Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Mascots, librarians, and autographs

Shortly after signing with the San Angelo Colts a few years back, I drew the short straw for a media appearance.  So we got on the plane for ESPN headquarters...I mean, we got on a truck and headed for an out of the way library in a modest country community.  Or village.  Or neighborhood.  I doubt this place was on any map not in crayon or a paper napkin.  But it existed alright.  And that was our destination.  The whatever town it was library.

So we saddle up with Sammy Juarez, the mascot girl with mascot uniform, myself, and someone else.  I think it was the big guy who was a catcher on the team, but worked concessions at the stadium or something.  So we get there and there are yard monsters everywhere.  Just kids as far as I cared to look and a few teacher/adult types to supervise the fun.  Apparently, in addition to signing autographs, we were also all squared away to play games with the kids.  Relay races on the grass when I'm coming off a hamstring injury.  Great idea.

Of course I didn't tell anyone with the club about my hamstring.  Nor did I tell them that I hadn't run, thrown, or hit in a month.  Not important here, but that was the scenario.  And we get inside and begin the introductions.  There are varying levels of excitement from the children and adults alike.  Some of these bad assed kids were like those little punks in Ghostbusters 2, saying they want He-Man...
Ok, I know that's the worst video I've posted, and I've had some bad ones, but it's the closest I could find without entering another search term.  So some of the kids are into it, but htis librarian lady is dialed into it.  She knows everything about the San Angelo colts.  And upon seeing the mascot, she pulled me aside.   I'm all excited to be playing ball and trying to feel the moment, so I enthusiastically jump on board her conspiratorial side session.

She whispered to me, looking over her shoulder to make sure we weren't over heard, "Hey, I know the secret."  I looked at her expectantly, waiting to hear about the pet cemetery or something.  Sensing that I wasn't privvy to this inside information, she further exposed this subterfuge, "You know, about the mascot."  She looked at me with self satisfaction.  I took a look around for the camera crew or whatever was in store for me.  She continued.  I was riveted now.  I wasn't gonna miss a thing.  Maybe the mascot girl was secretly hotter than she obviously was in the car?  Who knows?

I brought my head around to the librarian again.  Whatever was going on, I was clueless.  And then she put her cards on the table.  "I know it's a girl".  Ahhhh.  I see now.  She continued, "But I won't tell anyone.  The secret is safe with me."

Not because I was interested as much as because it seemed the logical course to take, I countered, "uhh, where did you learn this secret?"  The lady was still whispering, by the way, and she said, "I read it in the newspaper."

Don't worry, I didn't laugh at the time.  Partially because I was in shock, and waiting for her to start laughing or otherwise indicate that this was an ironic statement.  Nope.  Nothing.  So I said, "Uhh, don't you think maybe someone else reads the paper too?"

This lady is an adult.  And a librarian.  She's an authority in the education of these yard monsters.  I mean, when they're confused about which volume to read in order to learn about the settling of the west, they turn to her.  She could be giving them mad magazine, or the onion, for all we know.  Someone tackle this lady, stat.  I saw the recognition spread across her slightly past middle age face.  It was a kind face that morphed from confusion, to recognition, to meltdown in like 8 seconds.  Yep, a legitimate bull ride is what it took for the revelation to dawn on her.  Looks like someone has been living in their own little book world too long.  Just constantly living in The Never Ending Story, oblivious to the storm or bullies outside, dusting herself off after yet another trip to the dumpster.

That was kind of mean, but in good fun.  I would not have posted it if she were the local librarian.  But that's funny as hell right?  My girl Jaz said something about a country bumpkin walking up to her and asking if she wanted to work the 'coon' light.  And Jazzy was the only black person in the room.  Maybe a Freudian slip?  Anyway, it made me think, a) about how our friendly neighbors in the south sometimes say the darndest things, and b) there is no chance that soliciting help in the operation of the 'coon' light was racist.  Just a friendly southerner trying to spread the love.  That's funny right?  A coon light?  Southerners love them some coon and catfish.  Does a coon light have dark circles under its eyes.  WTF is a coon light?

Tuesday, March 29, 2011


Philosophers are bad writers.  Generally speaking, this is a fact.  As a philosopher myself, and one who first voiced this observation (at least as far as I can tell), I'm coming to terms with this.  It isn't that we can't say what we mean-although few know what I'm talking about most of the time-but we can't just say what we mean.  When reading a philosopher's writing, we find ourselves re-reading sentences at an alarming clip.  And then, when that doesn't work, we have to back track.  You might start on chapter 5, but you'll be in chapter 3 before you know it.  Or watching Ducktales on youtube.

The reason I bring this up is because I'm on the stroll again.  The 'track', as it were.  For those of you unfamiliar with those brilliant colloquialisms, I'm whoring myself out.  Again.  As a writer.  Fortunately, this time it's for a philosophy class.  I don't have to cram three years of nursing school into twenty minutes of preparation.  This time.  And upon accepting this assignment, I was given a syllabus.  By one of my old teachers, actually.

It was irritating to read.  The dude thought he was lecturing for Wittgenstein, Schopenhaur, and Descartes or something.  I mean, I knew what he was saying, but this is an intro to philosophy class.  These kids don't have a hundred units of this crap under their belts.  I remember the dude being uptight a little bit, but not this bad.  And I caught him using the wrong word.  Ha!  I told the kid that I'm helping cheat that he could use that if he wants to be smart guy for a day.  Just catch this clown in his egomaniac neurosis.

He said, in the syllabus, "circumlocutious".  Everyone knows the term is "circumloquacious".  Right?  A person can engage in 'circumlocution', as an activity and can possibly 'circumlocute', like as a verb.  But as a descriptor, the word is 'circumloquacious'.  Spell check and squiggly red lines can go eff themselves because I know the word, even if this thing's puny little dictionary doesn't.  So, it wouldn't matter if you asked someone off the streets whether or not they knew the word and they didn't, because who uses that?  But if you're gonna try to be Smarty McSmart pants Jenkins when teaching an intro to philosophy class, then you better get the word right.  Just sounds like when rappers  get over their terminological head and bust out some wrong ass words.  Act like a professional Schubert.  They are paying you right?

So, sorry for the worthless and 'periphrastic' post, but I'm just priming the pump for a night out on the town with my date.  A philosophy paper.  And so, even though I am, by my own definition, a bad writer I'm gonna crank another one out.

