I find myself taking jabs at Black women sometimes (figuratively; no need to email Oprah Winfrey), without provocation. I mean, sure, a lot of them have these atrocious attitudes that negate any sense of logic. &, yeah, sometimes they don't seem to operate within the same confines as "normal" people. But thats not necessarily an excuse, or reason to be so hard on them (no pun intended). In most instances, it's way deeper then some air headed groupie chick who just wants to be the center of attention.
I'll give you an example; I've known my wife for approximately 10 years. Honestly speaking, I stopped looking for what's "wrong" with her some years back. I could just be blinded by her beauty, I could just have grown accustomed to her "ways", or it could possibly be that, what may actually be "wrong" with her, in comparison to what's wrong with a lot of young, Black women, is so minuscule that I won't ever find what I'm searching for. When we met, she had no kids, & she was in college. Hell, theoretically speaking, I could be the worst thing to ever happen to her. That rationalization & cognition may very well be the reason I appreciate her so much. Black women don't get that type of gratitude & humility from Black men much. We're too busy high signin' & stuntin' & flossin' for everybody else to see. Fuck everybody else.
This same selfishness trickles down to our daughters; has done so for generations. Then, when she turns 14 & comes home in tears, horrified as she says she's pregnant, we want to blame her. Spank her. Oh, now you want to touch her, when thats all she wanted as a child? See what I did there? I'm a firm advocate in healthy hypnosis. Not brainwashing, you idiots, but telling a child, repeatedly, how important they are, how smart they can be & how they can accomplish anything with enough tenacity. Basically, the same things these God-forsaken rap songs do, except with positive intentions. I'm thinking I'll release a set of self-help audio books for children, that consist of nothing more than me repeating positive phrases over melodies & drum patterns. Of course, I'd have to put some stank on it, get 'em grooving a little. You know, lubricate the attention & slide the affirmations right on in there. Ground level morality. A grass roots campaign for positive reinforcement, embedded so deeply into the child's psyche that no man will be able to erase it.
When we blame irresponsible, incoherent women for societal problems, Black or otherwise, it has to boomerang. Father's play a large role in what positions women find themselves in, I believe. Sans the psycho-babble, females look to men for protection, guidance, companionship, & if those needs aren't met before they're old enough to, say, audition for King magazine (R. I. P.) or find some club's stripper pole to keep warm, then what can we possibly expect anything other than that?
Often, I look at my mother, wife, daughter (who I rarely see through no fault of my own), & female friends to get a glimpse of how I can become a better husband & father. Although I usually recognize some common sensical aspect that I should've automatically known, I'm grateful that I learned early enough that I can still hand it down to my son before he's hypnotized by movies & rap music. I'm on a crusade to educated Black men as to their roles in the development, as well as the demise of the Black woman. & any woman, for the matter.
Without them, there'd be no us.
This is why mistakes are such valuable life tools, be it ours or the next human's. If people didn't fuck shit up, we'd never know how to gauge success. Kudos to my dudes that have their eyes open. Keep fighting the good fight, niggas.
Word.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Friday, October 16, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Calizonamexitexana (...now say it backwards)
My people, I'm back! California to Arizona to New Mexico to TEXAS to Louisiana.
&, wow...fuck a road trip. I won't even ever watch "National Lampoon's Vacation', or any movie kin to it again in this lifetime. I lived it. Dude, if the situation to travel cross-country arises, & the method of travel is a car (or van), do yourself the biggest favor & say no go, word to Hall & Oates. Actually, I'll say be hesitant & leary; make sure that you travel with like-minded individuals. There's nothing worse than being held captive in a vehicle, miles from home with a bunch of folk who don't understand you & probably don't like you much anyway. I speak from fresh experience.
My "fam" & I left L.A. for Shreveport, LA last Friday morn. We arrived that Saturday night. Easily the suckiest, most uncomfortable 30-something hour experience of my life. Shit, if it wasn't for my homies over at XXLmag.com, I might have thrown myself under the bus (or van), literally. But, I did enjoy Shreveport, though. It's a quaint, countryside city; a far cry from the horrible, war-torn pictures that Lil Wayne & C-Murder paint about their respective state with their abysmal *ahem* music. It could just be that I spent the majority of time around my wife's Louisianian family, with their daily home cooked meals & adorable ebonical speech. Me being a city boy & such, I thought the bigger the family, the bigger the ratio for convicts to mental illness. Imagine my surprise when I meet people who genuinely spent time with each other doing nothing at all because they chose to, as opposed to a few uncles on house arrest & some cousins who can't leave the house because "the streets is watchin'". My wife's Grandma, who was the reason for the trip, is the coolest, nicest lady in the world. She's what a seventy-something year old Black women should be, rather than Tyler Perry's uberpopular homoerotic manifestations, seething with self-hate & ignorance. No shots at today's Black women, but you gals can only hope to eventually become that type of matriarch. Nah, fuck that, shots fired! Black girls (who become women, sort of) are in a state of emergency; lemmings diving off the cliff of practicality into pits of certain doom at breakneck speed. & most are either too stupid, too proud or too busy chasing children & various types of checks to see what lies ahead. I would feel sorry for said Black women, if I wasn't so put-off by their shitty attitudes & lack of self respect. There are exceptions though, & you know who you are.
Anyways...
I spent a week trolling around town, trying my hardest to look like I'm from Los Angeles & still blend in simultaneously. If you know about Lewzanna, you know light skins are a dime a dozen, so 50% of the time, I fit in perfect with the homegrown Creoles, or "Geechies" as their refered to by the older crowd. But the other half of the time, gold teeth & dreads were noticeably absent from my person, which had your boy sticking out like a nipple ring through a bra-less wife-beater. I'm calling niggas "bruh" & "dude", which had to be some sort of dead giveaway, what with their "fowkz" & "playaz" & the occasional "shawty". One could also assume that, because none of my clothing had dollar signs plastered across it, or an "LSU" insignia, I probably didn't buy my clothes from the same swap meets that they did. I didn't see one pair of True Religion's or Ed Hardy's. Except what I was wearing. But I saw lots of Dickies. Whole suits, like niggas got them tailor-made in every color imaginable. With fedoras & cowboy hats & drivers caps & doo-rags, etc. We went to church & the preacher had on a Dicki-nah, I'm bullshitting. But, he had gold teeth though.
[tony's note: i'm joking. in actuality, the methodist church we attended had a lovely female pastor. service that day consisted of prayer & communion. unfortunately, no "down home" fire & brimstone heathen hate. guess we chose the wrong sunday.] At the risk of sounding tourist-y, the landscapes were breath-taking. Even the dilapadated houses appeared regal; rife with history & a story to tell. & the state is covered with moisture & lush greenery; I hadn't seen that much water & trees since my uncle stopped selling dope.
Black people in major cities always seem to have hidden agendas. There's always crab's that need to be pulled back down to the bottom of the barrel. But, out there, it seemed like all the crawfish (as opposed to regular old crabs), or mud-bugs, were comfortably resting where they may, waving at strangers & kindly smiling at one another. It was quite beautiful. Me being born & raised in Los Angeles, a nigga smiling at you means he's about to rob you, he's with the cat who's about to rob you, or he's about ask you for your phone number. My apprehension withered away though, as the days passed & I realized that this was just a laid-back, relaxed city amongst a country of contrite narcissists & ego-maniacal know-it-all's. Right, wrong or indifferent, folks in Louisiana were just chillin'. Can't be mad at that at all.
Normally, unfamiliar surroundings automatically activate my pretension, like some time-release, douche nozzle, anti-personality pill. But, it never went off down there. Maybe because I was too busy hoping a tornado didn't rip through our parrish. Or was preoccupied with slapping big-ass mosquitos away from my ears & mustache. I mean, BIG-ASS mosquitos. I can only imagine what their roaches must look like. Like shiny-ass hamsters that probably run as fast as a three year old.
As for the music, I didn't get to hear much, but when the occasional hooligan drove past, he was playing 'Gucci Mane'. Not that the guy's an exceptional lyricist; on the contrary. Dude's as basic as you can get, topic-wise. Lyrically, he blows [||]. Wack juice must stain his sheets when he sleeps on his back. Definitely not what one would get an earful of in the City of Angels, but don't tell him that. For what it's worth, I'd rather hear my son freestyling to a beat from 'Mario Kart'. No really, my son can actually bust a rhyme or two. Gucci, nah. No Dice. But God bless his gold-toothed heart for trying.
All-in-all, I don't have too much to say bad about Louisiana. Even the police are pretty down to Earth. You'd never catch a cop in a big city like Los Angeles texting while on duty (no dry snitching). L.A. cops are too busy racially profiling coloreds & looking for the next young nigga (or ese) to shoot in the back. You know, doing their job. But, I guess when every other person isn't potentially wanted for attempted murder, there's more time to chillax like normal folk. Don't get me wrong; there were a couple of shootings not too far from where we were. It's not like niggas are down there trying to rekindle the civil rights movement or anything. If a group of people were marching, it was most likely to Sam's Seafood. If you're ever in Shreveport, do your mouth a favor [||], & indulge in some of their delicious cuisine. It'll make your tongue slap your brains out.
Perhaps the most, umm, slighty hypocritical facet of the "down south" experience was the amount of love swirls I saw. See, in Los Angeles, it's not uncommon to see people paired up in a variety of unnatural ways. Black/white, girl/girl, sickly/obese, etc. But for all of America's southern racist complexities, I didn't expect so many bi-racial couples. I saw a nappy head Hip-Hopster & a blue-eyed (yet well-endowed) she-devil making out under trees where I'm virtually positive an ancestor of his was hung from at some point in the state's history. But, it didn't faze him. I had the urge to yell out, "Obama for life", but decided against it. Now, if dude were smart, he'd use that race card throughout the entire relationship, making her his sympathetic, guilt-stricken slave. Reparations, per se. Nothing says "40 acres & a mule" like brand new Jordans & a PS3 from a white chick who you've convinced is related to your Great grandfather's owner. & If he were even smarter, he'd break out the sex-whip during Black History month. Just saying...
Eventually, the time came to head back home. Ugh. Piling back into the dreaded van I'd grown to hate a week before, I asked Jehovah to once again grant us safe passage through America's dangerous highways. The irony of that prayer is that as soon as we pulled off of the 10 freeway onto Normandie Avenue, we barely avoided an accident. I guess I should've expanded the prayer a little, to include "all the way to our front porch", or something. For the most part, fuck Los Angeles & all the asshole denizens I share it with. But, there's no place like home. Really though.
**HONORABLE MENTIONS**
I met what may have been the oldest living white dude at a Texas truck stop. & he seemed as intrigued to talk to me as I was to him...
The outskirts of New Mexico at 2:30 am is colder than a vampire's vajayjay. Not only was I the only Black man at that truck stop, but I was the only guy wearing a jacket. Go figure...
Skunks really stink. Like in the cartoons, when they have radiation waves of ass funk emanating from their body's. Yeah, that shit is for real dude...
The cemeteries in Louisiana are so God-awfully close to the homes that no one can convince me that those folk's ain't living on top of dead people...
