But I *really* have to go

For some reason, when I was house hunting in 2000, I wanted a house on a mature lot. I wanted trees, with shade and something that looked established. The idea of a new home in one of those subdivisions where the saplings are still begin supported by posts really annoyed me. Those homes seemed so, like – I dunno – out in the open.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I bought a home with three GI-fucking-NORMOUS trees that freak me the fuck out during every Spring Midwestern wind storm … and that dump about 3 million tons of leaves all over my property, including on my roof in the Fall. Furthermore, it takes two hours to mow the bitch, front and back, with a self-propelled lawn mower. Don’t ask me – I have no idea why I did this.

So, I found this retired old man who makes a living from mowing lawns and keeping shrubbery sort of under control. He comes over often to maintain – although not nearly as often as I should ask him to – ask my neighbors who likely curse me for not mowing on a regular basis. They’re meticulous with the lawn and mine gets to about 8 inches before I ask old man to mow it.

Anyway, so I have this line of pine trees along the back of the property, separating me and the backyards of the neighbors on the next street. Anyway, underneath these pine trees is the best kept patch of weeds in this hemisphere. I mean, some of them are as tall as me. So, I asked old man to clear it out. I just don’t have the time, so whatever, I’ll help him pay his alimony to his ex-wife.

I came back home last week from one business trip or another and realized that he did half the work two weeks before when I was last home and never came back. There’re tree limbs and crap all over the lawn back there. So, I called him to make sure he was ok. I mean – he NEVER does half a job. Well, apparently, he’s fine … now. He left because I’ve got poison oak back there and he broke out.

I totally felt bad. I mean – I had no idea. Apparently, he came back to spray the bitches and then will return when it’s all dead to clear it out. But here’s the reason for this post: he told me he broke out pretty bad and even had it on his balls.

Someone please explain to me how a grown ass man gets up and leaves the premises because he realizes he’s breaking out from this poison oak … and he take a goddam piss before washing his hands! That shit makes no sense to me – I know that poison oak didn’t crawl up his shorts because the mother fucker doesn’t wear shorts, and poison oak isn’t that plant from Little Shop of Horrors. You can’t exactly sit there and WATCH it grow. So, the only explanation I have is that his bare hands touched his bare balls – and I refuse to consider that he was frolicking alone in the poison oak.

My mother-in-law said it best: stupid, dumb-ass rednecks. smh

Evolution of Indifference (2)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: The Bald Black Woman


I knew I was special. I just knew it. Even as a child I knew the potential in me, but knowing that it was merely a potential insulted me. I hated it, I absolutely hated it. I hated that no one could see how special I was.

Tears.

You already know that my parent's divorce affectly me very little. It was external to me, and I didn't care -- it wasn't my issue. In fact, I began to bask in their trials because I could use it as an excuse to cry. Forever.

Realization.

You can cry a lot because of a divorce. Adults in school fed me attention, and fed me attention. I knew I was different, I knew I was special, and although all the glory was given me under the guise of "child of a now-single mom," attention was *still* given to me. I loved it.

In fact, I cried everyday. All day, even. And milked the issue so badly, I was given a guidance counselor.

Tears.

I didn't realize it, but all that crying was making me vulnerable. My guidance counselor was convinced that my parents' divorce was earth-shattering for me because I wouldn't look her in her face. We talked about my not being able to look at her during our sessions.

Tears.

I couldn't do it because I thought that she, with all her status, would look into my eyes and see the feeble little different boy-- she was trained to do it, after all. I was afraid she would find me out and tell my class, tell my teacher, tell my mom, tell my brother, tell my friends,
tell everyone. They would all find out if this bitch were to look into my eyes. Hang down your head, kid -- Hang it LOW.

We played Tic-Tac-Toe on a wooden board with brass sleeves. The X's and O's were brass as well. I stared at them the entire time, never taking my eyes off of the non-fleshy brass that could not see in my eyes the fact that I was lying, that I was indeed different.

But I thought the brass knew. I was convinced it knew. I would think to them, and they could hear. They knew. They knew I was "different." I grew to like that weekly hour of mindless Tic-Tac-Toe game after Tic-Tac-Toe game. The X's and O's and I could silently talk about real shit, and they couldn't open their big fat mouths, if for NO other reason than they simply didn't have mouths.

