Sunday, November 11, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
The Game Behind the Game
On my way to work this morning, this is what greeted me on the commuter monitor: "Umeniora [star defensive end for the New York Giants] Unhappy."
Ordinarily, I'd be thinking "well isn't that just awful for him?", but I thought about it: he ain't doin' nothin' but workin' the angles. It's the oldest trick in the salary negotiation book. If a guy and his agent are underwhelmed by an owner's efforts to iron out a contract hassle, the next move for the player is to go public. This, I think, accomplishes two things: it let's other teams know the guy could potentially come on the market and it puts the current team on notice that the clock is ticking. Why else would a player go to the media with something he could text to his agent in a matter of seconds?
You thought football was strictly a physical sport? It's a living chess game for any player, from draft day to retirement.
Ordinarily, I'd be thinking "well isn't that just awful for him?", but I thought about it: he ain't doin' nothin' but workin' the angles. It's the oldest trick in the salary negotiation book. If a guy and his agent are underwhelmed by an owner's efforts to iron out a contract hassle, the next move for the player is to go public. This, I think, accomplishes two things: it let's other teams know the guy could potentially come on the market and it puts the current team on notice that the clock is ticking. Why else would a player go to the media with something he could text to his agent in a matter of seconds?
You thought football was strictly a physical sport? It's a living chess game for any player, from draft day to retirement.
I'm A Man, Yes I Am
The thing about being a man...the primal urges are what they are. Once a man is, reproductively speaking, mature, his drives are set. Nothing changes that. Not society, not morality, not marriage. The only things that change are how a man's urges evolve from their origins and whether a man is physically capable of following through with his urges. The single most important tool in a man's arsenal in the battle against HIMSELF so that he might ascend to greatness in the context of our society is SELF CONTROL.
Look, any man not hindered by some pathology can go out and do what men do. Like wolves and lions, the wiring is there. But we are neither wolves nor lions. We are MEN. By necessity, we live within constraints that we subconsciously design for ourselves to suit the conditions in which we exist, which speaks to our remarkable adaptability, though complacency often finds us mired in outdated philosophies. But for love, for family, for peace of mind, for the mental capacity to focus on more pressing matters, we have to be bigger than that Jeckyll and Hyde conjoined twin we keep encased in fabric at least 2/3 of each day, depending on how a guy makes a living.
Look, any man not hindered by some pathology can go out and do what men do. Like wolves and lions, the wiring is there. But we are neither wolves nor lions. We are MEN. By necessity, we live within constraints that we subconsciously design for ourselves to suit the conditions in which we exist, which speaks to our remarkable adaptability, though complacency often finds us mired in outdated philosophies. But for love, for family, for peace of mind, for the mental capacity to focus on more pressing matters, we have to be bigger than that Jeckyll and Hyde conjoined twin we keep encased in fabric at least 2/3 of each day, depending on how a guy makes a living.
The Appeal of Deep House Music to the Primal Urge
I was driving home last night bumpin' that deep hizz when the most erotic track I've heard in a minute stealthily sauntered through my auditory canals...As I let the sultry, dulcet vocals of a nameless woman sink into my psyche, eventually, so too did the exposition of the tune's narrative. Doubtless, seduction is a common theme of deep house, but I do not recall hearing a woman so skillfully enticing another woman to "come on over", which served as the chorus of the track. And as is typical of deep house, the further into the track one listens, the more blatant becomes the underlying message, the more fervent the urging of the vocalist.
By the time the DJ blended in the next track, I was wiping my forehead and tossing the glove box in the vain hope that there was a cigarette.
By the time the DJ blended in the next track, I was wiping my forehead and tossing the glove box in the vain hope that there was a cigarette.
The Recklessness of...Youth!
Hurtling toward the end of life as I know it into the unknown, I am lucky enough to be unconcerned about what happens when THIS is over. I have found PURPOSE, which is more comforting to me than even TRUTH, and this discovery renders all peripherals...moot.
The doc told me that I am still young and without obvious signs of underlying health issues. In the context of my experience and observations, baby, that's a ticket to ride. I urge everyone I know to embrace the idea of cleanER living. We all have our vices, but we should never allow them to approach the threshold of deadly.
I don't give a damn about pointing fingers and judgment. I try to deal with "what is" rather than "why is". "Let he who is without sin..." Besides, though now, I live like a Mormon (well, almost..., LOL), CSI would have a field day going through my closet, and some know this better than others.
The doc told me that I am still young and without obvious signs of underlying health issues. In the context of my experience and observations, baby, that's a ticket to ride. I urge everyone I know to embrace the idea of cleanER living. We all have our vices, but we should never allow them to approach the threshold of deadly.
