that in the end they are mortal, just like me. They taught me, that just like them, I can do great things too.
He told me that Brian F., one of my neighborhood heroes had died.
I don't think he even knew how much of an impact he had on my life.
I thought about it for a minute, trying to digest what my friend just said. I waited so long that he repeated it.
Images of Brian and his team mates returning to the Red Hook housing project in Brooklyn's south west, 76th precinct, in a boisterous celebration, loudly cheering themselves and extolling their school name while standing next to a shimmering gold-colored trophy that stood as tall as him at about six-feet five.
That year, they were the best high school basketball team in the city and more importantly, Brooklyn, taking the title for John Jay High School located in Park Slope. I never went to neighborhood schools and only saw the local young men playing in the park. They were a lively bunch of guys who, to me, seemed like lusty pirates. They seemed to always be working out, or playing b-ball., softball or working out. But they were always laughing, and when the day turned to night and there was not enough light to play anymore, they drank and were having a great time.
Another of my heroes, Jimmy J., lived in my building. It was the oddest thing. He and the fellas were cool. I was the bookworm and they tolerated me. If they needed to know something they'd ask, but they rarely did. I'd over hear them saying things like, so, you're smart, can you kick my ass? Luckily I was much younger than they were. Too young to understand the peril I may have been in otherwise.
In any event, on some summer days, I'd just sit and watch them play. It was better than front row seats in the Garden. I really wouldn't know, the only games I saw were on TV, but theze guys were as good as Earl the Pearl and had jump shots and moves and trick shots I had never seen in the NBA. These guys were good, even when they were just playing a pick up game.
Nothing was worse than being the guy who was playing the absolute best defense they possibly could only to have one of the fellas back you into the pain or take you to the corner, call the shot, say, "Game!" end the contest, call, "Next!" or walk to the bench, pick up their light jacket or warm ups and coolly walk off the court. That was the kind of playa I wanted to be. They were my Michael Jordan before MJ came on the scene.
"I'm Blackman!" Born Black would yell and run around the court with a towel tied around his neck. He'd jump into the air at full run, with his arms stretched in front of him. It was the funniest thing I ever saw. And still ranks as one of the funniest things I've seen in my life.
Sometimes an ass****, too drunk to play or just lacking the skills to keep up with these Titans, would get on the court and realize they were about to lose, of course - some folks just hate to lose. So, they'd begin making bad calls to hold on to the losing battle.
But, as they realized the result was inevitable, in a fit of rage, they'd take beer bottles from steel-drum trash cans and smash them on the court - sending shattered glass flying, effectively ending the game and any games to follow. The park attendant locks the thick bristled broom locked up in the park house.
Sometimes the contests would shift to Wine Park, tucked next to PAL Miccio - the Police Athletic League center across the street from the Larsen's Bakery that Entenmann's later bought out. Wine Park was painted and seemed like the home of the old skool Red Hook playas who, like most people drank wine there. It was a park you really didn't want to pass by alone - at least I didn't when I was a kid. It could be cool, but it could be dicey too - drugs, alcohol and criminals seemed to congregate there. How did I know there were criminals there? I knew...
Oh, I'd also stop and watch them play a dice game called C-Low there - that was the first time I saw a dice game first hand.
The cool thing about Wine Park was that local artists has been commissioned by the parks department and the Police Athletic League to paint a mural on the brick wall on the north side of the park. They painted pimpin' Dolomite with a full 'Fro and a depiction of a Troglodyte and Bertha from the song Bertha Butt Boogie. I knew I was close to home whenever I saw that mural. I smiled every time I saw it.
Those games and tournaments in Wine Park were legendary too, but the court wasn't regulation. I didn't know it right off, but Coffee Park was. The think Wine Park had was that it had night lights. There was something about playing into the evening.
Moose and his weekend pPark parties, break dancers and the fool who stole Moose's power amp. Once, and never again. Moose and his friends began carrying firearms.
As I grew and they began to hold tournaments in Coffee Park, I noticed how clean it was. It was one of the cleanest parks in the area because they made sure it stayed that way. I was always an wearly riser either biking, swimming or Wandering, so I went to the park one day and to my surprise, I saw a few of them sweeping glass shards from the court. I'm not jockin', but these were young toughs with the best game in the region who respected the court. That opened my eyes. The court and that area seemed to be a neutral place; Anyone could come out as long as they did so respectfully. Some didn't and regretted it, so didn't and got laid out. Others just got chased out, never to return. Fighting was a necessary part of life there.
No one dared mess with them be it the Italians, the Puerto Ricans or Blacks from other projects.
The Monarch luggage factory, right next to Coffee Park, was broken into one summer. It was liek something from a cartoon. One minute you're just shooting some hoops and then a local runs past holding a suitcase in either hand at track speed. Then another. Then another. Folks soon began running in the direction they came from. Soon, police car sirens wailed and the running ceased. I walked in that direction to see what was going on, only to come across a set of luggage lying in the grass. As I approached it, a voice came out of the tall grass to my left where one of the fellas was lying in concealment from 5-0. "That's mine!" he said, moving the grass with his breath. I wento around to see a factory gate wide open. No one was arrested. Later that evening and for the next few days, the fellas and others coursed through the projects selling nice suitcase sets at reasonable prices.
Fish was removing some parts from an abandoned car. So I thought I'd remove the windshield. I had no idea what I was doing. Nor any idea what to do with it. I didn't even have a car. I didn't understand why he was shaking heis head at me, but I do now. Hooker with the jump shot style that was near impossible to stop when he cocked it behind his head and nearly released it from there in a high arc. Jimmy J's smooth moves and just plain silky jumper. If I could defend these guys I could defend anyone. Of course I never really could. By the time I was old enough, they were moving on to different things. Few of them went to on to play serious college ball. But in the Hook, they still had their legends.
I remember getting up the courage to play on their court one summer. When the ball pounds at a certain tempo in the Hood, it calls the brothers and sisters out like an African drum. I had been watching the NBA season and been practicing. I thought I had enough Red Auerbach fundamental, basketball training in me to know the game. So, full of false pride, I took to the Coffee Park court.
The handball court was my domain. I learned it from Michael E. and we soon dominated the handball courts. All comers sat down and waited. And sat down again.
Before I discovered b-ball, I feel like i was playing kids games like skelly and spinning tops and swinging in swings. Of course it was a girl's attention I was after. It was a Fonseca. She was mixed, Latin, Black and Indian. Her brother was a bad ass, but she was worth the risk. She was very beautiful and very cool, until crack infected the projects and took her from me. Not that I was cool enough or had enough game to snare her. I was still a bookworm, nerd learning the game; not quite a playa yet.
That summer, I got the lesson of my life.
Brian F. heard the drum of the ball and came out with the fellas.
With trepidation and the desire to prove myself, I waited for them to take the court after we beat our last pick up opponents.
It was like the new jacks taking on the elders.
It was like a disaster in slow motion. Everything we threw at them, they had a defense for. They picked up apart with a combination of trash talking and skill.
He blocked several of my shots and generally humiliated me in front of the Fonseca. God, she was beautiful. Not as gorgeous as Nadine Goody, probably the hottest young women in the area - she was out of my league for a while.
That day we were embarrassed on the court motivated me to practice, practice, practice; starting with the fundamentals.
I dribbled around the court for miles before I ever took a shot and with both hands, shot with both hands, spun, crossed over , between the legs, around the back, and watched every televised game I could. I biked, I swam, I ran, I did road work. I also did a painful routine where I stood under the basket and dead jumped - not running jump - and touched the backboard, ten times in a row in sets. If that wasn't bad enough, after that became easier, I started dead jumping and touching the rim with both hands.
I had done miles of roadwork, had played in nearly every park in Brooklyn, Manhattan - downtown on West 4th where the best play, Harlem when the semi-pros play and at Cromwell, Staten Island's indoor facility on the waterfront. I'd go home exhausted many days.
The next summer a similar game situation occurred - he and his crew took to the court and began dominating the game. The game was on and we were hanging tough.
At one point in the game, he out positioned me and grabbed an offensive rebound. He ignored me behind him and casually went up for the easy layup when I timed my jump and stuck his shot to the backboard. He came down and went up stronger than the first time. I jumped and stuck his shot to the board again. Then, he did something that made my day and started my career. He turned with a WTF look on his face to see who was sticking his shots. It was me.
He bumped me out of the way and scored, but that look meant a lot to me he looked at me, like who the F*** was that. That's when I knew I was becoming a playa too. They won the game, but only by one or two points; nothing like the year before. I had changed and he had changed me. No, I didn't have much thug in me, but I was willing to learn. Besides they were more malum prohibitum bad boys not malum inse. More importantly, he gave the the desire to be better and gave me a goal, a level of excellence I wanted to reach. That was something my nerd mentality could understand.
E, C-Moore, Talley and I came along at about the same time. 4-on-4 we were just about unbeatable. If we had a big man, fughettabout it!
Looking back, those times were kinda like the Odyssey for me. Like at the end of the movie Troy, after Achilles was killed, the voice over talked about how they lived in the time of the great ones like Agamemnon, Ajax and Achilles. It was a nice tribute, but I too lived amongst real life, flesh and blood heroes. I grew up watching them succeed and fail. Lose and love, come up and fall down. I've seen them selling illegally and doing a 9-5. I've seen them as playas and then as loving fathers. I've seen them live and now I've lived to see them, at least one of the great ones, die. Good or bad, right or wrong, they are still my heroes.
And sometimes the best thing about a superhero is that in the end they are mortal, just like me. They taught me, that just like them, I can do great things too.
I Want Pants Like The Incredible Hulk
Ever notice how the Hulk's pants always fit him?
I'm sure the heated debate has raged for decades.
But, no matter how big he gets, his pants turn from slacks to shorts with a rip here and there but they always fit!?
If I gain two inches, it's off to the swap meet to get a new pair of everything.
That just ain't right!
And, to make matters worse, when he changes back to Bruce Banner, his pants shrink fit with him!
By the time I shrink back to my college weight, the clothes that fit me are way, way, way out of style! I can't wear bell bottoms in public, in L.A. unless I'm going to a 70's party. And even that's pushing it.
Okay, so Bruce had the foresight to wear modern stretchy jeans, but just imaging the first time he changed unexpectedly after his gamma ray exposure.
Can you see it?
He gets a whopping bill at a restaurant on Sunset or something after receiving lousy table service and loses it. He turns green, gets big and then RRRrrrrriiiiiiiipppp!
Down come the pantaloons.
Do people point and laugh? Is he truly an Incredible Hulk? (You know what they say about body builders...) Is he so embarrassed by the wardrobe malfunction that he shrinks back into Bruce or does he just tuck his date under his arm and run back home, go online and order a few pair of spandex?
I know there are millions of people looking for that Hulk pill that will make them bulk up and still look good and if they are already a Hulk, the pill will let them shrink back to normal with out the unsightly hanging flab.
But if I were to get a grip; I'd realize he's just a computer-generated cartoon character!
Deep down, I know that if I want to lose weight and bulk up, I need to get my fat ass off the couch and into the gym, or to the track where I got in shape and stayed in shape through college and beyond.
Either way, it still ain't fair. Thinking about being in shape is a lot easier than working out. I'm still a bad mammah-jammah in my imagination.
I want my Hulk pants.
I'm sure the heated debate has raged for decades.
But, no matter how big he gets, his pants turn from slacks to shorts with a rip here and there but they always fit!?
If I gain two inches, it's off to the swap meet to get a new pair of everything.
That just ain't right!
And, to make matters worse, when he changes back to Bruce Banner, his pants shrink fit with him!
By the time I shrink back to my college weight, the clothes that fit me are way, way, way out of style! I can't wear bell bottoms in public, in L.A. unless I'm going to a 70's party. And even that's pushing it.
Okay, so Bruce had the foresight to wear modern stretchy jeans, but just imaging the first time he changed unexpectedly after his gamma ray exposure.
Can you see it?
He gets a whopping bill at a restaurant on Sunset or something after receiving lousy table service and loses it. He turns green, gets big and then RRRrrrrriiiiiiiipppp!
Down come the pantaloons.
Do people point and laugh? Is he truly an Incredible Hulk? (You know what they say about body builders...) Is he so embarrassed by the wardrobe malfunction that he shrinks back into Bruce or does he just tuck his date under his arm and run back home, go online and order a few pair of spandex?
I know there are millions of people looking for that Hulk pill that will make them bulk up and still look good and if they are already a Hulk, the pill will let them shrink back to normal with out the unsightly hanging flab.
But if I were to get a grip; I'd realize he's just a computer-generated cartoon character!
Deep down, I know that if I want to lose weight and bulk up, I need to get my fat ass off the couch and into the gym, or to the track where I got in shape and stayed in shape through college and beyond.
Either way, it still ain't fair. Thinking about being in shape is a lot easier than working out. I'm still a bad mammah-jammah in my imagination.
I want my Hulk pants.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Jeez, Not Another Dumb California Law...
I was listening to my favorite radio station, NPR, today and they were seriously talking about frivolous energy consumption on this day of record-breaking power usage on the L.A. power grid. Okay, I thouoght, but their gripe and solution was uniquely Californian; fining department stores and grocery stores and common citizens for leaving their doors open and letting their air conditioning spill out onto the streets. Lawd-eee.
I particularly like the California law that states no vehicle can exceed 60 MPH without a driver. Or, 'no animal can have intercourse within 1,500 feet of a tavern, chool or place of worship.' Dman those outlaw animals!
The refrigeration spillage issue sounds like my mama when I was a kid: "Close the refrigerator door; are you trying to cool down the world?" No, mama, I couldn't possibly do that with ten thousand refrigerators. I'll just close the door.