Monster energy drink + truck stop black coffee + blood pressure medicine = what the halfway mark of a crack high must feel like...
Shouts out to Tricie, Feewee, Collin, & Sean for making us feel at home...
&, wow...fuck a road trip. I won't even ever watch "National Lampoon's Vacation', or any movie kin to it again in this lifetime. I lived it. Dude, if the situation to travel cross-country arises, & the method of travel is a car (or van), do yourself the biggest favor & say no go, word to Hall & Oates. Actually, I'll say be hesitant & leary; make sure that you travel with like-minded individuals. There's nothing worse than being held captive in a vehicle, miles from home with a bunch of folk who don't understand you & probably don't like you much anyway. I speak from fresh experience.
My "fam" & I left L.A. for Shreveport, LA last Friday morn. We arrived that Saturday night. Easily the suckiest, most uncomfortable 30-something hour experience of my life. Shit, if it wasn't for my homies over at XXLmag.com, I might have thrown myself under the bus (or van), literally. But, I did enjoy Shreveport, though. It's a quaint, countryside city; a far cry from the horrible, war-torn pictures that Lil Wayne & C-Murder paint about their respective state with their abysmal *ahem* music. It could just be that I spent the majority of time around my wife's Louisianian family, with their daily home cooked meals & adorable ebonical speech. Me being a city boy & such, I thought the bigger the family, the bigger the ratio for convicts to mental illness. Imagine my surprise when I meet people who genuinely spent time with each other doing nothing at all because they chose to, as opposed to a few uncles on house arrest & some cousins who can't leave the house because "the streets is watchin'". My wife's Grandma, who was the reason for the trip, is the coolest, nicest lady in the world. She's what a seventy-something year old Black women should be, rather than Tyler Perry's uberpopular homoerotic manifestations, seething with self-hate & ignorance. No shots at today's Black women, but you gals can only hope to eventually become that type of matriarch. Nah, fuck that, shots fired! Black girls (who become women, sort of) are in a state of emergency; lemmings diving off the cliff of practicality into pits of certain doom at breakneck speed. & most are either too stupid, too proud or too busy chasing children & various types of checks to see what lies ahead. I would feel sorry for said Black women, if I wasn't so put-off by their shitty attitudes & lack of self respect. There are exceptions though, & you know who you are.
Anyways...
I spent a week trolling around town, trying my hardest to look like I'm from Los Angeles & still blend in simultaneously. If you know about Lewzanna, you know light skins are a dime a dozen, so 50% of the time, I fit in perfect with the homegrown Creoles, or "Geechies" as their refered to by the older crowd. But the other half of the time, gold teeth & dreads were noticeably absent from my person, which had your boy sticking out like a nipple ring through a bra-less wife-beater. I'm calling niggas "bruh" & "dude", which had to be some sort of dead giveaway, what with their "fowkz" & "playaz" & the occasional "shawty". One could also assume that, because none of my clothing had dollar signs plastered across it, or an "LSU" insignia, I probably didn't buy my clothes from the same swap meets that they did. I didn't see one pair of True Religion's or Ed Hardy's. Except what I was wearing. But I saw lots of Dickies. Whole suits, like niggas got them tailor-made in every color imaginable. With fedoras & cowboy hats & drivers caps & doo-rags, etc. We went to church & the preacher had on a Dicki-nah, I'm bullshitting. But, he had gold teeth though.
[tony's note: i'm joking. in actuality, the methodist church we attended had a lovely female pastor. service that day consisted of prayer & communion. unfortunately, no "down home" fire & brimstone heathen hate. guess we chose the wrong sunday.] At the risk of sounding tourist-y, the landscapes were breath-taking. Even the dilapadated houses appeared regal; rife with history & a story to tell. & the state is covered with moisture & lush greenery; I hadn't seen that much water & trees since my uncle stopped selling dope.
Black people in major cities always seem to have hidden agendas. There's always crab's that need to be pulled back down to the bottom of the barrel. But, out there, it seemed like all the crawfish (as opposed to regular old crabs), or mud-bugs, were comfortably resting where they may, waving at strangers & kindly smiling at one another. It was quite beautiful. Me being born & raised in Los Angeles, a nigga smiling at you means he's about to rob you, he's with the cat who's about to rob you, or he's about ask you for your phone number. My apprehension withered away though, as the days passed & I realized that this was just a laid-back, relaxed city amongst a country of contrite narcissists & ego-maniacal know-it-all's. Right, wrong or indifferent, folks in Louisiana were just chillin'. Can't be mad at that at all.
Normally, unfamiliar surroundings automatically activate my pretension, like some time-release, douche nozzle, anti-personality pill. But, it never went off down there. Maybe because I was too busy hoping a tornado didn't rip through our parrish. Or was preoccupied with slapping big-ass mosquitos away from my ears & mustache. I mean, BIG-ASS mosquitos. I can only imagine what their roaches must look like. Like shiny-ass hamsters that probably run as fast as a three year old.
As for the music, I didn't get to hear much, but when the occasional hooligan drove past, he was playing 'Gucci Mane'. Not that the guy's an exceptional lyricist; on the contrary. Dude's as basic as you can get, topic-wise. Lyrically, he blows [||]. Wack juice must stain his sheets when he sleeps on his back. Definitely not what one would get an earful of in the City of Angels, but don't tell him that. For what it's worth, I'd rather hear my son freestyling to a beat from 'Mario Kart'. No really, my son can actually bust a rhyme or two. Gucci, nah. No Dice. But God bless his gold-toothed heart for trying.
All-in-all, I don't have too much to say bad about Louisiana. Even the police are pretty down to Earth. You'd never catch a cop in a big city like Los Angeles texting while on duty (no dry snitching). L.A. cops are too busy racially profiling coloreds & looking for the next young nigga (or ese) to shoot in the back. You know, doing their job. But, I guess when every other person isn't potentially wanted for attempted murder, there's more time to chillax like normal folk. Don't get me wrong; there were a couple of shootings not too far from where we were. It's not like niggas are down there trying to rekindle the civil rights movement or anything. If a group of people were marching, it was most likely to Sam's Seafood. If you're ever in Shreveport, do your mouth a favor [||], & indulge in some of their delicious cuisine. It'll make your tongue slap your brains out.
Perhaps the most, umm, slighty hypocritical facet of the "down south" experience was the amount of love swirls I saw. See, in Los Angeles, it's not uncommon to see people paired up in a variety of unnatural ways. Black/white, girl/girl, sickly/obese, etc. But for all of America's southern racist complexities, I didn't expect so many bi-racial couples. I saw a nappy head Hip-Hopster & a blue-eyed (yet well-endowed) she-devil making out under trees where I'm virtually positive an ancestor of his was hung from at some point in the state's history. But, it didn't faze him. I had the urge to yell out, "Obama for life", but decided against it. Now, if dude were smart, he'd use that race card throughout the entire relationship, making her his sympathetic, guilt-stricken slave. Reparations, per se. Nothing says "40 acres & a mule" like brand new Jordans & a PS3 from a white chick who you've convinced is related to your Great grandfather's owner. & If he were even smarter, he'd break out the sex-whip during Black History month. Just saying...
Eventually, the time came to head back home. Ugh. Piling back into the dreaded van I'd grown to hate a week before, I asked Jehovah to once again grant us safe passage through America's dangerous highways. The irony of that prayer is that as soon as we pulled off of the 10 freeway onto Normandie Avenue, we barely avoided an accident. I guess I should've expanded the prayer a little, to include "all the way to our front porch", or something. For the most part, fuck Los Angeles & all the asshole denizens I share it with. But, there's no place like home. Really though.
**HONORABLE MENTIONS**
I met what may have been the oldest living white dude at a Texas truck stop. & he seemed as intrigued to talk to me as I was to him...
The outskirts of New Mexico at 2:30 am is colder than a vampire's vajayjay. Not only was I the only Black man at that truck stop, but I was the only guy wearing a jacket. Go figure...
Skunks really stink. Like in the cartoons, when they have radiation waves of ass funk emanating from their body's. Yeah, that shit is for real dude...
The cemeteries in Louisiana are so God-awfully close to the homes that no one can convince me that those folk's ain't living on top of dead people...
Monster energy drink + truck stop black coffee + blood pressure medicine = what the halfway mark of a crack high must feel like...
Shouts out to Tricie, Feewee, Collin, & Sean for making us feel at home...
Monday, September 28, 2009
Hate The Game, Not The Player...
So, Lamar Odom married Khloe Kardashian, girlfriend of about 3 months, over the weekend. Thus, leaving behind his baby momma &/or love interest of about 10 years & their 2 children. According to TMZ.com, Liza Morales is dealing with Odom's marriage for her kids & wishes the newlywed's happiness because "everyone deserves to be happy". However, she refused to let THEIR children attend their FATHER'S wedding. WTF?!
Says Ms. Morales-"Yes, the circumstances over the last few weeks have been upsetting but none of my actions publicly or from the privacy of my home could be classified as a meltdown. I have maintained a brave face for my children who are my main concern and I remain strong for them."
Maybe I missed something in my slow, neanderthal way of man-thinking, but did somebody die? Sounds like the worst thing ever has happened to her & life is at a complete stand still. Really though, 10 years & no wedding? You've been living fantasies sweetie, for 'bout a decade or so. No Shots, though...
Swizz Beats, musical mastermind behind a whole bunch of shit, has apparently left his wife, R&B singer Mashonda for a more popular, & arguably more talented (& more attractive. No Shots, though) Alicia Keys. This isn't new news by any stretch of the public eye's imagination. Though the couple is still legally married, Swizz has more than made it official that his marriage is doomed to despair & has since had his pieces picked up by Ms. Keys, soon to be Mrs. Beatz, figuratively & literally speaking. Now, Mashonda has made her outcry public document via Twitter (is there any other way to snitch??).
Says Mashonda-"Already I can hear some of you saying "why are u blaming her, You cant make someone leave their wife, You cant break something thats broken". Well, my marriage was not broken, as far as I knew we were celebrating our sons birth and getting ready to celebrate our 5 year wedding anniversary . Call it blind love, whatever. I call it being a devoted wife.."
"As far as I knew" is usually what a defendant says on the stand when asked about their knowledge of some criminal act that's taken place, when they know damn well it wasn't right. Or, what most women say to illustrate the blind eye they've decided to turn towards whatever mishap has landed in their weaves semi-unexpectedly.
Regardless to the urban legends & broken home myths that fill court building hallways, children don't fix marriages/relationships, & hold no bearings over an individual's happiness. Truth be told, the children are often the resulting mistakes of people acting like the animals they are. Rarely are children born as a sum of love + happiness. I would go in on women not recognizing the power of the 'tang & just handing it to any guy without a speech impediment, but what do I know?
Actually, quite a bit...