Sadly, I kind of embrace my bad writing.  Philosophy is like a cult.  It's been driven into our heads for so long that we have to 'can (as in the garbage can)' the ambiguity, that it's second nature.  I find myself getting irritated when I talk to people on the streets because they make vague arguments or use terms loosely.  Even at church, I find myself evaluating certain arguments for soundness.  I don't doubt the Bible or question God, but arguments that I hear from teachers get a close scrutiny.  I'm not sure if this is the best way to go through life, but the dice has been tossed.  Hope I don't crap out.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Coffee on the keyboard

And I'm not even drinking any coffee.  The funniest guy I know who happens to also be my main man just sent me a text.  Might want to check this first...

If I knew how, I'd make it so you couldn't read the rest without clicking that.  So, if you're just kinda perusing the portrait to see how I'm fumbling my life, then forget it.  Or you better know "Life" by heart. 

Ok, so DJ, in case anyone had to guess who I'm talking about.  I know we have people of the world reading now, so if you didn't know, now you know.  So my phone makes it's little text message chirp and I can see it's from Deej before I open it.  It read:

Martin L:  On deck for what?
Eddie:  Dat upper room niggah!  We on deck!

Didn't take more than that.  The coffee I wasn't even drinking (yes, I bit that hard) went all over the keyboard.  Me and this fool get so weak at the most ridiculous stuff.  Not everyone gets it all the time.  I don't really care.  If you can't get on board, just get out of the way.  Word won't do justice to the antics, so I'm not gonna explain it.  If you want to check out the Drivel, and you should, then click away.  the punctuation and grammar and spelling might not be Hemingway, but the drivel is fast and hard.  Bleedat.  And since I haven't really said anything, but can say and do what I want here, you're welcome for the bonus video...

If you don't like Eddie Murphy, or think he's offensive, then...sorry?  I don't know if I can even apologize for that.  So maybe I'm not sorry, except not to warn you or something.  While I'm in the comedic mood, and since I can still put whatever I want on here...

Ahh.  Again, If you don't think it's funny, then it's not for you.  One more thing about my man Deej, he used to piss my dad off.  Sometimes pretty bad.  But DJ would always make pops laugh and all would be forgiven.  A situation would go from like pops being apoplectic to laughter and "just don't do that shit anymore, DJ.  Fucking Delta Juliet (dad shakes head)."  So, good call on the text, D.  Not much funny to blog about it, cause the joke was over and done.  Still good times.  I'll come check you out one of these days since I split the distance.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Dull Razors

Important safety tip.  Shave with sharp razors.  And, even if your razor is sharp at the beginning of your shaving excursion, it doesn't mean it's gonna stay that way.  For instance, when you're shaving your head, and have like a month's worth of growth, you're gonna have a dog fight on your hands at the sink, in the shower, or wherever you shave.

When I let my hair go for a bit, I usually cut it close with clippers, then shave.  This makes for a good shave.  Well, I dusted off the ol' clippers for my maiden Fresno shave and it turned into a scalping.  Maybe those Indians didn't care for being impersonated and the spirit world is intervening.  Or maybe, when I went to click on the clippers, I heard not the characteristic clatter of the blades moving back and forth, but a dull, stupid, and unenthusiastic hum.

Hmm.  Tried the little lever a few times.  Maybe let them work into it?  Same uninspired noise.  Looked for some oil by basically turning a full circle and not even looking down, knowing that the miracle of gravity being defied would pale in comparison to oil actually existing.  Nope.  No oil floating in the air at eye height.  Plan D was spitting in the blades.  It's worked before.  But not on clippers.  I fired the clippers and reached for the new razor.

How bad could it be right?  Pretty bad.  Hop in the shower and apply a generous amount of shaving cream to the dome piece.  Go for the first swipe up the back of the head.  Didn't quite get that stupendous "hair is being cut" sensation, really.  Hmm.  Took a look at the razor, and it was chock full of hair.  Took a feel on the back of my head and maybe a half inch of scalp was, or upper neck was revealed.

So, after a good twenty minutes of shaving, and a mere quarter of my head being shaved, and the shower running low on hot water, I heard Al Pacino from "Any Given Sunday" telling me about fighting for that inch.  "We scratch!  And claw for that inch!"  And so it was.  The clock was running down and I looked like that clown that works with Peter Griffin, Opie.

After what had to be a half hour incursion behind enemy lines, I was out of razor.  The nice little green strip?  Gone.  Bag it.  The razor was out of steam too, looking rusted and stuffed full of hair.  How did it get rusted in half an hour?  It was new.  It would have made a hell of a commercial for Norelco, cause it wasn't saying much for Gillette.   Long story short, just like when I found myself in a car going to a rehearsal for a band I never saw in a land far away, and just like when the deadline for the paper was a few hours away, once that first swipe was made, I was past the point of no return.  Gotta do it to it.  And miraculously, it worked out.  But I didn't have any razor left for my face, so I'm Isaac Hayes for Halloween again, only it's not Halloween, or even close, and I'm white.  "If you see me walking down the street, and I start to cry, each time we meet...Walk on by-e-y..."

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Po flo Jones meets sweet seduction Jenkins

Po flo Jones is JC, my room mate/band mate.  Sweet seduction Jenkins is me.  Tonight was our first rehearsal, or more accurately, the first rehearsal in which I was involved.  It went pretty well.  I'm hesitant to dole out outrageous compliments to musicians.  This is because my parents were professional musicians and I've been around and played with some of the better people from around town.  I'm not talking about the world class, but the good, journeyman class that has a lot of experience.  And they, those like my parents and those they played with are quite good.  There really isn't a comparison in terms of musical knowledge when talking about a band that's getting together with basic guys relative to professionals who played 8 hours a day for years.

However, a talented group with good taste and chemistry can play songs that they can manage very well.  This is what happened tonight.  We played JC's songs.  They sounded good.  It actually sounded a lot better than I thought it would.  If the band stays together with the group that was there tonight, it should be fun and has some potential.

If I can break it down, it goes like this:  JC is on that po flo tip.  Kinda folksy and heartfelt songs.  Pretty changes that aren't overly complex.  My background is a little more on the R&B end of things.  Tonight, the two styles collided with peanut butter and chocolate like results.  Just a good match that sold the best elements of both styles.  I was busting out seduction at it's most seductive, basically annihilating the chords.  Oh, and there were a few solos in there too with a couple no look plunks.  Seduction.