A real-live California Assemblyman and what sounded like disgruntled stay-at home housewives - credit card in hand I'll bet - complained that department stores let their cool air out of their wide open stores during today's record breaking energy use levels across the Los Angeles power grid during this triple-digit heat wave we're experiencing.
Is there some sort of hallucinogen in California's tap and bottled water supply? Is life so easy here that there are no more serious issues worth NPR's time?
Yes, we are experiencing triple-digit heat sooner than last year, but come on!
They're talking about regulating the little guy while the real culprits giggle into their sleeves.
Look at the record breaking profits oil companies are making now. Highest oil-per-barrel prices, highest at the pump prices, but beware, California is going to present legislation to penalize someone for leaving their doors open with their air conditioning on? That's like blaming consumers for buying products they use in their homes or day to day life! God forbid! Is life so easy for those who are complaining that they can worry about that? People are losing their homes due to shady mortgage dealers, most folks can't afford to shop in department stores, unemployment in California has hit new levels. Air conditioning taxing power grids in the summer? Is this new?
Is anyone paying attention?
Oil prices have been an issue since Jimmy Carter was president. And more than 40 years later, we still don't have alternative power relieving this burden? This is America, for chirssakes!;
we are innovators, entrepreneurs, 'the world leader,' but the oil companies are still not allowing or slowing alternative fuels from getting to the market.
This power crisis is a failure of our leadership to foresee potential crises and avoiding them. Funny how this became an issue when an oil friendly oilman is in the White House. It would be funny were it not for all the chaos the high oil prices are causing.
You think the outcry is loud now? Just wait till November. I'd hate to be living in in the north and north east this winter when heating costs are going to be more than mortgages. You think the Celtics fans were loud? Just wait.
And the best California can do is to consider more dumb legislation to fine people and companies who leave their doors open and let their air conditioning out... Wow.
What's next? If I turn the air conditioning on in my car will someone with nothing better to do will write me a ticket for rolling down my window, letting my air conditioning out? If I fan myself in church will I have to drop more in the collection plate?
?
Some lucky, comfortably financially secure folks have the time to watch other folks business when they should be minding their own.
And please, not another dumb California law.
I particularly like the California law that states no vehicle can exceed 60 MPH without a driver. Or, 'no animal can have intercourse within 1,500 feet of a tavern, chool or place of worship.' Dman those outlaw animals!
The refrigeration spillage issue sounds like my mama when I was a kid: "Close the refrigerator door; are you trying to cool down the world?" No, mama, I couldn't possibly do that with ten thousand refrigerators. I'll just close the door.
A real-live California Assemblyman and what sounded like disgruntled stay-at home housewives - credit card in hand I'll bet - complained that department stores let their cool air out of their wide open stores during today's record breaking energy use levels across the Los Angeles power grid during this triple-digit heat wave we're experiencing.
Is there some sort of hallucinogen in California's tap and bottled water supply? Is life so easy here that there are no more serious issues worth NPR's time?
Yes, we are experiencing triple-digit heat sooner than last year, but come on!
They're talking about regulating the little guy while the real culprits giggle into their sleeves.
Look at the record breaking profits oil companies are making now. Highest oil-per-barrel prices, highest at the pump prices, but beware, California is going to present legislation to penalize someone for leaving their doors open with their air conditioning on? That's like blaming consumers for buying products they use in their homes or day to day life! God forbid! Is life so easy for those who are complaining that they can worry about that? People are losing their homes due to shady mortgage dealers, most folks can't afford to shop in department stores, unemployment in California has hit new levels. Air conditioning taxing power grids in the summer? Is this new?
Is anyone paying attention?
Oil prices have been an issue since Jimmy Carter was president. And more than 40 years later, we still don't have alternative power relieving this burden? This is America, for chirssakes!;
we are innovators, entrepreneurs, 'the world leader,' but the oil companies are still not allowing or slowing alternative fuels from getting to the market.
This power crisis is a failure of our leadership to foresee potential crises and avoiding them. Funny how this became an issue when an oil friendly oilman is in the White House. It would be funny were it not for all the chaos the high oil prices are causing.
You think the outcry is loud now? Just wait till November. I'd hate to be living in in the north and north east this winter when heating costs are going to be more than mortgages. You think the Celtics fans were loud? Just wait.
And the best California can do is to consider more dumb legislation to fine people and companies who leave their doors open and let their air conditioning out... Wow.
What's next? If I turn the air conditioning on in my car will someone with nothing better to do will write me a ticket for rolling down my window, letting my air conditioning out? If I fan myself in church will I have to drop more in the collection plate?
?
Some lucky, comfortably financially secure folks have the time to watch other folks business when they should be minding their own.
And please, not another dumb California law.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
L.A. Fans Absent From Team's Return?
In all fairness, the Lakers deserve better fans.
KCal-9 was there, but they didn't show or get fan interviews. Is that because there were none on hand? If that's the case, that's a telling story about the character of Lakers fans.
Commentators made note of how much louder Celtic fans were than those in the Staples Center. Is it a matter of blue collar vs. make-up collar?
Baseball legend Yogi Berra said, “You can observe a lot by watching.” And what I’m observing about Laker fans is a little unsettling. The L.A. Times, Lakers Blog is rife with comments supporting the criminal assault of Celtics fans at the Staples Center big screen viewing. The assault contributed to the viewing of Game 6 being cancelled by law enforcement and Laker management. Talk about the embarrassing 39-point finals loss? What an embarrassment that every other Lakers fan and visitors to Los Angeles suffered? They couldn’t go to an NBA finals game because of fear of wannabe thugs? And what’s worse, there was no outcry from ‘true’ Laker fans; not even Magic came out and said, ‘Hey, that’s enough!’
Rivalry is one thing and it’s healthy. Hooliganism is just plain criminal. Besides, “Hooligan” is Irish and Kelly green in derivation. Remember the Tea Party? Yup, folks from Boston know how to throw a bang-up party.
Not one Lakers fan, wearing Lakers jerseys in Boston was assaulted. Not one.
There was always and, I hope, will always be ‘the rivalry,’ but with it, there was always respect. It was ‘Fun.’ No one should have to fear being loyal to their team. If this is the Raiders, Black Hole, Wild West lawless, frontier hospitality, that’s why the trophy is back east.
The Bah-Bozo went on to say that someone should shout “Crips” to Paul Pierce to distract him? Does he think mentioning a murderous street gang is appropriate in sport? Why not just scream out, “Hey, ni****, the KKKlan is waiting outside for you?!” That is just ugly and has no place in sport. Does that moron think there were no gangs or thugs on the east coast? What does that nonsense have to do with sports and sportsmanship?
Is that the kind of fan the Lakers want or need? I think not.
I know, the usual response is, ”Oh, those are not real Lakers fans, they’re probably not from here.”
Well neither are the Lakers; they’re from Minnesota!
That mentality demonstrates, or is at least indicative of, the lack of ownership and sportsmanship off the court and team play the Lakers demonstrated on the court.
Will the real Lakers fans please stand up?
The Lakers had a hell of a season, and this city's warriors - oops, Lakers - should be appreciated, commended and welcomed back in grand fashion for their efforts. So what if they didn’t win it all this time. Wow; no one came to welcome them back. Kind of like the Vietnam Vets.
Laker Fans Show Appreciation... Not!
I watched a few local network TV stations documenting the defeated Lakers return to Los Angeles. What was painfully absent were Laker fans.
I didn't root for L.A., but I have to commend a team that went the distance and fell just short of a national championship. They didn't do so badly in my book, no matter the final score in the final game of their season. They were bested by a better team. Period. And their effort, should have been recognized.
One indication of the Celtics fan base was just how loud they were for their home games. It didn't seem to matter that their team only won 24 games in the entire season last year. They were so loud even the commentators had to make mention of how much louder they were than Laker fans. Maybe the Los Angeleans were resting their voices for their acting auditions the next day. Hey! Hollywood is here, maybe they were just acting like Laker fans. Were they extras, background players hired by the owners, the League? Hmmm.
Other teams, in the states and overseas, home teams retuning from defeat are met by their loyal, adoring fans in appreciation for their effort. Not so in La-La land.
Laker fans seem to like their team only if they win. That's kind of like having friends as long as you have money, but when the money goes, so do those 'friends.' There's a few, choice names for that.
Maybe Laker 'faithful' can learn a thing or two about being fans just like the Lakers can learn a thing or two about playing team ball. A fan's team is a fan's team, rain or shine, in victory AND in defeat.
That's the mark of a true fan.
I didn't root for L.A., but I have to commend a team that went the distance and fell just short of a national championship. They didn't do so badly in my book, no matter the final score in the final game of their season. They were bested by a better team. Period. And their effort, should have been recognized.
One indication of the Celtics fan base was just how loud they were for their home games. It didn't seem to matter that their team only won 24 games in the entire season last year. They were so loud even the commentators had to make mention of how much louder they were than Laker fans. Maybe the Los Angeleans were resting their voices for their acting auditions the next day. Hey! Hollywood is here, maybe they were just acting like Laker fans. Were they extras, background players hired by the owners, the League? Hmmm.
Other teams, in the states and overseas, home teams retuning from defeat are met by their loyal, adoring fans in appreciation for their effort. Not so in La-La land.
Laker fans seem to like their team only if they win. That's kind of like having friends as long as you have money, but when the money goes, so do those 'friends.' There's a few, choice names for that.
Maybe Laker 'faithful' can learn a thing or two about being fans just like the Lakers can learn a thing or two about playing team ball. A fan's team is a fan's team, rain or shine, in victory AND in defeat.
That's the mark of a true fan.
Electronic Warfare
I think that the majority of people who play war games have never been in a real one.
Boots on the ground far from home is stressful. Your friends dying is stressful. Shipboard boarding team and internal roving team training is stressful. Explosives are stressful. Depleted uranium rounds are stressful. Live rounds going off next to you are loud and stressful. Knowing that the gun in your hand has live rounds in it is stressful. Knowing the weapon in your hand can kill foe or friend is stressful.
War is no game.
OEF/OIF
Boots on the ground far from home is stressful. Your friends dying is stressful. Shipboard boarding team and internal roving team training is stressful. Explosives are stressful. Depleted uranium rounds are stressful. Live rounds going off next to you are loud and stressful. Knowing that the gun in your hand has live rounds in it is stressful. Knowing the weapon in your hand can kill foe or friend is stressful.
War is no game.
OEF/OIF
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
The Art Of Non-Verbal Communication
I was parked under a shade tree in Los Angeles recently waiting for a store to open. It was pretty hot already, even before noon. I got out and stood by the car to enjoy a light breeze and to stretch my legs. A man walked toward me and stared at my car oddly and constantly as he passed by me without taking his eyes off my car, not once did he look at me or say a word. He got into a van parked next to my car, which, now that I looked, was partially blocking him in.
I guess he wanted me to move my car. You think?
Normally, just to be a New York transplant ass, I'd left the car there until he said something. Hey you jerk! Good morning! Something.
Then, I thought, maybe he's mute. Maybe he doesn't speak English. Or, maybe, he's just an ass.
For some reason, I didn't even bother, I moved my car slightly and returned to the comfort of the shade.
People here also seem to have depth perception difficulty. I don't remember that being a problem in New York, but I've been a way for a while. You'd think I was immune, but it kind of bothers me.
I can't tell you how many times that people, men, women and children, have just bumped into me for no apparent reason. There was plenty of room on the walkways or in the Panorama Mall, they just felt it necessary to walk on the part of earth I was walking on. Maybe I'm magnetic, I thought. It could happen. People bump into me a lot here in Los Angeles. Maybe they're interdimensional creatures who forgot that only one mass can occupy the same space in time without colliding.
I'm not even going to try to figure that one out.
Just last month, a limo driver, someone you'd think would be courteous on the road, wouldn't let me merge into a left lane on Van Nuys Blvd. I signaled in enough time, but he actually sped up to prevent my merge. That was rude, I thought.
Maybe he lost a bundle on the Lakers... A possibility, but oh well. He'll get no love from me there.
So, I turned the corner with him, signaled and turned in front of him. Okay, maybe it was a little closer than I normally would have, but I did it anyway.
He honked repeatedly, and as I looked through my side view mirror, he removed his seatbelt, in exaggerated agitation; non too happy. Oh, well.
So, I went about my way. But, to my surprise, he started following me.
I turned, he turned. I slowed, he tried to get along side me. I turned, he turned.
Wow, I thought; I'm in a potential road rage situation. Hmmm. What should I do? Stop and confront him? Man up?
Then, I realized, this guy's not too stable; he's trying to chase me in a 60-foot long Benz limo. I drove a limo in NYC; they don't corner worth a damn. I also drove a NYC yellow cab. He didn't stand a chance.
So, for the next 10 minutes I kept making right hand turns. I know he was serious about trying to catch up to me, but it was comical watching him in my rear mirror trying to navigate those turns with 50 feet of car behind him. I slowed down to savor his millipede-like turns, but sped up to keep my distance. I definitely didn't want him to catch up with me; he's crazy!
After every right turn, he got farther and father behind me.
The fun wore off after a few turns - if not for the money, I don't know how the NASCAR drivers do it. When the limo faded from sight, I made a left.
Never to see him again.
If I hadn't been here long enough to see similar behavior in others, I would have thought all it a bit odd, but no, it seems to be more the norm round these here parts.
Some times non-verbal communication can be just as ignorant as spoken.
And some thing's just ain't worth reciprocating.
Gas Prices Crisis Solved
I know how to end the California and national rising gas prices crisis.