Women, you need to understand the nature of the beast with which you decide to up the vajayjay to. Men are merely boys with body hair & bad credit scores, give or take. Man's intention lies in self-serving gratification, be it physical or otherwise. We like things that make us happy, per se. Fun things. Things that aren't hard to operate or take a lot of concentration to engage in. Men complicate things solely out of frustration, where as women seem to do it out of necessity. That alone is an oil & water situation, from the first date (booty call) to the last kiss (booty call). It's not that all men are dogs, or that we're selfish beings from the planet Stingy. It's just that once something stops being fun, we don't like it anymore. Ladies, how many XBox360 games does your man own? Do you know why? Because he finished a game, & at that point, he needed something new to have fun with. It wasn't anything personal towards the game itself; nothing to do with if it gained weight or let itself go. He's simple finished, bored & has moved on from that game, now dull & mundane. Now, had the game learned some new levels or created some alternate endings every time he got to the end, that would be a different scenario altogether.
I'm no Steve Harvey, but women, certain things can't be done in the traditional sense if you want to keep a man. Let's start with the word "keep". You "keep" a pet. You "keep" a pair of shoes. You don't "keep" a man; you "keep" him happy. If you're willing to get willy-nilly over the fact that he's moved on, then get equally as willy-nilly in your efforts to keep him around beforehand.
It's actually not that hard. In fact, most women could/would lighten their load if they just check dude out thoroughly before he becomes an amusement park's worth of genitals. I've always said to my home girls, as far back as I can remember, "Don't bone that dude. Yet.". No hate fellas, but we all know we've told that to a close home girl, only to be ignored while she "falls in love", then soon after has a bastard child while dude has already driven away to the next sperm receptacle. If you've ever seen a Tyler Perry movie, you have an idea how that system operates.
It's always amazed me that the behavior of Man is common knowledge, yet every woman thinks her cooch is the Kryptonite to every super guy she sleeps with. No Dice. Cats wear lead draws these days, girls. In case you're not hip to Superman-ese, that means that dude's already prepared for whatever new entrapment weaponry you think you've invented. It takes more than a home-cooked meal & D.S.L.'s to make a dude want to hang up is walking, umm, running shoes.
Not to be mean, but sometimes that willingness to churn out rug rats without a genuine, God-fearing commitment can come back to bite you in that same booty of yours that answers everytime he calls (see what I did there?). Whatever it is that you assume is so pleasing to him, keep this in mind; there's always a less attractive, less demanding, more appreciative woman out there, so you really need to give him ample reason to stick around for the arguments & what not. Really though. Separation from the pack is far more arduous than separation of the legs.
By no means are these shots at the ladies. In fact, I hope this helps some young, unexpecting girl to realize that a happy, healthy relationship is as easy to attain as an unwanted pregnancy or an STD, if you understand what I'm getting at. Women seem to have a tendency to look down the road, love-wise, & neglect the present. Too busy looking for the marriage, without giving the courtship the proper attention. Then, when it all falls down, the man's a dog, a womanizer, a Federline, etc.
If it takes 2 to tango, then why on Earth wouldn't it take 2 to fuck up a relationship? Most cats naturally have an exit strategy embedded in their psyche to begin with. It's just about how, when, &/or where is it going to take place? Knowing how to diffuse said mechanism is the mark of a woman worth being "kept" by.
Word.
Says Ms. Morales-"Yes, the circumstances over the last few weeks have been upsetting but none of my actions publicly or from the privacy of my home could be classified as a meltdown. I have maintained a brave face for my children who are my main concern and I remain strong for them."
Maybe I missed something in my slow, neanderthal way of man-thinking, but did somebody die? Sounds like the worst thing ever has happened to her & life is at a complete stand still. Really though, 10 years & no wedding? You've been living fantasies sweetie, for 'bout a decade or so. No Shots, though...
Swizz Beats, musical mastermind behind a whole bunch of shit, has apparently left his wife, R&B singer Mashonda for a more popular, & arguably more talented (& more attractive. No Shots, though) Alicia Keys. This isn't new news by any stretch of the public eye's imagination. Though the couple is still legally married, Swizz has more than made it official that his marriage is doomed to despair & has since had his pieces picked up by Ms. Keys, soon to be Mrs. Beatz, figuratively & literally speaking. Now, Mashonda has made her outcry public document via Twitter (is there any other way to snitch??).
Says Mashonda-"Already I can hear some of you saying "why are u blaming her, You cant make someone leave their wife, You cant break something thats broken". Well, my marriage was not broken, as far as I knew we were celebrating our sons birth and getting ready to celebrate our 5 year wedding anniversary . Call it blind love, whatever. I call it being a devoted wife.."
"As far as I knew" is usually what a defendant says on the stand when asked about their knowledge of some criminal act that's taken place, when they know damn well it wasn't right. Or, what most women say to illustrate the blind eye they've decided to turn towards whatever mishap has landed in their weaves semi-unexpectedly.
Regardless to the urban legends & broken home myths that fill court building hallways, children don't fix marriages/relationships, & hold no bearings over an individual's happiness. Truth be told, the children are often the resulting mistakes of people acting like the animals they are. Rarely are children born as a sum of love + happiness. I would go in on women not recognizing the power of the 'tang & just handing it to any guy without a speech impediment, but what do I know?
Actually, quite a bit...
Women, you need to understand the nature of the beast with which you decide to up the vajayjay to. Men are merely boys with body hair & bad credit scores, give or take. Man's intention lies in self-serving gratification, be it physical or otherwise. We like things that make us happy, per se. Fun things. Things that aren't hard to operate or take a lot of concentration to engage in. Men complicate things solely out of frustration, where as women seem to do it out of necessity. That alone is an oil & water situation, from the first date (booty call) to the last kiss (booty call). It's not that all men are dogs, or that we're selfish beings from the planet Stingy. It's just that once something stops being fun, we don't like it anymore. Ladies, how many XBox360 games does your man own? Do you know why? Because he finished a game, & at that point, he needed something new to have fun with. It wasn't anything personal towards the game itself; nothing to do with if it gained weight or let itself go. He's simple finished, bored & has moved on from that game, now dull & mundane. Now, had the game learned some new levels or created some alternate endings every time he got to the end, that would be a different scenario altogether.
I'm no Steve Harvey, but women, certain things can't be done in the traditional sense if you want to keep a man. Let's start with the word "keep". You "keep" a pet. You "keep" a pair of shoes. You don't "keep" a man; you "keep" him happy. If you're willing to get willy-nilly over the fact that he's moved on, then get equally as willy-nilly in your efforts to keep him around beforehand.
It's actually not that hard. In fact, most women could/would lighten their load if they just check dude out thoroughly before he becomes an amusement park's worth of genitals. I've always said to my home girls, as far back as I can remember, "Don't bone that dude. Yet.". No hate fellas, but we all know we've told that to a close home girl, only to be ignored while she "falls in love", then soon after has a bastard child while dude has already driven away to the next sperm receptacle. If you've ever seen a Tyler Perry movie, you have an idea how that system operates.
It's always amazed me that the behavior of Man is common knowledge, yet every woman thinks her cooch is the Kryptonite to every super guy she sleeps with. No Dice. Cats wear lead draws these days, girls. In case you're not hip to Superman-ese, that means that dude's already prepared for whatever new entrapment weaponry you think you've invented. It takes more than a home-cooked meal & D.S.L.'s to make a dude want to hang up is walking, umm, running shoes.
Not to be mean, but sometimes that willingness to churn out rug rats without a genuine, God-fearing commitment can come back to bite you in that same booty of yours that answers everytime he calls (see what I did there?). Whatever it is that you assume is so pleasing to him, keep this in mind; there's always a less attractive, less demanding, more appreciative woman out there, so you really need to give him ample reason to stick around for the arguments & what not. Really though. Separation from the pack is far more arduous than separation of the legs.
By no means are these shots at the ladies. In fact, I hope this helps some young, unexpecting girl to realize that a happy, healthy relationship is as easy to attain as an unwanted pregnancy or an STD, if you understand what I'm getting at. Women seem to have a tendency to look down the road, love-wise, & neglect the present. Too busy looking for the marriage, without giving the courtship the proper attention. Then, when it all falls down, the man's a dog, a womanizer, a Federline, etc.
If it takes 2 to tango, then why on Earth wouldn't it take 2 to fuck up a relationship? Most cats naturally have an exit strategy embedded in their psyche to begin with. It's just about how, when, &/or where is it going to take place? Knowing how to diffuse said mechanism is the mark of a woman worth being "kept" by.
Word.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Stop me if you've heard this one...
I went to a gathering at my in-laws this weekend, & I'm not too partial to the majority of them in the first place; I was just there to keep an eye on my son (yeah, I'm over protective but so the fuck what? Too bad more Black fathers aren't). Anyhow, as soon as we get there, it was drama. You know Black folks can't get together for 15 minutes without some neck-rolling & finger-pointing. *cue the obligatory racist joke* Somebody either drank the last of the Kool-Aid or bad mouthed Tyler Perry.
The incident itself was completely irrelevant, but one aspect of it kind of made me chuckle, in a bad way. My brother-in-law's baby momma got into an argument with some bird that lived in the apartment complex. Luckily for me, my (sort of) sis-in-law had her gay lover with her. As the confrontation ensued, the gay lover jumped in, & was told by the bird, "Oh, you wanna act like a nigga, I got somebody for you!". [tony's note: bird = wild haired, bra-less baby factory] Normally I ignore those types of things, especially when it doesn't involve any of my real family members, but I couldn't help but laugh at that. It amused me well into the evening, & for a few minutes this morning when I woke up.
See, I have no real problem with gay peoples. In fact, without sounding like a bigot, they are some of the coolest folks I've come across during my travels (recovering alcoholics can be a delight as well). & God knows I prefer lesbian porn over watching some hairy-assed dude shafting poor, defenseless white girls. But, as with most things in life, there's always a boundary. Being a lesbian is one thing; attempting to actually be taken seriously as an equal counterpart to Men is another ballpark (no pun intended).
I've noticed that, at least in Los Angeles, the butch dyke has taken on a new role. What was once the female companion to a woman who's chosen to explore her sexual options has now become a pants sagging, wave-capped corn rows wearing, sports bra to hide the chi-chi's ass anti-feminist, who's wholeheartedly adamant on edging out men in their quest for empowerment. Let us not forget what James Brown said. In case you did, this is a man's world. That doesn't mean that we don't need women, but we don't if said female is insistent on awkwardly standing in front of a urinal to create the appearance of peeing while standing.
It's to the point where two girls occupying the same personal space nowadays get automatically labeled lesbians. In my younger days, it was a case of figuring out which one I'd rather have casual sex with & mostly likely it would be both. Now, it's like trying to sneak peeks at some fresh-outta-prison cat's girlfriend. When Women's Liberation spoke to equal rights, I assume they didn't mean getting knocked the fuck out like a man, but if it walks like a duck, by all means, quack quack.
Perhaps the most mystifying facet of all this is that gay women always seem to have upwards of three children in tow. So first, I'm sure they soured their kids' heads with talks of how useless their fathers are, & next, to add insult to injury, they open-mouth kiss their women friend(s) in public as if it's a normal occurrence. On top of the fact that mommy's woman friend dresses like daddy, but has a period like mommy. Only in America people. If this were the Middle East, heads we be on sticks next to curb side mailboxes. Again, I don't judge, because that God's responsibility & it would behoove me NOT to step on Jehovah's sandals, but this can't be the way it was supposed to be. I doubt my grandmother had any bisexual experiences. Yet, I have a cousin who has/does, & thats okay, too. When I met her girlfriend, I could've sworn she looked at my mustache & got mad at it. As if she doesn't get enough hair on her lips already.