To tell the truth, I was a little relaxed about the whole affair.  We had music in front of us.  Pfft.  I basically just played seduction when I knew what we were doing.  In the times I didn't, I just dropped out like it was part of the song.  So, we'll see where it goes.  The meat head pianist was playing some piano.  I don't really care what you think, that piano was a victim of seduction.  And the folksy genre lost it's innocence.  It's hella funny that I named my style seduction.  I'd be like, "was that too much seduction?"  "Oh no man.  That's just right."  Apparently seduction is now a musical genre.  And when it's sweet seduction Jenkins, that basically means drinks are optional guys.  You can rest assured that the women in ear shot are basically helpless.  Someone's gotta do it.  We are going to record some stuff sometime soon, and maybe I'll put it up so you can be seduced.  Maybe you're introverted and you need to test it out by yourself to gauge your reaction.  It's dangerous to just break out an unknown quantity like SS Jenkins.  So, "play this record as frequently as possible.  Then, as it becomes easier for you, play the record once a day, or as needed", and it feels good.  Ya.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

The road warrior

After talking with Jeremy yesterday, and subsequently waking up on an air mattress in a strange place for the third day/night/whatever time of day I wake, it's confirmed.  I am a road warrior.

the dog and I made friends
It started a few years back when my family departed.  This road wandering and warrioring self just can't shake itself.  And I can't deny it any longer.  Along this road, the one on which I'm warrioring and making war from, I spent some time working with Jeremy.  On one morning, I came in looking as disheveled as a guy without hair can look.  Jeremy looked at me and said, "What?".  I said "You won't believe what I've been doing."  I proceeded...

Hey man, some wild stuff went down last night bro.  All I can tell you is that I woke up on the floor of an abandoned apartment in a twist of blankets next to this girl I hadn't seen or heard from in years.

This piqued his interest further.  And clearly, that wasn't all I could tell him, because I was gonna tell the rest as soon as his look of confusion became one of beckoning.  It did...

Ya man.  I was sitting at the house last night and I needed to do some laundry.  Well, it was cold as hell and I figured I'd come into the office because it's centrally located, you know and closer to any place where I'd actually do laundry.  

He looked expectantly, and with a telling face that basically said, "you haven't told me ish yet man.  Get to it."

So I'm on the phone and striking out.  I even called you and you didn't answer.  All of a sudden, my phone rings and it's a number I vaguely recognize, but have no clue who it is.  I pick it up and it's this girl that lived next door to me on Spinnaker.  Anyway, she asks me what I'm doing.  I tell her I'm just thinking about doing some laundry.  She basically asked if she could come and hang.  She said she needed an alibi for this "bull-ish" restraining order she had.  She said I could come to her apartment as long as I stayed, because she needed an alibi.

The wheels in my mind started turning.  I needed the laundry done, but I wasn't prepared for a slumber party.  She also mentioned that her apartment was empty, which I took to mean something other than totally empty.  I asked if she had a washing machine.  She said she did.  I said, If you get some detergent over there, you have yourself a date.

I got there and it was literally empty.  Something to do with this clown and eviction/cops/restraining order drama.  Perfect.  She had two blankets, some soap, and a box of cleaning agents in the entire place man.  So we get in there and I look around to verify that it is indeed empty.  She starts taking off her clothes right there in front of me.  I turned around and she said "it's nothing you haven't seen before".

She hopped in the tub.  this wasn't a Pretty Woman modesty bath either, with bubbles up to the rim.  She was flopping around like a fish out of water in three inches of non bubbled water, just scrubbing her stuff.  

Then we did the only thing there was left to do in the empty apartment...She put a bootleg version of Taken in her laptop.  Jeremy asked me at the time, "You saw Taken?  How was it?  It looks tight."  I replied, "I don't know.  Looks like it could have been pretty sweet."

After that story, I drank a little coffee and went to the bathroom.  When I came back, there was a picture of Mad Max taped to the wall in front of my desk.  And I'm a Jew, so I can still like Mel Gibson if I want to.  I took one look at it and started busting up laughing.  Before I could quit, Jeremy said through his own laughter, "You're the road warrior fool.  Just on the road, warring."  We both died of laughter like we always did when "working".  I took a measure of pride in that.  "The road warrior".  I was like a little kid playing in the sand box, only it was real life.  Just going from place to place, executing my own brand of justice, to restraining order victims and co workers alike.

So now I'm in Fresno.  The decision was made in less than twenty four hours to pack up my things, which include a mere change of clothes, some socks, a lap top, and a stage piano.  I have no clue what's gonna happen next.  And truthfully, I'm not that concerned.  Maybe the French foreign legion?  If they weren't French, maybe.  I just see the road in front of me.  And the charred ruins of cars, roving rabid dogs, strange shoulder padded miscreants, and even possibly 'Thunderdome', or maybe that's the stadium where the Bulldogs play.  Isn't life fun?  Just moving through your own adventure?  I mean, who needs, cars, mortgages, wives, careers, or a routine?  When you have post apocalyptic desert landscape, such things are for nerds.  Pfft.

And just because I love Tina Turner, you get a bonus video.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Remember the height from which you have fallen

Yikes!  The mac attack found this video on the Mac.  Uhhh, That guy behind the plate bears little or no resemblance to the guy pattering away with his sausage fingers on this computer.  In the video, I look like an uglier and more macho version of my mom.  Which is still pretty good, because she was very good looking.  These days it's a different story.  Time to get it together.  Fortunately my new pad in Fresno (there was emphasis on Fresno, with a little belligerence) isn't the cheesecake factory.  There are a few crucial staples, and by the looks of things, if I roam the neighborhood long enough, I will find a pitbull to chase me, further aiding in my fitness goals.  So, all is not lost.  And while it's unfortunate that none of my friends will see me, it may be good to step away, bone up on piano, go on a diet by default, and get plenty of cardio running from the dogs.  It's like Biggest Loser-Oak Park edition.  Sweet!

Sunday, March 20, 2011


It's looking like Fresno.  In the dead of night, I took to flight, except it was on a road.  The road was 99, but in all other ways it was flight.  The physics of the life in free fall dictate that in a vacuum, any pull whatsoever is coercive to position. I was offered a job playing piano with a really cool guy in Fresno.  Since part time piano doen't pay well, I also got a day job.  Sweet! 

There's not much more to it than that.  We just got done setting up some music equipment, including my stage piano.  My room mate JC was on the verge of breaking every window in the place because his software wasn't working as planned.  With .08 on the clock, he got the stuff working.  Crisis averted.  Fresno.  Sweet.  That's it for now.  Stay tuned.  There's a lot in play here, so something is bound to happen.