Take those annoying, noisy, gas powered, air blower thing-ies from those landscapers!
What ever happened to rakes?
The nation would save billions of barrels of oil and billions of gallons of gas a year without those things, not to mention reducing all the dust pollution, the noise pollution and all the allergens they stir up unnecessarily.
I was most upset about this travesty when I saw one man blowing fallen leaves off a side walk. No big deal, right?
Then I thought, 'This is California; nobody walks on the frackin' side walks, so why is he moving the frackin' leaves?'
I say, make another silly California law or municipal code to outlaw those blower thing-ies and save the nation a lot of gas!
That was easy. Next problem!
Ka-Ching!
Take those annoying, noisy, gas powered, air blower thing-ies from those landscapers!
What ever happened to rakes?
The nation would save billions of barrels of oil and billions of gallons of gas a year without those things, not to mention reducing all the dust pollution, the noise pollution and all the allergens they stir up unnecessarily.
I was most upset about this travesty when I saw one man blowing fallen leaves off a side walk. No big deal, right?
Then I thought, 'This is California; nobody walks on the frackin' side walks, so why is he moving the frackin' leaves?'
I say, make another silly California law or municipal code to outlaw those blower thing-ies and save the nation a lot of gas!
That was easy. Next problem!
Ka-Ching!
"Everyday People" By The Thought Police
I was letting my ears Wander a little while listening to some oldies station my college buddy tuned to recently and was pleasantly surprised to hear Sly & The Family Stone's Everyday People come on.
It's the one that everyone sings along to when it says, 'Different strokes for different folks... I am everyday people..."
It event says, "Scooby-Doo Be Doo-be..."
How can a song that says Scooby Doo and Doo-Bee go wrong?
I was in the middle of something, I don't remember what, but I wound up taking a break and was singing along with the chorus near the end of the song at the part where it says, "
What if all radio stations just cut out lyrics they didn't like? Who's to say what stays and what goes?
It's the one that everyone sings along to when it says, 'Different strokes for different folks... I am everyday people..."
It event says, "Scooby-Doo Be Doo-be..."
How can a song that says Scooby Doo and Doo-Bee go wrong?
I was in the middle of something, I don't remember what, but I wound up taking a break and was singing along with the chorus near the end of the song at the part where it says, "
"Oh sha sha-we got to live together
There is a yellow one that won't accept the black one
That won't accept the red one that won't accept the white one
And different strokes for different folks..."
But the middle two lines were missing.
The background music played, the music didn't fade away like the song was ending, but the words were edited out.
Poof.
I wasn't sure what to make of it.
It was like walking along and stumbling on an unseen object. You look back and nothing was there. But you know something was supposed to be there. Sometimes, the lack of something is just as real and physical as its presence. This is one such case.
Why would someone do something like that? I thought to myself. Was it a White station manager who liked the song, but didn't like the Black writer's reference to people of different colors not liking each other? Or did whomever edited it out believe that that social issue had been resolved and was no longer worth mentioning? Who are they to decide what I hear?
As I gathered myself, I remembered growing up in the 60's and 70's when that song was a popular one. It was an anthem speaking to social injustices and an imbalanced social situation. Sly put to music the way America and the world he lived in was, while espousing tolerance in dealing with people of other races.
For that radio station to remove a part of Sly's song that makes it relevant, alive and healing for us today is wrong and worse, it's an action like that of Orwell's Thought Police.
What if all radio stations just cut out lyrics they didn't like? Who's to say what stays and what goes?
It's a form of censorship. And I feel it's wrong.
Beware the Thought Police.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
L.A. BEATEN!
"Any thing's possible!" Kevin Garnett, screamed. "Top of the World! "
Beat L.A.?
L.A. Beaten by a lot! 131-92? Thirty-nine point blow out?
Boston Celtics National Basketball League Champions 2008; #17.
Paul Pierce MVP!
Beating L.A. still puts a smile on my face. And it still feels good.
Beat L.A.?
L.A. Beaten by a lot! 131-92? Thirty-nine point blow out?
Boston Celtics National Basketball League Champions 2008; #17.
Paul Pierce MVP!Beating L.A. still puts a smile on my face. And it still feels good.
L.A. = Lackadaisical Athlete
Lackadaisical.
I'm not sure if the Lakers thought that all they needed to do was show up to win the NBA Championship tournament. Well, in about ten minutes, they are about to know different. The Boston Celtics are blowing them off their home court.
My friend, like me, is a transplant, but he's now Laker fan (shame on him). He said the way the Lakers are playing - or aren't - they should get their butts kicked. And thirty-one points down with 9 minutes to go, they will be carrying their buttocks off the court and back to Los An-Hell-Eeez with them.
Basics.
L.A. can't seem to see or defend a pick and roll. And they don't want to fight through a screen.
It's like they are too pretty and laid back to even try. I could go on, but why? I'm glad they haven't grasped the fundamentals. I know, their paid. Yeah, and they're gonna lose.
I'm just going to enjoy the next six minutes watching the Lackadaisical Athlete Lakers get waxxxxxed! Los Angeles? Rewind.
This is sweet.
East coast for life.
BEAT L.A.!
BEAT L.A.!
BEAT L.A.!
Good lord, I'm rooting for the Celtics.
6 minutes left and the fans are screaming, 'Na na na na, hey hey hey, Good Bye!
I'm not sure if the Lakers thought that all they needed to do was show up to win the NBA Championship tournament. Well, in about ten minutes, they are about to know different. The Boston Celtics are blowing them off their home court.
My friend, like me, is a transplant, but he's now Laker fan (shame on him). He said the way the Lakers are playing - or aren't - they should get their butts kicked. And thirty-one points down with 9 minutes to go, they will be carrying their buttocks off the court and back to Los An-Hell-Eeez with them.
Basics.
L.A. can't seem to see or defend a pick and roll. And they don't want to fight through a screen.
It's like they are too pretty and laid back to even try. I could go on, but why? I'm glad they haven't grasped the fundamentals. I know, their paid. Yeah, and they're gonna lose.
I'm just going to enjoy the next six minutes watching the Lackadaisical Athlete Lakers get waxxxxxed! Los Angeles? Rewind.
This is sweet.
East coast for life.
BEAT L.A.!
BEAT L.A.!
BEAT L.A.!
Good lord, I'm rooting for the Celtics.
6 minutes left and the fans are screaming, 'Na na na na, hey hey hey, Good Bye!
Happy Baby-Daddy Day
My ass.
There are are baby-daddies and then there father's.
Here's to the fathers.
There are are baby-daddies and then there father's.
Here's to the fathers.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Tiger say: Who's Your Daddy?
I just finished watching Tiger Woods win his third U.S. Open (at Torrey Pines down in my old home away from home, San Diego - when I should have been doing my Master's homework. I can't believe I'm 'diming' on myself. But I needed a break!)
After a miraculous birdie Sunday, Tiger, slightly hobbled by a painful left knee that he had his third surgery on, forced another 18 hole round with Rocco Mediate today. The battle is sure to be a remembered as one of golf's greatest and sure to be replayed for years to come.
They exchanged leads and near midway through, Tiger was up three shots, but lost the lead and went down one shot going into the 18th hole again. At the 18th hole the tension was high. Was this to be the defeat of the world's best golfer? C'mon...
Again, Tiger birdied to win the round. What was next was sudden death.
Long story short: Tiger drove a tee shot onto the fairway, Rocco hit a sand trap, Tiger's two-shot reached the green...
Tiger won.
He kissed his nearly one-year old daughter, his lovely wife and then the trophy. This was his first PGA tour championship win as a father coming just a day after father's day. The last time he won the Open was in 2002 just after Father's Day when his father was around to share it with him.
Tiger, a Californian, said that of his 14 victories, this one was the sweetest.
Grrrrrr, baby. Very Grrrrrrr...
After a miraculous birdie Sunday, Tiger, slightly hobbled by a painful left knee that he had his third surgery on, forced another 18 hole round with Rocco Mediate today. The battle is sure to be a remembered as one of golf's greatest and sure to be replayed for years to come.
They exchanged leads and near midway through, Tiger was up three shots, but lost the lead and went down one shot going into the 18th hole again. At the 18th hole the tension was high. Was this to be the defeat of the world's best golfer? C'mon...
Again, Tiger birdied to win the round. What was next was sudden death.
Long story short: Tiger drove a tee shot onto the fairway, Rocco hit a sand trap, Tiger's two-shot reached the green...
Tiger won.
He kissed his nearly one-year old daughter, his lovely wife and then the trophy. This was his first PGA tour championship win as a father coming just a day after father's day. The last time he won the Open was in 2002 just after Father's Day when his father was around to share it with him.
Tiger, a Californian, said that of his 14 victories, this one was the sweetest.
Grrrrrr, baby. Very Grrrrrrr...
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Bill Cosby And Captain Kangaroo?
I was Wandering around the internet, not sure what I was looking for, but I came across Captain Kangaroo, the 50s through 80's morning kids program that predated Sesame Street and The Electric Company. The Captain was 'The' morning kids program.
On the site, it mentioned Bill Cosby as a guest character on the show at first, then a regular. That was like having a Black man on the news desk with Walter Cronkite at the time.
U go Bill. That's staying power.
Wandering isn't always about going to places. Sometimes it's about Wandering through time.
This was an unexpected but welcome journey.
On the site, it mentioned Bill Cosby as a guest character on the show at first, then a regular. That was like having a Black man on the news desk with Walter Cronkite at the time.
U go Bill. That's staying power.
Wandering isn't always about going to places. Sometimes it's about Wandering through time.
This was an unexpected but welcome journey.
Almost a Really Happy Father's Day
The Lakers won; rats.
Guess I'll have to wait for Tuesday for the east coast Celtics to take home the Trophy.
Guess I'll have to wait for Tuesday for the east coast Celtics to take home the Trophy.
Short Crotch Seams And Spandex Jeans
I'd like to know who the designer or seamster is who came up with this new generation of women's stick-to the hip pants. Why? I'd like to shake their hand. Sometimes.
Not that I'm a rear view looker, but one day I noticed a slender woman's back pockets were nearly wrapped around her inner thigh. It looked a little odd to me so I decided to pay more attention wherever I Wandered next.
Sure enough, it was a women's haberdasher's conspiracy. They were everywhere.
Short crotch seamed jeans.
I'm not really sure about why someone with no bottom would wear a pair of pantaloons to accentuate it, but hey. It's their prerogative. If I don't like it I don't have to look. Believe me, there are times when I'm so sorry I did.
On the flip side, thanks to those innovative clothing artists, they have made even the slightest posterior attribute an eye candy boon. No longer do women who have a petite frame have to suffer the slings and arrows of being called flat bottomed. They are not. They are pleasantly curvy. Bravo!
Unfortunately, there are some women who have such a negative booty index, there is absolutely no stitching device short of padding that can add a curve in their rumpus room.
My ex was one such woman. Or so she said. The truth is she was slight hipped, but had a nice Ma Rainey going on back there. Those rubberized jeans came to my attention when we did a load of laundry one weekend and, when I took a pair of her jeans out of the dryer, I noticed they looked really small. On further investigation, I noticed they had some elasticity to them but didn't believe it. They looked like regular, cotton jeans, but they were hybrids. Hmmm.
When I was overseas, I thought silky, swaying and loose was much more sexy (and cooler) than form fitting. Unless I go to downtown Los Angeles, I don't see to many women wearing dresses these days. How unfortunate. But that's just me.
I feel it's a lost art. Mostly because the most popular 'club' dresses look like leftover scraps from complete dresses or something Betty Rubble or Wilma Flintstone would wear. I don't think they're attractive, but I guess I don't have to.
I do have to wonder a bit though.
The elastic jeans are not 'club' pants where you'd expect to see tight fitting, hip huggers; they're everyday pants. And if jeans weren't tight enough, designers have infused them with spandex to make them that much tighter to show each and every curve. Or lack thereof. Is the message any clearer? Is the hunt any more fierce? Are the stakes upped just a little higher in the battle of the sexes? I guess so.
I can only suppose those elastic spandex manufacturers, who came onto the scene years ago to adorn flash dancers, had an abundance left over after the material fell out of favor for being just a bit too revealing.
I wore spandex once. For a track meet, of course... And they were hot. No, not attractive hot or cool hot. They were hot-hot-hot! They didn't breathe. Everything below my waist line was cookin.' I thought about the slimming and aerodynamic effects of the space-age material, but then I also thought about wanting to have kids later in life. So. off them came, never to adorn my loins again.
I wonder if women experience the same heat.
I wonder if those new hot pants are the reason so many women I come across are more on edge these days.
I know they'd be on edge if I wore short crotched jeans.
Not that I'm a rear view looker, but one day I noticed a slender woman's back pockets were nearly wrapped around her inner thigh. It looked a little odd to me so I decided to pay more attention wherever I Wandered next.
Sure enough, it was a women's haberdasher's conspiracy. They were everywhere.
Short crotch seamed jeans.
I'm not really sure about why someone with no bottom would wear a pair of pantaloons to accentuate it, but hey. It's their prerogative. If I don't like it I don't have to look. Believe me, there are times when I'm so sorry I did.
On the flip side, thanks to those innovative clothing artists, they have made even the slightest posterior attribute an eye candy boon. No longer do women who have a petite frame have to suffer the slings and arrows of being called flat bottomed. They are not. They are pleasantly curvy. Bravo!
Unfortunately, there are some women who have such a negative booty index, there is absolutely no stitching device short of padding that can add a curve in their rumpus room.
