It has been quite a long time since I have received an award of any kind. I was MVP of a tournament in college my senior year and I do believe that is the last time to date that I received a symbolic "atta boy" in the training log of life. Up until a few days ago that is. My good friend (and excellent blogger I must add) Hailey bestowed upon me a blogger award. This award is somewhat different from any award I have ever received, and since there have been precious few, I remember them all quite well. This award had no specific name; no "Coolest Blog I Have Ever Read", no "Most Improved", no moniker that would get me up on a stage, glowing with the shine of personal accomplishment, stammering my thanks to my 15 followers, only to be interrupted by Kanye West. So what. It's an award and I'll take it. However, this award comes with a requirement; I must create and post a list of ten things that people don't already know about me. I find this requirement to be an ironic requirement of a blogger because the whole point of a personal blog is to make sure that there is not a single interesting aspect of your life that is not posted on the world-wide web for the sole reason that the world has the right to know. Whatever, glory hound that I am, I'll do whatever it takes to receive a blogger award. So Hailey, here's to you...
1.) I have never been inside a barber shop. Now, this may sound funny due to the fact that I sport the aerodynamic chrome dome at present, but my father always cut our hair. I remember when the fad was to have "Nike Air" or some other logo/symbol carved into one's head and my father would never do this for us. He would always say that the only symbol he would cut into our hair was "Elger"...the toilet bowl manufacturer.
2.) I found out just before starting "real school" (see item #3) that I needed glasses and, to put it mildly, I was devastated. My dad had taken me to see a UNCC 49er's game and afterwards we went to Burger King where I proceeded to order …a Big Mac. "Son, can you SEE the menu?" For those of you out there who attended "real school" with me that first year, well, you know what kind of glasses I had. I could always "see what you mean"...literally. On sunny days, my glasses were considered a fire hazard and I was not allowed to sit at wooden picnic tables at lunch. Keeps me humble, even to this day.
3.) I was homeschooled until the middle of sixth grade. Home school has its advantages; setting your own learning pace, recess can be extended without fear of the principal's lowered eyebrows, and you are always the top student in your grade. However, when the homeschooler must enter the mine-field of "real school" with absolutely no clue whatsoever about the basics of middle school (i.e. fashion do's and do-not-ever-do's, common slang, and interaction with members of the opposite sex) things can get awkward. VERY awkward.
4.) I am a huge ZZ Top fan. My fascination with the " Little 'ol band from Texas" got started my freshmen year of high school when I bought the ZZ Top Eliminator album for $0.50 at a yard sale. I didn't have a clue then who ZZ Top was then; I just bought the CD because I had recently saved just enough money to buy a Sony Discman (Walkmans were sooo yesterday) and my depleted pockets could not swing the $13.00 for an actual new CD to put in my Discman. A musical "chicken or the egg, CD or the CD player" quandry introduced me to a great band. As a wanna be guitar player, I love Billy Gibbon's style; both as a guitarist and as arguably the coolest onstage personality still performing today. However, unlike Dusty Hill and the aforementioned Gibbons, I would have taken Gillette's million-dollar offer to cut my chest length beard...that mess has to itch. And while every girl may be crazy about a sharp dressed man, I am quite sure the fan base is much more scarce for facial hair of that magnitude.
5.) I took ballet/ worship dance classes for exactly one week. I was in seventh grade at Resurrection Christian School and on Wednesday afternoons, there were classes for worship dance. Every so often, those who participated in these classes would perform for the church. After one such performance, and with the "spirit moving me" I signed up to "dance as King David did" and become the only male member of the worship dance troupe. I remember my first class...leaping like a fawn over scarves laid on the ground and thinking to myself "My boy, you have gone and done it now..." I lasted a week; mainly because it was hard to leap and twirl with any real grace when you were constantly pushing your Steve Urkel Signature Glasses up on your sweaty nose. The merciless ragging by my male classmates may or may not have driven me to give up my quest into interpretive dance as well.
6.) Mom, it was me that broke the clear crystal ball Christmas decorations. I was in the heat of a rubber band-gun shootout in the OK Corral with Nathan and a shot from Old Besty that was intended for Nathan sailed clean over his head and broke the decoration. I know that decoration was pretty, but it was also pretty cool in the middle of a shootout- Nathan and I both agreed that it was just like the movies; bullets/ rubber bands flying, glass breaking just over the hero's head to let him know just how close to certain doom he had come....Please understand.
7.) I HATE the words "Moist", "Cuddle", and "Supple" with a passion. No clue why. Just do.
8.) I have only had one panic attack in my life and it was the result of some writing I had done my senior year of high school. The year before I had really started to try and write after seeing the movie Finding Forrester and, seeing as I was a basketball player just like the main character in the film, I decided to try my hand, or pen, at writing also. I was taking an AP Literature course taught by my favorite teacher of all time, a man dubbed "Zeus" by his admiring pupils and during breaks in the lesson, I would scribble makeshift poems on the backs of worksheets or loose pieces of paper. Well, one such bit of scribbling on the back of a class worksheet got handed in and my teacher decided that he liked it enough to turn it in to the fine arts council as a submission for the yearly fine arts display. I had no clue that such a submission had been made, and so at the assembly of the whole high school for the fine arts display, my poem was read aloud. I still can feel my throat constricting, I couldn't breathe, I felt like if I opened my mouth some terrible, non-human sound might squeak out, I thought I was going to suffocate and die. It was awful; the panic attack I mean. The poem did not receive any boo's and no vegetables were thrown at the reader, so I guess it wasn't as bad as my reaction.
9.) I have been playing basketball in Italy for two seasons and I have not seen Rome. And this does not bother me at all. I mean, I would love to see the Coliseum but to be completely candid, I really don't care that terribly much about seeing places just based on their historical significance. Looks the same as it does on the postcards. I appreciate that fact that these ancient cities were built without the use of modern technology and equipment; I just don't feel like making the trip to appreciate it in person. Sue me.
10.) Before every basketball game that I have ever played, I am seized by the sudden fear that I will walk out onto the court and not remember how to play. Like I will go to dribble or shoot or pass and just not remember how to make the motions or I won't remember the rules, etc. It's weird, but as soon as I touch the ball in warmups, that anxiety disappears and is replaced by a confidence that I have worked hard to be where I am now and I'll be fine. I love this game.
So there you have it. Hope you're happy Hailey. Now...about that award.....
Friday, February 26, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Stereo
Love and you
Both move through
The speakers of my stereo
You and the melody make it hard for me
To shake your grasp from my soul.
When I dont want to let you go
I reach for the dial of my radio
Tune into something someone else wrote
About the story of my soul
It is not the beat
But you who moves
In the song, you are the rythmn
I would change the song
Turn off the music of my memories
If only I could find a place to put them
I can keep you far from my heart
But you find your way back in
Through a path we both have known
I could stop loving you perhaps
Keep my soul closed
But you know the way to my heart
Is through my headphones.
Both move through
The speakers of my stereo
You and the melody make it hard for me
To shake your grasp from my soul.
When I dont want to let you go
I reach for the dial of my radio
Tune into something someone else wrote
About the story of my soul
It is not the beat
But you who moves
In the song, you are the rythmn
I would change the song
Turn off the music of my memories
If only I could find a place to put them
I can keep you far from my heart
But you find your way back in
Through a path we both have known
I could stop loving you perhaps
Keep my soul closed
But you know the way to my heart
Is through my headphones.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Taking a Shot at Life
It couldn't have been more than forty-five degrees outside. It had been raining the better part of the last week, as it was liable to do 'round this time of year. Floyd Dougherty had spent the youngest hours of the evening slumped over the bar counter at Meyer's, looking in a bottle for a friend, as he was liable to do most any night. Meyer's was just up the block from the Hedgefield Apartments, which meant 'ol Murray wouldn't have to come from behind the bar and fight him for his keys. Nobody was going to have to worry about Floyd driving home. Walking was going to be trial enough.