Friday, March 18, 2011

When gospel meets dominance

I've been telling anyone who will listen about my Thursday.  As is generally the case, not enough people listened to sate my desire for empathy.  A few shared the experience with genuine concern.  And for the most part I talked to myself about it.  Well, 95% of the portrait of a life in free fall is me talking to myself with the remote possibility of someone enjoying, or otherwise not dreading the experience of hearing about it.  Thursday was a day worth doing, if not hearing about.

Unfortunately, a friend of mine from church, Cheri, passed away suddenly last week.  I didn't know much about her apart from what I learned being with her.  While this information was not comprehensive, it was enough.  Cheri was, in a word, beautiful.  Thursday was her memorial service.  And I volunteered to play piano in the service when asked.

Before getting into the performance, I'd like to say a few things about Cheri.  Some of which I knew, for as I said she was simply beautiful.  She was a spirit of light.  As some who spoke at the funeral described her, she was "a saint", "an angel in disguise", and "simply an angel.  Not in disguise, but clearly seen".  These and other superlatives were used to describe her along with anecdotes that verified the fact.  At memorials, the deceased are always spoken well of.  However, this is typically done out of respect for the dead, where we focus on the fond memories and skirt around the bad.  There was no need for embellishment in Cheri's case.  Sweetness and goodness shot from her eyes and love for the King was her every action.  And love for others.  To hear the speakers tell it, the picture was painted and worth far more than a thousand words.  So, we celebrate her life and have the hope of seeing her again soon.  But the world lost a treasure.  And one that is irreplaceable.

The song we were to perform-for I was simply playing the piano, Kim sang it-was one that I'd never heard.  It was called "We Shall Behold Him".  Wednesday night at around 9pm we listened to it and started rehearsing.  Well, I was given a piece of sheet music, which I don't know how to read.  We began with me trying to play off the sheet music and it was ugly.  There were around ten people there to see the opening salvo and I could feel their desperation, and a few 'outs', like "if you can't get it, just play a song that you know".  After some embarrassing attempts a few of the onlookers filtered out, likely in an effort to distance themselves from what could realistically only be projected as a disaster.  I took a step back and told Kim that I needed a minute to get some chords together.

She printed the lyrics out so I could just write the chords above them.  There was literally no way I could follow along and play with the sheet music.  So, with a non-existent chance of reading off the sheet and a minimal ability to decipher the music, I set about making my own chords.  The song began to take shape.  But I was still playing it differently each time with hopes of stumbling upon those 'right' chords.  We got it together, to a degree, and it sounded good.  That is, the parts that we got through sounded good.

But our lone audience member, for the rest had made a clean break, had to go home.  Kim was her ride.  Even with only a rudimentary version of a song down, we-and when I say we, I mean everyone but me-decided that we would come early the next day to work on it before the service.  The next day rolled around and Kim was late picking me up.  Practice schmactice.  Pfft.  I was a little bit nervous.

I hadn't felt nerves like this since my baseball playing days.  I had pre-game jitters.  But, unlike baseball or writing papers at the last minute, I didn't rely on bravado or being a self described "clutch performer".  There was certainly a bit of that, but it didn't feel right to tackle this on my own merits.  I called on a few of my friends and asked for prayer.  This might sound quaint to some of you, but I not only believe in God, but the power of prayer.  And a humble bearing made more sense to me under the circumstances than hyping myself up as the next coming of Liberace.

Kim showed up a mere 45 minutes late and we bee lined it for the church.  We worked on it for a minute and she said to me, "if you can play it like that, we'll be fine."  I wasn't entirely sure how I played it, but I said "OK".  The song was ingrained sufficiently so that I could feel my way through it.  She asked, "What are we going to do about the beginning and end?"  I said, "give me a couple bars in the beginning and when I get to the F chord, that's your cue.  I'll start playing after you start singing."  With some confusion and uncertainty on her face, she said "OK".  She asked, "What do you want to do about the end?".  I said, "Let's not do any tags or anything.  When you stop singing, I'll whip up a little coda (or alternate ending) and we'll bag it."  She said, "OK".

We still had not played the song through together.  We did have the Lord on our side and some talent though.  The crowd filtered in and they appeared to be a group that took their gospel music seriously.  I was told that we would play after "When the Saints Come Marching in".  Ok, no problem.  And this guy showed up and sat behind the piano five minutes before the service and started messing with the piano, changing the settings.  I hoped it wasn't something I couldn't undo.  The lady in charge of the logistics came to me and whispered in my ear, "he's doing stuff to the piano.  How long will it take you to fix it?".  I said, "I don't know what he did.  Probably only a few seconds."

They played "When the Saints Come Marching in", the "church" version.  The Pentacostal crowd took church to church.  We were then introduced.  I had to tell the other guy, who used a cane, that I needed the piano.  He got up.  I sat down and fixed the settings.  It was dead quiet.  And apparently time to play the song.  I reminded myself about the intro I told myself I would play and hoped the first chord sounded like it did in my mind.  It did.  I got to Kim's cue and she started singing.

Where my mind went during those minutes, I really don't know.  After all the promises of paying attention to her words so I could play with her were shattered as I zoned out, but into the gospel zone.  We were one.  I heard from the congregation, "Sing it girl!".  Sing it indeed.  She sang it.  And then, suddenly, she was no longer singing.  The song was over and it was my turn to whip up a coda.  Coda whipped.  Applause.  Relief.  Tears.  Tears on my face, Kim's face, and nearly every face in the place.  Gospel met with domination.  The result was dominating gospel.

I heard many compliments after the song and managed to keep the bulk of the behind the scenes panic to myself, accepting the compliments with grace and thanks.  But one guy in particular said something to me that I considered the best compliment of all.  His name was Charles and he was a pianist.  He said, "You did it just right.  You didn't try to steal the show, but played some beautiful chords while letting her sing the song.  You guys sounded together, like one unit, not a singer singing and a pianist playing, but one."  Thank you Charles.  I couldn't have been given a better compliment.  And thank you Jesus.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Billy Dee Williams

Apparently that was not all.  But, since I said "that is all" and like the concise message of it (I'm talking about the Falcor tattoo below), it's time for another post, equally deserving of it's own attention.  I'm not gonna lie, I swiped this from another site (click link for more awesome movie tattoos).  I did not create this Billy Dee Williams tattoo, nor put it on my body.  I did find it though.  Awesome.  Yes no?