It's not necessary to prove how manly one is, unless of course, they're not. It's overkill, ladies. If you want to munch carpet, feel free to do so until it gets caught in your respective throats. But, don't piss on my Air Force 1's & tell me it's drizzling. Whatever your parents did or didn't do to you can be discussed on therapy couches that span as far as the eye can see. & with this looming health care initiative, I'm sure said help isn't far off. But I beg of you, don't impose your hostilities on us real men, who father your children, kill your spiders & move your furniture. Even if we are just your cousins & uncles.
Really though, I'm just saying. Don't shoot the douche nozzle, I'm only delivering the message. Speaking of douche nozzles, I wonder how a dyke butch (see how I did that there?) keeps the pipes clean? Never mind, no I don't...
The incident itself was completely irrelevant, but one aspect of it kind of made me chuckle, in a bad way. My brother-in-law's baby momma got into an argument with some bird that lived in the apartment complex. Luckily for me, my (sort of) sis-in-law had her gay lover with her. As the confrontation ensued, the gay lover jumped in, & was told by the bird, "Oh, you wanna act like a nigga, I got somebody for you!". [tony's note: bird = wild haired, bra-less baby factory] Normally I ignore those types of things, especially when it doesn't involve any of my real family members, but I couldn't help but laugh at that. It amused me well into the evening, & for a few minutes this morning when I woke up.
See, I have no real problem with gay peoples. In fact, without sounding like a bigot, they are some of the coolest folks I've come across during my travels (recovering alcoholics can be a delight as well). & God knows I prefer lesbian porn over watching some hairy-assed dude shafting poor, defenseless white girls. But, as with most things in life, there's always a boundary. Being a lesbian is one thing; attempting to actually be taken seriously as an equal counterpart to Men is another ballpark (no pun intended).
I've noticed that, at least in Los Angeles, the butch dyke has taken on a new role. What was once the female companion to a woman who's chosen to explore her sexual options has now become a pants sagging, wave-capped corn rows wearing, sports bra to hide the chi-chi's ass anti-feminist, who's wholeheartedly adamant on edging out men in their quest for empowerment. Let us not forget what James Brown said. In case you did, this is a man's world. That doesn't mean that we don't need women, but we don't if said female is insistent on awkwardly standing in front of a urinal to create the appearance of peeing while standing.
It's to the point where two girls occupying the same personal space nowadays get automatically labeled lesbians. In my younger days, it was a case of figuring out which one I'd rather have casual sex with & mostly likely it would be both. Now, it's like trying to sneak peeks at some fresh-outta-prison cat's girlfriend. When Women's Liberation spoke to equal rights, I assume they didn't mean getting knocked the fuck out like a man, but if it walks like a duck, by all means, quack quack.
Perhaps the most mystifying facet of all this is that gay women always seem to have upwards of three children in tow. So first, I'm sure they soured their kids' heads with talks of how useless their fathers are, & next, to add insult to injury, they open-mouth kiss their women friend(s) in public as if it's a normal occurrence. On top of the fact that mommy's woman friend dresses like daddy, but has a period like mommy. Only in America people. If this were the Middle East, heads we be on sticks next to curb side mailboxes. Again, I don't judge, because that God's responsibility & it would behoove me NOT to step on Jehovah's sandals, but this can't be the way it was supposed to be. I doubt my grandmother had any bisexual experiences. Yet, I have a cousin who has/does, & thats okay, too. When I met her girlfriend, I could've sworn she looked at my mustache & got mad at it. As if she doesn't get enough hair on her lips already.
It's not necessary to prove how manly one is, unless of course, they're not. It's overkill, ladies. If you want to munch carpet, feel free to do so until it gets caught in your respective throats. But, don't piss on my Air Force 1's & tell me it's drizzling. Whatever your parents did or didn't do to you can be discussed on therapy couches that span as far as the eye can see. & with this looming health care initiative, I'm sure said help isn't far off. But I beg of you, don't impose your hostilities on us real men, who father your children, kill your spiders & move your furniture. Even if we are just your cousins & uncles.
Really though, I'm just saying. Don't shoot the douche nozzle, I'm only delivering the message. Speaking of douche nozzles, I wonder how a dyke butch (see how I did that there?) keeps the pipes clean? Never mind, no I don't...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Dedicated To My Friend
R.I.P. Damon Johnson
I lost a very close friend of mine Tuesday morning. He was struck by a car, attempting to cross the street. Said street is always full of a bunch of idiot drivers who are either A) drunk, B) haphazard or C) incompetent, like 85% of the rest of the world. But, for whatever reason, it was his time to die.
God bless his family. I will miss him, as much as a man can miss another man without needing a "no homo" at the end of the sentence. When you're a kid, friends come & go, but as an adult, when you consider someone a friend (as opposed to homie, buddy, potna, etc.), it really means something significant, well at least to me. & to lose that friend, is something that has to be dealt with on an adult level, i.e. realistically.
Death is an amazing thing, in that, you can compulsively prepare for it, do all you can to avoid it, yet do nothing at all to prevent it. That, to me, is uncomfortably hilarious. Case in point; Damon survived several gunshot wounds a few years back. Btw, several = four or more. Yet, he got through it, physically & mentally. He's been to the penitentiary a couple of times, & although he came home with the same state of mind he had after the shooting (shell-shocked), he got through it. Simultaneously the coolest & toughest person I'd met since I've become an adult. But, for all the tests God presented & Damon passed, this was a pop quiz without a cheat sheet.
The doctors tried to save him, but that wasn't in the cards. Within the hour of his
passing, the whole neighborhood was outside, walking around, hugging, dapping, smoking weed in memoriam, & drinking alcohol as they sat in awe. There's even a makeshift tribute to him on the corner that the ambulance took him from. I wonder did he realize that this would be his last time ever leaving the hood?
Sooner than later, we'll have his funeral, & all of us will have a chance to tell him "Peace Out" for the final time. After that, we'll come home, laugh at his silly antics, regret any arguments & disagreements, part ways & continue to live our lives, until the next time death rears it's insidious head.
The last time I saw him was Saturday morning. He was flirting with a bus driver. Kool-aid smile & all. The last time my friend Tone saw him was as he tried to stand back up after the vehicle knocked him down. Then, the paramedics arrived.
Y'all be cool & careful out there. Tomorrow isn't promised, & don't forget that.
I lost a very close friend of mine Tuesday morning. He was struck by a car, attempting to cross the street. Said street is always full of a bunch of idiot drivers who are either A) drunk, B) haphazard or C) incompetent, like 85% of the rest of the world. But, for whatever reason, it was his time to die.
God bless his family. I will miss him, as much as a man can miss another man without needing a "no homo" at the end of the sentence. When you're a kid, friends come & go, but as an adult, when you consider someone a friend (as opposed to homie, buddy, potna, etc.), it really means something significant, well at least to me. & to lose that friend, is something that has to be dealt with on an adult level, i.e. realistically.
Death is an amazing thing, in that, you can compulsively prepare for it, do all you can to avoid it, yet do nothing at all to prevent it. That, to me, is uncomfortably hilarious. Case in point; Damon survived several gunshot wounds a few years back. Btw, several = four or more. Yet, he got through it, physically & mentally. He's been to the penitentiary a couple of times, & although he came home with the same state of mind he had after the shooting (shell-shocked), he got through it. Simultaneously the coolest & toughest person I'd met since I've become an adult. But, for all the tests God presented & Damon passed, this was a pop quiz without a cheat sheet.
The doctors tried to save him, but that wasn't in the cards. Within the hour of his
passing, the whole neighborhood was outside, walking around, hugging, dapping, smoking weed in memoriam, & drinking alcohol as they sat in awe. There's even a makeshift tribute to him on the corner that the ambulance took him from. I wonder did he realize that this would be his last time ever leaving the hood?
Sooner than later, we'll have his funeral, & all of us will have a chance to tell him "Peace Out" for the final time. After that, we'll come home, laugh at his silly antics, regret any arguments & disagreements, part ways & continue to live our lives, until the next time death rears it's insidious head.
The last time I saw him was Saturday morning. He was flirting with a bus driver. Kool-aid smile & all. The last time my friend Tone saw him was as he tried to stand back up after the vehicle knocked him down. Then, the paramedics arrived.
Y'all be cool & careful out there. Tomorrow isn't promised, & don't forget that.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Courage (as taught to me by my 6 year old son)
My 6 year old son has had a very trying 2 weeks.
He's had a very serious cold, was diagnosed with Asthma, & learned about how it can compromise mortality, been on breathing machines, swallowed pills, gotten shots, rehearsed for his kindergarten graduation & dealt with all the regular curve balls life throws at a person.
For the entire duration of that time, I've been by his side, literally & physically. As usual. I wouldn't have it any other way.
There was a pinnacle moment at the doctor's office that I found somewhat amazing.
He had received 2 breathing treatments to help clear his lungs. After that, the doc decided that he needed a liquid medication to beef up the effort. They brought him a cup full of disgusting liquid, & he politely, yet sternly said, "I don't want that, it's nasty." The doctor attempted in her best "doctor knows best" voice to convince him that he should take it, otherwise he'd get a shot instead. Without missing a beat, dude said, "Gimme the shot" & looked at the doc as if he was thinking "G*ddamn right, I said that." She shrugged it off, & the accompanying nurse chimed in, siding with the doctor's advice.
My son didn't budge or blink.
"No, I can't take that stuff. It's nasty, I'll just take the shot please."
Another nurse walked in, & said "Okay, we'll just do it like this....." By now, knowing my boy, I could see that this was going to be a battle of wills. How dare this child challenge the authority of certified pediatricians? But, nonetheless, that's exactly what he did. I leaned back & watched how the situation was going to unfold.
The third, umm, more urban nurse decided that she'd administer the medication with one of those syringes that don't have a needle, like the ones used to give young babies their medicine orally.
Ha! No Dice. My son is by no definition a punk, or a quitter, so promptly, he spit the meds out onto that same, umm, urban nurse's uniform shirt.
Keep in mind, he told them from the gate to just give him the shot. Adults have this strange ability to think that kid's don't have their wits about them. Realistically, my kid's are a lot smarter than a healthy percentage of my adult friends.
So, out comes the needle, as a punishment I assume. He fought them a little because, like me, he doesn't appreciate unknown, overweight black woman touching him aggressively. She gave him the shot in the thigh, & he sat up & looked at the small blood spot. Without making eye contact, he said "I told you. You should've gave me the shot like I said"
I loved it. The gaggle of ladies picked up their faces from the linoleum & bid him a farewell. That, umm, urban nurse mumbled "Excuuu-uuse me".
Ha!
I teach my kids to meet a challenge with a challenge. Never take the easy way out. & a couple of other cliche's that could easily be taken from any of the Karate Kid trilogy. & they listen. I tell my daughter, "You're not a follower. You're a leader. Show them the back of your shoes at all times!" Imagine my delight when I heard her tell another kid that. Smiles for the day.