My counselor was a black woman. Bald, kinda. At least that's what I considered it then. I don't recall her name - don't ask why. It took me a while to get accustomed to her because of all the prejudices instilled in me as a younger kid, but because I was staring at the brassy letter on the table, the color of her skin blended away and the soothing murmurings of her vocal cords could sooth me.

At some point during the school year, it no longer mattered that I was the only 6th grader with a counselor (trust you me, that's a good excuse to cry too), it was not an issue that no one at home cared that I was in counselling (another tear jerker), none of it mattered.

The only thing that mattered to me was meeting that woman and hearing her voice every week, even if she *was* black. The color of her skin was no longer a threat to me -- it was a comfort now. Everything about her was a comfort. I talked, she listened. She told me I had
good things to say. She wanted to know about my week. I mattered to that bald, black woman.

She was teaching me a lot -- she had answers to each and everything I cried about. So, I would listen and know she was right. I was beginning to learn all sorts of ways to handle the things she thought were adversely affecting me, that made me cry.

At first I thought she was a fool for believing my reasons for crying (LADY! I'M FUCKING DIFFERENT) but then I decided to start filing her advice about things that weren't even issues with me in the back of my mind.

Oh and they were gonna be real; all those issues conjured up by the mind of a 10 year old would soon be realities in my life. And when they became real issues for me, I handled them well -- all because of that bald, black woman.

But at ten years old, she a fool to me -- she did nothing to tackle the real issue. There was no emotion in there -- she was a girl.

Tears.

Caption Contest - Aug 08

In your comments, please include a new caption for the end of this video. (This should be interesting)

The State (un)Fair

I went to the Indiana State Fair today. The weather was perfect, a beautiful, partly cloudy 84 degrees or so. Grandma and I took the kids and she invited the 8 year old of a coworker. And if you don’t already know this, the game completely changes when the children outnumber the adults. One-on-one play just went out the window with the inclusion of a third child – I prepared myself to have to work in zones.

Across the street from the fairgrounds, behind the fairgrounds actually, is a residential neighborhood, mostly Black. These people ain’t stupid – they were charging $5 per car to park on their front lawns. I mean EVERY house was doing this. I parked there; after all, it was cheaper than the state fair parking and actually SO much closer to all the action. But I would be lying if I didn’t take every last thing of value with me.

At any rate, this child is a spoiled brat. By the time we dropped well over $100 on rides and games, I started to wind it down. She said she wanted to play one more game and I said we were done. This 8 year old responded by saying that she saw her father give us money and she wanted to use it now. Grandma gave her $10 and I told her she was crazy. Grandma’s reasoning is that since she invited she should take care of her. My response was the same: “You crazy.”

But the real reason for this post is that I want to acknowledge that I do indeed spoil my kids. I admit it. But simultaneously, I discipline them and refuse to allow them to be bratty. They are NOT spoiled brats. For instance, this child (who is White, by the way) told my daughter that she has a Nintendo DS. My daughter has been asking for one for at least 6 months, to no avail. My daughter, suddenly excited about having a discussion about a DS (it’s by far her favorite topic) asks this girl, “did you have to earn it?”

The quizzical look on this child’s face said it all. My daughter says, “you know what I mean – EARN it.” She shakes her head. My daughter says, “Grandma, will you tell her what I have to do to get a DS?” Grandma says, “no, you tell her.”

“I have to get straight A’s”

Yes, folks – my daughter is in first grade and she can have a Nintendo DS for Christmas this year if and ONLY if she does perfectly in school. Yet, the 8 year old in second grade has no idea what it means to “earn” something.

But it gets better – her dad gets here to pick up the spoiled brat. And she starts screaming at her dad, “daddy, can I sleep over! Daddy, please!” And I’m in the room like – WTF! I call out to my daughter, because this should have been discussed with me first. However, by this point, this man is in the foyer considering it. And quite frankly, I don’t blame him one fucking bit.

So, I just got punked by a 6 and 8 year old. Not to be outdone, though, I asked dad if there was anything his daughter couldn’t eat. “No, she can eat anything … well, except rat poison.”