This is Star Wars Billy Dee, right?  The cape gives it away.  I saw Blackula, and Billy Dee wasn't in it.  I guess the question is, "Where did the Billy Dee Williams' of the world go?"  This guy was just cool as cool gets.  Flowing perm, deep voice, easy smile, and single minded lady-chasi-ness.  Check, check, check, and check.  Fortunately, there's no need for turf wars when it comes to intergalactic cool supremacy.  All time coolest, in my opinion is a toss up between Kirk, Darth, and Billy Dee (I would say Lando, but Lando's only cool because he's Billy Dee).  Each of these singularly dominant cool characters can be carefully qualified to form the inter-galactic cool trifecta.  Coolest white guy?  Kirk.  Coolest black guy?  Billy Dee.  Coolest thing?  Darth.  No problem.

Unfortunately, this level of cool no longer exists.  The delightfully tacky, yet unrefined styles of the 70s and 80s exist only in memory and halloween costumes.  And how did Lando go from some mining in the sky operation to a general in like two scenes?  And what the hell are they mining in the sky?  Air?  Seems like there should be less troublesome ways to get air than build a gravity defying city in the clouds.  These are the questions.

Here's another one that I couldn't sleep on.  No story or questioning of suspect promotions.  Just more 80s dominance.  "Marty!"


Falcor Tattoo.  That is all.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Do you travel through time if you impersonate an impersonator who's impersonating?

I have a question.  If one were to impersonate an impersonator who is impersonating something, do you go through a wormhole or otherwise cause a paradox/tear the fabric of the space-time continuum?  There is broken glass everywhere and I can feel the synapses firing in my brain.  Being limited by my body is frustrating, when my mind is warping through time and space, but my hands and computer will only work so fast.

I agreed to an assignment.  When challenged, my default position is yes I can.  So, upon being challenged to write a term paper, I agreed.  Pfft.  Ten pages?  I can crank out ten pages while brushing my teeth.  Well, I'm not a writer.  Nor am I a nurse.  So, to write this paper, I have to impersonate, first and foremost, a writer.  On top of that, I have to impersonate a writer who knows of such things as nursing.  To sweeten the deal, I was given a short deadline.  But for the final three packets of pink stuff, I not only held off on getting going, but faced a few technical issues along the way; ie-computer crash and expiration of Word program trial.  Now we're talking!  I told the patron of my impersonating of an impersonator skills that I needed some stakes to get going.  A self proclaimed clutch performer, I need the spotlight and some butts in the seats.  She told me, "I fail if I don't get a good grade on it."  The ante has been raised, and the opening bet called.  High stakes?  Check.

So what do I do?  I prime the pump with a little blogging.  I was kinda stressing out earlier, when the due date was over a half day away.  I didn't really know what to do.  Now that the deadline is mere hours away and I only have a couple pages written, I feel alive and am ready to dominate this measly paper.

A word about impersonating.  As an athlete, there are two ways to go when pursuing excellence.  One is to practice in a results oriented manner until some synthesis of proficiency is attained.  In this way, through trial and error, one develops a technique through which success hopefully results.  The other is to act like a successful athlete in the field excellence is sought.  If you want to run faster, watch an olympic sprinter and copy their technique.  In order to hit a ball better, you watch Barry Bonds and duplicate the swing.  When using the second technique, one learns to evaluate based on the feeling of the person being mimicked.  You visualize their swing, or sprint, and feel the way it feels.  You learn the body movements by putting your mind in their body.  After doing this, and becoming familiar with your own body, you learn to mentally occupy other's bodies.

The same can be done in the mental arena.  Actors call it the method.  By scrutinizing the language of experts in a field, you can become them.  With language, there is always inherent ambiguity.  Meaning is only conveyed through a conventional understanding of what a speaker is trying to say.  And with a sufficient overlap of common terms, meaning is then conveyed to the hearer.  It would seem that the ambiguity would be harmful in joining minds.  It actually helps.  Because of this, one can discern the shortcuts employed to gain an understanding of basic meaning.  If the neurosis of projection can be managed, then it becomes tenable to perform, on a basic level, as one expert in a field.

The stakes are sufficiently high, and with the reprieve of my computer working I'm ready to tackle this.  The pump is primed and I can smell the scorched synapses of my brain.  There's broken glass everywhere and it makes me laugh.  Maniacally.  So here's to another eleventh hour performance.

Who on Earth would let me write their final?  Muhuhahahahahahahaha!  And beware the ides of March.

Sunday, March 13, 2011


I was talking with an old friend the other day and somehow the subject of cross-dressing came up.  And when I say somehow, what I mean is I was telling her about one of my cross dressing exploits.  My mom taught me that a real man is secure, after all.  Maybe I'm taking that too far?  So that's how the cross dressing subject came up.  I even admitted that I was pretty hot when an old girlfriend made me up in high school.  I got a polite, but uncomfortable chuckle in response.  Because too much is never enough for me, I further elaborated on another cross-dressing situation.  After telling her about it she asked me in a somewhat serious manner, "You didn't blog that.  Did you?" in a way that basically said you should keep that to yourself at all costs.  I said, "No.  But I will."  And here we are.

The place was Hawaii, during a road trip while playing for Sac State.  It was a week long trip.  The last day and a half was basically a vacation.  After our last game, I made a pit stop on the way home at one of the ever present ABC stores.  If you've been to Hawaii, then you know the store.  If not, believe me when I say that they are on nearly every corner.  And they had HG Olde English 800.  So I got two forties.

Now, in order to keep this PG, I'll not explicate the depths of my depravity on this trip, but for subtle innuendo.  The fact that I was a mere year removed from Chico State should be enough to fill in whatever blanks there may be.  And I have a few blanks of my own regarding the night in question.  By the time we left the hotel, I was in no position to drive.  And we were just getting started.

The game plan was to go to "Moose McGillicutties'", or something like that.  On the way we stopped at Hooters where wings and amber colored refreshments were obliterated.  Being the Chico trooper I was, I refused to leave any of the brew in the cauldron.  We moved on in the way large groups do-disorganized, circumnavigating, and with stops at any number of places to meet the various needs of the group's members.  Three stops along the way.  Three roadside bars visited.  Somehow, in Hawaii they can just put tiki huts with cash registers and abundant booze along the road.  You know, for those drivers who are stressed out by the lazy tempo of Hawaii life.  Then again, we may not have been stopping on roads, because as near as I could tell at that point, we were in a car and then at a bar.  My conclusion is bars on the road, but there could have been some stuff between.