I think about the many situations I've experienced that the skill he displayed in that office could've changed my life. True, I probably wouldn't be the same person with a good life, but then again, who knows what direction I might have taken. Point being, by the time we go from being those brutally honest toddlers to adults so content on living in a world of deception & self-doubt, it's too late to recapture that tenacity. Words like "no" & "I'd rather not" get overshadowed by a willingness to please all the people all the time. Why do we do this?
Because life sucks, & nobody bothered to tell us that between teaching us to tie our shoes & bless our food before we eat. Grown ups, as a whole, aren't all that smart, per se. We've just somewhat mastered the art of survival. Not a "lost in the jungle" survival, but a "Hey, whatever works." tactic that's leaves us vulnerable to the quills of reality.
Kids are smart, if only because they're ignorant to the politics of life. No guessing games, no confusion, no gimmicks. They tell it like it without being weighted down by silly emotions like guilt, jealously, envy, hate & all the ones in between.
Books are good, movies are great, but if ever there's a time that an adult needs to be re-grounded, just have a genuine conversation with a child.
You'll be surprised how much more about life they know than we give them credit for.
He's had a very serious cold, was diagnosed with Asthma, & learned about how it can compromise mortality, been on breathing machines, swallowed pills, gotten shots, rehearsed for his kindergarten graduation & dealt with all the regular curve balls life throws at a person.
For the entire duration of that time, I've been by his side, literally & physically. As usual. I wouldn't have it any other way.
There was a pinnacle moment at the doctor's office that I found somewhat amazing.
He had received 2 breathing treatments to help clear his lungs. After that, the doc decided that he needed a liquid medication to beef up the effort. They brought him a cup full of disgusting liquid, & he politely, yet sternly said, "I don't want that, it's nasty." The doctor attempted in her best "doctor knows best" voice to convince him that he should take it, otherwise he'd get a shot instead. Without missing a beat, dude said, "Gimme the shot" & looked at the doc as if he was thinking "G*ddamn right, I said that." She shrugged it off, & the accompanying nurse chimed in, siding with the doctor's advice.
My son didn't budge or blink.
"No, I can't take that stuff. It's nasty, I'll just take the shot please."
Another nurse walked in, & said "Okay, we'll just do it like this....." By now, knowing my boy, I could see that this was going to be a battle of wills. How dare this child challenge the authority of certified pediatricians? But, nonetheless, that's exactly what he did. I leaned back & watched how the situation was going to unfold.
The third, umm, more urban nurse decided that she'd administer the medication with one of those syringes that don't have a needle, like the ones used to give young babies their medicine orally.
Ha! No Dice. My son is by no definition a punk, or a quitter, so promptly, he spit the meds out onto that same, umm, urban nurse's uniform shirt.
Keep in mind, he told them from the gate to just give him the shot. Adults have this strange ability to think that kid's don't have their wits about them. Realistically, my kid's are a lot smarter than a healthy percentage of my adult friends.
So, out comes the needle, as a punishment I assume. He fought them a little because, like me, he doesn't appreciate unknown, overweight black woman touching him aggressively. She gave him the shot in the thigh, & he sat up & looked at the small blood spot. Without making eye contact, he said "I told you. You should've gave me the shot like I said"
I loved it. The gaggle of ladies picked up their faces from the linoleum & bid him a farewell. That, umm, urban nurse mumbled "Excuuu-uuse me".
Ha!
I teach my kids to meet a challenge with a challenge. Never take the easy way out. & a couple of other cliche's that could easily be taken from any of the Karate Kid trilogy. & they listen. I tell my daughter, "You're not a follower. You're a leader. Show them the back of your shoes at all times!" Imagine my delight when I heard her tell another kid that. Smiles for the day.
I think about the many situations I've experienced that the skill he displayed in that office could've changed my life. True, I probably wouldn't be the same person with a good life, but then again, who knows what direction I might have taken. Point being, by the time we go from being those brutally honest toddlers to adults so content on living in a world of deception & self-doubt, it's too late to recapture that tenacity. Words like "no" & "I'd rather not" get overshadowed by a willingness to please all the people all the time. Why do we do this?
Because life sucks, & nobody bothered to tell us that between teaching us to tie our shoes & bless our food before we eat. Grown ups, as a whole, aren't all that smart, per se. We've just somewhat mastered the art of survival. Not a "lost in the jungle" survival, but a "Hey, whatever works." tactic that's leaves us vulnerable to the quills of reality.
Kids are smart, if only because they're ignorant to the politics of life. No guessing games, no confusion, no gimmicks. They tell it like it without being weighted down by silly emotions like guilt, jealously, envy, hate & all the ones in between.
Books are good, movies are great, but if ever there's a time that an adult needs to be re-grounded, just have a genuine conversation with a child.
You'll be surprised how much more about life they know than we give them credit for.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Death & a German soldier
My Grand Dad fought in WWII. Pretty cool, huh?
I would get bits & pieces of stories growing up, but he never got too graphic. How could he? He was too busy telling me how my earring made me look like a little girl & that my hat looked "stupid" backwards.
He died when I was about 13, from lung cancer. He was definitely an Army dude; even after he was diagnosed & they started him on all the necessary treatments, he still smoked. The last picture of him I had was on my 13th Bday. Smoking one of his uppity, skinny, douche bag cigarettes on the couch. Stubborn until the day he passed away in his bed;
One day my Mom came home early from work. She didn't like being home much when I was a kid, so when I heard her coming up the back steps in the middle of the day, I knew something was wrong. The look in her eyes confirmed my suspicion. She didn't say much, although she didn't say much to me anyway, so that wasn't anything unusual. However, I saw tears before she had the chance anyway.
"Damn".
I walked into my room, & in an odd act of grief, I changed my clothes. I had a USC pull over & my Grand Dad graduated from there. He was very proud of his alma mater, so I replaced my Black Bart t-shirt, out of respect, right before we left for my uncle's house.
When we got to my Dad's brother's house, my Grand Dad was in his bed, long passed away. I heard the adults whispering about how he was sort of smiling. I tried to see it, but No Dice. All I saw was my Grand Dad dead. No smiles, no grins, no type of personality whatsoever. If anything, I didn't see the same grimace from pain, so in hindsight he looked somewhat peaceful. Relaxed. More & more family gravitated to the house, & within a couple of hours, it seemed that all of my father's side of my family was crammed into my uncle's modest house. It turned into a party, & among all the grown folks reminiscing & children running about, small groups of relatives would check-in on my Grand Dad from time to time, as if he needed anything. If he were alive, he would have said "Everything I need is already here", granted he had a cigarette to complete the family gathering.
Eventually, the coroner was called, & they gathered the shell that was my Dad's Dad, & took him to the place that dead people go. That was the sad part. I'd never see him again. Funny but, out of all of the things I've forgotten throughout my years, some of which was very important, I've never forgotten his laugh, his smell, his voice & the plenty things he told me. I have a hard time remembering what I did last Thursday, but I can still feel my Grand Dad hug me. He bought me my first computer, first telescope, took me back & forth to junior high when I broke my leg & unbeknownst to me at the time, he'd been putting away money for me for when I graduated high school. I guess it's only right that my Dad is such a good GrandDad now.
Oh yeah, this was the point of my post. When he returned from the war, he'd brought my father a souvenir. It was a german pistol, a wallet chain & a knife. My Dad waited until I was an adult to show them to me. He said my Grand Dad & a german soldier had one of those one-on-one fight scenes acted out in "Saving Private Ryan", & obviously my Grand Dad won.
He killed the german soldier, & took his personal effects, just to drive home the point. I'm not sure there's any point left to prove to a man who one has just killed, but hey, those were different times. Then, when he returned to the States, he gave them to his son (my dad) in an ultimate show of "Your Dad's is no punk!". I could just imagine how a game of "My dad can kick your Dad's ass" would have gone;
"Oh yeah? My Dad murdered a man. & got paid for it, too".
"Okay, you win."
God Bless America & those who defend her honor.
I would get bits & pieces of stories growing up, but he never got too graphic. How could he? He was too busy telling me how my earring made me look like a little girl & that my hat looked "stupid" backwards.
He died when I was about 13, from lung cancer. He was definitely an Army dude; even after he was diagnosed & they started him on all the necessary treatments, he still smoked. The last picture of him I had was on my 13th Bday. Smoking one of his uppity, skinny, douche bag cigarettes on the couch. Stubborn until the day he passed away in his bed;
One day my Mom came home early from work. She didn't like being home much when I was a kid, so when I heard her coming up the back steps in the middle of the day, I knew something was wrong. The look in her eyes confirmed my suspicion. She didn't say much, although she didn't say much to me anyway, so that wasn't anything unusual. However, I saw tears before she had the chance anyway.
"Damn".
I walked into my room, & in an odd act of grief, I changed my clothes. I had a USC pull over & my Grand Dad graduated from there. He was very proud of his alma mater, so I replaced my Black Bart t-shirt, out of respect, right before we left for my uncle's house.
When we got to my Dad's brother's house, my Grand Dad was in his bed, long passed away. I heard the adults whispering about how he was sort of smiling. I tried to see it, but No Dice. All I saw was my Grand Dad dead. No smiles, no grins, no type of personality whatsoever. If anything, I didn't see the same grimace from pain, so in hindsight he looked somewhat peaceful. Relaxed. More & more family gravitated to the house, & within a couple of hours, it seemed that all of my father's side of my family was crammed into my uncle's modest house. It turned into a party, & among all the grown folks reminiscing & children running about, small groups of relatives would check-in on my Grand Dad from time to time, as if he needed anything. If he were alive, he would have said "Everything I need is already here", granted he had a cigarette to complete the family gathering.
Eventually, the coroner was called, & they gathered the shell that was my Dad's Dad, & took him to the place that dead people go. That was the sad part. I'd never see him again. Funny but, out of all of the things I've forgotten throughout my years, some of which was very important, I've never forgotten his laugh, his smell, his voice & the plenty things he told me. I have a hard time remembering what I did last Thursday, but I can still feel my Grand Dad hug me. He bought me my first computer, first telescope, took me back & forth to junior high when I broke my leg & unbeknownst to me at the time, he'd been putting away money for me for when I graduated high school. I guess it's only right that my Dad is such a good GrandDad now.
Oh yeah, this was the point of my post. When he returned from the war, he'd brought my father a souvenir. It was a german pistol, a wallet chain & a knife. My Dad waited until I was an adult to show them to me. He said my Grand Dad & a german soldier had one of those one-on-one fight scenes acted out in "Saving Private Ryan", & obviously my Grand Dad won.
He killed the german soldier, & took his personal effects, just to drive home the point. I'm not sure there's any point left to prove to a man who one has just killed, but hey, those were different times. Then, when he returned to the States, he gave them to his son (my dad) in an ultimate show of "Your Dad's is no punk!". I could just imagine how a game of "My dad can kick your Dad's ass" would have gone;
"Oh yeah? My Dad murdered a man. & got paid for it, too".
"Okay, you win."