JACK: “Oh, don’t worry – that’s only for when the kids won’t go to sleep by midnight.”

Amazingly, he STILL let his daughter spend the night. I must say I’m impressed with his ability to keep up. He said, “well, I guess it’s a good thing it’s just a blood thinner.”

JACK: “Well, I see you know a whole lot more about rat poison than I do.”

OTHER DAD: “It doesn’t really poison them, it just thins their blood to the point that the heart can’t pump it.”

I think dad punked me too. At that point, I thought it best I keep his child.

Laugh with me (again)

Whose Line is it Anyway has been one of my favorite shows. I used to watch it as a teenager whenever I went to my father's house for the weekend. He happened to have cable. But this here episode? OMG - there's no introduction I have that could give it justice. Just watch:

JACK ain't no snitch

So, there I was – minding my own business. I was sitting at the Billy Goat Café in downtown Chicago, on a stool facing the window and out into the street. I sat with my coworker, silently eating the best ham and cheese omelet EVER and grunting occasionally at my coworker when her Black ass wanted to say something. I can talk a good game, yes – but when I’m THAT hungry and am enjoying a meal THAT much … I bury my face in my plate and shovel in the calories as fast as humanly possible. So, I grunt (not unlike “The Ox.”)

But then my coworker said something interesting – she pointed out that that Black Cadillac SUV just came back. Sure enough, there it was. The same SUV that had just left. The two dudes in the front seat shook hands and the passenger disembarked and jaywalked onto the other side of the street. I commented on his ridiculous style, having an untucked polo shirt over some khakis with some sneakers on, and a back pack hanging off his right hand as he crossed the street. I mean, was he being professional or no – pick one.

And then she says that she was sure it was a drug deal. I considered the situation and forgot that I was hungry like a famished orphan with a bloated belly. And I agreed. The white dude driving the Cadillac was all of 25, if he was a day – and the SUV was FULLY loaded. Right there in front of me, a sidewalk’s width away, I could see the plush leather seats through the open passenger side window and the kiddy looking White dude with curly hair cascading down from his ball cap. (Whether or not it was fitted I could not tell) My coworker nods and proceeds to eat.

I nudge her a few moments later and we stare as a second white dude (as white as the half professional/half skateboarder that just walked away into the crowd across the street) boards the Black Cadillac, holding an open bottle of beer. Yes, it’s early enough for Billy Goat’s to be serving ham and cheese omelets and this cracker is drinking. That was odd in and of itself – but right there, in front of God and EVERYONE … an exchange. The driver takes his cash, the two shake hands and the alcoholic (and druggie, apparently) disembarks and heads across the same street as the semi-skateboarder.

“mhmm,” says my co-worker is perfect Black-woman-with-an-attitude fashion and we just stare at each other. She proceeds to discuss how that if it was a Black 25 year old driving a fully loaded Cadillac SUV, the Black dude would’ve been pulled over just for driving it. But this cracker right thurrr – he’s innocuous. And then – IT HITS ME.

“Girl, the problem is that if YOU AND I were White, we’d have the license plate number and be hanging up the phone with 911 right now.”

We stare at each other dumbfoundedly, stunned at our own incompetence. We sat there watching an illegal drug deal, had all the data available to us in order to anonymously report this crime and neither one of us could even tell you if the license plates were in- or out of state. What we COULD tell you was that the driver was White, about 25, both clients were white too, the car was FLY AS FUCK, fully loaded with plush leather and that the sunroof was open. The driver’s hair was curly and his hat was on backwards.

License plate? Nothing.

It’s the epitome of the world we live in. If the roles were reversed and the White people were in the restaurant watching the minorities exchange money for drugs – the cops would’ve been called. But in this scenario – the minorities just walked away, shaking our heads, talking about how unfair the world is.

So, while we ain’t snitches – we both agree … we SO should’ve gotten all the information we needed to report these damn mother fuckers. But our instinct was not to snitch.

I’m not sorry for feeling like this – perhaps it was better this way. White on White crime is just fine with me. If the buyer was a young Black or Latino … I probably would’ve perceived it differently. But whatever … go ahead, Curly – dope up them White boys.