We get to the spot and I'm...compromised.  Not only am I in no shape to drive, but I'd make confetti come out of a breathalizer if I managed to stuff one between my lips.  The door guy gets one look at me and says "you can't come in.  You're too drunk."  Being the clutch performer that I am, I somehow, almost magically look him in the face and say "what are you talking about dude?  I've had like two beers."  Uh, ya, like two forties, two pitchers of beer, and three long islands, and two miller lites back at the hotel.  He says, "Oh, sorry man.  Go ahead."  So I play plinko up the stairs, bouncing off of the walls that are at least six feet apart.

In the club, I order another drink and fall in love.  With a real woman.  She's nice.  I smoothly approached her and said, "shhhzzmbn %3loidfoghu ldkgjah huh?"  And I probably pointed at the door.  Apparently my hard to get routine made her lose interest.  Strike one.  I moved on.  And when I say I moved on, I mean I turned my head a little bit because I wasn't in any rush to move.  This troll thing tried to take advantage of me.  After some licentious bartering, I declined her advances and literally moved on.  Smoothly.  Strike two.

In walks a 'goddess'.  (S)he had a crew too.  How much time passed between her walking in and me talking to it-I'll never know.  It seemed that (s)he came immediately.  She introduced himself.  And wrote it's number down.  The details are starting to blur for me.  After a little banter, I was ushered away by a local.  "Hey bro, I don't know you brah, but I gotta tell you that chick is a man brah".  I was astonished.  And hurt.  I went to the person, and sadly 'Crocodile Dundeed' him.  Inconclusive.  I asked, "Is it true!?"  I have no clue what was said.  And I remember walking in the hallway at the hotel.  And waking up the next day.

The depths that these lady men will sink to.  The deception employed.  You'd think they would at least have the decency to give some kind of clue, right?  I mean, how was I supposed to know that a six foot tall Philipino girl named 'Butterscotch' was a man?  Pfft.  The nerve, right?  I found out two years later from one of the freshman on the trip that I got kicked out of the club for starting a fight with him.  I didn't hurt him or anything.  But it's good to know that I went home alone on bad terms with this predatory ladyman.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

March 10th, a day that will live in infamy

Every time I see the date, 'March 10', one thing comes to mind.  This is the day I completely crushed my ankle's spirit.  Something about the aesthetic simplicity of 3 10 03 makes it stand out even more for me.  But trust me when I say that the injury itself was enough to make it memorable.

The season was off to a pretty good start at Sac State.  This was my first year with the Hornets.  I came to love the team and my team mates.  Per usual, I made a bad first impression with nearly everyone.  But, the other catcher and I bonded in earnest one day while raking home plate.  The assistant coach was bragging about this ability to hit fungos.  To short stop.  Matt and I weren't listening, but we could hear.  "Man am I good or what?"  Uh, bro, you're hitting two hoppers to short from like right in front of the mound.  My effing philosophy teacher could do that in heels.  So, my response was to sing...

That's right. Loud enough for Wilson and I to enjoy, but certainly loud enough for the coach to hear, I let my song pour forth, "You're the best, around.  Nothing's gonna ever keep you down."  We died, dropped our rakes, and bonded.

Back to the story, March ten rolls around and we're playing some soft team from the East.  Dartmouth, I think.  It was one of the first sunny days of the year and I was fired up.  I was also raging from copious amounts of ephedrine and andro, feeling like Lattimore from 'The Program'.  After hitting a shot to right in the first, I was on base and fired up.  I don't look for signs, by the way.  I think it was Lavier who hit the six hopper to second.  I ran.  At the bag, I couldn't make up my mind on whether to take the guy out, which was against the rules, or slide straight in.  Somehow, through my aggression, following the rules won out.  I slid into the base and my toe caught the bag.  And spun my foot around.  Ouch.

Writhing around on second base I notice the hush in the stands somehow and it hits me that this is serious.  Immediately, the Ivy League middle infielders call for help.  The trainer came out, took one look, made a stern face, and pulled his cell phone out.  Fifteen seconds later I hear, "Ya, an ambulance.  The Sac State baseball field.  Uh huh.  Pretty bad. Hurry."  Hurry indeed.

As I was being carted off, I made eye contact with my pops and told him to bring my dip to the hospital.  And I instructed the ambulatory personnel to get some morphine going.  Stat! 

Lent Schment

I keep my ear to the ground.  I know what's going on some of the time too.  It would seem that there's some talk of lent rattling around.  I'm gonna go ahead and say now that I think lent is a bunch of hooey.  Not for the reasons one may suspect, but hooey nonetheless.

I don't do new year's resolutions.  I don't do lent.  I disagree with the premise of regimented self improvement, or at least scheduled self improvement.  Maybe it would be more accurate to say that I disagree with allowing what one deems 'good behavior' to be put in a box, or on a calender.  If quitting smoking is gonna be good to do on January first, then it's good on December ninth, or whenever.  If upon self examination a weakness or unwanted trait is brought to light, then deal with it the right way.  And at the right time.  The right time is always now.  Now, don't misunderstand me, I am sympathetic to the fact that we have vices and can empathize with self delusion.  It's that once the decision is made to do something about it, we must act.  Putting it off willfully will only harden our hearts to the effects. 

The Bible talks about this, as God gives people over to their own desires.  Their downfall doesn't come as a coerced punishment, but literally being given what they want.  The psychological world calls it cognitive dissonance.  If a person's aims and actions are incompatible, then something is going to give.  Generally, it is the aims that give way to the actions, where bad behavior is accepted and then justified.  Whether more inclined to accept God's word or psychology, as a practical matter, it is destructive to disregard, and ultimately sear one's conscience.

Now, as a religious practice I find lent to be distasteful; if not in it's conception, certainly in it's modern practice.  Hearing it spoken of, it's like some secret santa gift exchange for depravity.  "Should I give up hookers or booze?  Or maybe I'll just not get blackout drunk."  "I'm giving up sex for lent."

Obviously, my opinion is that if you think you shouldn't be having sex, then don't.  But let's be real here.  Jesus went in the desert without food for 40 days.  So, to kinda throw your hat into the ring with that with "I'll try to not hump my girl for lent" is preposterous.  It's like those guys who re-live a watered down crucifixion with straps instead of Railroad spikes.  Ya sure, I get that you're appreciative, but the claim that you "want to do what your King did" is insulting to His sacrifice.  I know Mel isn't Mr, Popular right now, but his treatment of the scene was probably the closest dramatization we're gonna see.  I don't see those freaks in South America doing that.  It's more like tying their arms at shoulder height for a few minutes.  I'm not doubting the motivation or the faith.  I'm just suggesting we be mindful of the message.