My ex was one such woman. Or so she said. The truth is she was slight hipped, but had a nice Ma Rainey going on back there. Those rubberized jeans came to my attention when we did a load of laundry one weekend and, when I took a pair of her jeans out of the dryer, I noticed they looked really small. On further investigation, I noticed they had some elasticity to them but didn't believe it. They looked like regular, cotton jeans, but they were hybrids. Hmmm.
When I was overseas, I thought silky, swaying and loose was much more sexy (and cooler) than form fitting. Unless I go to downtown Los Angeles, I don't see to many women wearing dresses these days. How unfortunate. But that's just me.
I feel it's a lost art. Mostly because the most popular 'club' dresses look like leftover scraps from complete dresses or something Betty Rubble or Wilma Flintstone would wear. I don't think they're attractive, but I guess I don't have to.
I do have to wonder a bit though.
The elastic jeans are not 'club' pants where you'd expect to see tight fitting, hip huggers; they're everyday pants. And if jeans weren't tight enough, designers have infused them with spandex to make them that much tighter to show each and every curve. Or lack thereof. Is the message any clearer? Is the hunt any more fierce? Are the stakes upped just a little higher in the battle of the sexes? I guess so.
I can only suppose those elastic spandex manufacturers, who came onto the scene years ago to adorn flash dancers, had an abundance left over after the material fell out of favor for being just a bit too revealing.
I wore spandex once. For a track meet, of course... And they were hot. No, not attractive hot or cool hot. They were hot-hot-hot! They didn't breathe. Everything below my waist line was cookin.' I thought about the slimming and aerodynamic effects of the space-age material, but then I also thought about wanting to have kids later in life. So. off them came, never to adorn my loins again.
I wonder if women experience the same heat.
I wonder if those new hot pants are the reason so many women I come across are more on edge these days.
I know they'd be on edge if I wore short crotched jeans.
Javelin The Paparazzi
I just had a twisted idea.
Remember the hapless photographer, Ryan McGeeney, who Wandered onto a track and field javelin range and caught one with his leg? It was like something out of Braveheart.
What if celebs had a dark side they could unleash on the paparazzi for a change.
We all know there's a love/hate relationship with celebrity paparazzi.
We don't want our celebs injured, but we still want to know what they wear to the beach, to Walgreens, to their favorite bistro or club, what a bad hair day looks like for them and who they're screwing around with.
It's gotten so bad (or good) teens are buying digital cameras and joining the fray. I guess their parents are driving them around. Heck they make good money!
For most other folks and for the celebrities who are just plain sick and tired of the little parasites, I've thought up a new Olympic event. How about 'Javelin the Paparazzi?'
Although it sounds more like something worthy of a Roman Colosseum, it could easily be a Stephen King or M. Knight Shyamalan Olympics event.
If you're asking how a promoter would get the paparazzi to participate?
It'd be easy.
Lure them into an arena by telling them Angelina or Brad are going to have a tryst there then, when they're all inside, lock the gates and spring the trap!
Angelina and Brad will be there, but they'll be chucking javelins!
Watching them run for their lives with even more energy than they use running after celebs would be fun to watch. I think Mel Brooks could do the scene justice. Even if they never get skewered.
Just the look on their faces would be worth the price of admission.
And I bet they wouldn't even drop their cameras.
I know, How barbaric...
Why waste it on paparazzi.
Why not on cheating spouses? I'd sign up for that one.
Or those a-holes who take advantage of the elderly.
Hmmmm...
We could even use a Picador to slow them down a bit...
Hey, this is the southwest.
Remember the hapless photographer, Ryan McGeeney, who Wandered onto a track and field javelin range and caught one with his leg? It was like something out of Braveheart.
What if celebs had a dark side they could unleash on the paparazzi for a change.
We all know there's a love/hate relationship with celebrity paparazzi.
We don't want our celebs injured, but we still want to know what they wear to the beach, to Walgreens, to their favorite bistro or club, what a bad hair day looks like for them and who they're screwing around with.
It's gotten so bad (or good) teens are buying digital cameras and joining the fray. I guess their parents are driving them around. Heck they make good money!
For most other folks and for the celebrities who are just plain sick and tired of the little parasites, I've thought up a new Olympic event. How about 'Javelin the Paparazzi?'
Although it sounds more like something worthy of a Roman Colosseum, it could easily be a Stephen King or M. Knight Shyamalan Olympics event.
If you're asking how a promoter would get the paparazzi to participate?
It'd be easy.
Lure them into an arena by telling them Angelina or Brad are going to have a tryst there then, when they're all inside, lock the gates and spring the trap!
Angelina and Brad will be there, but they'll be chucking javelins!
Watching them run for their lives with even more energy than they use running after celebs would be fun to watch. I think Mel Brooks could do the scene justice. Even if they never get skewered.
Just the look on their faces would be worth the price of admission.
And I bet they wouldn't even drop their cameras.
I know, How barbaric...
Why waste it on paparazzi.
Why not on cheating spouses? I'd sign up for that one.
Or those a-holes who take advantage of the elderly.
Hmmmm...
We could even use a Picador to slow them down a bit...
Hey, this is the southwest.
Steeplechase Reminds Me Of Home
I was kicking back on a Sunday morning on Father's Day watching the Olympic trials when up popped the steeplechase competition.
I've always found steeplechase a little fun to watch - grown men and women splashing through water and jumping over hurdles for no apparent reason. It's a little out of place in the otherwise clean track and field events, if you don't count the errant official or photographer who Wanders about and gets lanced by a javelin. But, lancing people isn't an event, is it? Maybe it should be for the paparazzi. Now that would be a fun sport to watch.
Steeplechase always reminds me of disaster movies or panicked people running from the undead. But, deep down, steeplechase reminds me of running scared through Brooklyn's projects;
pick a reason:
Running from the undead crack heads.
Being chased by a bunch of guys who want your new Nike sneakers was usually a good one.
Or running from a red-sneaker-clad gang called the Jolly Stompers who were known for deriving pleasure from stomping their victims into submission.
Now that I think of it, I really had to be alert in NYC. On any given day you were liable to be running from Puerto Rican gangs or Italians, or white boys or the brothers. Brooklyn had real, unspoken boundaries. You had to be in shape to continue growing up in Brooklyn.
Oh, how about running from a girlfriend's brother and his larger-than life, armed friends who didn't approve of you. Another good one was hearing your mother call you from a mile away and trying to get back home before she got really mad at you because you were supposed to stay where she could see you.
Another was, of course, if you stole something...
Uh, like a cucumber from a neighboring building's vegetable garden... Yeah, that's it!
I am still taken by how swiftly and deftly I and others navigated abandoned cars, sharp turns, other runners, puddles, short fences - tall fences - chain link fences, vagrants, barking and chasing stray or guard dogs, nodding and weaving heroine addicts and their cousins, the methadonians, alcoholics, police, turn corners at full speed, bounce off things and keep balance, splash through Johnny Pump spray, dodge speeding cars, loose gravel, cobble stones or dirt roads, bound up flights of stairs, and reach my front door with hands raised.
It's... It's a world record!
No ass-whippin' for you!
Of course I applied my ghetto running talents to good use in high school cross country and did pretty well city and statewide. Got a trophy too, but my ex-wife threw so much of my stuff away. If ever there was a time to run from something or someone, she was it.
Our Music And Art track team, clad in sky blue and burgundy, ran our practices and meets through McCombs Park in the Bronx. That was fun. You start in the clear and then run into the woods. Just like Brooklyn, but without someone chasing you. My track times were good, but never great unless I imagined someone was chasing me. Unmotivated running could get you arrested in the 'hood where not getting caught was the always the desired goal.
Prospect Park was my other training ground. Ah, Prospect... I got my first 10-speed bike stolen from under me there. Good times.
The park, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, the same guys who designed Central Park were streams, lakes, ponds, paddle boats, Wandering paths, Civil War monuments, stone bridges, a Quaker cemetery, band shells, marble-floored gazebos, covered benches, Rastafarians, oh, and gangs too. I think they were The Lords, or the knights on the south side near park west, if memory serves.
Jeez it was while I was in grade school at P.S. 154 when a gang member got stabbed in there. Guess, he didn't run.
Slower runners who got caught were usually the wily ones more often than not; the ones who were good at banking (bribes) or pimpin' (smooth mouthpieces) or stuff like that.
Heck, I still think the ghetto was and is the best, untapped training ground for mental toughness needed to create successful Olympic athletes (among other things) just because it was a place where the race did go to the swift and the fight to the strong.
It's a place of perseverance.
I've always found steeplechase a little fun to watch - grown men and women splashing through water and jumping over hurdles for no apparent reason. It's a little out of place in the otherwise clean track and field events, if you don't count the errant official or photographer who Wanders about and gets lanced by a javelin. But, lancing people isn't an event, is it? Maybe it should be for the paparazzi. Now that would be a fun sport to watch.
Steeplechase always reminds me of disaster movies or panicked people running from the undead. But, deep down, steeplechase reminds me of running scared through Brooklyn's projects;
pick a reason:
Running from the undead crack heads.
Being chased by a bunch of guys who want your new Nike sneakers was usually a good one.
Or running from a red-sneaker-clad gang called the Jolly Stompers who were known for deriving pleasure from stomping their victims into submission.
Now that I think of it, I really had to be alert in NYC. On any given day you were liable to be running from Puerto Rican gangs or Italians, or white boys or the brothers. Brooklyn had real, unspoken boundaries. You had to be in shape to continue growing up in Brooklyn.
Oh, how about running from a girlfriend's brother and his larger-than life, armed friends who didn't approve of you. Another good one was hearing your mother call you from a mile away and trying to get back home before she got really mad at you because you were supposed to stay where she could see you.
Another was, of course, if you stole something...
Uh, like a cucumber from a neighboring building's vegetable garden... Yeah, that's it!
I am still taken by how swiftly and deftly I and others navigated abandoned cars, sharp turns, other runners, puddles, short fences - tall fences - chain link fences, vagrants, barking and chasing stray or guard dogs, nodding and weaving heroine addicts and their cousins, the methadonians, alcoholics, police, turn corners at full speed, bounce off things and keep balance, splash through Johnny Pump spray, dodge speeding cars, loose gravel, cobble stones or dirt roads, bound up flights of stairs, and reach my front door with hands raised.
It's... It's a world record!
No ass-whippin' for you!
Of course I applied my ghetto running talents to good use in high school cross country and did pretty well city and statewide. Got a trophy too, but my ex-wife threw so much of my stuff away. If ever there was a time to run from something or someone, she was it.
Our Music And Art track team, clad in sky blue and burgundy, ran our practices and meets through McCombs Park in the Bronx. That was fun. You start in the clear and then run into the woods. Just like Brooklyn, but without someone chasing you. My track times were good, but never great unless I imagined someone was chasing me. Unmotivated running could get you arrested in the 'hood where not getting caught was the always the desired goal.
Prospect Park was my other training ground. Ah, Prospect... I got my first 10-speed bike stolen from under me there. Good times.
The park, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, the same guys who designed Central Park were streams, lakes, ponds, paddle boats, Wandering paths, Civil War monuments, stone bridges, a Quaker cemetery, band shells, marble-floored gazebos, covered benches, Rastafarians, oh, and gangs too. I think they were The Lords, or the knights on the south side near park west, if memory serves.
Jeez it was while I was in grade school at P.S. 154 when a gang member got stabbed in there. Guess, he didn't run.
Slower runners who got caught were usually the wily ones more often than not; the ones who were good at banking (bribes) or pimpin' (smooth mouthpieces) or stuff like that.
Heck, I still think the ghetto was and is the best, untapped training ground for mental toughness needed to create successful Olympic athletes (among other things) just because it was a place where the race did go to the swift and the fight to the strong.
It's a place of perseverance.
Thanks, Dad
Well, it's June 15, 2K8. Father's Day in America.
Yesterday, I was watching the U.S. Open golf tournament before Tiger Woods' miraculous lead-taking birdie and eagle when a clip of Tiger and his father came on between rounds. His father passed away a few years ago from cancer, but the lesson he shared with Tiger and us is timeless.
I interpreted the video clip this way:
Tiger was at the tee, but just before he struck the ball, his father dropped a golf bag to distract him. It worked. But Tiger gathered himself, returned to the tee and struck the ball solidly downrange.
They exchanged a knowing look. His was telling to concentrate and remain confident no matter the life obstacle or distraction. He was teaching Tiger mental toughness. He said that if learned that lesson, that in any situation you will be the mentally toughest person wherever he went. Tiger said later, his father was right.
I have to admit, with all teh things my ex-Army father put me through many things I went through, even the Navy, was easier than dealing with him.
A few days ago, NBC's Tim Russert, host of Face the Nation, passed at 58 years young; a son leaving behind a son. His passing reminds me of our mortality and the legacy we leave behind.
What struck me was not the battles he had with politicians, but an interview he had with Tom Brokaw. In it he talked about his father and what he remembered about him.
This morning, I awoke to a popular, young TV Evangelist speaking of a teacher who got her class to write all the names of their classmates and next to them, had them write something good they liked about them. She then compiled the list and handed it to all the children. That affirming list became many of those student's prized possession.
So, here, I will share a list of things I like about my father:
He taught me about the stars.
Indirectly, that taught me about dreams and achieving them despite the distance and obstacles.
He taught me about celestial navigation and showed me how to find the north star, Polaris.
"If you can find that star," he said, I'll never be lost.
I thought that was kind of silly, living in New York City, but the lesson stuck with me and, don't you know that star guided me home when I had lost my way, many-a-day and many-a-year later.
When I was at sea in the Navy, I knew our general location and direction because of where the stars were.