I don't give a damn about pointing fingers and judgment. I try to deal with "what is" rather than "why is". "Let he who is without sin..." Besides, though now, I live like a Mormon (well, almost..., LOL), CSI would have a field day going through my closet, and some know this better than others.
Friday, February 10, 2012
The Peculiar Case of the Greg Kelly Scandal III
Continuing a discussion of the boyfriend's oblique method of reporting the alleged assault to the authorities, I have no knowledge of the nightmare that must be learning a loved one has been sexually assaulted. I can only imagine the intensity and spectrum of emotions that would at once grip a person hearing such awful news. Given all that I admittedly don't know, I still can't fathom approaching the father of my loved one's attacker at a public dinner. I mean, I've heard of taking a complaint straight to the top, but...and one wonders how THAT conversation went. I've read that the guy opened with "Your son ruined my girlfriend's life." Ray Kelly must have thought to himself "Who's watching the door, here?"
There are better than 30,000 cops patrolling the streets of New York. They're on duty all day, every day, and the precinct houses never close, but the guy waits to run into the commissioner at an event to accuse his son of a rape that allegedly took place several weeks ago? Only some one with a rather theatrical sense of chivalry -- and a real hard-on for the accuser -- could pull off such a potentially dangerous gaffe with a straight face.
As a husband, father and human being, I am no supporter of date-rape, ANY brand of coerced sex or violence against women. I have openly mocked the accuser and her boyfriend because, from all appearances, their hands call for it. The shameful way they have conducted themselves harkens back to the days when black men were murdered by blood thirsty mobs on the word of some pampered, selfish, thoughtless Jezebel who'd rather point an accusatory finger than face a life of ostracism.
Rape is the worst thing a person can do to another short of murdering him or her, and sometimes worse than that. The idea that these two holograms could come so close to ruining so many lives is the gravest insult to genuine victims of rape the world over, as well as those whose lives have been destroyed by a false accusation. The two of them are simply despicable, and I hope their relationship survives this absurd side-show. Clearly, they deserve each other.
There are better than 30,000 cops patrolling the streets of New York. They're on duty all day, every day, and the precinct houses never close, but the guy waits to run into the commissioner at an event to accuse his son of a rape that allegedly took place several weeks ago? Only some one with a rather theatrical sense of chivalry -- and a real hard-on for the accuser -- could pull off such a potentially dangerous gaffe with a straight face.
As a husband, father and human being, I am no supporter of date-rape, ANY brand of coerced sex or violence against women. I have openly mocked the accuser and her boyfriend because, from all appearances, their hands call for it. The shameful way they have conducted themselves harkens back to the days when black men were murdered by blood thirsty mobs on the word of some pampered, selfish, thoughtless Jezebel who'd rather point an accusatory finger than face a life of ostracism.
Rape is the worst thing a person can do to another short of murdering him or her, and sometimes worse than that. The idea that these two holograms could come so close to ruining so many lives is the gravest insult to genuine victims of rape the world over, as well as those whose lives have been destroyed by a false accusation. The two of them are simply despicable, and I hope their relationship survives this absurd side-show. Clearly, they deserve each other.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
The Peculiar Case of the Greg Kelly Scandal II
Now that my position is clear with regard to fatuous, self-absorbed "dime-pieces", as it were, I have to make a distinction between such women and those who are beautiful inside AND out. I happen to think Michelle Obama is such a woman. If she thinks highly of herself, it may well be as much due to a sense of accomplishment as her awareness of her looks. Women like Michelle Obama are the anti-Lindsay Lohans of the world; they know what they have going for them and rock it like a Vera Wang dress, rather than a tawdry little hot pink spandex rag off the rack at Conway.
I have no idea who Greg Kelly's accuser is. She could be as well-rounded and classy as the First Lady herself. But as I've illustrated, I know a li'l something about how these snotty uptown tarts roll. That and 40+ years of hard-earned mother wit tell me this child likely couldn't carry Mrs. Obama's earrings in a Tiffany pouch.
The tale as it's being told by the media just never made sense. A chance meeting in the street followed by a flurry of sexually charged text messages, a rendezvous at a hip dive bar, followed by an after-hours visit to her boss's office -- because that pesky detail of an unsuspecting boyfriend was at her place watching the Food Network. Rape? Where? How? The story had all the earmarks of a by-the-numbers big city hook-up! I've been there! Mike Tyson has been there -- and did time for it!