The premise behind Jesus' life was love and sacrifice and humility.  And that He did these things when He didn't have to, but out of love "for the joy set before Him", which is our salvation.  Well, imagine that you were inclined to give someone a gift.  An expensive one.  Out of the goodness of your heart.  No expectation of repayment.  You give a friend a car.  Well, if that same friend turned around and bought you a toaster as if to make it square, wouldn't it be insulting?  I'm not talking about them giving for the sake of giving, but offering a silly trinket, like "since you bought me the car, I got you a toaster.  Only seemed fair." 

That's kinda how I view people competing with God's salvation for our souls with certain actions and self imposed penitence.  It's like, don't cheapen a gift by trying to pay for it.  Pay it forward in love.  That's the deal.  We are to live by the example, to the extent we can and are led to, not reciprocate.  Ain't gonna happen.

That's my deal on lent and New Year's Resolutions.  If you see something that could use some work, put in some work.  Because it's the right thing to do.  Accept gifts graciously.  Accept grace graciously.  Be glad for mercy.  And be merciful.  This may be a little sappy, but it's po flow as far as I'm concerned.  Channel 19!

Monday, March 7, 2011


Ok, so the video isn't the best start for some po flo reminiscing.  This, like so many other things, reminds me of my mom.  I'm literally going to fall apart over the mere mention of her name.  I could never talk about her enough.  If, as I channeled her periphrastic ways, I spoke her until my voice gave out, I would not adequately describe what is to me, goodness.  But these memories are actually of another sort.  These are the past brought to the present.  And the way I was was good.

I've talked to many people since joining FB that I had no realistic hope of talking to again.  And there is a common thread.  These friends, for they are friends, like me for me.  Though they may not recognize the ashes that I have become, they encourage me to be the beauty that will come from these ashes.  Without fail, these friends have encouraged me to be me.  Looking back on the fun and loving child, and being able to see a kernel of him in this faulted man brings me life. 

It has been a point of pride, of sorts, that I am immature.  Or youthfully playful.  Even as I am prepared to discard those things from the past, I'm shown that they don't have to be fully discarded.  In this drama, what good is it to lose your soul for other profits?  I like my soul.  And it sings.  Even with the faults, and through the pain, I realize that this nature has allowed me to deal with monumental tragedy with little porosity.  Time to turn the page?  Absolutely.  But this book is good.  And going to get better.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Crackhead throwing (Don't watch if you're disturbed by crackheads being thrown)

I'm gonna keep it short.  The video speaks for itself.  The title of the video is an apt description.  This is possibly the funniest thing that's not only ever been recorded, or ever actually occurred, but the funniest thing that's ever been conceived.  Larry David couldn't have thought this up on an acid bender.  Enjoy!  And you're welcome.


Ok, so I don't really know where to start with the shit show that is facebook.  Let's get one thing straight, in the interest of full disclosure, identifying and overcoming biases, and all that-I'm straight up stone age.  I literally felt like Link from 'Encino Man', just marveling at the simplest technologies.  For instance, the way it all started was with a guy who I thought was my friend and we were totally honest with each other, duping me into joining over a game of Scrabbs.  "Oh ya bro, we can play all the time on facebook," and "your blog is awesome bro, if you want anyone to read your genius rantings, you gotta get on face book.  Totally."  I asked, quite pointedly, "will we be playing scrabbs in like two minutes?"  He was evasive.  He finally came around with "yes".  Boom.  Done.  This fool was requesting friends for me like it was going out of style.  I felt like a superstitious gypsy, looking under the bed for spies and muses or gnomes or something that was giving him this remote power.  He's sending me stuff and I don't even know where to look.  I'm irrationally shy about writing anything cause I don't know where it's going.  My man Deej said the FBI was on to me and I rushed to the window to look out the blinds.  Mayhem!

So, today was just a tsunami, only I was riding it on a box of cheerios, not a mercury board.  And before we go any further, what about this?
John Pollard-IDK, could be?
I mean, is this the guy I went to elementary school with?  Is there anyway to know?  More importantly, can he track what I'm up to and kill me in my sleep?  Can I get over the looking under the bed thing, or is that gonna be a fixture in my life?  These are the questions.

I'm just gonna say that the facebook deal felt like a government experiment in which people were magically infused (or medicinally, whatever) with Tiger blood with the recessive ADD trait, and then pumped full of ADD exacerbating meds.  The only thing I can liken it to is Beer Can Beach in Chico, when the Girls Gone Wild chopper was hovering overhead.  And everyone was just too nuts to really convey any thoughts, only react to stimuli.  Like animals.  It seemed that everyone was talking as fast as they could type, and rarely responding appropriately to any queries of greater import than "what's up?"

Somehow, I have like 150 friends after a few hours of facebooking.  Just people coming out of the woodworks.  I'm not gonna lie, that guy above has me sweating bullets right now.  This post would have been up five hours ago if it weren't for the tennis match like parrying my alter-egos were engaged in, "He lives far away"-"He looks crazy"-"You're an adult man"-"He looks crazy"-"Why would he care?"-"He seems imbalanced" and on and on it went.  Basically, it's the fact that anyone who knew John Pollard, and sees that pic and considers for even a fraction of a second that that might be him will die of laughter that won out.

I think Denzel Washington requested me to add him as a friend today.

Now that that's out of the way, the total experience was actually pretty good.  However, either I'm the only honest person on facebook, which would make sense since I'm not up on the norms and mores of facebook etiquette, or I'm the only one who's act isn't together.  Which doesn't bother me.  I saw more pictures of my friend's beautiful families and children than I could shake a stick at.  And I mean that.  To all of you who have pictures of your families on there, I literally didn't see one that I won't strive to have when I do get a family together.  And I commend you all.

