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?

Circumloquacious

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.

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.

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..."

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.

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.

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!

Fresno

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.

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.

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!"