The muddy gravel pathway that led from the sidewalk up the hill to the apartment complex was treacherous with rain, and Floyd could feel his high coming down as he forced himself to concentrate. Left foot. Right foot. Couldn't fall again, couldn't afford to miss any more work. Not after the last go-round with a sidewalk 'bout got his drunk ass canned. Concrete always wins. It was bad enough that most everyone in the office called him Still because of the alcohol that poured off of him like sweat used to. Bad enough he still had headaches from the last time he fell. A concussion and, on top of that, broke his jaw in two places. Mouth wired shut for a month. Could't eat anything that hadn't been tossed in a blender first. Thank God you don't have to chew bourbon.
What made it worse was that Tammy had finally had enough of his falling down and whiskey sweat and took a Greyhound to her mother's in Charleston. Floyd always figured that one day she would stop talking about doing it and really leave. Doesn't mean he wasn't shocked when she actually did it. Doesn't mean it didn't hurt like a punch in the kidney. He was well on his way to being drunk for an entire weekend when she came back. Tossed her suitcase on the bed and started putting all her sexy under-things back in the drawers and hanging the other things back up in the closet. Said she wasn't going to leave. Said she was going to stay. Suprised the hell out of him. Surprised him even more when she said that he was going to be the one to get the hell out. He was too drunk to put up much of a fight, she was probably right anyway. Left foot. Right foot.
He was most of the way up the hill when he saw her. Normally he wouldn't have noticed; normally he couldn't have. Things usually got pretty blurry, but coffee has nothing on being freezing cold and wet on top of it to sober you up, even for a professional alcoholic. She was skinny, with worn jeans and a raggedy sweat shirt with the sleeves rolled up clinging to her coat hanger frame. She had a backpack on her back and another backpack slung around her neck, like she hadn't bothered to take the time to put it on regular. Her ponytail had mostly wriggled out of her hair tie and was now matted against her skin by the rain. She was taking her time, just like Floyd, but not because she was drunk. She was burdened with two small kids; a little boy and a little girl. Even if his vision was wobbly, Floyd could see that the two tykes were dressed in T-shirts. Didn't look like much else. THe woman was carrying th little girl on one hip and half carrying, half dragging the little boy. The little fella was fighting her, didn't want to stand on his own two feet. The tug of war had turned her around so that the little group was facing back down the hill.
The rain and the cold and the concentration on left fot, right foot meant Floyd was sobering up fast, which meant that he was getting ornery.Ornery because he wasn't that drunk anymore mainly, but also because the woman was hauling around two little kids, at three in the morning, in the rain, wearing t-shirts irritated the hell out of him for some reason. Floyd was drunk, but hell, six in ten drunks could tell you that you aren't supposed to have little kids out in the rainy cold in t-shirts. The little boy had started to worm his way out of the woman's grasp and she had stopped her climb to get a better grip on his wrist. The pause let Floyd catch up to them. Let him get a better look. She was still skinny up close, real skinny, hair still wild and tangled from the rain, but her eyes were pretty clear. Pretty period, actually. But there was a fear and a determination that was messing up the pretty in those eyes.
She had to have noticed Floyd standing there, because he had stopped walking too. Couldn't concentrate on left foot, right footwhile he was looking at the pretty and the fear and the determination all mixed up in her eyes. She figured out a way to notice him without actually looking at him.
"Come on honey, just a little further to the new house", she coaxed, trying to get the little boy to stand on his own two feet. "Mommy needs you to stand up and walk like a big boy, ok?"
Floyd could see the goose bumps all over the little boy's arms, which matched the goose bumps on his sister's and mother's arms.
The little boy wasn't buying the whole "big boy" bit and curled his legs under him. Four year old dead weight. The little girl was starting to complain too.
"Mommy, I am cold and I don't wike it. I feel sad. I wanna get down Mommy."
The little girl squirmed in her mother's arms and the woman started to lose her grip on the child. The girl began to slide down her mother's bony hip and the straps of the woman's backpack were getting tangled with the child, pulling the whole little family toward the muddy ground. Floyd was losing his buzz and forgetting his irritation with the woman's parenting and stepped forward in time to catch the woman's shoulder and help her keep her balance.
"Thanks." She still wasn't looking at him when she spoke, kind of like the way people at the office turned their eyes away when they talked to him. The smell probably.
"Reckon you was 'bout to drop the 'lil lady." Floyd wasn't sure what else to say. Hard to know what to say to people when they don't really look at you.
"Need sum help? I kin hep ya make it tuh yur place", Floyd could feel the words slur. He knew they were because he could feel his tongue, thick and uncoordinated, flopping around his mouth like a catfish out of water.
The woman glanced up at him. The fear in her eyes was fighting with the determination now. She was afraid to tell him yes, but more afraid to tell him no. He felt that pang that lepers must feel when people recognize the leprosy. The woman looked up the hill, then back over her shoulder.
"Can you carry this?" She unwound the smaller backpack from around her neck. Didn't have much in it. Floyd couln't see inside, but the weight of it told him that it was about half full.
"Sure, reckon I kin manange."
"Come on babies, the nice man is going to help us get to the new house. What do you say?"
Perched safely back on her mother's hip, the little girl buried her face in her mother's neck and said nothing, but the little boy managed a "Thank you mister" before moving to the safer space behind his mother's leg.
The thoroughly soaked group braved the last of the dstance to te apartments. His high was getting close to ground level, but when the mother turned up the flight of stairs headed toward the second floor, Floyd felt a sudden wave of nausea.
"Awh hell", he thought, "Can't go loosing my lunch in front of these little kids." He held it in, except for a tiny bit that he gagged back down.
Thankfully the apartment as only on the second floor, and the skinny woman pushed her way inside the front door and deposited the little girl on the floor. The two little ones stood shivering just inside the doorway.
"Don't you two move, Mommy will be right back."
The woman began removing her soaked sweatshirt as she moved toward the rear of the apartment. Even skinnier without the sweatshirt. Floyd felt a twinge of dissappointment. Then he felt like a piece of garbage for even thinking that way. She walked into the bathroom of the apartment and emerged with three large white bath towels. One she wrapped around the soaked t-shirt that she had had on under her sweatshirt and with the others, she began drying off the two little ones. She didn't offer Floyd a towel.
The apartment was small but nice. Real nice in fact. Nothing like Floyd's. The furniture all matched, as did the lamps on the end tables on either end of the large sofa. A large book shelf held several hardback books, but little else. Nice coffee table in the center of the living room, seperating two club chairs. Floyd had a coffee table, but his had little brown circles all over it from always leaving beer bottles or fifths of Jack Daniels on it. The rugs were white, no stains, no dirt. Matter of fact, from what Floyd could see, the whole place looked super clean. Maybe this woman was a better housekeeper than mother, Floyd thought. House was spotless, but the kids were out at three in the morning in t-shirts. Enough thinking, nausea was coming back for round two.
The kids were dryer and now complaining of hunger.
"Mister, hand me that pack, will you?"
"Uh, mah name is Floyd, Floyd Dough...."
"Don't worry about it", the woman dismissed his attempt at introduction with a wave of her hand and gestured toward the backpack that Floyd was still holding. He handed it over. The woman produced several packs of crackers and opened them for the children. While they munched contentedly, sitting on the carpet, wrapped in the bath towels, the woman peaked out fo the slats of the blinds before coing back to join her children on the floor. She sat between them, an arm around each one, pulling them as close as she could without smothering them. Floyd had been leaning against the wall, more for balance than anything else, and now slid down to a sitting position. He figured he looke less threatening seated. He didn't feel threatening, but the way the woman watched him so closely made him feel uncomfortable. Like some kind of invited intruder.
"So what brings you out this time of night?" she asked, as if she wasn't out herself, and with two little kids to boot.
Floyd wante to say that his woman left him, he drank too much and stumbling around in the rain in the wee hours of the morning was old hat for him. But all that sounded too much like an old country song. All he needed was for someone to run over his dog with an old pickup truck. Still the truth took less thinking than some clever alibi and his head was starting to hurt.