Quick rundown, we had Miranda Vera, Elizabeth Donner or some such shit, uh Joe Gocke, Anton O., so he's still kickin, Lauren Cusick, Tom Geneste-who like Charlie Sheen is flies F-18s- and that's effing sweet, (note to self, find Monroe and ask Deej his last name, and David Swanger), Scott Esposto, who looked so guidoed and creeped out it was laughable, I tried to find that blonde haired freak Jeremy... Alfsen?, and Shagon Brown-"that's cold!", but I did find Israel Mcgee, cousin to Willie Mcgee and Terrence Mcgee of the Bengals circa 91, Eireanne Laskey, or tomatoes as Jahsh and I used to say, I may or may not have found John Pollard, Barkham Ballard, who as it turns out represented OP in hometown, and I followed suit, uh, Jessica Mathies- with a freakin crew cut- but she's still beautiful, Megan J., who I identified by a picture of her daughter having the same buffed face that she had in elementary school, and i even gave a cursory look see for Richard Adams, Al Roundtree, and Adam Armstrong.  FYI, apparently Al Roundtree is a culturally biased name, toward the Afro-centric end of the spectrum.  Ironic, since Al was a freaking cracker of the crackerest order.  Cest la vie.  I don't even know what that means.  There's more, but come on.

Even though I was overwhelmed by the whiz-bang-doohickery of the social network, I'm glad I went.  I think.  Definitely glad to have dug up some old friends.  And I heeded the sage advice of a girl, who is in no way an ex, to stay away from the exes.  Except for the instances in which it was unavoidable, or I was mildly curious, I adhered to this advice.  And it's funny.  I praise all of you for having beautiful children, but couldn't suppress my laughter in the instances of mothering exes.  We can just chalk that up to immaturity.  Doesn't bother me.

Note-The gratuitous use of the phrase, "It doesn't bother me" was solely for the enjoyment of Pete, my most steadfast reader.  So Pete, you gotta chime in on that.

Double note-I tried to find Edmond To.  Without elaborating, I challenge anyone to sift through the Edmond Tos and convince me they aren't all the same person.  Interests-computers.  Friends-similar sounding chinese names.  The only deviation was apparently one of the Ed Tos is pals with the great Clarence Carter.  Trust me when I tell you...They were strokin.
Quick question.  Was I the only one watching the video jukebox on channel 23 the one time this song came on?  And if so, am I the only one that knew the lyrics?  If you got all the way through this travesty of a blog post, but didn't watch at least the beginning of Strokin, then you're buying high and selling low.

Triple note-And this is it, I promise.  If we're gonna find the Mark Louie's of the world, it's gonna take some teamwork.  Like two sets of eyes and maybe an FBI sketch artist.  I'm just saying.
Is this Mark Louie?  Am I the only one who cares about whether or not we find Mark Louie?  that's gotta be him, right?  Ya, don't be so sure of yourself till you get a look at the other eight Mark Louies. 

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Overactive while inactive

Super sweet.  Sleep is a pipe dream.  If being disposed toward not sleeping weren't enough, I feel like death and am sickly not sleeping.  Even with burning hot eyes that beg for the weighty pull of sleepy eyelids, slumber will not come.  It would seem that my eyelids are F-18s.  It would also seem that I don't sleep.  I wait.  Victory, however, seems removed from the current scenario.

I have envisioned visions and revisions of songs-old and new.  The chord is a marvelous thing, being rigidly defined by the intervals between notes.  Whichever key a thing is played in, if the same math is applied to a different key, the same progression will result.  And yet, some songs belong in certain keys.  Moonlight Sonata in A?  Ha!  If not C# minor, then not 'Moonlight'.

When playing a diminished chord, rather than going through the trouble of figuring out which notes within the chord should be flatted or merely minor, a better method is to play a 7 chord a half step below and move the tonic up to the chord in question.  Duh.  As the 7 chord is played a half step low, and the tonic brought up, then the relative positioning for the rest of the notes is minor third, flat 5 and flat 7.  I didn't go to Juliard or anything, but I believe that is a diminished chord.

Even F-18s have to run out of fuel, right?  But what of time, which so easily passes when having fun, but persists deliberately when not?  Is time or is it not a definite thing?  Should we trust clocks when the more appropriate measure of time is when something is done?  Sure, when boiling noodles, we would be wise to use a clock, but why is that more valid than sitting down at a piano and simply playing until finished?  If time were defined more definitely by a subjective measure, then ten minutes, while being empirically verifiable would be like measuring a half inflated balloon and grading it with marks.  If, for instance, one measured out ten centimeters at real centimeter intervals on a half inflated balloon, then once the balloon were inflated fully, the marks would still be indicative of a distance, but further apart according to a fixed position.  What then of the person who saw the balloon, closed their eyes, backed up ten feet and viewed the balloon again when fully inflated-only to experience the same distance between marks because of the increased distance in viewing?  Or, what if we lived in the balloon and became inflated with it?  The change would be our little secret.  Why isn't time like that?  Or, more appropriately, is time like that and we are merely slaves to the ideal of constancy?

Time is more like that than we venture to believe.

Our world is so wild, "our faces would melt off and our children would weep over our exploded bodies", if we only knew.  Why do we trust our senses?  Hmm?  Because of consistency?  People believed the world was flat for the very same reason.  The only tautological statement in humankind is that unqualified statements are always wrong.  Remember the allegory of the cave?  No?  Look it up.  It should be learned at some point, and now is as good as any, that we only approach, at times, the truth, or real nature of things.  The problem is that with each new discovery, if it were graphed, the new finding takes a greater preponderance of correctness when compared to preceding theories.  For example, with a new discovery, the discoverer has discounted one more thing than the discoverer before.  And is therefore at the cutting edge.  The resulting impression is that we now have it figured out.  Through the ambiguity of language, scientists have convinced themselves that the "best" solution is the absolutely "good" solution, and are in an absolute sense, correct.

Sailing the winds of the universe with goddesses is sounding better and better.  I'm for sure not there yet, but I'll spare everyone.  Channel 19!

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Warm it up

So I'm getting a little cultural here, just two days after Black History Month ended.  Two reasons.  One:  I don't conform to societal whims, nor do I jump when the bodies that be say-and entrench myself in our beloved black history when they tell me to.  And two:  The more important reason, Rondelicate Baptiste jumped in the gutter with me just like a rat should.  If I have to sell out and put rap videos on my blog, so be it.  I'm appealing to my audience here.  And if you don't like Ritchie Ritch...Well I can't help you.  For now, you guys can ride without me cause I'm on the shelf with a flu or some other apocalyptic bug that would make your head spin.  I got de ja vu when this happened last night...

I thought I'd seen that somewhere before, but in my delirious state I can't be sure.  So I'll catch you on the rebound and Audi 5,000.  Peace!