I grew up watching Apollo space launches and he showed me craters on the moon through a Questar mirrored telescope.
He taught me how to study and more important, he taught me how to learn.
He taught me math and English and French.
He wouldn't let me keep my Brooklyn accent.
He said, 'Fughed-aboudit!'
Not really. He was too Caribbean, too British.
He bought a full set of The Encyclopaedia Britannica, complete with a voluminous atlas and dictionary that I spent hours turning pages and seeing new things, peoples and places. Those sets cost a small fortune now, I can only imagine how much they were then, especially with a family of seven kids, mom and grandma.
He introduced me to the wonders libraries possess and taught me how to find my favorite topics through the Dewey Decimal system.
He took me to the Cavernous Brooklyn Public library at Grand Army Plaza, the lion guarded New York Public library and the Donnel in mid town where I put on headphones for the first time and listened to records on vinyl in their listening room.
He taught me how things were inter connected and how one affected another.
He taught me how ignorant people can be but also how kind and noble they can be also.
He taught me to always have manners and respect.
He also taught me how to whup someone who didn't show me respect, both verbally and non.
He taught me to always take the higher ground.
He took me to my first major league baseball game at Shea Stadium where I saw the Mets take the field. Thanks to Tom 'Terrific' Seaver and Tug McGraw, I learned, 'You Gotta Believe.'
He taught me how to read, but more importantly, he taught me how to read between the lines.
I thought that was silly at first, because there was nothing between the lines but space.
How wrong I was.
He taught me how to hold a knife and fork.
He taught me the difference between ghetto grocery store steak and 22nd street on the east side of Manhattan steak.
He taught me the difference between pastry and really good pastry.
He taught us how to make home-made ice cream.
He wore a suit to work every day to the post office and showed me to always look your best.
He taught me quiet dignity.
He taught me how to shave.
And taught me the dangers of leaving Magic Shave on your face too long. Oooo-Eeeee!
He taught me that if I don't take care of my teeth, I'll have to wear funny dentures like he did.
A usually eloquent man, but with out his dentures, he talked comically funny.
He taught me about far away traditions and places like Africa, the Galapagos and the wonders of the deep.
We watched the news, PBS, The undersea world of Jaques Cousteau and Mission Impossible and that was it.
He had me read National Geographic. Its stories and pictures took me around the world.
He took me to the Museum of Natural History on 81st. street and taught me to wonder at creation and history. He took me to the Hayden Planetarium and gave me an appreciation for our place in the universe. He taught me how small we are in the scheme of things, but how great our human and cultural achievement and ability to grasp the infinite is.
He took me to The Met on fifth and Central Park east where I saw African art for the first time. Even then I wondered why Egyptian art was in a separate wing from African art; Egypt is in Africa.
He also taught me that Egypt is a Greek name for that country. They called themselves Kemet or Black. He taught me that Africa is a European name for the continent of colored peoples.
He taught me that it was a Black Pharaoh, Akhnaten, husband of the famed beauty, Nefratiti, who was the first to base his kingdom and society on the 'One God' theology.
He taught me about colonialism and racism.
But more importantly, he taught me about my Afro-Caribbean history.
He taught me a sense of pride and how to hold my head up.
But about the best thing my father taught me was photography; starting with his Nikon F.
It was a medium of endless possibilities.
Einstein said possibilities are more important than facts and I believe it's true.
It was magical the first time I saw a latent image emerge from a previously blank, white sheet of photographic paper floating in a developer bath. It is a feeling that is impossible to describe.
It was truly magic right in front of me. I've never lost that wonder for photography.
That's why I am a photographer now.
At about 12 o'clock today, my 10-year-old son, MAX, called me on his cell phone and wished me a happy Father's Day. That felt good.
He said he liked me because I liked to hang out with him and because he thought I was funny.
I told him I liked him because he's a good young man.
As tough as my dad was on me and my brothers and sisters, he was a good man.
I can only hope I can be as good father to my son as my father was to me.
It's been about 26 years since my father passed.
No, we didn't get along all the time. He was a hard man.
But looking back on this Father's Day, I can do so with a foundation that has carried me to Asia Minor, Kemet, Asia Minor, Europe, the Caribbean and to my deepest PADI Safe dive, a 97 foot wreck dive in the crystal blue waters off Hawai'i's Island of Oahu.
So, Dad, I'd just like to say I appreciate all you taught me and showed me.
Thanks Dad; Happy Father's Day.
I love you.
Your son...
Yesterday, I was watching the U.S. Open golf tournament before Tiger Woods' miraculous lead-taking birdie and eagle when a clip of Tiger and his father came on between rounds. His father passed away a few years ago from cancer, but the lesson he shared with Tiger and us is timeless.
I interpreted the video clip this way:
Tiger was at the tee, but just before he struck the ball, his father dropped a golf bag to distract him. It worked. But Tiger gathered himself, returned to the tee and struck the ball solidly downrange.
They exchanged a knowing look. His was telling to concentrate and remain confident no matter the life obstacle or distraction. He was teaching Tiger mental toughness. He said that if learned that lesson, that in any situation you will be the mentally toughest person wherever he went. Tiger said later, his father was right.
I have to admit, with all teh things my ex-Army father put me through many things I went through, even the Navy, was easier than dealing with him.
A few days ago, NBC's Tim Russert, host of Face the Nation, passed at 58 years young; a son leaving behind a son. His passing reminds me of our mortality and the legacy we leave behind.
What struck me was not the battles he had with politicians, but an interview he had with Tom Brokaw. In it he talked about his father and what he remembered about him.
This morning, I awoke to a popular, young TV Evangelist speaking of a teacher who got her class to write all the names of their classmates and next to them, had them write something good they liked about them. She then compiled the list and handed it to all the children. That affirming list became many of those student's prized possession.
So, here, I will share a list of things I like about my father:
He taught me about the stars.
Indirectly, that taught me about dreams and achieving them despite the distance and obstacles.
He taught me about celestial navigation and showed me how to find the north star, Polaris.
"If you can find that star," he said, I'll never be lost.
I thought that was kind of silly, living in New York City, but the lesson stuck with me and, don't you know that star guided me home when I had lost my way, many-a-day and many-a-year later.
When I was at sea in the Navy, I knew our general location and direction because of where the stars were.
I grew up watching Apollo space launches and he showed me craters on the moon through a Questar mirrored telescope.
He taught me how to study and more important, he taught me how to learn.
He taught me math and English and French.
He wouldn't let me keep my Brooklyn accent.
He said, 'Fughed-aboudit!'
Not really. He was too Caribbean, too British.
He bought a full set of The Encyclopaedia Britannica, complete with a voluminous atlas and dictionary that I spent hours turning pages and seeing new things, peoples and places. Those sets cost a small fortune now, I can only imagine how much they were then, especially with a family of seven kids, mom and grandma.
He introduced me to the wonders libraries possess and taught me how to find my favorite topics through the Dewey Decimal system.
He took me to the Cavernous Brooklyn Public library at Grand Army Plaza, the lion guarded New York Public library and the Donnel in mid town where I put on headphones for the first time and listened to records on vinyl in their listening room.
He taught me how things were inter connected and how one affected another.
He taught me how ignorant people can be but also how kind and noble they can be also.
He taught me to always have manners and respect.
He also taught me how to whup someone who didn't show me respect, both verbally and non.
He taught me to always take the higher ground.
He took me to my first major league baseball game at Shea Stadium where I saw the Mets take the field. Thanks to Tom 'Terrific' Seaver and Tug McGraw, I learned, 'You Gotta Believe.'
He taught me how to read, but more importantly, he taught me how to read between the lines.
I thought that was silly at first, because there was nothing between the lines but space.
How wrong I was.
He taught me how to hold a knife and fork.
He taught me the difference between ghetto grocery store steak and 22nd street on the east side of Manhattan steak.
He taught me the difference between pastry and really good pastry.
He taught us how to make home-made ice cream.
He wore a suit to work every day to the post office and showed me to always look your best.
He taught me quiet dignity.
He taught me how to shave.
And taught me the dangers of leaving Magic Shave on your face too long. Oooo-Eeeee!
He taught me that if I don't take care of my teeth, I'll have to wear funny dentures like he did.
A usually eloquent man, but with out his dentures, he talked comically funny.
He taught me about far away traditions and places like Africa, the Galapagos and the wonders of the deep.
We watched the news, PBS, The undersea world of Jaques Cousteau and Mission Impossible and that was it.
He had me read National Geographic. Its stories and pictures took me around the world.
He took me to the Museum of Natural History on 81st. street and taught me to wonder at creation and history. He took me to the Hayden Planetarium and gave me an appreciation for our place in the universe. He taught me how small we are in the scheme of things, but how great our human and cultural achievement and ability to grasp the infinite is.
He took me to The Met on fifth and Central Park east where I saw African art for the first time. Even then I wondered why Egyptian art was in a separate wing from African art; Egypt is in Africa.
He also taught me that Egypt is a Greek name for that country. They called themselves Kemet or Black. He taught me that Africa is a European name for the continent of colored peoples.
He taught me that it was a Black Pharaoh, Akhnaten, husband of the famed beauty, Nefratiti, who was the first to base his kingdom and society on the 'One God' theology.
He taught me about colonialism and racism.
But more importantly, he taught me about my Afro-Caribbean history.
He taught me a sense of pride and how to hold my head up.
But about the best thing my father taught me was photography; starting with his Nikon F.
It was a medium of endless possibilities.
Einstein said possibilities are more important than facts and I believe it's true.
It was magical the first time I saw a latent image emerge from a previously blank, white sheet of photographic paper floating in a developer bath. It is a feeling that is impossible to describe.
It was truly magic right in front of me. I've never lost that wonder for photography.
That's why I am a photographer now.
At about 12 o'clock today, my 10-year-old son, MAX, called me on his cell phone and wished me a happy Father's Day. That felt good.
He said he liked me because I liked to hang out with him and because he thought I was funny.
I told him I liked him because he's a good young man.
As tough as my dad was on me and my brothers and sisters, he was a good man.
I can only hope I can be as good father to my son as my father was to me.
It's been about 26 years since my father passed.
No, we didn't get along all the time. He was a hard man.
But looking back on this Father's Day, I can do so with a foundation that has carried me to Asia Minor, Kemet, Asia Minor, Europe, the Caribbean and to my deepest PADI Safe dive, a 97 foot wreck dive in the crystal blue waters off Hawai'i's Island of Oahu.
So, Dad, I'd just like to say I appreciate all you taught me and showed me.
Thanks Dad; Happy Father's Day.
I love you.
Your son...
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes
The 1978 film spoof of 'B' movies was just that; a spoof.
But while this current red vegetable attack hasn't been a killer, thank God, it has left a quite a few Americans with a bad taste in their mouths and queezy feeling in their stomachs. It's made folks sick or caused them to be hospitalized due to Salmonella poisoning attributed to a nasty bacteria on one of our favorite, staple veggies.
I wonder if V8 has felt the pinch.
We eat tomatoes, but in the movie, the tomatoes ate humans and sent many others into frenzied panic. It could happen. They called out the Army and the National Guard, law enforcement and government agents.
And the real mystery is where did that much cow poop come from and how did manure get on all those tomatoes? Could it be Al Quida out of 'New' Jersey cows?
Hmmmm... Where's Monk when you need him? If he weren't so phobic about dirt, I'd bet he could get to the, ahem, bottom of this.
But, today, except for a less than one percent stricken ill nationwide, this 'attack' doesn't seem to bother us much. Oh, well. No tomatoes? Just throw in a little more red peppers. Who'll know?
Ah, but this is the southwest.
The diet here, rife with the ever popular, truly American (?) chipotle, avocado dips, tacos and fajitas, is in crisis. Will Californians starve? Will Californians lose their laid back cool? Will the lack of tomatoes alter the course of Californian history? Probably not. This is also the land of "whatever..."
Merchants are taking this seriously, possibly to avoid lawsuits, another Californian pass time, fast food restaurants have all but chopped tomatoes from their menus and supermarkets are not restocking.
I began to give this crisis serious thought.
Hmmm...
What's a taco without diced tomatoes? A Tac? An aco?
Good lord, first no tomatoes and now the state of California in the midst of a statewide drought? I can just see the scientist in a movie made today, figuring that this is the perfect tomato bane. Just think, deprive them of water and those killer tomatoes will wither. As if.
Instead of calling out the militia, maybe they should have thought of a drought. Or just maybe a good pinch.
But while this current red vegetable attack hasn't been a killer, thank God, it has left a quite a few Americans with a bad taste in their mouths and queezy feeling in their stomachs. It's made folks sick or caused them to be hospitalized due to Salmonella poisoning attributed to a nasty bacteria on one of our favorite, staple veggies.
I wonder if V8 has felt the pinch.
We eat tomatoes, but in the movie, the tomatoes ate humans and sent many others into frenzied panic. It could happen. They called out the Army and the National Guard, law enforcement and government agents.
And the real mystery is where did that much cow poop come from and how did manure get on all those tomatoes? Could it be Al Quida out of 'New' Jersey cows?
Hmmmm... Where's Monk when you need him? If he weren't so phobic about dirt, I'd bet he could get to the, ahem, bottom of this.
But, today, except for a less than one percent stricken ill nationwide, this 'attack' doesn't seem to bother us much. Oh, well. No tomatoes? Just throw in a little more red peppers. Who'll know?
Ah, but this is the southwest.
The diet here, rife with the ever popular, truly American (?) chipotle, avocado dips, tacos and fajitas, is in crisis. Will Californians starve? Will Californians lose their laid back cool? Will the lack of tomatoes alter the course of Californian history? Probably not. This is also the land of "whatever..."