"Drinkin', mostly." Maybe should have given the alibi a whirl. The familar disgust in the woman's nod said that she had already figured as much. Didn't take that much figuring.
The little boy took a bite of a cracker and raised it to his mother's lips.
"Wanna have some of my cracker Mommy?" he asked.
"No baby", she answered, a slight smile breaking through the grimness of her face. "You eat it for Mommy ok?"
"Ok. Do you want some of my cracker Mister?" The little fella sure was generous with his half eaten cracker. Floyd passed.
"That was sweet of you, what a good boy!" said the woman, ruffling her benevolent son's soggy hair, "Try not to get crumbs on the carpet ok babe?"
The little boy glowed as if he had just been voted into sainthood.
A twenty minute patch of silence passed before it hit Floyd like a ton of bricks. She was leaving him, whoever he was. Shoot, had already left him. Just like Tammy had left; finally packed some muscle behind her promises, threw some crackers in a backpack and left. Some poor sap just like him, probably too drunk to realize just what was walking out the door. Or maybe he did realize and just didn't care. Or maybe he was a different kind of animal, the kind that swings and breaks things when its been sloshing around inside a bottle for too long. The kind of animal that breaks glass windows and dinner plates. Breaks teeth. Breaks bones. That kind of animal. Now she was finally striking out for that new life, the one that didn't include broken glass and falling down and brown water stains on coffee tables. Floyd's head started to spin and he had to remember not to close his eyes. Makes it worse they say, closing your eyes when you're mostly drunk. The room only spins faster. The rain was starting to slack off some.
Below them in the parking lot, a car's tires crunched in the muddy gravel. The woman sprang to her feet, nearly knocking both children over. She nsatched up the backpack, rummaged inside for a second. A click, then a metallic flash. Floyd had never seen a derringer in anything other than an old Western He had never seen one in the hands of a woman in any case, come to think of it. The thing was big, well, as big as derringers go. The two over-under barrels looked big as shotguns, probably a .357 Mag. A purse sized cannon. She moved closer to the window and looked out.
"Hey you", she half whispered, half screamed, "cut those lights out!"
The urgency in her voice made the hair on the back of Floyd's neck stand up. Made him stand up too, and slap the light switches so that their heads bowed and the little apartment went black. The darkness started the kids to crying.
"PSSSST!" hissed the woman, "You two be quiet, shut up that crying right now. I mean it! Be quiet!"
Floyd figured she was just talking to the kids, he wasn't crying.
" Miss, I can just scoot on out the door here and be out of your way...." The coward in him made the statement come out sounding like a question.
"You sit your ass down!" She punctuated the statement with a flourish of her derringer. "And get my kids away from that door." She who has the gun with the two barrels makes the rules. FLoyd pulled the two children away from the door and huddled beside the couch with them. The couch smelled brand new. The new smell made Floyd feel sick all over again.
A car door slammed somewhere in the parking lot. Then footsteps on the wooden staircase, footsteps coming hard. They made the sound that someone who knows exactly where they are going makes. Hard steps. Certain steps. The woman flattened against the wall just besides the window. The lamp outside the apartment was pouring light in through the slits in the blinds, and Floyd could see the barrels of the woman's pistol glint every few seconds. Her hands were shaking.
A shadow blocked out the light coming through the blinds.
"Hey in there!" A man's voice boomed, "I know you're in there, damn it. Come on out right now!" Sounded like whoever that skinny woman had left wasn't going to take the exodous lying down. Maybe she had a head start, but he sure caught up fast. Tracked them to this nice apartment. Or maybe he hadn't even cared where she or the kids were until he found out that it was his money that was paying for it. Either way, somebody sure wasn't too happy about the arrangement.
The little girl whimpered and Floyd clapped his hand over her mouth to muffle her fear.
"I ain't playin', ya 'll get your tails out here!" the man thundered. A pregnant pause followed. A glint out of the corner of his eye told Floyd that the woman had raised the derringer.
"Alright, fine, that's how ya'll wanna play ball" growled the voice outside, "I am gonna come in there and drag ya'll out! I ain't standin' for this no more, no way!"
A metallic click in the darkness meant that the hammer of the derringer had been thumbed back. The handle of the door clicked once, then the door burst in, crashing into the wall, blasted off two of its three hinges. A woman's scream ripped the air, then two deafening thunderclaps. A grunt, followed by a resounding crash, as whoever came through the door slammed backward into a wall, then pitched forward with a meaty thud onto the carpet.
Ears ringing, Floyd rolled to one side, pulling the two little ones with him. Both were now crying hysterically and Floyd felt the distinct urge to join in. The man who had come through the door was down but still moving. Floyd untangled himself from the crying kids and stood on two wobbly legs.
"Get a light on." The woman ws still leaning against the wall, more for support now than anything.
Thankful for some direction, Floyd flipped the light switch near the ruined threshold.
A gasp, and the woman dropped the derringer, and sank to her knees besides the fallen intruder, who had rolled over onto his back. The man looked to be about mid forties, with a heavy-set build and a jagged hole ripped through one side of his coverall uniform, just below the patch that read "Superintendent":
Red life was running out of that hole and dying the once-stainless carpet crimson. The man coughed, a sound that was more wheeze than cough, his tongue trying to clear the blood from his lips enough to speak.
"Damn squatters, ya done killed me" he hacked.
Squatters? Floyd jerked upright.
"This your husband or boyfriend, or whoever you're dodgin'?"
The woman stared off into space, tears pooling in her eyes.
"No. It ain't."
Floyd was suddenly feeling very cold. He stood and turned toward where the door was dangling from the frame by its one good hinge. The bile surged upward in his throat as he read the plate on the door, just over the peep hole. The plate that should have had an apartment number on it, like the plate that read "143" on the door of Floyd's apartment. Except there was no number. No number at all. Just two words. Two awful words. Words that meant something worse had happened than a runaway woman shooting whoever was chasing her.
"Model Apartment"
The muddy gravel pathway that led from the sidewalk up the hill to the apartment complex was treacherous with rain, and Floyd could feel his high coming down as he forced himself to concentrate. Left foot. Right foot. Couldn't fall again, couldn't afford to miss any more work. Not after the last go-round with a sidewalk 'bout got his drunk ass canned. Concrete always wins. It was bad enough that most everyone in the office called him Still because of the alcohol that poured off of him like sweat used to. Bad enough he still had headaches from the last time he fell. A concussion and, on top of that, broke his jaw in two places. Mouth wired shut for a month. Could't eat anything that hadn't been tossed in a blender first. Thank God you don't have to chew bourbon.
What made it worse was that Tammy had finally had enough of his falling down and whiskey sweat and took a Greyhound to her mother's in Charleston. Floyd always figured that one day she would stop talking about doing it and really leave. Doesn't mean he wasn't shocked when she actually did it. Doesn't mean it didn't hurt like a punch in the kidney. He was well on his way to being drunk for an entire weekend when she came back. Tossed her suitcase on the bed and started putting all her sexy under-things back in the drawers and hanging the other things back up in the closet. Said she wasn't going to leave. Said she was going to stay. Suprised the hell out of him. Surprised him even more when she said that he was going to be the one to get the hell out. He was too drunk to put up much of a fight, she was probably right anyway. Left foot. Right foot.
He was most of the way up the hill when he saw her. Normally he wouldn't have noticed; normally he couldn't have. Things usually got pretty blurry, but coffee has nothing on being freezing cold and wet on top of it to sober you up, even for a professional alcoholic. She was skinny, with worn jeans and a raggedy sweat shirt with the sleeves rolled up clinging to her coat hanger frame. She had a backpack on her back and another backpack slung around her neck, like she hadn't bothered to take the time to put it on regular. Her ponytail had mostly wriggled out of her hair tie and was now matted against her skin by the rain. She was taking her time, just like Floyd, but not because she was drunk. She was burdened with two small kids; a little boy and a little girl. Even if his vision was wobbly, Floyd could see that the two tykes were dressed in T-shirts. Didn't look like much else. THe woman was carrying th little girl on one hip and half carrying, half dragging the little boy. The little fella was fighting her, didn't want to stand on his own two feet. The tug of war had turned her around so that the little group was facing back down the hill.