God Bless America & those who defend her honor.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Momma Day Blues
Mother's Day was yesterday. Since I know for a fact that a least two moms read my posts, let me take time to say "Happy Mother's Day". & if it applies to you, it's yours as well.
With that said, let me just get this off of my chest (no Janet Jackson). I sent my mom a card via my Pops, but no phone calls. We don't get along, & coincidentally had an argument Saturday morning that I know that I didn't start. That, compounded with the fact that the last time I saw her we had an argument, again that I did not start, & I found myself hard-pressed to call her & tell her anything aside from "kiss my ass".
Now, the reason that I said "get this off of my chest" is because it bothers me that she makes me feel so angry that I wouldn't at least want to spread some love her way on a day intended for her. I'm sure some of you have this type of mom; one of those super-mom, single parent, against all odds moms that holds you down no matter the circumstance. Well, not me. My Mom pretty much pushed me out & passed me off to my Dad, which wasn't hard because they're still married, so he was just in the other room.
I wasn't even that bad of a kid. I waited until my adult years to start whylin', & even then it wasn't that bad; I've never been arrested & only had one child situation out of wed lock (even though they're twins, it's still one pregnancy). So, that alone sets me apart from literally thousands of "kids". Yet & still, for reasons unknown, I'm treated like I tried to kill her dog(s).
I've attempted to reconcile numerous times, half of which I didn't even know what I was apologizing for. I would just see some movie/TV show & think about how cool it would be if I had that kind of mom. Subsequently calling her in hopes of rekindling some bond which, for the most part, never actually existed. But, No Dice. Ever. So, I give. I concede. She won. I won't be bothering her anymore with that bothersome "hey, but I'm your son" rhetoric.
So, as much as I would like to have that TV mom that has my back, it's not going to happen. God speed to her though, because at some point in her life, she's going to have the realization that she alienated quite a few key people from her life. I'm not really the forgiving type. In my opinion, when Jesus turned the other cheek, he bid his rival a "farewell", & walked away leaving them to fend for themselves. So, that's what I do. I may forgive, but surely will never forget. I wonder how many of her relatives & friends will be so generous with their feelings when that day arises.
What I did do, though, is make sure that my wife had the best day in May. She deserved it. & from what I gathered, she enjoyed her day extensively. I even went with her to this crowded as Mexican restaurant to get some of these hot wings that she swears by. It was like a hundred people in there, & I don't do well in crowds. I more or less hate people, so that may have been the most meaningful gift I gave her. Okay, maybe it was the jewelry, but I was trying to make a point.
So, I may be a day late, but Happy Mother's Day to my readers who went through all that abdominal/vaginal pain to bring us into the world. & be nice to your kids every once in awhile. Remember, as much as we appreciate you bringing us into the world, we didn't ask you to, so the respect has to go both ways.
With that said, let me just get this off of my chest (no Janet Jackson). I sent my mom a card via my Pops, but no phone calls. We don't get along, & coincidentally had an argument Saturday morning that I know that I didn't start. That, compounded with the fact that the last time I saw her we had an argument, again that I did not start, & I found myself hard-pressed to call her & tell her anything aside from "kiss my ass".
Now, the reason that I said "get this off of my chest" is because it bothers me that she makes me feel so angry that I wouldn't at least want to spread some love her way on a day intended for her. I'm sure some of you have this type of mom; one of those super-mom, single parent, against all odds moms that holds you down no matter the circumstance. Well, not me. My Mom pretty much pushed me out & passed me off to my Dad, which wasn't hard because they're still married, so he was just in the other room.
I wasn't even that bad of a kid. I waited until my adult years to start whylin', & even then it wasn't that bad; I've never been arrested & only had one child situation out of wed lock (even though they're twins, it's still one pregnancy). So, that alone sets me apart from literally thousands of "kids". Yet & still, for reasons unknown, I'm treated like I tried to kill her dog(s).
I've attempted to reconcile numerous times, half of which I didn't even know what I was apologizing for. I would just see some movie/TV show & think about how cool it would be if I had that kind of mom. Subsequently calling her in hopes of rekindling some bond which, for the most part, never actually existed. But, No Dice. Ever. So, I give. I concede. She won. I won't be bothering her anymore with that bothersome "hey, but I'm your son" rhetoric.
So, as much as I would like to have that TV mom that has my back, it's not going to happen. God speed to her though, because at some point in her life, she's going to have the realization that she alienated quite a few key people from her life. I'm not really the forgiving type. In my opinion, when Jesus turned the other cheek, he bid his rival a "farewell", & walked away leaving them to fend for themselves. So, that's what I do. I may forgive, but surely will never forget. I wonder how many of her relatives & friends will be so generous with their feelings when that day arises.
What I did do, though, is make sure that my wife had the best day in May. She deserved it. & from what I gathered, she enjoyed her day extensively. I even went with her to this crowded as Mexican restaurant to get some of these hot wings that she swears by. It was like a hundred people in there, & I don't do well in crowds. I more or less hate people, so that may have been the most meaningful gift I gave her. Okay, maybe it was the jewelry, but I was trying to make a point.
So, I may be a day late, but Happy Mother's Day to my readers who went through all that abdominal/vaginal pain to bring us into the world. & be nice to your kids every once in awhile. Remember, as much as we appreciate you bringing us into the world, we didn't ask you to, so the respect has to go both ways.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Word to Ms. Houston
"I believe the children are the future. Teach them well & let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside. Give them a sense of pride, to make it easier. Let the children's laughter, remind us how we used to be." - Whitney Houston, "The Greatest Love"
:::
::
:
This was pre-coke/Bobby Brown Whitney Houston. Far be it from me to find wisdom in the words of a crack head. Now a parking lot whine-o, that's a different story. Buy them a Thunderbird & a tall can of 8-ball, & they'll be able to see the future with remarkable accuracy. But, that's neither here nor there. Although I may not agree with her taste in recreational drugs &/or bed fellows (Ray J included), I do find the lyrics to that song to be phenomenal. They could be considered common sense, but we all know that there's no such thing.
To expand on the notion of putting the children on a pedestal for our future's sake, I have 3 easy steps to ensure your child a great head start in thriving in a world so cannibalized.
First, starting at the first moment you officially "meet" them, talk to them. Not the "goo goo gah gah" banter that sounds ridiculous to everyone listening, child included, but really converse with them as you would any cognizant grown person. No matter what you say, it's going to sound like babble to them regardless. Why not introduce them to vocabulary & word structure as soon as possible? Also, try & shy away from slang &/or ebonics. Few things are worse than a misplaced "they" & "is". Keep in mind that the core of what they learn will be from you. There will be more than enough time for society to infect their feeble minds with all things incorrect. So, why not take a small step toward "idiotproofing" your offspring? If, for some strange reason, you find it difficult to talk to a wrinkled, hairless clump of muscle & flesh that has no basic concept of who the hell you are, read a book out loud. The newspaper works also. Generally anything with words that won't plant traumatic images in their fertile minds. Trust me, you'll thank me for it in the future.
Secondly, hug & kiss them often. It builds a sense of self worth & importance. How many times have you heard someone jokingly say "that guy didn't get enough hugs as a kid."? Granted, that guy might have still went on a shooting rampage when he was fired from Home Depot, but for all intents & purposes let's assume that a little more affection early on in life may have softened the blow. "I love you" is synonymous with such intimacy, & contrary to popular belief, it can never be said too much. Especially to a small boy. Men seem to have the overwhelming need to discard emotion. That complex begins with the proverbial "be a man, suck it up!". Next thing you know, there are generations of guys lacking sensitivity & compassion. Definitely not the male figures needed to help raise the men & women of tomorrow.
Lastly, never use the sentence "because I said so". That spells certain doom to an inquisitive mind. It offers no logical reasoning for decisions being made by the person they most admire. Giving an explanation for your actions to a toddler teaches them, however inadvertently, that everything has a motive. Again, the core of what children learn is their immediate environment, i.e. their parents.
"Mommy, why do I have to go in my room?"
"For one, it's your personal space &............"
Now, I'm not advising a lengthy, convoluted speech, but a curt explanation of why you've made the decision you have. That shows that thinking is necessary to problem solving. Action is the best example.
I agree that the kids will one day be the rebirth of the nation, no matter what generation. It's imperative that we take advantage, & begin to plant the seeds necessary to harvest the proper fruit. In no way can we blame children for their actions in the future without taking the steps to show them the right way, in the present. This is overly apparent by looking at the past.
Maybe this will help some young parents who find themselves confused at times. It's not much information, but it's a start towards a healthier line of communication between child & parent.
You're welcome.
:::
::
:
This was pre-coke/Bobby Brown Whitney Houston. Far be it from me to find wisdom in the words of a crack head. Now a parking lot whine-o, that's a different story. Buy them a Thunderbird & a tall can of 8-ball, & they'll be able to see the future with remarkable accuracy. But, that's neither here nor there. Although I may not agree with her taste in recreational drugs &/or bed fellows (Ray J included), I do find the lyrics to that song to be phenomenal. They could be considered common sense, but we all know that there's no such thing.
To expand on the notion of putting the children on a pedestal for our future's sake, I have 3 easy steps to ensure your child a great head start in thriving in a world so cannibalized.
First, starting at the first moment you officially "meet" them, talk to them. Not the "goo goo gah gah" banter that sounds ridiculous to everyone listening, child included, but really converse with them as you would any cognizant grown person. No matter what you say, it's going to sound like babble to them regardless. Why not introduce them to vocabulary & word structure as soon as possible? Also, try & shy away from slang &/or ebonics. Few things are worse than a misplaced "they" & "is". Keep in mind that the core of what they learn will be from you. There will be more than enough time for society to infect their feeble minds with all things incorrect. So, why not take a small step toward "idiotproofing" your offspring? If, for some strange reason, you find it difficult to talk to a wrinkled, hairless clump of muscle & flesh that has no basic concept of who the hell you are, read a book out loud. The newspaper works also. Generally anything with words that won't plant traumatic images in their fertile minds. Trust me, you'll thank me for it in the future.
Secondly, hug & kiss them often. It builds a sense of self worth & importance. How many times have you heard someone jokingly say "that guy didn't get enough hugs as a kid."? Granted, that guy might have still went on a shooting rampage when he was fired from Home Depot, but for all intents & purposes let's assume that a little more affection early on in life may have softened the blow. "I love you" is synonymous with such intimacy, & contrary to popular belief, it can never be said too much. Especially to a small boy. Men seem to have the overwhelming need to discard emotion. That complex begins with the proverbial "be a man, suck it up!". Next thing you know, there are generations of guys lacking sensitivity & compassion. Definitely not the male figures needed to help raise the men & women of tomorrow.
Lastly, never use the sentence "because I said so". That spells certain doom to an inquisitive mind. It offers no logical reasoning for decisions being made by the person they most admire. Giving an explanation for your actions to a toddler teaches them, however inadvertently, that everything has a motive. Again, the core of what children learn is their immediate environment, i.e. their parents.
"Mommy, why do I have to go in my room?"
"For one, it's your personal space &............"
Now, I'm not advising a lengthy, convoluted speech, but a curt explanation of why you've made the decision you have. That shows that thinking is necessary to problem solving. Action is the best example.