Look: An educated guess holds that once it was plain to the "princess" that Greg was strictly into the hook-up and not HER, her ego suffered a serious jolt. How was she supposed to deal with the reality that, in Greg's eyes, she was just another floozy ready to worship him based solely on an infatuation she had developed for his TV persona? Who did he think he was, anyway, to have sampled her fruit, then wander away like a casual browser at a farmer's market? My God, she is an aspiring model/actress, a paralegal at a prominent New York law firm, the daughter of a renowned attorney and the girlfriend of a rugged, Crocodile Dundee-type. These things simply don't happen to women of her caliber.
Though what she did the night the alleged attack took place was classically Sex In the City sleazy-as-cosmopolitan, duplicitous and just stupid, didn't girls in her league have carte blanche to do that? Wouldn't a night of white-hot passion with Greg Kelly snag her a higher profile boyfriend and maybe boost her standing with the Pretty People set? You betcha! But it wasn't to be. She had sold herself cheap, and Greg had somehow eluded her grasp. If she actually felt violated, it had to be grounded in wounded pride; she had allowed herself to be drafted into the shameful ranks of groupies who didn't know they were groupies...until HE stopped calling and texting and went about his business.
There's no doubt the boyfriend had noticed the profound effect this all had on her. He likely had questions. How could she answer them honestly? Maybe she yada-yada'd the part about delightedly grabbing her ankles for Greg in the luxury and privacy of her boss's office, leaving the cuckold with some hope that he wasn't a total dupe. He, too, seems to be a victim of his own pride. What self-respecting guy wants to believe that the woman of his dreams would drop her drawers within a few hours of meeting some other guy on the street, even if he is famous?
A guy in the boyfriend's shoes has two options: (1) embrace the whole "after a night of drinking with a handsome, unattached celebrity, I brought him back to my boss's office for a nice chat that I thought would end with a friendly handshake, where he forced himself on me after I passed out drunk" goof; or (2) dump her silly butt, PRONTO. Not only did this poor, lovelorn dope buy that cockamamie rap, but he did what any gallant guardian of his beloved's virtue would: He accosted the accused's father at a public event!
Part III to come...
I have no idea who Greg Kelly's accuser is. She could be as well-rounded and classy as the First Lady herself. But as I've illustrated, I know a li'l something about how these snotty uptown tarts roll. That and 40+ years of hard-earned mother wit tell me this child likely couldn't carry Mrs. Obama's earrings in a Tiffany pouch.
The tale as it's being told by the media just never made sense. A chance meeting in the street followed by a flurry of sexually charged text messages, a rendezvous at a hip dive bar, followed by an after-hours visit to her boss's office -- because that pesky detail of an unsuspecting boyfriend was at her place watching the Food Network. Rape? Where? How? The story had all the earmarks of a by-the-numbers big city hook-up! I've been there! Mike Tyson has been there -- and did time for it!
Look: An educated guess holds that once it was plain to the "princess" that Greg was strictly into the hook-up and not HER, her ego suffered a serious jolt. How was she supposed to deal with the reality that, in Greg's eyes, she was just another floozy ready to worship him based solely on an infatuation she had developed for his TV persona? Who did he think he was, anyway, to have sampled her fruit, then wander away like a casual browser at a farmer's market? My God, she is an aspiring model/actress, a paralegal at a prominent New York law firm, the daughter of a renowned attorney and the girlfriend of a rugged, Crocodile Dundee-type. These things simply don't happen to women of her caliber.
Though what she did the night the alleged attack took place was classically Sex In the City sleazy-as-cosmopolitan, duplicitous and just stupid, didn't girls in her league have carte blanche to do that? Wouldn't a night of white-hot passion with Greg Kelly snag her a higher profile boyfriend and maybe boost her standing with the Pretty People set? You betcha! But it wasn't to be. She had sold herself cheap, and Greg had somehow eluded her grasp. If she actually felt violated, it had to be grounded in wounded pride; she had allowed herself to be drafted into the shameful ranks of groupies who didn't know they were groupies...until HE stopped calling and texting and went about his business.
There's no doubt the boyfriend had noticed the profound effect this all had on her. He likely had questions. How could she answer them honestly? Maybe she yada-yada'd the part about delightedly grabbing her ankles for Greg in the luxury and privacy of her boss's office, leaving the cuckold with some hope that he wasn't a total dupe. He, too, seems to be a victim of his own pride. What self-respecting guy wants to believe that the woman of his dreams would drop her drawers within a few hours of meeting some other guy on the street, even if he is famous?