The rain and the cold and the concentration on left fot, right foot meant Floyd was sobering up fast, which meant that he was getting ornery.Ornery because he wasn't that drunk anymore mainly, but also because the woman was hauling around two little kids, at three in the morning, in the rain, wearing t-shirts irritated the hell out of him for some reason. Floyd was drunk, but hell, six in ten drunks could tell you that you aren't supposed to have little kids out in the rainy cold in t-shirts. The little boy had started to worm his way out of the woman's grasp and she had stopped her climb to get a better grip on his wrist. The pause let Floyd catch up to them. Let him get a better look. She was still skinny up close, real skinny, hair still wild and tangled from the rain, but her eyes were pretty clear. Pretty period, actually. But there was a fear and a determination that was messing up the pretty in those eyes.
She had to have noticed Floyd standing there, because he had stopped walking too. Couldn't concentrate on left foot, right footwhile he was looking at the pretty and the fear and the determination all mixed up in her eyes. She figured out a way to notice him without actually looking at him.
"Come on honey, just a little further to the new house", she coaxed, trying to get the little boy to stand on his own two feet. "Mommy needs you to stand up and walk like a big boy, ok?"
Floyd could see the goose bumps all over the little boy's arms, which matched the goose bumps on his sister's and mother's arms.
The little boy wasn't buying the whole "big boy" bit and curled his legs under him. Four year old dead weight. The little girl was starting to complain too.
"Mommy, I am cold and I don't wike it. I feel sad. I wanna get down Mommy."
The little girl squirmed in her mother's arms and the woman started to lose her grip on the child. The girl began to slide down her mother's bony hip and the straps of the woman's backpack were getting tangled with the child, pulling the whole little family toward the muddy ground. Floyd was losing his buzz and forgetting his irritation with the woman's parenting and stepped forward in time to catch the woman's shoulder and help her keep her balance.
"Thanks." She still wasn't looking at him when she spoke, kind of like the way people at the office turned their eyes away when they talked to him. The smell probably.
"Reckon you was 'bout to drop the 'lil lady." Floyd wasn't sure what else to say. Hard to know what to say to people when they don't really look at you.
"Need sum help? I kin hep ya make it tuh yur place", Floyd could feel the words slur. He knew they were because he could feel his tongue, thick and uncoordinated, flopping around his mouth like a catfish out of water.
The woman glanced up at him. The fear in her eyes was fighting with the determination now. She was afraid to tell him yes, but more afraid to tell him no. He felt that pang that lepers must feel when people recognize the leprosy. The woman looked up the hill, then back over her shoulder.
"Can you carry this?" She unwound the smaller backpack from around her neck. Didn't have much in it. Floyd couln't see inside, but the weight of it told him that it was about half full.
"Sure, reckon I kin manange."
"Come on babies, the nice man is going to help us get to the new house. What do you say?"
Perched safely back on her mother's hip, the little girl buried her face in her mother's neck and said nothing, but the little boy managed a "Thank you mister" before moving to the safer space behind his mother's leg.
The thoroughly soaked group braved the last of the dstance to te apartments. His high was getting close to ground level, but when the mother turned up the flight of stairs headed toward the second floor, Floyd felt a sudden wave of nausea.
"Awh hell", he thought, "Can't go loosing my lunch in front of these little kids." He held it in, except for a tiny bit that he gagged back down.
Thankfully the apartment as only on the second floor, and the skinny woman pushed her way inside the front door and deposited the little girl on the floor. The two little ones stood shivering just inside the doorway.
"Don't you two move, Mommy will be right back."
The woman began removing her soaked sweatshirt as she moved toward the rear of the apartment. Even skinnier without the sweatshirt. Floyd felt a twinge of dissappointment. Then he felt like a piece of garbage for even thinking that way. She walked into the bathroom of the apartment and emerged with three large white bath towels. One she wrapped around the soaked t-shirt that she had had on under her sweatshirt and with the others, she began drying off the two little ones. She didn't offer Floyd a towel.
The apartment was small but nice. Real nice in fact. Nothing like Floyd's. The furniture all matched, as did the lamps on the end tables on either end of the large sofa. A large book shelf held several hardback books, but little else. Nice coffee table in the center of the living room, seperating two club chairs. Floyd had a coffee table, but his had little brown circles all over it from always leaving beer bottles or fifths of Jack Daniels on it. The rugs were white, no stains, no dirt. Matter of fact, from what Floyd could see, the whole place looked super clean. Maybe this woman was a better housekeeper than mother, Floyd thought. House was spotless, but the kids were out at three in the morning in t-shirts. Enough thinking, nausea was coming back for round two.
The kids were dryer and now complaining of hunger.
"Mister, hand me that pack, will you?"
"Uh, mah name is Floyd, Floyd Dough...."
"Don't worry about it", the woman dismissed his attempt at introduction with a wave of her hand and gestured toward the backpack that Floyd was still holding. He handed it over. The woman produced several packs of crackers and opened them for the children. While they munched contentedly, sitting on the carpet, wrapped in the bath towels, the woman peaked out fo the slats of the blinds before coing back to join her children on the floor. She sat between them, an arm around each one, pulling them as close as she could without smothering them. Floyd had been leaning against the wall, more for balance than anything else, and now slid down to a sitting position. He figured he looke less threatening seated. He didn't feel threatening, but the way the woman watched him so closely made him feel uncomfortable. Like some kind of invited intruder.
"So what brings you out this time of night?" she asked, as if she wasn't out herself, and with two little kids to boot.
Floyd wante to say that his woman left him, he drank too much and stumbling around in the rain in the wee hours of the morning was old hat for him. But all that sounded too much like an old country song. All he needed was for someone to run over his dog with an old pickup truck. Still the truth took less thinking than some clever alibi and his head was starting to hurt.
"Drinkin', mostly." Maybe should have given the alibi a whirl. The familar disgust in the woman's nod said that she had already figured as much. Didn't take that much figuring.
The little boy took a bite of a cracker and raised it to his mother's lips.
"Wanna have some of my cracker Mommy?" he asked.
"No baby", she answered, a slight smile breaking through the grimness of her face. "You eat it for Mommy ok?"
"Ok. Do you want some of my cracker Mister?" The little fella sure was generous with his half eaten cracker. Floyd passed.
"That was sweet of you, what a good boy!" said the woman, ruffling her benevolent son's soggy hair, "Try not to get crumbs on the carpet ok babe?"
The little boy glowed as if he had just been voted into sainthood.
A twenty minute patch of silence passed before it hit Floyd like a ton of bricks. She was leaving him, whoever he was. Shoot, had already left him. Just like Tammy had left; finally packed some muscle behind her promises, threw some crackers in a backpack and left. Some poor sap just like him, probably too drunk to realize just what was walking out the door. Or maybe he did realize and just didn't care. Or maybe he was a different kind of animal, the kind that swings and breaks things when its been sloshing around inside a bottle for too long. The kind of animal that breaks glass windows and dinner plates. Breaks teeth. Breaks bones. That kind of animal. Now she was finally striking out for that new life, the one that didn't include broken glass and falling down and brown water stains on coffee tables. Floyd's head started to spin and he had to remember not to close his eyes. Makes it worse they say, closing your eyes when you're mostly drunk. The room only spins faster. The rain was starting to slack off some.
Below them in the parking lot, a car's tires crunched in the muddy gravel. The woman sprang to her feet, nearly knocking both children over. She nsatched up the backpack, rummaged inside for a second. A click, then a metallic flash. Floyd had never seen a derringer in anything other than an old Western He had never seen one in the hands of a woman in any case, come to think of it. The thing was big, well, as big as derringers go. The two over-under barrels looked big as shotguns, probably a .357 Mag. A purse sized cannon. She moved closer to the window and looked out.
"Hey you", she half whispered, half screamed, "cut those lights out!"