Merchants are taking this seriously, possibly to avoid lawsuits, another Californian pass time, fast food restaurants have all but chopped tomatoes from their menus and supermarkets are not restocking.
I began to give this crisis serious thought.
Hmmm...
What's a taco without diced tomatoes? A Tac? An aco?
Good lord, first no tomatoes and now the state of California in the midst of a statewide drought? I can just see the scientist in a movie made today, figuring that this is the perfect tomato bane. Just think, deprive them of water and those killer tomatoes will wither. As if.
Instead of calling out the militia, maybe they should have thought of a drought. Or just maybe a good pinch.
Put The Dog Down and Back Away
Why are people carrying tiny dogs?
I know I've been out of the country for a while, but what did I miss?
I can flow with the designer dogs - we used to call them mutts when I was a kid. My neighbor had a ShihTsi-Poo but I think it was okay after he got it de-wormed.
Having a full sized, 120 pound Collie in a snug, Brooklyn three bedroom apartment, I can understand the need for a smaller pooch. But what the heck is this nonsense of carrying the little bugger?
I actually felt sorry for the first few animals I saw in people's bags. I thought the dogs were kennel rescues suffering from some terrible canine affliction.
But, while I was getting adjusted to being back in the states, I watched Entertainment Tonight and saw the rich and famous carrying little dogs. At first, I too said, 'Aw, how cute and what responsible celebs.' But as I noticed they were cosmetic the admiration began to gradually wear off like a dentist's anesthesia during a root canal.
For a while, I still thought people carrying the dogs were quite the kind-hearted owners but the cosmetic question and the truth of it all kept nagging at me. So, one fateful day, I went up and naively asked one pet carrier, "What's wrong with your dog? Why are you carrying him?" I was expecting a description of rickets or debilitating cow hocks or severe dog nerve damage, so I braced myself. Instead, they answered, through proud smiles, " There's nothing wrong with him, he just doesn't like to walk."
?
Doesn't like to walk?
WTF, over?
Take the lazy hair ball back to the freakin' store you bought it from and get a new one, I thought indignantly.
I guess the look on my face must have said volumes as the owner grinned uncomfortably, tucked the tiny non-liking-to-walk thing under her arm and vamoosed.
It might as well have been be a Tribble, I thought, as images of Cyrano Jones, Quatro-triticalie and pissed Klingons flashed through my head.
I was left standing there in dazed amazement. I noticed too that I was becoming increasingly aggravated. The amazement, I could understand, seeing something new for for the first time. But the rising anger came from feeling duped.
I thought the person was noble when in fact they were coddling idiots. I know, to each his or her own, but flip that! Remember the pet rock thing? I'm glad that time of insanity went away. Looking forward to this one taking that same happy trail.
For me, it was kind of like one woman I saw on The Dog Whisperer who was treating the family pet better than her own son. The dog snapped at and nipped her kid in a most nasty manner and she told her son to stay away!
Scooby say, "Ah-rooo?!"
Whenever I see a pint-sized dog with an attitude like that, I can't help but let my NFL brain kick in... It's fourth down and long yardage; time to punt.
In no way am I ever cruel to animals, but enough is enough.
In my defense as quite an animal lover, I must say that animals like me. Small animals like cats and these miniature, designer dogs have a tendency to circle my size thirteens. Inevitably, and quite unintentionally, they get between my feet and the earth.
The shrill sound they make reminds me of my father telling me, "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you," right before he got to tanning my hide with a belt.
I pick the critter up, check for serious injury, comfort them, but that's it. The guilt doesn't last the life of the pet.
My mother used to tell us stories about her grandmother and her 'lap pet' but I thought that was the extent of it. The old girl couldn't get around and had willing company; not to mention any dementia. (Sorry mom and sorry gammy).
Okay, so maybe I don't get it and maybe people have miraculously become more sensitive and caring while I was Wandering, but carrying a pooch 'just because' seems just a bit over the top.
Hopefully, this craze will pass like a gallstone. Or, maybe, California's ex-hippie or ultra conservative legislators will pass another dumb and excessive California law against carrying those danged, puny pups in public.
Hopefully, I'll live long enough to hear one of California's finest say to someone - while holding them at gunpoint, "M'am, put the dog down and back away."
Happy Wandering...
I know I've been out of the country for a while, but what did I miss?
I can flow with the designer dogs - we used to call them mutts when I was a kid. My neighbor had a ShihTsi-Poo but I think it was okay after he got it de-wormed.
Having a full sized, 120 pound Collie in a snug, Brooklyn three bedroom apartment, I can understand the need for a smaller pooch. But what the heck is this nonsense of carrying the little bugger?
I actually felt sorry for the first few animals I saw in people's bags. I thought the dogs were kennel rescues suffering from some terrible canine affliction.
But, while I was getting adjusted to being back in the states, I watched Entertainment Tonight and saw the rich and famous carrying little dogs. At first, I too said, 'Aw, how cute and what responsible celebs.' But as I noticed they were cosmetic the admiration began to gradually wear off like a dentist's anesthesia during a root canal.
For a while, I still thought people carrying the dogs were quite the kind-hearted owners but the cosmetic question and the truth of it all kept nagging at me. So, one fateful day, I went up and naively asked one pet carrier, "What's wrong with your dog? Why are you carrying him?" I was expecting a description of rickets or debilitating cow hocks or severe dog nerve damage, so I braced myself. Instead, they answered, through proud smiles, " There's nothing wrong with him, he just doesn't like to walk."
?
Doesn't like to walk?
WTF, over?
Take the lazy hair ball back to the freakin' store you bought it from and get a new one, I thought indignantly.
I guess the look on my face must have said volumes as the owner grinned uncomfortably, tucked the tiny non-liking-to-walk thing under her arm and vamoosed.
It might as well have been be a Tribble, I thought, as images of Cyrano Jones, Quatro-triticalie and pissed Klingons flashed through my head.
I was left standing there in dazed amazement. I noticed too that I was becoming increasingly aggravated. The amazement, I could understand, seeing something new for for the first time. But the rising anger came from feeling duped.
I thought the person was noble when in fact they were coddling idiots. I know, to each his or her own, but flip that! Remember the pet rock thing? I'm glad that time of insanity went away. Looking forward to this one taking that same happy trail.
For me, it was kind of like one woman I saw on The Dog Whisperer who was treating the family pet better than her own son. The dog snapped at and nipped her kid in a most nasty manner and she told her son to stay away!
Scooby say, "Ah-rooo?!"
Whenever I see a pint-sized dog with an attitude like that, I can't help but let my NFL brain kick in... It's fourth down and long yardage; time to punt.
In no way am I ever cruel to animals, but enough is enough.
In my defense as quite an animal lover, I must say that animals like me. Small animals like cats and these miniature, designer dogs have a tendency to circle my size thirteens. Inevitably, and quite unintentionally, they get between my feet and the earth.
The shrill sound they make reminds me of my father telling me, "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you," right before he got to tanning my hide with a belt.
I pick the critter up, check for serious injury, comfort them, but that's it. The guilt doesn't last the life of the pet.
My mother used to tell us stories about her grandmother and her 'lap pet' but I thought that was the extent of it. The old girl couldn't get around and had willing company; not to mention any dementia. (Sorry mom and sorry gammy).
Okay, so maybe I don't get it and maybe people have miraculously become more sensitive and caring while I was Wandering, but carrying a pooch 'just because' seems just a bit over the top.
Hopefully, this craze will pass like a gallstone. Or, maybe, California's ex-hippie or ultra conservative legislators will pass another dumb and excessive California law against carrying those danged, puny pups in public.
Hopefully, I'll live long enough to hear one of California's finest say to someone - while holding them at gunpoint, "M'am, put the dog down and back away."
Happy Wandering...
BEAT L.A.
The world truly is imbalanced.
I found myself rooting for the Boston Celtics in the NBA Finals this week.
Yes, I grew up in the days of Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, the Detroit Piston Bad Boys and rebound leading Dennis Rodman before he started wearing dresses, and the New York Knicks when they were competitive. God, I miss those days!
But while watching the finals, I noticed there was a different feel to this week's championship tournament. Even though network sportscasters, the NBA and ESPN tried to re-kindle the bi-coastal rivalry of the 80's and 90's, something was just different. It seemed ingenuous to me. The players, although sweating, colliding and slam dunking, didn't seem to really be into the rivalry or the game for that matter.
I can remember a real near-hatred on the court when Boston and L.A. went head to head. It was like the old NFL black-and-blue division in which the Chicago Bears and the Green Bay Packers would beat the crap out of each other for four quarters. You could tell that at any minute fisty-cuffs were going to break out and it usually did.
It was that kind of rivalry on the B-ball court. Hard fouls are not a new thing by any means and you didn't get ejected for doing it back then. Elbows, hard picks and low bridges, like an inside fast ball against a star hitter, were likely to clear a bench or invite certain retaliation on the next play down the court.
But in this 2008 NBA tournament, I just didn't feel anything.
There were no bloody noses, no cracked teeth an no players flying into the third row trying to save an errant pass or trying to make a steal. It seemed like these players didn't want to muss their hair or their sully their public persona.
When players are defending, it seems they are more likely to throw their hands up in a, 'I didn't do it' fashion rather than risk a foul or worse, seem like a bully or bad guy. Yes, they were banging in there, but I saw a lot of it like when big men, like Boston's KJ (Keving Johnson) and L.A.'s Pau Gasal defended each other. The commentators seemed to qualify the 'fear' of being immortalized looking bad - and image is everything in this You Tube age - by saying, "Get in my poster!" after a player performs a spectacular move or arena-waking dunk. Rarely do you see anyone contesting a dunk like the Detroit Pistons' defenders used to do. Dunk be damned; you're going to have to earn each and every point you attempt, was the way they played.
It'd be nice to see Kobe or Vujacic a bit bloodied. They're too clean and unruffled - like the kicker who comes into the game and is the only one on the field who's uniform isn't covered in a mixture of mud and blood. Not to say I'm fight mongering, the NBA will never be the NHL - although it would be nice to see a... No-no...
Recently, I saw an interview with the former Detroit Piston Center, Bill Lambier and L.A.'s Michael Cooper who is now a sports commentator. There was still animosity between the two. It may have been for show, but their presence on a TV set seemed more likely to turn competitively ugly than in any of the five matches in the Boston Garden or the Staples Center so far. The games between the Lakers and the Celtics were... Entertaining, but lacked both electricity and most of all, urgency. It's as if the camera's presence and the fear of tomorrow's headlines has taken some of the fire out of these athletes. That and their multi-million dollar contracts. So what if I lose, I'm still paid seems to be the attitude. I know how easy it is for me to say that from the sidelines but it's my observation and I'm sticking to it.
One thing I have to respect Shaq for, is that at the beginning of his career, he was with out a doubt, the absolute worst free-throw shooter in history. He was so bad it was legendary. But, despite all the money he was being paid, he actually improved enough to make the Hack-a-Shaq a costly mistake.
In all fairness, through, they must have professional pride as competitors, but I'd really like to know where it was the last game played Thursday, June 12th, when the Lakers gave up a 24-point lead, wound up losing the game to go down in the tournament 3-1 and to me it seemed like they weren't even pissed off enough to grab themselves up, rally and save the game. After the old east coast/west coast games, they looked like they've been in a street fight. They were physically ans emotionally exhausted and the fans - like me - could see it and feel it.
After Thursday's loss, Kobe Bryant, dapperly dressed in a black and white outfit, sat,calmly for his post-game interview. With little emotion, he calmly said that he and his team "wet the bed" in reference to their loss. Then in another interview, he said that drinking alcoholic shots and then getting back to work the next day would do the trick.
WTF, over?
Michael Jordan was effectively shut down at different times in the Bull's championship tournaments. But the rest of the team stepped up. There was a fire there in those games that just seems to be lacking in this tournament, both from on the court and in the arena.
Like the Laker's young team, it's almost as if the fans don't have the experience to get their team emotionally back into the game either. Be it by razzing the other team to distraction, yelling, screaming and cheering with endless fervor, that seems to be missing too from the fan stands too. Heck, if I drop a few hundreds or a few thousands to see my team compete in the arena at a championship game while buying $6 dollar hot dogs and $8 dollars A CUP for beer, I am going to do everything I can to discourage the other team and help my team win. F*#@ yeah!
Coming home hoarse and exhausted from cheering my team on is a small price to pay if it helps them win and will get me pissed off to rout harder and point out their deficiencies of they lose. That's what fans do or at least used to do, long before people started carrying their dogs instead of letting them walk - what's up with that?
While Wandering around Italy, I learned quickly that wearing the wrong soccer team colors in the wrong neighborhood was as dangerous as wearing the opposing teams colors and talking trash when you walk into the Oakland Raider's Black Hole. At least some team's fans still have that fanatical spirit.
Vespas carrying more people than the vehicle was designed to and Cinque Centos packed with adoring "Forza"Napoli fans took to the streets after a win as if their futbol team had won the the cup. Traffic nearly came to a stand still as fans, precariously sitting in their car windows while waving team flags created impromptu parades through Angnao, Pozzuoli and throughout downtown Naples. Now that's team spirit. And it's infectious. Soccer players run back and forth for seemingly ever, sacrifice their bodies, get kicked in the face, their legs, their nards and still give their all, throwing themselves to the ground for loose balls or to stop a defender. And that's just a regular season game. Just imaging what their championship season is like.