I agree that the kids will one day be the rebirth of the nation, no matter what generation. It's imperative that we take advantage, & begin to plant the seeds necessary to harvest the proper fruit. In no way can we blame children for their actions in the future without taking the steps to show them the right way, in the present. This is overly apparent by looking at the past.
Maybe this will help some young parents who find themselves confused at times. It's not much information, but it's a start towards a healthier line of communication between child & parent.
You're welcome.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The D.L.G. Complex
"Un, stable, creatures. That's my new word fa ya'll." - Sweet pea (Omar Gooding) from John Singleton's Baby Boy.
~
He was referring to the behavior exhibited by his girlfriend & her mother. In actuality, he was just elohssa drunk & complaining, but that wasn't the point. The point was that, all women, on some general level are crazy, i.e. unstable. Regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, what have you. Can't say that I disagree.
There has to be some scientific reasoning behind the scatter brain actions of the female homosapien. Until I can produce a PHD in the pertaining field of study, nothing I say from here forth can be legitimately substantiated. But, don't let technicality stop you from nodding your head in agreement.
There's overwhelming evidence that the lack of a positive male figure is more harmful to a girl than a boy. Most noteworthy is the fact that all human life is funneled through the female. It starts in her uterus, graduates through her birth canal, & escapes to get lost in the myriad known as life. What happens after said escape is variable, but nonetheless, it begins with the woman. Thus, without "her", there is no "us". Like it or not, that girl you keep calling a hctib will eventually be someone's mom, if she's not already.
Its also been said that a woman finds validation in her relationships with men. Her father is the foundation of that structure, becoming the proverbial model for which all others are to follow. The "daddy's little girl" complex doesn't seem to ever disappear, just goes through rigorous forms of modification, but essentially remaining the same. If daddy did something negative but yet acceptable, a road has been unintentionally laid for the next male to adhere to. That can be fantabulously great, or tragically damaging.
All the insecurities, self esteem issues, doubt, aloofness, stem from some misguided put down, accidental insult, or the more common lack of presence. If you suspect emotional problems in a young lady, trace the dotted lines & the complete picture will undoubtedly reveal itself.
It's not that she doesn't trust you, she doesn't trust her dad. Its not that she doesn't love you, she just never learned how to love a man. The same rhyme & reason as to why her mother couldn't love her father. So on & so forth until the beginning of that blood line is discovered. Realistically, what man in his right mind has the mental capacity to right the wrongs of generations of malfunction?
So here's what you do.
Be the best father you can be to your daughter, before she becomes some dude's chick. Though it may be of her own valition, the outcome may not reflect her intention. Break the chains, end the cycle. Respect her like you respect yourself, & although this isn't as easy as "add water & stir", the astounding simplicity of the process alone should be well worth the effort.
I practice what I preach, which to some degree should qualify me for an honorary degree (like Bill Cosby), but I'll settle for the title of good advice giver, even though my little brother "advises" against giving advice. The reason I know this works is because my daughter bugs me all day & night. Always a story to tell, question to ask, or something to show me.
Me.
My plan is to leave the biggest pair of shoes ever in existence for whatever jive talking little huckleberry that comes sniffing around her to fill. If she decides to sniff back, then hopefully that pudding will have the proof in it. No pun intended.
The same ideology can be applied toward the relationship between son & mother. It took me a few decades to learn how to treat a woman, & coincidentally, beyond diapers, my mother & I have never been close. Go figure.
If the theory doesn't apply, & a level of instability is still dominant in her persona, then that would be a clear cut case of a genuinely crazy woman.
If that's the case, remember I'm not authorized to comment on that subject. Stop reading, call the cops & get a restraining order immediately.
~
He was referring to the behavior exhibited by his girlfriend & her mother. In actuality, he was just elohssa drunk & complaining, but that wasn't the point. The point was that, all women, on some general level are crazy, i.e. unstable. Regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, what have you. Can't say that I disagree.
There has to be some scientific reasoning behind the scatter brain actions of the female homosapien. Until I can produce a PHD in the pertaining field of study, nothing I say from here forth can be legitimately substantiated. But, don't let technicality stop you from nodding your head in agreement.
There's overwhelming evidence that the lack of a positive male figure is more harmful to a girl than a boy. Most noteworthy is the fact that all human life is funneled through the female. It starts in her uterus, graduates through her birth canal, & escapes to get lost in the myriad known as life. What happens after said escape is variable, but nonetheless, it begins with the woman. Thus, without "her", there is no "us". Like it or not, that girl you keep calling a hctib will eventually be someone's mom, if she's not already.
Its also been said that a woman finds validation in her relationships with men. Her father is the foundation of that structure, becoming the proverbial model for which all others are to follow. The "daddy's little girl" complex doesn't seem to ever disappear, just goes through rigorous forms of modification, but essentially remaining the same. If daddy did something negative but yet acceptable, a road has been unintentionally laid for the next male to adhere to. That can be fantabulously great, or tragically damaging.
All the insecurities, self esteem issues, doubt, aloofness, stem from some misguided put down, accidental insult, or the more common lack of presence. If you suspect emotional problems in a young lady, trace the dotted lines & the complete picture will undoubtedly reveal itself.
It's not that she doesn't trust you, she doesn't trust her dad. Its not that she doesn't love you, she just never learned how to love a man. The same rhyme & reason as to why her mother couldn't love her father. So on & so forth until the beginning of that blood line is discovered. Realistically, what man in his right mind has the mental capacity to right the wrongs of generations of malfunction?
So here's what you do.
Be the best father you can be to your daughter, before she becomes some dude's chick. Though it may be of her own valition, the outcome may not reflect her intention. Break the chains, end the cycle. Respect her like you respect yourself, & although this isn't as easy as "add water & stir", the astounding simplicity of the process alone should be well worth the effort.
I practice what I preach, which to some degree should qualify me for an honorary degree (like Bill Cosby), but I'll settle for the title of good advice giver, even though my little brother "advises" against giving advice. The reason I know this works is because my daughter bugs me all day & night. Always a story to tell, question to ask, or something to show me.
Me.
My plan is to leave the biggest pair of shoes ever in existence for whatever jive talking little huckleberry that comes sniffing around her to fill. If she decides to sniff back, then hopefully that pudding will have the proof in it. No pun intended.
The same ideology can be applied toward the relationship between son & mother. It took me a few decades to learn how to treat a woman, & coincidentally, beyond diapers, my mother & I have never been close. Go figure.
If the theory doesn't apply, & a level of instability is still dominant in her persona, then that would be a clear cut case of a genuinely crazy woman.
If that's the case, remember I'm not authorized to comment on that subject. Stop reading, call the cops & get a restraining order immediately.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
R.I.P. Mr. Rogers
That statement is a bit tardy (several or more years to be exact), but dude's gone none the less.
Damn shame too, because if ever his field of expertise was needed, its today.
Like "yesterday" today.
Now, before all the scrutiny & character assasination begins, let me say in his defense, that Mr. Rogers was from a simpler America.
Where people went to bed with windows & doors unlocked. When parents could incorporate capitol punishment into their "adulthood preparation" routine without the fear of a DPSS shakedown (not that I condone it, but I understand).
Before poisonous Halloween candy & Chester the Molester flooded our neighborhhods, unregistered. Teachers relentlessly wielded paddles, & children were seen & not heard. Thanks to Fred Rogers & "Trolley", the latter was easily achieved.
His show, along with Sesame Street, Electric Company, 3-2-1 Contact, etc, taught kids about love, friendship, compassion, as well as fundamental scholastic abilities. Coupled with the razzle dazzle of hand-puppets & imaginary far-away places, we had no idea of the values being instilled in our juvenile mindscapes.
See, I just don't believe Rihanna & TI have my children's best interests at heart, what with all their money makin' & record sellin'. & even without the shenanigans of the entertainment industry, somethin' still tells me those aren't the type of individuals I want my kids to admire. Nothin personal guys.
Back then, I played sick a lot because my teacher was a douche & watched PBS from dawn to dusk. & I don't think I turned out all that bad, especially according to the grade curve. These kids today are oblivious to that simpler America.
The world is so bass ackwards now, the only place people use the word "safe" is during a baseball game. I used to walk to school in the first grade, with a gaggle of neighborhood crumbsnatchers, & no supervison. Now my sons on the other hand, aren't allowed to sit on the porch unless I'm in arm's distance. & I couldn't call myself a good father if I wasn't prepared to deal with all the reasons my daughter will have to blurt out "I hate you!!!!" everyday after her 13th birthday.
"So what?! I'm NOT your friend, I'm your father!"
Imagine my surprise when I overheard my less-than-a-decade old little girl quietly singing about how she "kissed a girl, & [I] liked iii-it". For the record, her Mother doesn't monitor what she listens to or watches. I assume she sits right along side her, joyously proclaiming her love for the fairer sex as well. I don't know, but I don't doubt. Lucky for me though, her Stepmom is a great role model.
I asked my youngest boy what he wanted for his birthday, he said "Grand Theft Auto: Chinatown Wars". Do toy stores still carry Lego's? Etch-A-sketch's? Forget about coloring books. Not even 6, but he's ready to wage war on illegal immigrants over turf & cocaine. Now, somebody please tell me how that happened?
I know I have good kids, wholeheartedly, but one man alone isn't strong enough to rebuke such secular wickedness alone. The only man ever in existence that powerful was tricked, captured, mutilated, & died on a wooden stake, while his father watched. So what the hell do you think would happen to little ol' me?
I don't believe in destiny. I don't subscribe to fate. I'm a follower of hard work, dedication & unyielding faith. I planted the seeds, & I turn & water the soil nonstop, but that may not be enough. Until my Higher Power is recognized by the higher powers, all effort could very well be for naught. Sad, pathetic fact.
In retrospect, Mr. Rogers might have been the dam holdin' the flood at bay. The calm voice & soothing persona, for all we know, may have been pacifying the ravenous beast that's now seemingly too strong for man to capture & contain. & damnit, he made me feel good about being me, even before I was formally introduced to myself. What television show, cable or otherwise still does that?
If any philanthropists are reading this, let's invest some serious loot into this stem cell thing. Mr. Rogers may need to be cloned.
Damn shame too, because if ever his field of expertise was needed, its today.
Like "yesterday" today.
Now, before all the scrutiny & character assasination begins, let me say in his defense, that Mr. Rogers was from a simpler America.
Where people went to bed with windows & doors unlocked. When parents could incorporate capitol punishment into their "adulthood preparation" routine without the fear of a DPSS shakedown (not that I condone it, but I understand).
Before poisonous Halloween candy & Chester the Molester flooded our neighborhhods, unregistered. Teachers relentlessly wielded paddles, & children were seen & not heard. Thanks to Fred Rogers & "Trolley", the latter was easily achieved.
His show, along with Sesame Street, Electric Company, 3-2-1 Contact, etc, taught kids about love, friendship, compassion, as well as fundamental scholastic abilities. Coupled with the razzle dazzle of hand-puppets & imaginary far-away places, we had no idea of the values being instilled in our juvenile mindscapes.