The urgency in her voice made the hair on the back of Floyd's neck stand up. Made him stand up too, and slap the light switches so that their heads bowed and the little apartment went black. The darkness started the kids to crying.
"PSSSST!" hissed the woman, "You two be quiet, shut up that crying right now. I mean it! Be quiet!"
Floyd figured she was just talking to the kids, he wasn't crying.
" Miss, I can just scoot on out the door here and be out of your way...." The coward in him made the statement come out sounding like a question.
"You sit your ass down!" She punctuated the statement with a flourish of her derringer. "And get my kids away from that door." She who has the gun with the two barrels makes the rules. FLoyd pulled the two children away from the door and huddled beside the couch with them. The couch smelled brand new. The new smell made Floyd feel sick all over again.
A car door slammed somewhere in the parking lot. Then footsteps on the wooden staircase, footsteps coming hard. They made the sound that someone who knows exactly where they are going makes. Hard steps. Certain steps. The woman flattened against the wall just besides the window. The lamp outside the apartment was pouring light in through the slits in the blinds, and Floyd could see the barrels of the woman's pistol glint every few seconds. Her hands were shaking.
A shadow blocked out the light coming through the blinds.
"Hey in there!" A man's voice boomed, "I know you're in there, damn it. Come on out right now!" Sounded like whoever that skinny woman had left wasn't going to take the exodous lying down. Maybe she had a head start, but he sure caught up fast. Tracked them to this nice apartment. Or maybe he hadn't even cared where she or the kids were until he found out that it was his money that was paying for it. Either way, somebody sure wasn't too happy about the arrangement.
The little girl whimpered and Floyd clapped his hand over her mouth to muffle her fear.
"I ain't playin', ya 'll get your tails out here!" the man thundered. A pregnant pause followed. A glint out of the corner of his eye told Floyd that the woman had raised the derringer.
"Alright, fine, that's how ya'll wanna play ball" growled the voice outside, "I am gonna come in there and drag ya'll out! I ain't standin' for this no more, no way!"
A metallic click in the darkness meant that the hammer of the derringer had been thumbed back. The handle of the door clicked once, then the door burst in, crashing into the wall, blasted off two of its three hinges. A woman's scream ripped the air, then two deafening thunderclaps. A grunt, followed by a resounding crash, as whoever came through the door slammed backward into a wall, then pitched forward with a meaty thud onto the carpet.
Ears ringing, Floyd rolled to one side, pulling the two little ones with him. Both were now crying hysterically and Floyd felt the distinct urge to join in. The man who had come through the door was down but still moving. Floyd untangled himself from the crying kids and stood on two wobbly legs.
"Get a light on." The woman ws still leaning against the wall, more for support now than anything.
Thankful for some direction, Floyd flipped the light switch near the ruined threshold.
A gasp, and the woman dropped the derringer, and sank to her knees besides the fallen intruder, who had rolled over onto his back. The man looked to be about mid forties, with a heavy-set build and a jagged hole ripped through one side of his coverall uniform, just below the patch that read "Superintendent":
Red life was running out of that hole and dying the once-stainless carpet crimson. The man coughed, a sound that was more wheeze than cough, his tongue trying to clear the blood from his lips enough to speak.
"Damn squatters, ya done killed me" he hacked.
Squatters? Floyd jerked upright.
"This your husband or boyfriend, or whoever you're dodgin'?"
The woman stared off into space, tears pooling in her eyes.
"No. It ain't."
Floyd was suddenly feeling very cold. He stood and turned toward where the door was dangling from the frame by its one good hinge. The bile surged upward in his throat as he read the plate on the door, just over the peep hole. The plate that should have had an apartment number on it, like the plate that read "143" on the door of Floyd's apartment. Except there was no number. No number at all. Just two words. Two awful words. Words that meant something worse had happened than a runaway woman shooting whoever was chasing her.
"Model Apartment"
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Short End of Being Tall
After the first several months of my second season of basketball in Italy, there was nothing that I looked forward to more than going home for the mid-season Christmas break. I could not wait to see my city, my family and friends, eat American food, understand entire conversations, and so on and so forth. However, I looked forward to the 10-hour plane ride with about as much joy as I looked forward to my Dad getting home after work the day I got suspended from school in seventh grade; I knew it was going to be, well, "uncomfortable" to say the least. I landed in my hometown of Charlotte, North Carolina safe and sound and thankfully all went smoothly with no multiple hour delays or lost luggage. But the plane ride over was about as bad as I feared it would be. Let's take it from the top, shall we?
My journey started off with the whole song and dance of meticulously packing only the most necessary items to be sure that my bags were as light as possible, dragging that luggage from the parking lot to the ticket counter, and then weighing it only to find that it was just heavy enough to be over the limit and qualify me for a glorious $150.00-excess weight fee. Which in turn now meant that I had to go through the process of opening my suitcases to decide on what items that I could either cram into my carry-on or leave behind. I then had to re-weigh the luggage, and smile just sweetly enough for the lady behind the counter to say that she would let my few excess kilos slide and give me my boarding passes. With that obstacle cleared, I made it to my gate just as my flight was beginning to board.
I firmly believe that plane boarding is really an opportunity for grown, educated, normally well-behaved adults to revert back to the days of pre-school and lining up for recess. You remember those days; nobody is paying the teacher any attention while elbowing and shoving in order to maintain one's place in line. Even if EVERYONE is definitely going to make it to the playground, being the very, very first person to touch butt-to-swing set-seat is a matter of life and death. Toes are stepped on, personal space is violated and oh-please-believe someone's delicate feelings are going to get hurt. No one ever listens to the airline attendants who repeatedly ask people with tickets in certain zones to board in a certain order, and when told that their zone is not yet boarding, these over-eager passengers huff and puff enough to blow down the cottage of the Three Little Pigs.
As much as I didn't like the ordeal of just getting on the plane, I particularly despised walking past First Class on my way back to my Economy (a.k.a. "you had just enough money to get on this flying umbrella") seat. I think the green look of jealousy that colors the face of everyone taking the Bataan Death March to the rear bowels of the plane must be half the fun of actually being in First Class ; everyone wants what you got. You can see it on the First Classers’ smug faces as you file past. They had boarded the plane in a nice single-file line some twenty minutes before, and are now sipping some drink that won't cost them anything extra, resting their affluent elbows on armrests that they will not have to share with anyone else, and stretching their legs out to the furthest extension and wiggling their toes, just to show that they can do it and still have leg room to spare. Blast you and the horse that brung ya, First Class, because yes, I AM jealous.
The physical attribute of height is a great advantage to have should one desire to pursue a sport like basketball or maybe Olympic top-shelf reaching. It is not, however, a desired physical characteristic on an international flight in the cheap seats. Upon reaching my seat, I found that my seat assignment was a nightmare; the middle seat... in the middle row of seats...in the middle of the airplane. Shoot me now. I had maybe a centimeter of space between the front of my knees and the back of the seat in front of me and this is while all seats are in an upright position in preparation for takeoff. In front of me was a elderly man who felt it was his God-given right to recline his seat as far back as it would go, as if it wouldn't bother me a bit that his entire seat now rested in my lap. He was also stunned that I would have the sheer audacity to ask him to tilt his seat up just enough so that his headrest no longer was chafing my belly button. Young people these days, yes sir, I know, I know. Who would think that they would like to freakin' breathe too? The nerve. To my left was a rather “healthy” (see morbidly obese) man who had piled into his seat with the grace of an avalanche, beads of sweat dribbling through the front of his comb-over. I grabbed my shovel and started digging trenches for the war that I knew would soon ensue over the current no-man's-land of the armrests. To my right, an attractive middle aged German woman slid into her seat and I had about a two-second pause before the wave of perfume hit me like the sandstorm that almost runs down Brendan Fraser in the movie The Mummy. Things were off to a blazing start and we weren't even off the runway .