But I must admit – THIS drug dealer didn’t look like a user. Yet another difference between the US and the THEM. Every last mother fucking pusher in *my* community dips into his own stash. What a pity – them White people have even perfected dealing drugs! Fuckers.

The Evolution of Indifference

In 1998 I began to write an autobiography. Its title is the title of this blog post. I got through three chapters that April and never picked it back up. For some odd reason, I got to thinking about it again recently and thought that maybe this blog might be a good place to try it out. I figure that if you comment and tell me it's boring as fuck and to get back to the hysteria, then my having abandoned it was the right decision. If, however, I get feedback that I should continue, I'll be at a crossroads. I will have to seriously confront the reality that, much like most things in my life, I didn't follow through and should have. So, for your viewing pleasure - here's the first chapter:

***Chapter 1: Tears of Difference***

I was an emotional wreck. I'm not talking about any particular day, here -- I mean as a child, and in general. The most inconsequential things made me cry. It didn't help being the epitome of everything any malicious 5th grader could conjure up to tease some less fortunate classmate about. See, I was always Mr. Less Fortunate. Always. Mr. shortest, Mr. youngest, Mr. nerd, Mr. quiet, Mr. sissy ... You know, Mr. Less Fortunate.

My parents' divorce was just another one of those things that happened external to me. I too soon in life learned not to give a fuck about things that did not directly affect my feelings. You see, I was driven by my feelings. They were at the forefront of every one of my efforts. Simply put: I did what I *felt* like doing. So, usually, I cried.

You'd be surprised at how much attention you get as a child if you cry, especially if you do it often. What an outpouring. But the reality behind the issue that made me cry made that incessant outpouring fruitless. Adults everywhere tried to help me through each and every little thing that scarred me; no one knew that each and every time, those things were fictitious. I made them all up. How do you tell mom or dad that your everyday issue, the thing that always makes you cry is the complete and thorough understanding that you're different than everyone else? Different than them. Different than your brother. Different than your friends. Different than everything on TV. Different. Just different. How?

You don't, that's how. You bottle it all up in this secret chamber within you, a chamber that, for me, sat where my adam's apple was to be. I collected it all, bore it all, and it's only release was a good long hard cry. Anywhere. Because it didnt matter. If I was at the dinner table and was about to implode? Tears. If I was hauling my books to school and halfway through my walk that chamber within me was about to bust? Tears. Nothing mattered. Nothing. Tears. Tears. More Tears. They ran down my face with the warmth of ice and dripped off my chin, wasted. But I learned that crying was OH so therapeutic.

Even if it *was* cold.

I needed everything to be perfect, predictable. If anything was out of place, it was another reason to cry. I remember one day I sat on a stool in my mother's kitchen while my father dabbled with my hair (For a while, he was convinced he was the world's best barber). It was a nice, predictable Sunday visit from Daddy; he cut my hair. When he was done, I looked in the mirror only to find that it was wrong. It was too short, I looked like a fool, my face looked big, the kids would tease me, it wasn't what I wanted, it wasn't what I had imagined, and my mind NasCar raced through all the possible trials I would suffer as a consequence ... instant tears.

I took a bath, because it was normal to do so after a haircut, right? One problem. I sat in the tub to cry with the shower on, the drain wide open. The tub didn't fill. I let warm water pelt my face to offset the cold tears my cheeks were all too familiar with. It must have been an odd sounding shower; dad found me.

More Tears.

Tears.

Tears.

Yes, the family was convinced: the hysterical kid is crying because he doesn't like his haircut. They all told me how wonderful it looked, how much the girls would flock to me, and I had to force myself to bottle everything back up into that massive ball of bottled up fear that was eventually to choke me -- the *girls*?!? If I was to convince them it was the haircut, the accolades should suffice, I figured. But it wasn't the hair. I was different. I was DIFFERENT. Different than my own family. So different I couldn't tell them. So different I refused to be me. I simply refused to be me. No one knew who I was, and soon I was going to find out that my very own childhood facades would make even me forget who I was.

What a paradox.

Those facades defined me, proved to get me through each of my childhood days, and were my way of extracting great joys out of life.

Yet, simultaneously, those facades washed me of identity, proved to prevent me from growing up, and would eventually become a great source of misery for me.

Tears.