That kind of enthusiasm is rarely seen in pro basketball anymore. Celtic, kelly green or Knickerbocker royal blue and orange or Laker purple and gold are worn now as more of a fashion statement. Unfortately, it seems the same on the court. To me, there seems to be a lack of enthusiam and team spirit. Seeing people walk around Hollywood with "Brooklyn" T-shirts still kinda ticks me off a bit. I usually ask, 'what do you know about Brooklyn?' To which they usually answer, 'Nothing, it's just a T.' Yeah, and a Nuke is just a bomb. Yeesh!
I can't imagine how disappointed Laker fans must have been after watching their mighty team and their vaunted MVP fold as they did Thursday, taking an uninspired step closer to the precipice. That's not true. I can imagine, I just don't care.
I have to admit, any pity or empathy I feel for them is feigned at best and tainted by a hearty, leg of mutton biting, tobacco spittin' (no, I don't chew bacca), boo-hoo sarcasm. I can say I will always have respect for Magic and Kareem's Los Angeles Lakers, Bird's and McCale's Celtics and Frazier's and Earl the Pearl's Knicks, but until these new Lakers bring it, and a lot more than they did Thursday, they're not much more than actors playing athletes to me.
As we head into the potentially series-ending game six this Sunday, I look forward with a wry smile. Yes, I know the world is out of balance for me to be rooting for the Boston Celtics, but I also remember that both eastern division championship team's fans admonishing and encouraging the winning team to beat the Los Angele Lakers. We may have disliked the other east coast team, but we hated the Lakers more.
So, as a true New Yorker and east coast guy, I must say, "BEAT L.A.!"
I found myself rooting for the Boston Celtics in the NBA Finals this week.
Yes, I grew up in the days of Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, the Detroit Piston Bad Boys and rebound leading Dennis Rodman before he started wearing dresses, and the New York Knicks when they were competitive. God, I miss those days!
But while watching the finals, I noticed there was a different feel to this week's championship tournament. Even though network sportscasters, the NBA and ESPN tried to re-kindle the bi-coastal rivalry of the 80's and 90's, something was just different. It seemed ingenuous to me. The players, although sweating, colliding and slam dunking, didn't seem to really be into the rivalry or the game for that matter.
I can remember a real near-hatred on the court when Boston and L.A. went head to head. It was like the old NFL black-and-blue division in which the Chicago Bears and the Green Bay Packers would beat the crap out of each other for four quarters. You could tell that at any minute fisty-cuffs were going to break out and it usually did.
It was that kind of rivalry on the B-ball court. Hard fouls are not a new thing by any means and you didn't get ejected for doing it back then. Elbows, hard picks and low bridges, like an inside fast ball against a star hitter, were likely to clear a bench or invite certain retaliation on the next play down the court.
But in this 2008 NBA tournament, I just didn't feel anything.
There were no bloody noses, no cracked teeth an no players flying into the third row trying to save an errant pass or trying to make a steal. It seemed like these players didn't want to muss their hair or their sully their public persona.
When players are defending, it seems they are more likely to throw their hands up in a, 'I didn't do it' fashion rather than risk a foul or worse, seem like a bully or bad guy. Yes, they were banging in there, but I saw a lot of it like when big men, like Boston's KJ (Keving Johnson) and L.A.'s Pau Gasal defended each other. The commentators seemed to qualify the 'fear' of being immortalized looking bad - and image is everything in this You Tube age - by saying, "Get in my poster!" after a player performs a spectacular move or arena-waking dunk. Rarely do you see anyone contesting a dunk like the Detroit Pistons' defenders used to do. Dunk be damned; you're going to have to earn each and every point you attempt, was the way they played.
It'd be nice to see Kobe or Vujacic a bit bloodied. They're too clean and unruffled - like the kicker who comes into the game and is the only one on the field who's uniform isn't covered in a mixture of mud and blood. Not to say I'm fight mongering, the NBA will never be the NHL - although it would be nice to see a... No-no...
Recently, I saw an interview with the former Detroit Piston Center, Bill Lambier and L.A.'s Michael Cooper who is now a sports commentator. There was still animosity between the two. It may have been for show, but their presence on a TV set seemed more likely to turn competitively ugly than in any of the five matches in the Boston Garden or the Staples Center so far. The games between the Lakers and the Celtics were... Entertaining, but lacked both electricity and most of all, urgency. It's as if the camera's presence and the fear of tomorrow's headlines has taken some of the fire out of these athletes. That and their multi-million dollar contracts. So what if I lose, I'm still paid seems to be the attitude. I know how easy it is for me to say that from the sidelines but it's my observation and I'm sticking to it.
One thing I have to respect Shaq for, is that at the beginning of his career, he was with out a doubt, the absolute worst free-throw shooter in history. He was so bad it was legendary. But, despite all the money he was being paid, he actually improved enough to make the Hack-a-Shaq a costly mistake.
In all fairness, through, they must have professional pride as competitors, but I'd really like to know where it was the last game played Thursday, June 12th, when the Lakers gave up a 24-point lead, wound up losing the game to go down in the tournament 3-1 and to me it seemed like they weren't even pissed off enough to grab themselves up, rally and save the game. After the old east coast/west coast games, they looked like they've been in a street fight. They were physically ans emotionally exhausted and the fans - like me - could see it and feel it.
After Thursday's loss, Kobe Bryant, dapperly dressed in a black and white outfit, sat,calmly for his post-game interview. With little emotion, he calmly said that he and his team "wet the bed" in reference to their loss. Then in another interview, he said that drinking alcoholic shots and then getting back to work the next day would do the trick.
WTF, over?
Michael Jordan was effectively shut down at different times in the Bull's championship tournaments. But the rest of the team stepped up. There was a fire there in those games that just seems to be lacking in this tournament, both from on the court and in the arena.
Like the Laker's young team, it's almost as if the fans don't have the experience to get their team emotionally back into the game either. Be it by razzing the other team to distraction, yelling, screaming and cheering with endless fervor, that seems to be missing too from the fan stands too. Heck, if I drop a few hundreds or a few thousands to see my team compete in the arena at a championship game while buying $6 dollar hot dogs and $8 dollars A CUP for beer, I am going to do everything I can to discourage the other team and help my team win. F*#@ yeah!
Coming home hoarse and exhausted from cheering my team on is a small price to pay if it helps them win and will get me pissed off to rout harder and point out their deficiencies of they lose. That's what fans do or at least used to do, long before people started carrying their dogs instead of letting them walk - what's up with that?
While Wandering around Italy, I learned quickly that wearing the wrong soccer team colors in the wrong neighborhood was as dangerous as wearing the opposing teams colors and talking trash when you walk into the Oakland Raider's Black Hole. At least some team's fans still have that fanatical spirit.
Vespas carrying more people than the vehicle was designed to and Cinque Centos packed with adoring "Forza"Napoli fans took to the streets after a win as if their futbol team had won the the cup. Traffic nearly came to a stand still as fans, precariously sitting in their car windows while waving team flags created impromptu parades through Angnao, Pozzuoli and throughout downtown Naples. Now that's team spirit. And it's infectious. Soccer players run back and forth for seemingly ever, sacrifice their bodies, get kicked in the face, their legs, their nards and still give their all, throwing themselves to the ground for loose balls or to stop a defender. And that's just a regular season game. Just imaging what their championship season is like.
That kind of enthusiasm is rarely seen in pro basketball anymore. Celtic, kelly green or Knickerbocker royal blue and orange or Laker purple and gold are worn now as more of a fashion statement. Unfortately, it seems the same on the court. To me, there seems to be a lack of enthusiam and team spirit. Seeing people walk around Hollywood with "Brooklyn" T-shirts still kinda ticks me off a bit. I usually ask, 'what do you know about Brooklyn?' To which they usually answer, 'Nothing, it's just a T.' Yeah, and a Nuke is just a bomb. Yeesh!
I can't imagine how disappointed Laker fans must have been after watching their mighty team and their vaunted MVP fold as they did Thursday, taking an uninspired step closer to the precipice. That's not true. I can imagine, I just don't care.
I have to admit, any pity or empathy I feel for them is feigned at best and tainted by a hearty, leg of mutton biting, tobacco spittin' (no, I don't chew bacca), boo-hoo sarcasm. I can say I will always have respect for Magic and Kareem's Los Angeles Lakers, Bird's and McCale's Celtics and Frazier's and Earl the Pearl's Knicks, but until these new Lakers bring it, and a lot more than they did Thursday, they're not much more than actors playing athletes to me.
As we head into the potentially series-ending game six this Sunday, I look forward with a wry smile. Yes, I know the world is out of balance for me to be rooting for the Boston Celtics, but I also remember that both eastern division championship team's fans admonishing and encouraging the winning team to beat the Los Angele Lakers. We may have disliked the other east coast team, but we hated the Lakers more.
So, as a true New Yorker and east coast guy, I must say, "BEAT L.A.!"
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
MS Word: U Better Know How To Spell
A most unusual thing happened today.
I was writing a paper in Microsoft Word and I got that red squiggly line underneath a word, denoting it was misspelled or grammatically incorrect; you know the one.
As a journalist, I'd like to think of myself as a pretty good speller so the squiggly line concerned me a bit. But I also know that sometimes my dyslexia transfers from my brain through my fingers. So, I stopped and right clicked to check it.
To my astonishment, surprise, and then chagrin, the options the computer was offering me was as jarring as a waiter at a Chinese restaurant offering me a chick pea and feta cheese falafel.
Okay, I said to myself, it's a glitch, but as I read down the list this time and several times afterward, I noticed the computer's offerings went from bad to worse. (In an electronic hand basket, I suppose.)
Even when I type in "MicroSoft," (yes, I know that's not how to spell it - it was just a test) one of the offerings is, "Micros oft." I guess that's a legit offering, but, jeez, doesn't the program know who its daddy is?
It reminded me of trying to order dinner in Tel Aviv and I spoke no Hebrew and the waiter spoke no English. I settled for a salad.
I am one of those who were burned slightly by MS Vista's inability to work with certain programs and just acting the fool with others - then this. So, I'm back to XP and wishing for a Mac Christmas.
If making billions makes you a bit aloof, and alarms don't sound off like a fire company's when your programs begin to act like crap, I want to be that kind of out of touch.
But, please I'd like the billions first.
I know, wouldn't we all...
Computers are amazing in all the things they perform on a daily basis and griping over one little quirk doesn't seem to stack up, but as we say in the news business, "All news is local." So, when my computer can't spell check an angry passage (or screenplay) written in ALL CAPS, or when it starts offering me mis-spellings when I'm on deadline, I get a little concerned and a lot ticked off.
What got to me most about this alphabetical transgression is that the program is being used by lots of folks who rely on their computer for some sense of literacy. I wonder if there's a 'no computer left behind' clause in the warranty?
And, jeez, there's no built in dictionary on these things these days. Or if there is, it seems like it ain't using English as a first language.
I began to think that it might be a good time to re-invest in a portable, old-fashioned, thumb-flipping Webster's to put in my computer bag. But, just like the computer, if you don't know, it ain't tellin'.
Then again, I thought I'd be better off just knowing how to spell.
I was writing a paper in Microsoft Word and I got that red squiggly line underneath a word, denoting it was misspelled or grammatically incorrect; you know the one.
As a journalist, I'd like to think of myself as a pretty good speller so the squiggly line concerned me a bit. But I also know that sometimes my dyslexia transfers from my brain through my fingers. So, I stopped and right clicked to check it.
To my astonishment, surprise, and then chagrin, the options the computer was offering me was as jarring as a waiter at a Chinese restaurant offering me a chick pea and feta cheese falafel.
Okay, I said to myself, it's a glitch, but as I read down the list this time and several times afterward, I noticed the computer's offerings went from bad to worse. (In an electronic hand basket, I suppose.)
Even when I type in "MicroSoft," (yes, I know that's not how to spell it - it was just a test) one of the offerings is, "Micros oft." I guess that's a legit offering, but, jeez, doesn't the program know who its daddy is?
It reminded me of trying to order dinner in Tel Aviv and I spoke no Hebrew and the waiter spoke no English. I settled for a salad.
I am one of those who were burned slightly by MS Vista's inability to work with certain programs and just acting the fool with others - then this. So, I'm back to XP and wishing for a Mac Christmas.
If making billions makes you a bit aloof, and alarms don't sound off like a fire company's when your programs begin to act like crap, I want to be that kind of out of touch.
But, please I'd like the billions first.
I know, wouldn't we all...
Computers are amazing in all the things they perform on a daily basis and griping over one little quirk doesn't seem to stack up, but as we say in the news business, "All news is local." So, when my computer can't spell check an angry passage (or screenplay) written in ALL CAPS, or when it starts offering me mis-spellings when I'm on deadline, I get a little concerned and a lot ticked off.
What got to me most about this alphabetical transgression is that the program is being used by lots of folks who rely on their computer for some sense of literacy. I wonder if there's a 'no computer left behind' clause in the warranty?
And, jeez, there's no built in dictionary on these things these days. Or if there is, it seems like it ain't using English as a first language.
I began to think that it might be a good time to re-invest in a portable, old-fashioned, thumb-flipping Webster's to put in my computer bag. But, just like the computer, if you don't know, it ain't tellin'.
Then again, I thought I'd be better off just knowing how to spell.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Breasts
Okay; this is one for the fellas... ?
Who am I kidding.
With the gender-preference closet wide open, the internet, mobile phones, Craig's List, social networks, and chat rooms connecting people like never before, global consciousness and sexual exploits of nearly every culture are all on line!
I've been Wandering about California from north of Sacramento to San Diego lately. This morning, I woke up in Los Angeles holding my body pillow in an interesting position after an interesting dream about an interesting ex. I haven't posted in a while, but this one I just have to. It's a topic near and dear to my heart.