This seat assignment from Hell was far worse than a stocking full of coal as far as I was concerned; I suppose ‘Ol Saint Nick didn’t get my email that had started with the “Dear Santa, let me try to explain……” line. Oh well. It looked like I was going to have to bite the bullet and hope that my legs didn’t loose all motor function after being cramped in a pretzel-esque position for ten hours. About ten minutes after takeoff, and just as I was waving a fond farewell to the sense of feeling in my lower extremities, the patron saint of all six-foot-four athletes crammed into too-tight spaces on planes threw me a bone. The husband ( or boyfriend, whatever) of the afore mentioned perfumed chemical weapon sitting to my right suggested that I change places with him in the aisle seat of the opposite row, all in the name of being closer to his dearly beloved. Far be it from me to stand in the way of chivalry, and the prospect of an aisle seat that would allow me to move my legs was an added bonus. As I rose from my middle seat in the middle row of the middle of the airplane, I distinctly heard the voice of Martin Luther King Jr. intonating “Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty we are free at last”. I tried to keep the jubilation of my emancipation off my face as I nonchalantly accepted his seemingly generous offer and traded seats with my liberator. It took me exactly two minutes, or inhaling and exhaling several times to realize that I had been had.
If you have ever taken misstep into some dog mess, then you know there is that period of time where you keep catching a whiff of some God-awful smell that seems to stay in close proximity to you no matter where you go before you realize that smell is coming from the bottom of your shoe. The whole time, you are quite certain of your own sanitation grade; you have bathed regularly, deodorant is a go, a breath mint wedged between your teeth and cheek. And yet that smell…..Such was my situation. My eyes began to burn and well-up with tears as I tried to figure out where this terrible odor was coming from. As I struggled to maintain consciousness, arms flailing about trying to figure out how to get my oxygen mask to drop from above my head, I realized that the smell was in fact coming from the man sitting next to me. He had the window seat, and the putrid smell that was coming off of him was bouncing off the side of the plane, redoubling its potency by passing him again, and then hitting me like a Mike Tyson jab to the nostrils. “AND THERE GOES THE MOUTHPIECE!” The man smelled like a truck stop McDonald’s bathroom and the juice at the bottom of a county fairground garbage can in mid-July, or a mixture of a dirty gerbil cage and old hot dog water. It was the kind of smell that has its own set of hands and will latch on and cling to anything near it...like car upholstery, or bed sheets, or new hoodie pullovers like the one I was wearing. Right before I passed out and as the world turned to flickering shadows, I caught a glimpse of the man beside me gnawing his fingernails and watching “Harry Potter: The Blood Prince” on the personal movie screen that is located in the back of the headrest of the seat in front of us. When I came to, we were landing in Charlotte. Ok, so maybe the smell didn’t knock me out that hard, actually it was the fact that I purposefully didn’t go to sleep for the previous two days in order to black out for the plane ride. The smell just helped me get to a comatose state that much faster. I am a veteran at this now I do believe, and being utterly exhausted before getting on the plane means sleep…which means the time goes by quicker.
I survived. Which is really all that matters when it’s all said and done. My baggage all arrived safe and sound, my family was at the airport with open arms and hand-made signs proclaiming how much I was loved. We took pictures and hugged and laughed and it seemed like I had never left. It was the kind of reunion scene that takes up the first five minutes of the film "Love Actually". I collected my luggage from the baggage claim and headed out into the crisp Charlotte evening air. Ah, home sweet home. And just as we entered the parking deck, my brother Matthias turned, and with his nostrils flared, asked "Hey, does anyone else SMELL that?"...
My journey started off with the whole song and dance of meticulously packing only the most necessary items to be sure that my bags were as light as possible, dragging that luggage from the parking lot to the ticket counter, and then weighing it only to find that it was just heavy enough to be over the limit and qualify me for a glorious $150.00-excess weight fee. Which in turn now meant that I had to go through the process of opening my suitcases to decide on what items that I could either cram into my carry-on or leave behind. I then had to re-weigh the luggage, and smile just sweetly enough for the lady behind the counter to say that she would let my few excess kilos slide and give me my boarding passes. With that obstacle cleared, I made it to my gate just as my flight was beginning to board.
I firmly believe that plane boarding is really an opportunity for grown, educated, normally well-behaved adults to revert back to the days of pre-school and lining up for recess. You remember those days; nobody is paying the teacher any attention while elbowing and shoving in order to maintain one's place in line. Even if EVERYONE is definitely going to make it to the playground, being the very, very first person to touch butt-to-swing set-seat is a matter of life and death. Toes are stepped on, personal space is violated and oh-please-believe someone's delicate feelings are going to get hurt. No one ever listens to the airline attendants who repeatedly ask people with tickets in certain zones to board in a certain order, and when told that their zone is not yet boarding, these over-eager passengers huff and puff enough to blow down the cottage of the Three Little Pigs.
As much as I didn't like the ordeal of just getting on the plane, I particularly despised walking past First Class on my way back to my Economy (a.k.a. "you had just enough money to get on this flying umbrella") seat. I think the green look of jealousy that colors the face of everyone taking the Bataan Death March to the rear bowels of the plane must be half the fun of actually being in First Class ; everyone wants what you got. You can see it on the First Classers’ smug faces as you file past. They had boarded the plane in a nice single-file line some twenty minutes before, and are now sipping some drink that won't cost them anything extra, resting their affluent elbows on armrests that they will not have to share with anyone else, and stretching their legs out to the furthest extension and wiggling their toes, just to show that they can do it and still have leg room to spare. Blast you and the horse that brung ya, First Class, because yes, I AM jealous.
The physical attribute of height is a great advantage to have should one desire to pursue a sport like basketball or maybe Olympic top-shelf reaching. It is not, however, a desired physical characteristic on an international flight in the cheap seats. Upon reaching my seat, I found that my seat assignment was a nightmare; the middle seat... in the middle row of seats...in the middle of the airplane. Shoot me now. I had maybe a centimeter of space between the front of my knees and the back of the seat in front of me and this is while all seats are in an upright position in preparation for takeoff. In front of me was a elderly man who felt it was his God-given right to recline his seat as far back as it would go, as if it wouldn't bother me a bit that his entire seat now rested in my lap. He was also stunned that I would have the sheer audacity to ask him to tilt his seat up just enough so that his headrest no longer was chafing my belly button. Young people these days, yes sir, I know, I know. Who would think that they would like to freakin' breathe too? The nerve. To my left was a rather “healthy” (see morbidly obese) man who had piled into his seat with the grace of an avalanche, beads of sweat dribbling through the front of his comb-over. I grabbed my shovel and started digging trenches for the war that I knew would soon ensue over the current no-man's-land of the armrests. To my right, an attractive middle aged German woman slid into her seat and I had about a two-second pause before the wave of perfume hit me like the sandstorm that almost runs down Brendan Fraser in the movie The Mummy. Things were off to a blazing start and we weren't even off the runway .
This seat assignment from Hell was far worse than a stocking full of coal as far as I was concerned; I suppose ‘Ol Saint Nick didn’t get my email that had started with the “Dear Santa, let me try to explain……” line. Oh well. It looked like I was going to have to bite the bullet and hope that my legs didn’t loose all motor function after being cramped in a pretzel-esque position for ten hours. About ten minutes after takeoff, and just as I was waving a fond farewell to the sense of feeling in my lower extremities, the patron saint of all six-foot-four athletes crammed into too-tight spaces on planes threw me a bone. The husband ( or boyfriend, whatever) of the afore mentioned perfumed chemical weapon sitting to my right suggested that I change places with him in the aisle seat of the opposite row, all in the name of being closer to his dearly beloved. Far be it from me to stand in the way of chivalry, and the prospect of an aisle seat that would allow me to move my legs was an added bonus. As I rose from my middle seat in the middle row of the middle of the airplane, I distinctly heard the voice of Martin Luther King Jr. intonating “Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty we are free at last”. I tried to keep the jubilation of my emancipation off my face as I nonchalantly accepted his seemingly generous offer and traded seats with my liberator. It took me exactly two minutes, or inhaling and exhaling several times to realize that I had been had.