See, I just don't believe Rihanna & TI have my children's best interests at heart, what with all their money makin' & record sellin'. & even without the shenanigans of the entertainment industry, somethin' still tells me those aren't the type of individuals I want my kids to admire. Nothin personal guys.
Back then, I played sick a lot because my teacher was a douche & watched PBS from dawn to dusk. & I don't think I turned out all that bad, especially according to the grade curve. These kids today are oblivious to that simpler America.
The world is so bass ackwards now, the only place people use the word "safe" is during a baseball game. I used to walk to school in the first grade, with a gaggle of neighborhood crumbsnatchers, & no supervison. Now my sons on the other hand, aren't allowed to sit on the porch unless I'm in arm's distance. & I couldn't call myself a good father if I wasn't prepared to deal with all the reasons my daughter will have to blurt out "I hate you!!!!" everyday after her 13th birthday.
"So what?! I'm NOT your friend, I'm your father!"
Imagine my surprise when I overheard my less-than-a-decade old little girl quietly singing about how she "kissed a girl, & [I] liked iii-it". For the record, her Mother doesn't monitor what she listens to or watches. I assume she sits right along side her, joyously proclaiming her love for the fairer sex as well. I don't know, but I don't doubt. Lucky for me though, her Stepmom is a great role model.
I asked my youngest boy what he wanted for his birthday, he said "Grand Theft Auto: Chinatown Wars". Do toy stores still carry Lego's? Etch-A-sketch's? Forget about coloring books. Not even 6, but he's ready to wage war on illegal immigrants over turf & cocaine. Now, somebody please tell me how that happened?
I know I have good kids, wholeheartedly, but one man alone isn't strong enough to rebuke such secular wickedness alone. The only man ever in existence that powerful was tricked, captured, mutilated, & died on a wooden stake, while his father watched. So what the hell do you think would happen to little ol' me?
I don't believe in destiny. I don't subscribe to fate. I'm a follower of hard work, dedication & unyielding faith. I planted the seeds, & I turn & water the soil nonstop, but that may not be enough. Until my Higher Power is recognized by the higher powers, all effort could very well be for naught. Sad, pathetic fact.
In retrospect, Mr. Rogers might have been the dam holdin' the flood at bay. The calm voice & soothing persona, for all we know, may have been pacifying the ravenous beast that's now seemingly too strong for man to capture & contain. & damnit, he made me feel good about being me, even before I was formally introduced to myself. What television show, cable or otherwise still does that?
If any philanthropists are reading this, let's invest some serious loot into this stem cell thing. Mr. Rogers may need to be cloned.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
"I'm a grown a** man! (no, really, I am)"
Not that anyone asked, but I think I've got a pretty level head for a 70's baby. We get a bum rap sometimes, we're either test tube babies, crack babies, or the "oops" generation. My friends & I used to sit around gettin' drunk & comparin' the stories of our accidental conceptions like its a contest:
"Backseat of a VW..."
"Prom night"
"On a campin' trip"
"At my older brother's fifth birthday party"
"A congical visit"
No clear cut winner in that competition.
It seems like our generation began the whole "ADHD" phenomenon, but what did they think would be the outcome of all the drugs & free love of the 70's. How the hell could we sit still in a playpen with trace amounts of coke in mommy's breast milk? I'm not sayin my mom did lines, but who's nose runs all year long? I think those pocket-sized Kleenexs were designed just for those people. I know I wasnt the only kid who wondered why mommy & daddy had a glass straw that was too short for any cup in the house. This was years before "Maury Povich", so imagine how many of our buddies haven't a clue that the mailman might really be their father. No wonder mommy would go out of her way to give him such a nice present for Christmas. My friends who don't know who their dads were shouldn't feel bad though, actually. They weren't alone, because their moms probably don't know either.
The 80's fostered in the crack era. Now by this time, mom & dad cleaned up their acts, but by then it was time to focus on all the crack slave relatives. We all had 'em. The ultra-skinny uncle who you couldn't let in the house if you were alone. He always wanted to tell you something, anything, but for whatever reason, he just could not tell you through the door. Hey, I might have been a kid, but you guys could've told me that he was going to "borrow" the TV. Or the VCR. Or the stand that supported the TV & the VCR. How about that female cousin who never went to school, was real fat for a year , then just lost all that weight. Grandmomma had all kinds of reasons &/or excuses, but ain't no diet in the world that'll make you go from before to after Starr Jones except child birth. Now, I had an uncle who got shot for breaking into my Grandmother's car. Nothing weird about that, right? Well, he got shot by his brother, my other uncle, for getting to the car before he did! Best part(?) is, he shot him in the a**. Cocaine is a powerful drug, especially when its cooked, and ingested in place of real food.
As for the 90's, I really don't remember much. I just sort of sailed through it with poorly rolled joints, Nighttrain & grape Kool-Aid, & fleeting hopes of having as much casual sex as humanly possible. Hey, one out of three ain't that bad.
Which brings me to the 2000's. Now, I've got 3 crumbsnatching dustbunnies, hellbent on driving me insane, with a quickstop by the poorhouse on the way. The funniest thing about my kids isn't their growth, but my own. Not too long ago, I was wearin my fitted cap tilted, chasing the next high, & still lying to my parents about my current "job prospects". Now, I'm as sober as a catholic school nurse's aid, rocking grown man hairstyles (no parts that resemble highway maps), and watching what I say around my offspring. Who would've thought I'd ever use "heck" & "freakin' crap" as exclamations? I find myself telling my son to pull up his pants while he's telling me that "cats at school is hatin'" & intercepting my daughter's make-up bag heading out of the door with her on the way to the fashion show that is second grade.
& the whole "marriage" thing is a trip too. Its kind of like, have you ever seen the flyest pair of tennis shoes on Earth (or so you thought at the time), & no matter what it took, or how long, you had to have 'em? Then, they finally become yours, & you sported them constantly, subsequently making them your favorite kicks EVER. All summer, cleaning them, showing them off, damn near taking showers & having sex with them still attached to your feet. One day, you see another pair, even flyer. But, you love your shoes, & they're so comfy that you doubt the other ones would hug your dogs in the same manner. In an act of blind loyalty, you turn away, go back home, & intently clean the old ones. Until they're looking brand freakin' new, or at least as close as possible. But every so often, you can't help but think about those shiny new shoes that would've complimented every piece in your haberdashery. You shrug it off, & go on with your day. Well, that's marriage. A grain of salt, in a nutshell (whatever the hell that means).
Times change, & I guess I have to change with them. No longer am I the young & carefree rebel without a cause. Thanks to unplanned pregancy, an allergy to condoms, & the strength of the phrase "I do", I'm now a mature, somewhat responsible adult, fighting like a wolverine to make sure my damn kids don't turn out like I did. That's the lesson we should've learned (but didn't in most cases), do better than your parents, & your kids should follow suite. Sounds good.
As long as my children don't turn out like The Jackson 5, or Janet, or Rebbie, it should all work out just fine. That sounds good too, but just ask Marley (that movie dog) not all endings are happy.
*crossing fingers*
"Backseat of a VW..."
"Prom night"
"On a campin' trip"
"At my older brother's fifth birthday party"
"A congical visit"
No clear cut winner in that competition.
It seems like our generation began the whole "ADHD" phenomenon, but what did they think would be the outcome of all the drugs & free love of the 70's. How the hell could we sit still in a playpen with trace amounts of coke in mommy's breast milk? I'm not sayin my mom did lines, but who's nose runs all year long? I think those pocket-sized Kleenexs were designed just for those people. I know I wasnt the only kid who wondered why mommy & daddy had a glass straw that was too short for any cup in the house. This was years before "Maury Povich", so imagine how many of our buddies haven't a clue that the mailman might really be their father. No wonder mommy would go out of her way to give him such a nice present for Christmas. My friends who don't know who their dads were shouldn't feel bad though, actually. They weren't alone, because their moms probably don't know either.
The 80's fostered in the crack era. Now by this time, mom & dad cleaned up their acts, but by then it was time to focus on all the crack slave relatives. We all had 'em. The ultra-skinny uncle who you couldn't let in the house if you were alone. He always wanted to tell you something, anything, but for whatever reason, he just could not tell you through the door. Hey, I might have been a kid, but you guys could've told me that he was going to "borrow" the TV. Or the VCR. Or the stand that supported the TV & the VCR. How about that female cousin who never went to school, was real fat for a year , then just lost all that weight. Grandmomma had all kinds of reasons &/or excuses, but ain't no diet in the world that'll make you go from before to after Starr Jones except child birth. Now, I had an uncle who got shot for breaking into my Grandmother's car. Nothing weird about that, right? Well, he got shot by his brother, my other uncle, for getting to the car before he did! Best part(?) is, he shot him in the a**. Cocaine is a powerful drug, especially when its cooked, and ingested in place of real food.
As for the 90's, I really don't remember much. I just sort of sailed through it with poorly rolled joints, Nighttrain & grape Kool-Aid, & fleeting hopes of having as much casual sex as humanly possible. Hey, one out of three ain't that bad.
Which brings me to the 2000's. Now, I've got 3 crumbsnatching dustbunnies, hellbent on driving me insane, with a quickstop by the poorhouse on the way. The funniest thing about my kids isn't their growth, but my own. Not too long ago, I was wearin my fitted cap tilted, chasing the next high, & still lying to my parents about my current "job prospects". Now, I'm as sober as a catholic school nurse's aid, rocking grown man hairstyles (no parts that resemble highway maps), and watching what I say around my offspring. Who would've thought I'd ever use "heck" & "freakin' crap" as exclamations? I find myself telling my son to pull up his pants while he's telling me that "cats at school is hatin'" & intercepting my daughter's make-up bag heading out of the door with her on the way to the fashion show that is second grade.
& the whole "marriage" thing is a trip too. Its kind of like, have you ever seen the flyest pair of tennis shoes on Earth (or so you thought at the time), & no matter what it took, or how long, you had to have 'em? Then, they finally become yours, & you sported them constantly, subsequently making them your favorite kicks EVER. All summer, cleaning them, showing them off, damn near taking showers & having sex with them still attached to your feet. One day, you see another pair, even flyer. But, you love your shoes, & they're so comfy that you doubt the other ones would hug your dogs in the same manner. In an act of blind loyalty, you turn away, go back home, & intently clean the old ones. Until they're looking brand freakin' new, or at least as close as possible. But every so often, you can't help but think about those shiny new shoes that would've complimented every piece in your haberdashery. You shrug it off, & go on with your day. Well, that's marriage. A grain of salt, in a nutshell (whatever the hell that means).
Times change, & I guess I have to change with them. No longer am I the young & carefree rebel without a cause. Thanks to unplanned pregancy, an allergy to condoms, & the strength of the phrase "I do", I'm now a mature, somewhat responsible adult, fighting like a wolverine to make sure my damn kids don't turn out like I did. That's the lesson we should've learned (but didn't in most cases), do better than your parents, & your kids should follow suite. Sounds good.
As long as my children don't turn out like The Jackson 5, or Janet, or Rebbie, it should all work out just fine. That sounds good too, but just ask Marley (that movie dog) not all endings are happy.
*crossing fingers*
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