Big Picture
Americans, not just Texans, like everything big... Especially breasts.
For some it's preference, but culturally, breasts seem to have won out.
And, since I don't see silicone or saline getting as expensive as oil any time soon, I don't foresee much chance of big, bouncing, beautiful breasts going to economy sizes or hybrids any time soon. There will be no pain at the pump in that respect - nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say no more.
By no means am I denigrating women or breaking them down into mere body parts like a meat market. I have sisters and a wonderful, Wandering mother. I'm a romantic at heart; truly. But I am also a realist of late.
In the best of worlds, we 'true-love seekers' hope a person's personality outweighs so many other attributes, but on the other hand, when all else fails, an ample pair is nice to fall back on - so to speak.
In all my travels, I have learned a few valuable lessons but this one is one of my favorites:
Never, never, never, neva-neva-neva, underestimate the power of large breasts.
Or small breasts or medium breasts... Well, you get the idea. There is just something about breasts and the usually sensible people who are entrusted with them; women.
A childhood friend of mind told me, "Girls have things we ain't got," and to that I say, "Amen!"
In my slumber, I remember a most wonderful day in my life.
As a kid, when I was, oh about 11 or so, I noticed that all women had breasts. Big ones, little ones and all those in between. Remember that day, fellas? What took me so long? Okay, so I was a late bloomer.
I never thanked God for my eyesight more fervently than I did on that day. Breasts came to my attention, literally, with an eye-opening or rather and eye-closing experience. One of my mother's girlfriend's had breasts so large she wore one of those 'super support bras' that made her bosom point north about 14 inches from her torso. You know, the kind grandma wore that looked like body armor and only came in one color; beige.
Well, I was just tall enough that when I turned, her left one poked me in the oculus. Of course I was surprised, rubbed it (my eye), and turned to find out what had gotten me. Angry at first, I whipped around, then smiled in a juvenile stupor when I realized it was a woman's boob.
I was changed forever.
I've grown a little since then, but not the lizard brain part of me.
Breasts are so powerful that a lot of guys don't care whether they are connected to the slimmest, most delectable hunny or to the ugliest, hairiest, crustiest, skankiest, robeast to ever walk upright. That's both in the daytime and at night. Beer goggles be damned; weeeeeeee love breasts!
Hollywood, Las Vegas and countless neighborhood legends abound with stories about how many times we guys have woken up next to a large-breasted uugah-moogah, wondering how she got in our beds.
What is it that makes us men lose it when it comes to breasts, especially large ones?
Well, the Freudians would say it has to do with that breast feeding, motherly connection. Okay; I can go with that; the primal thing and all. And, fellas, it's not only hard-wired into us; I know several women who like women and they like big breast-a-sis too.
I've noticed while Wandering about, that in some female cliques the ones with the largest breasts are either the 'Alpha' female or the most desired in the group.
And I've noticed that women who are less endowed are both envious and jealous of a woman who is. All the while, plastic surgeon's cups runneth over too. Not to mention all the goodies they get to perform the procedure. I watch Nip/Tuck. That's real, right?
Everyone, even a 'leg man' (I know, I used to be one) has to stop and take notice of a nice pair, whether he wants to or not.
Here's a thought, fellas.
Just imagine how popular we'd be if those of us who are endowed (I'll be in that group until proven otherwise, dammit - it's My Blog!) walked around with a mammoth boner. You know, a Smiling Bob, Enzyte boner - the kind they warn you about if it lasts more than 7 hours.
Think you'd get looks of hatred from some jealously less-endowed fellers? Would you really care if your horizontal mambo dance card was full? You bet you wouldn't care!
Well that's where women are now. Even previously unattractive thick girls know what's up.
Note: Women don't get thrown in jail for walking around with excessive protrusion, instead, they are rewarded! It's even called eye candy now. How cool is that?
And make no mistake, women at younger and younger ages are well aware of the power they possess.
Gone are they days when we could tell a busty girl or woman, "Of course I like you for you..." (Do the Mike Myers look skyward over your shoulder here).
There are some of us guys left who sincerely mean it when we say, we like them for more than their lady lumps. But fellas, women have years of experience with breast-lover's lies and let-downs. So, a word to the wise; PAY ATTENTION:
When you say something like, "I like you for you," please, please, please say it while looking into her eyes!
Guys, it's not hard to figure us out; we need as many hedges as possible.
One just has to look at a middle of the road restaurant like "Hooters" for a clue - no one I know goes there for their fine cuisine. And then the waitresses have the nerve to ask,
"What can I get you guys?" R U frakin' kidding?
How about fill your navel with barbecue sauce, lay naked on a table and let me dip my spicy seasoned fries in it before I take a bite? Yeah, like that will ever happen. But they know what we're looking at and they know what we're thinking. The bigger the boobs, the bigger the tips!
The saddest part of that hormone driven story is that many of those young women have more padding in those push-up bras than actual hooter. (Where did that silly name come from anyway?)
What's worse is that we don't even care if they're real or not! The breasticle image is locked in our head so firmly that a cow - and I mean a real Jersey cow (with teats, of course) - could walk out with a menu and we'd still be grinning like gleeful idiots. "I'm in Hooters... Ah-heeeee."
Need another example? Heffner's "Girls Next Door."
He ain't with those platinum hotties for their dazzling conversation or theories on the cosmos. No, those young women have, ahem, very nice personalities and - real or not - very nice boobs. And, gentlemen, while we're looking at their bikini stuffers, they are smart enough to stay in Hef's mansion - rent free mind you - and spend his money. Who ever said a boob was stupid? Those are some pretty savvy boobs.
Women (and men) are dropping millions nationwide to get augmentations. They're not even concerned that getting the procedure kills a few here and there. The rewards are high and worth it.
So now, is the cup half full or half empty? Perspective, my ass. The fuller the cup the happier we are.
As a species we are "Mammalian" or having mammaries or breasts...
Oh and bearing live young, yada, yada.
So, the highest female form of our species should have signature ones. Big, bold and beautiful. Size doesn't really matter, right? Men never said that.
A woman slipped that one in our less-endowed, male's consciousness while they were getting banged silly by a brother who is hung like... A four-legged mammal.
On the eve of summer 2008 when clothes come off and bust lines get lower and lower (God bless America), I offer this rising, world-wide salute to the breast keepers and those lovely, life-givers they carry about - those beautiful breast-a-sis, jablongas, ba-zooms, who-whos, chi-chis, tah-tahs and to that funny noise we make when we're lucky enough to have them slap us silly on each side of our face... You know.
I know if I hit the lottery, I'd wander straight for T-town USA; wherever that is. California, maybe?
Who am I kidding.
With the gender-preference closet wide open, the internet, mobile phones, Craig's List, social networks, and chat rooms connecting people like never before, global consciousness and sexual exploits of nearly every culture are all on line!
I've been Wandering about California from north of Sacramento to San Diego lately. This morning, I woke up in Los Angeles holding my body pillow in an interesting position after an interesting dream about an interesting ex. I haven't posted in a while, but this one I just have to. It's a topic near and dear to my heart.
Big Picture
Americans, not just Texans, like everything big... Especially breasts.
For some it's preference, but culturally, breasts seem to have won out.
And, since I don't see silicone or saline getting as expensive as oil any time soon, I don't foresee much chance of big, bouncing, beautiful breasts going to economy sizes or hybrids any time soon. There will be no pain at the pump in that respect - nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say no more.
By no means am I denigrating women or breaking them down into mere body parts like a meat market. I have sisters and a wonderful, Wandering mother. I'm a romantic at heart; truly. But I am also a realist of late.
In the best of worlds, we 'true-love seekers' hope a person's personality outweighs so many other attributes, but on the other hand, when all else fails, an ample pair is nice to fall back on - so to speak.
In all my travels, I have learned a few valuable lessons but this one is one of my favorites:
Never, never, never, neva-neva-neva, underestimate the power of large breasts.
Or small breasts or medium breasts... Well, you get the idea. There is just something about breasts and the usually sensible people who are entrusted with them; women.
A childhood friend of mind told me, "Girls have things we ain't got," and to that I say, "Amen!"
In my slumber, I remember a most wonderful day in my life.
As a kid, when I was, oh about 11 or so, I noticed that all women had breasts. Big ones, little ones and all those in between. Remember that day, fellas? What took me so long? Okay, so I was a late bloomer.
I never thanked God for my eyesight more fervently than I did on that day. Breasts came to my attention, literally, with an eye-opening or rather and eye-closing experience. One of my mother's girlfriend's had breasts so large she wore one of those 'super support bras' that made her bosom point north about 14 inches from her torso. You know, the kind grandma wore that looked like body armor and only came in one color; beige.
Well, I was just tall enough that when I turned, her left one poked me in the oculus. Of course I was surprised, rubbed it (my eye), and turned to find out what had gotten me. Angry at first, I whipped around, then smiled in a juvenile stupor when I realized it was a woman's boob.
I was changed forever.
I've grown a little since then, but not the lizard brain part of me.
Breasts are so powerful that a lot of guys don't care whether they are connected to the slimmest, most delectable hunny or to the ugliest, hairiest, crustiest, skankiest, robeast to ever walk upright. That's both in the daytime and at night. Beer goggles be damned; weeeeeeee love breasts!
Hollywood, Las Vegas and countless neighborhood legends abound with stories about how many times we guys have woken up next to a large-breasted uugah-moogah, wondering how she got in our beds.
What is it that makes us men lose it when it comes to breasts, especially large ones?
Well, the Freudians would say it has to do with that breast feeding, motherly connection. Okay; I can go with that; the primal thing and all. And, fellas, it's not only hard-wired into us; I know several women who like women and they like big breast-a-sis too.
I've noticed while Wandering about, that in some female cliques the ones with the largest breasts are either the 'Alpha' female or the most desired in the group.
And I've noticed that women who are less endowed are both envious and jealous of a woman who is. All the while, plastic surgeon's cups runneth over too. Not to mention all the goodies they get to perform the procedure. I watch Nip/Tuck. That's real, right?
Everyone, even a 'leg man' (I know, I used to be one) has to stop and take notice of a nice pair, whether he wants to or not.
Here's a thought, fellas.
Just imagine how popular we'd be if those of us who are endowed (I'll be in that group until proven otherwise, dammit - it's My Blog!) walked around with a mammoth boner. You know, a Smiling Bob, Enzyte boner - the kind they warn you about if it lasts more than 7 hours.
Think you'd get looks of hatred from some jealously less-endowed fellers? Would you really care if your horizontal mambo dance card was full? You bet you wouldn't care!
Well that's where women are now. Even previously unattractive thick girls know what's up.
Note: Women don't get thrown in jail for walking around with excessive protrusion, instead, they are rewarded! It's even called eye candy now. How cool is that?
And make no mistake, women at younger and younger ages are well aware of the power they possess.
Gone are they days when we could tell a busty girl or woman, "Of course I like you for you..." (Do the Mike Myers look skyward over your shoulder here).
There are some of us guys left who sincerely mean it when we say, we like them for more than their lady lumps. But fellas, women have years of experience with breast-lover's lies and let-downs. So, a word to the wise; PAY ATTENTION:
When you say something like, "I like you for you," please, please, please say it while looking into her eyes!
Guys, it's not hard to figure us out; we need as many hedges as possible.
One just has to look at a middle of the road restaurant like "Hooters" for a clue - no one I know goes there for their fine cuisine. And then the waitresses have the nerve to ask,
"What can I get you guys?" R U frakin' kidding?
How about fill your navel with barbecue sauce, lay naked on a table and let me dip my spicy seasoned fries in it before I take a bite? Yeah, like that will ever happen. But they know what we're looking at and they know what we're thinking. The bigger the boobs, the bigger the tips!
The saddest part of that hormone driven story is that many of those young women have more padding in those push-up bras than actual hooter. (Where did that silly name come from anyway?)
What's worse is that we don't even care if they're real or not! The breasticle image is locked in our head so firmly that a cow - and I mean a real Jersey cow (with teats, of course) - could walk out with a menu and we'd still be grinning like gleeful idiots. "I'm in Hooters... Ah-heeeee."
Need another example? Heffner's "Girls Next Door."
He ain't with those platinum hotties for their dazzling conversation or theories on the cosmos. No, those young women have, ahem, very nice personalities and - real or not - very nice boobs. And, gentlemen, while we're looking at their bikini stuffers, they are smart enough to stay in Hef's mansion - rent free mind you - and spend his money. Who ever said a boob was stupid? Those are some pretty savvy boobs.
Women (and men) are dropping millions nationwide to get augmentations. They're not even concerned that getting the procedure kills a few here and there. The rewards are high and worth it.
So now, is the cup half full or half empty? Perspective, my ass. The fuller the cup the happier we are.
As a species we are "Mammalian" or having mammaries or breasts...
Oh and bearing live young, yada, yada.
So, the highest female form of our species should have signature ones. Big, bold and beautiful. Size doesn't really matter, right? Men never said that.
A woman slipped that one in our less-endowed, male's consciousness while they were getting banged silly by a brother who is hung like... A four-legged mammal.
On the eve of summer 2008 when clothes come off and bust lines get lower and lower (God bless America), I offer this rising, world-wide salute to the breast keepers and those lovely, life-givers they carry about - those beautiful breast-a-sis, jablongas, ba-zooms, who-whos, chi-chis, tah-tahs and to that funny noise we make when we're lucky enough to have them slap us silly on each side of our face... You know.
I know if I hit the lottery, I'd wander straight for T-town USA; wherever that is. California, maybe?
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