If you have ever taken misstep into some dog mess, then you know there is that period of time where you keep catching a whiff of some God-awful smell that seems to stay in close proximity to you no matter where you go before you realize that smell is coming from the bottom of your shoe. The whole time, you are quite certain of your own sanitation grade; you have bathed regularly, deodorant is a go, a breath mint wedged between your teeth and cheek. And yet that smell…..Such was my situation. My eyes began to burn and well-up with tears as I tried to figure out where this terrible odor was coming from. As I struggled to maintain consciousness, arms flailing about trying to figure out how to get my oxygen mask to drop from above my head, I realized that the smell was in fact coming from the man sitting next to me. He had the window seat, and the putrid smell that was coming off of him was bouncing off the side of the plane, redoubling its potency by passing him again, and then hitting me like a Mike Tyson jab to the nostrils. “AND THERE GOES THE MOUTHPIECE!” The man smelled like a truck stop McDonald’s bathroom and the juice at the bottom of a county fairground garbage can in mid-July, or a mixture of a dirty gerbil cage and old hot dog water. It was the kind of smell that has its own set of hands and will latch on and cling to anything near it...like car upholstery, or bed sheets, or new hoodie pullovers like the one I was wearing. Right before I passed out and as the world turned to flickering shadows, I caught a glimpse of the man beside me gnawing his fingernails and watching “Harry Potter: The Blood Prince” on the personal movie screen that is located in the back of the headrest of the seat in front of us. When I came to, we were landing in Charlotte. Ok, so maybe the smell didn’t knock me out that hard, actually it was the fact that I purposefully didn’t go to sleep for the previous two days in order to black out for the plane ride. The smell just helped me get to a comatose state that much faster. I am a veteran at this now I do believe, and being utterly exhausted before getting on the plane means sleep…which means the time goes by quicker.
I survived. Which is really all that matters when it’s all said and done. My baggage all arrived safe and sound, my family was at the airport with open arms and hand-made signs proclaiming how much I was loved. We took pictures and hugged and laughed and it seemed like I had never left. It was the kind of reunion scene that takes up the first five minutes of the film "Love Actually". I collected my luggage from the baggage claim and headed out into the crisp Charlotte evening air. Ah, home sweet home. And just as we entered the parking deck, my brother Matthias turned, and with his nostrils flared, asked "Hey, does anyone else SMELL that?"...
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
"You Got the Right One Baby"
It was per chance
Love born at first glance
Or perhaps it was
The form of your curvacious shape
That made the soil of my mouth
As parched as the Sahara sands.
Dressed in red and draped
In trimmings white and flowing
How I love to dine
With you at the table beside me
And admire your wonders
Reveling in the heat of desire
By soft candlelight glowing
Oh to high heaven I pray
Do not dash this fragile hope
That I will always have thy
Sensual delight to call mine own
You contain the very nectar of life
Oh you sumptuous bottle of Coke
Love born at first glance
Or perhaps it was
The form of your curvacious shape
That made the soil of my mouth
As parched as the Sahara sands.
Dressed in red and draped
In trimmings white and flowing
How I love to dine
With you at the table beside me
And admire your wonders
Reveling in the heat of desire
By soft candlelight glowing
Oh to high heaven I pray
Do not dash this fragile hope
That I will always have thy
Sensual delight to call mine own
You contain the very nectar of life
Oh you sumptuous bottle of Coke
Thursday, November 12, 2009
He Got Game...Gamer vs. Player
I was one of the greatest drivers ever on the car racing video game Super Grande Prix in Eastland Mall's video arcade. Period. End of story. The initials "T.E.F" popped up all over the top scorer's screen. You could insert more coins if you wanted to try again to beat my score, or you could just go to the big fountain in the middle of the mall and throw your hard earned quarters in the sparkling water and have about the same chance. Funny thing was, when I got to the driving portion of Driver's Ed., I quickly found that driving a Chevy Cavalier is nothing like whipping through Turn 6 on Super Grande Prix.
Some abilities in one area of life relate easily to another. A person who is a good rollerblader may also be decent at ice-skating. But a Super Grande Prix master is not automatically a great parallel parker. Too many variables don't translate. In this age of technology, with a new gaming system being either introduced or improved upon every couple of months, a new phenomenon is growing and it must be examined. I call it The Age of The Gamer vs. The Player.
Throughout my athletic career (high school, college and now overseas) one of the favorite pastimes of my teammates has always been video games. Especially sports games, namely the Madden series of NFL football and NBA Live. . I am all for some first-person shooter games, but I don't like playing sports video games. Why? Well, I the worst of sore losers. I just can't take how much losing is involved trying to remember which A,B,X or O button makes video Vince Carter shoot the ball and not run out of bounds dribbling and then stand there, flailing his arms. I remember when NBA Jam came out; simple two-on-two format, A was shoot, B was pass, "He's Heating UP!", "He's ON FIRE!" ,that fireball that meant you could dunk from half court. Now that was fun. Nowadays, I just don't find it enjoyable in the least to get my tail whooped in NBA Live '08 by some twerp who couldn't carry my jockstrap in a suitcase on a real basketball court. And there is the rub. The Gamer vs. The Player.
This whole notion of being a sports expert because of how nasty you are on some sports video game is becoming more and more prevalent. You see it on sports message boards and hear it on radio talk shows. Every sports bar has that guy with the New York Knicks jersey that barely fits over his beer belly, hot wings sauce smeared on his face, screaming at the television about how he could coach better than the Knicks' actual head coach. This chap may have been a rec-league all-star 80 pounds ago, but the only basketball he is playing these days is with a joystick in his chubby-fingered hands. Just because your created player on NBA Live averages 54 points and 32 rebounds a game because you make him 7'3" with the skills and athleticism of Kobe does not make you the leading expert on the NBA in REAL LIFE. Doesn't work that way Sport. Sorry. And wipe your face for Pete's sake. You can't be a coach if you don't know how to opperate basic machinery, like a napkin.
But there is a more serious element of this Game System Master vs. Man Having Actual Game epidemic. My friend, The All-Wise Zan, brought it to my attention and bid me write about it with all haste. Ladies, tell me if I am way off but I would venture that all, or should I say most, women can at least appreciate a man with some skills on the dance floor. Those of you who have seen the movie Hitch starring Will Smith know what I am talking about. However, there is a video game out there that is lying to men, giving them a false sense of confidence, and then turning them loose in nightclubs to make things just plain awkward for you ladies during girls' night out. It's called Dance Dance Revolution.
The Dance Dance Revolution game is arguably the greatest example of a video game where the skills that it takes to be great at the game DO NOT translate into real life whatsoever. Unless of course you are the keynote speaker at the Napoleon Dynamite National Convention and you need an ice breaker to get the crowd loosened up and ready for your dissertation on tetherball and delicious bass. The game involves "dancing" or using your feet to touch arrows that light up to the beat of the song being played by the game. This game takes fast (or spastic) feet and a large amount of deodorant to master. The game offers several degree-of-difficulty settings ranging from "Beginner" to "Challenge" and ending at the pinnacle of the Dance Dance Revolution Food chain, "Super Maniac". Now I don't mean to say that just because I don't play Dance Dance Revolution I am some kind of Rico Suave. You won't find any of my dance moves in your favorite MTV or BET video, but you also won't catch Chris Brown rehearsing for the Video Music Awards with Dance Dance Revolution. Lebron James doesn't get off the couch after 36 consecutive hours of playing NBA Live and declare himself prepared for the season. And beating the game of Dance Dance Revolution on its most difficult setting does not make you, yes YOU Mr. Accountant, sweating profusely at the bar of Dave & Buster's after posting yet another perfect score, qualified to keep anyone from "putting Baby in a corner".
So ladies when that way-too-sweaty little fella who is a full foot shorter than you suddenly appears in front of you at your favorite nightclub, gyrating wildly and moving his feet with the speed of an NFL free safety in footwork drills, do not be alarmed. This man is a professional; in fact he has mastered the "Maniac" level of Dance Dance Revolution and has been nationally recognized for his achievement. He is not dancing like this because he wants to irritate you or to make you give your girlfriends the "come save me!" look or to make the rains come and water his crops. He is merely of the conviction that he has a prime opportunity to put his Dance Dance Revolution Academy training into practice. Be kind. Be gentle. It is only a case of the Gamer vs. the Player.