A guy in the boyfriend's shoes has two options: (1) embrace the whole "after a night of drinking with a handsome, unattached celebrity, I brought him back to my boss's office for a nice chat that I thought would end with a friendly handshake, where he forced himself on me after I passed out drunk" goof; or (2) dump her silly butt, PRONTO. Not only did this poor, lovelorn dope buy that cockamamie rap, but he did what any gallant guardian of his beloved's virtue would: He accosted the accused's father at a public event!
Part III to come...
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The Peculiar Case of the Greg Kelly Scandal
As the rape allegation against New York morning news anchor and NYPD Commissioner Ray Kelly's son Greg Kelly begins to unravel, a few points strike me as noteworthy: (1) The charge was made several weeks after the alleged attack; (2) the charge was made after the purported termination of a pregnancy alleged to be the result of the alleged attack; (3) the involvement of the alleged victim's boyfriend in the aftermath of the alleged attack; (4) the circle of privilege in which the parties involved travel; and (5) how the whole thing stunk to high heaven from jump.
Forgive my tone of righteous indignation, but I gotta tell it like it is in this long overdue day of more careful observance of the rights of women and victims of sex crimes: There is a class of women who believe themselves entitled to special treatment because of their heritage and/or the breadth of their appeal to men. It is any man's worst nightmare to engage such women in whatever capacity, though there are men who, inexplicably, will have no other kind of woman.
From the accounts I have read, the alleged victim is exceptionally attractive and the daughter of a prominent attorney. On the face of these impressions, the word "princess" veritably bursts through my mind's fortified sensitivity filter. This is regretful to me because, as a black male reared in the least popular borough of New York City, I have worn for the benefit of many who consider themselves my betters, any number of misapplied labels based solely on my race and where I grew up. Touché, because now, I get to turn at least some of the tables.
As one who has labored in New York City's service industry, I am certain that the following echoes the sentiments of many: I cannot accurately tally the number of high maintenance prima donnas I have come across who have expected the world in return for a half-hearted word of superficial praise or a batted eyelash. I have borne the gall of women who just KNEW they were making my pathetic day by deigning to acknowledge my existence with a wan, patronizing smile, as though my woeful lot in life was to desire her majesty with no hope of ever knowing the pleasure of her grace. To any such lady who reticently recognizes herself in those rather striking words, here are a few more: Get over yourself. Most of us who are, or once were, charged with parking your car, carrying your bags, chaperoning your genetically engineered abomination of a lap dog or returning your expertly prepared meal to the chef because there was a tad too much crust on the seared meat cannot wait for you to be on your way so that we can get on with our very real, though certainly less glamorous lives. Besides, you, your parents, friends and paramours do a far better job worshipping you for banalities than we ever could.
That's enough venting for now. There is more to come, because this is a very real, very complicated issue that my stream-of-consciousness has temporarily co-opted.
Forgive my tone of righteous indignation, but I gotta tell it like it is in this long overdue day of more careful observance of the rights of women and victims of sex crimes: There is a class of women who believe themselves entitled to special treatment because of their heritage and/or the breadth of their appeal to men. It is any man's worst nightmare to engage such women in whatever capacity, though there are men who, inexplicably, will have no other kind of woman.
From the accounts I have read, the alleged victim is exceptionally attractive and the daughter of a prominent attorney. On the face of these impressions, the word "princess" veritably bursts through my mind's fortified sensitivity filter. This is regretful to me because, as a black male reared in the least popular borough of New York City, I have worn for the benefit of many who consider themselves my betters, any number of misapplied labels based solely on my race and where I grew up. Touché, because now, I get to turn at least some of the tables.
As one who has labored in New York City's service industry, I am certain that the following echoes the sentiments of many: I cannot accurately tally the number of high maintenance prima donnas I have come across who have expected the world in return for a half-hearted word of superficial praise or a batted eyelash. I have borne the gall of women who just KNEW they were making my pathetic day by deigning to acknowledge my existence with a wan, patronizing smile, as though my woeful lot in life was to desire her majesty with no hope of ever knowing the pleasure of her grace. To any such lady who reticently recognizes herself in those rather striking words, here are a few more: Get over yourself. Most of us who are, or once were, charged with parking your car, carrying your bags, chaperoning your genetically engineered abomination of a lap dog or returning your expertly prepared meal to the chef because there was a tad too much crust on the seared meat cannot wait for you to be on your way so that we can get on with our very real, though certainly less glamorous lives. Besides, you, your parents, friends and paramours do a far better job worshipping you for banalities than we ever could.
That's enough venting for now. There is more to come, because this is a very real, very complicated issue that my stream-of-consciousness has temporarily co-opted.