Some abilities in one area of life relate easily to another. A person who is a good rollerblader may also be decent at ice-skating. But a Super Grande Prix master is not automatically a great parallel parker. Too many variables don't translate. In this age of technology, with a new gaming system being either introduced or improved upon every couple of months, a new phenomenon is growing and it must be examined. I call it The Age of The Gamer vs. The Player.
Throughout my athletic career (high school, college and now overseas) one of the favorite pastimes of my teammates has always been video games. Especially sports games, namely the Madden series of NFL football and NBA Live. . I am all for some first-person shooter games, but I don't like playing sports video games. Why? Well, I the worst of sore losers. I just can't take how much losing is involved trying to remember which A,B,X or O button makes video Vince Carter shoot the ball and not run out of bounds dribbling and then stand there, flailing his arms. I remember when NBA Jam came out; simple two-on-two format, A was shoot, B was pass, "He's Heating UP!", "He's ON FIRE!" ,that fireball that meant you could dunk from half court. Now that was fun. Nowadays, I just don't find it enjoyable in the least to get my tail whooped in NBA Live '08 by some twerp who couldn't carry my jockstrap in a suitcase on a real basketball court. And there is the rub. The Gamer vs. The Player.
This whole notion of being a sports expert because of how nasty you are on some sports video game is becoming more and more prevalent. You see it on sports message boards and hear it on radio talk shows. Every sports bar has that guy with the New York Knicks jersey that barely fits over his beer belly, hot wings sauce smeared on his face, screaming at the television about how he could coach better than the Knicks' actual head coach. This chap may have been a rec-league all-star 80 pounds ago, but the only basketball he is playing these days is with a joystick in his chubby-fingered hands. Just because your created player on NBA Live averages 54 points and 32 rebounds a game because you make him 7'3" with the skills and athleticism of Kobe does not make you the leading expert on the NBA in REAL LIFE. Doesn't work that way Sport. Sorry. And wipe your face for Pete's sake. You can't be a coach if you don't know how to opperate basic machinery, like a napkin.
But there is a more serious element of this Game System Master vs. Man Having Actual Game epidemic. My friend, The All-Wise Zan, brought it to my attention and bid me write about it with all haste. Ladies, tell me if I am way off but I would venture that all, or should I say most, women can at least appreciate a man with some skills on the dance floor. Those of you who have seen the movie Hitch starring Will Smith know what I am talking about. However, there is a video game out there that is lying to men, giving them a false sense of confidence, and then turning them loose in nightclubs to make things just plain awkward for you ladies during girls' night out. It's called Dance Dance Revolution.
The Dance Dance Revolution game is arguably the greatest example of a video game where the skills that it takes to be great at the game DO NOT translate into real life whatsoever. Unless of course you are the keynote speaker at the Napoleon Dynamite National Convention and you need an ice breaker to get the crowd loosened up and ready for your dissertation on tetherball and delicious bass. The game involves "dancing" or using your feet to touch arrows that light up to the beat of the song being played by the game. This game takes fast (or spastic) feet and a large amount of deodorant to master. The game offers several degree-of-difficulty settings ranging from "Beginner" to "Challenge" and ending at the pinnacle of the Dance Dance Revolution Food chain, "Super Maniac". Now I don't mean to say that just because I don't play Dance Dance Revolution I am some kind of Rico Suave. You won't find any of my dance moves in your favorite MTV or BET video, but you also won't catch Chris Brown rehearsing for the Video Music Awards with Dance Dance Revolution. Lebron James doesn't get off the couch after 36 consecutive hours of playing NBA Live and declare himself prepared for the season. And beating the game of Dance Dance Revolution on its most difficult setting does not make you, yes YOU Mr. Accountant, sweating profusely at the bar of Dave & Buster's after posting yet another perfect score, qualified to keep anyone from "putting Baby in a corner".
So ladies when that way-too-sweaty little fella who is a full foot shorter than you suddenly appears in front of you at your favorite nightclub, gyrating wildly and moving his feet with the speed of an NFL free safety in footwork drills, do not be alarmed. This man is a professional; in fact he has mastered the "Maniac" level of Dance Dance Revolution and has been nationally recognized for his achievement. He is not dancing like this because he wants to irritate you or to make you give your girlfriends the "come save me!" look or to make the rains come and water his crops. He is merely of the conviction that he has a prime opportunity to put his Dance Dance Revolution Academy training into practice. Be kind. Be gentle. It is only a case of the Gamer vs. the Player.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
A Salute to Those Who Serve
Today is November 11th, the day that America has chosen to remember the men and women who serve and have served the United States in the Armed forces. I am not in the United States at present; in fact, I am living in another country where today is just another day in the neighborhood. It is precisely for this reason that, being in my present circumstance, I appreciate all the more the sacrifices of those who lay down their own lives for the sake of their country.
As I live in Italy, playing basketball and living a little boy's dream, I have been able to catch small glimpses of how the rest of the world sees the United States. Some of the notions that my teammates and people I have met have of the United States are humorous; everyone is not rich, we do not eat McDonalds for every meal, and all the women do not look like Pamela Anderson. Which is just as laughable as me as thinking that Italians eat nothing but pasta, drink only the finest of wines, and have at least one family member with major Mafia connections.
But across the board, for all her problems, America is still viewed as a land of great hope and opportunity. Say what you will about the economic crisis, the political climate or what have you; try finding someone who would not want to live in the United States.
Granted, America is having her problems as of late. But the thing that strikes me as I look at my passport, with artwork on the inside front cover depicting Francis Scott Key watching the bombardment of Fort McHenry, is that men and women have gone to war regardless of the state in which America finds herself. When Fort McHenry was being pounded mercilessly by the British Navy, America as a land of opportunity was not yet reality. It was hope. For the men and women serving in Afghanistan, they still serve regardless of the opinion of those at home who bash the war. These men and women still fight and die just so that we as Americans can say, without fear of prosecution or worse, how much we do not like what they are doing. Because of their service, I have my passport that allows me to come live my dream. Even though I am not living within the United States' borders, I still enjoy the opportunities of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
So here's to you, American men and women serving at home and abroad in the Armed Forces. Here is my personal thanks for your service which allows this American to enjoy so much. It is because of your bravery that so many look to the United States as a place where there is fertile ground for the seed of hopes and dreams. Thank you.
As I live in Italy, playing basketball and living a little boy's dream, I have been able to catch small glimpses of how the rest of the world sees the United States. Some of the notions that my teammates and people I have met have of the United States are humorous; everyone is not rich, we do not eat McDonalds for every meal, and all the women do not look like Pamela Anderson. Which is just as laughable as me as thinking that Italians eat nothing but pasta, drink only the finest of wines, and have at least one family member with major Mafia connections.
But across the board, for all her problems, America is still viewed as a land of great hope and opportunity. Say what you will about the economic crisis, the political climate or what have you; try finding someone who would not want to live in the United States.
Granted, America is having her problems as of late. But the thing that strikes me as I look at my passport, with artwork on the inside front cover depicting Francis Scott Key watching the bombardment of Fort McHenry, is that men and women have gone to war regardless of the state in which America finds herself. When Fort McHenry was being pounded mercilessly by the British Navy, America as a land of opportunity was not yet reality. It was hope. For the men and women serving in Afghanistan, they still serve regardless of the opinion of those at home who bash the war. These men and women still fight and die just so that we as Americans can say, without fear of prosecution or worse, how much we do not like what they are doing. Because of their service, I have my passport that allows me to come live my dream. Even though I am not living within the United States' borders, I still enjoy the opportunities of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
So here's to you, American men and women serving at home and abroad in the Armed Forces. Here is my personal thanks for your service which allows this American to enjoy so much. It is because of your bravery that so many look to the United States as a place where there is fertile ground for the seed of hopes and dreams. Thank you.
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