Friday, January 27, 2012
A Response To A New York Times Op-Ed Piece
The following post is a response to an op-ed piece published 1-26-2012 in the New York Times (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/27/opinion/brooks-hope-but-not-much-change.html?ref=opinion).
There seems to be class of Americans who unrealistically expect instant change tailor made to their way of thinking despite the realites of government red tape, a two-party system, the broad spectrum of ideologies espoused by those involved in any national policy change, and the human tendency to stall those moving too fast for individual comfort.
This class seems to be almost as critical of the Obama administration as its Republican adversaries, who come off as wanting to be in charge simply because they believe they should.
Whatever the source of such banal commentary, the fact is no one facing as much deep-rooted, often irrational opposition to his every thought as Obama faces daily, is likely to make the sweeping changes so many who should know better are demanding of him and his administration. Even the integration of American schools took decades. Why would the same not be true of massive economic reform in the wake of the catastrophe of the previous decade?
In this climate of transparent political posturing and pettiness, even baby steps are solid evidence of painstaking effort behind the scenes. Moreover, the nature of politics dictates that the public be spoon fed popular ideas in order that a candidate maintains mass appeal. Why is this suddenly "disappointing" and an indication of promises unfulfilled?
There seems to be class of Americans who unrealistically expect instant change tailor made to their way of thinking despite the realites of government red tape, a two-party system, the broad spectrum of ideologies espoused by those involved in any national policy change, and the human tendency to stall those moving too fast for individual comfort.
This class seems to be almost as critical of the Obama administration as its Republican adversaries, who come off as wanting to be in charge simply because they believe they should.
Whatever the source of such banal commentary, the fact is no one facing as much deep-rooted, often irrational opposition to his every thought as Obama faces daily, is likely to make the sweeping changes so many who should know better are demanding of him and his administration. Even the integration of American schools took decades. Why would the same not be true of massive economic reform in the wake of the catastrophe of the previous decade?
In this climate of transparent political posturing and pettiness, even baby steps are solid evidence of painstaking effort behind the scenes. Moreover, the nature of politics dictates that the public be spoon fed popular ideas in order that a candidate maintains mass appeal. Why is this suddenly "disappointing" and an indication of promises unfulfilled?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
On Top of the Hill, If Not Over It
I'll be 44 in about 2.5 months. That is a loaded statement, and the cargo varies according to the reader. When I read it, it is simply a truth, bearing no more weight than the time at the top of my phone's screen. I don't worry about Time. It is as inexorable a force as the weather.
I have been a poor time manager for most of my life, but I am fixing that. As I get older, I better understand the value of Time. While I cannot stop what Time will do -- and is doing -- to my face, my body and my thoughts, I can control how I spend MY time with my loved ones, how I can use it to better our lives, how we can squeeze a few more positive memories into the time we have together. There is much work to do yet, but the blueprint is laid out and the foundation is down. We are stringing more memories together with each passing week, strengthening those familial bonds. We are improving our quality of life, too.
Time is the only Ultimate Fighter with flawless technique and a perfect record. The championship belt is a gaudy tattoo around its waist. Rather than go head to head with Time only to come away broken and humiliated, I choose to study it, steal its best moves and use them to win the fights that I can.
There will be no wild May-December dalliances or bright red sports cars in this dirty old man's future. I think a happy wife and well-rounded children make for a better retirement plan.
I have been a poor time manager for most of my life, but I am fixing that. As I get older, I better understand the value of Time. While I cannot stop what Time will do -- and is doing -- to my face, my body and my thoughts, I can control how I spend MY time with my loved ones, how I can use it to better our lives, how we can squeeze a few more positive memories into the time we have together. There is much work to do yet, but the blueprint is laid out and the foundation is down. We are stringing more memories together with each passing week, strengthening those familial bonds. We are improving our quality of life, too.
Time is the only Ultimate Fighter with flawless technique and a perfect record. The championship belt is a gaudy tattoo around its waist. Rather than go head to head with Time only to come away broken and humiliated, I choose to study it, steal its best moves and use them to win the fights that I can.
There will be no wild May-December dalliances or bright red sports cars in this dirty old man's future. I think a happy wife and well-rounded children make for a better retirement plan.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
State of the Blog Address
Never mind resolutions and whatever -- I have been woefully remiss in updating this blog. I suppose in my heart of hearts, I know that no one is reading it, so I don't bother. Who could blame me for thinking that way when I have so many responsibilities to attend to already? But here is the real deal: every day that I fail to pursue my life's goal, I get a little closer to dying without doing what I believe I was put here to do, what is likely best for my family and setting an example for my children.
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