Back to Basics Friday

Crashing on the sofa tonight in preparation for an early morning. Now that the worst of the drama seems to have played out, I'm increasingly serious about TCB. TCB starts with STRICT discipline, and I put a little more on my plate each day. As for tonight, I'm gonna phase out watching the premier episode of The Wire. If the symbolism isn't obvious, you haven't lived this kind of life or you haven't done the research.

Suffering in Silence

There is much ground to cover in service to telling this story, but for now, certain tensions are best worked out this way, by sharing information with people who are really gonna need it. Depressed people do things maddeningly contrary to common sense. In the context of marriage, the non-depressed spouse has got to repeat that to her- or himself probably 1,000,000 times a day, less the marital home devolve into chaos. I know. It very nearly happened at our home.

Mending Home

Two very productive days in a row. Making good on my vow to clean house, literally, figuratively and spiritually. As I lay here beside the love of my life, I count myself lucky; though depression has such a hold on her as to render me almost irrelevant in her eyes, at least she's here. I miss her so much. So much. But I won't be weak anymore. I know what's wrong and I have the doctors on the case. We will get through this.

I Can't Stay Away

Let's try to get this thing rolling -- again.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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...

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.

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?

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.

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.

Xmas 2011

The first in our new home was everything it should have been. Wifey PRODUCED in the kitchen and the kids loved their gifts. Couldn't ask for much more. The only thing missing was...me! I was working. It's all good, though. Every once in a while you gotta take one for the team.

We're Here: Now what?

It's about 7:30 AM and I'm sitting here thinking about everything I want for us and how to go about getting it. I am primed to do this, but there is much organization and planning that needs to happen first. I struggle daily to apply forethought to the intermittent but powerful impulses that drive me. A person possessed of great energy and determination who learns to effectively plan how best to channel her or his efforts is the definition of "self-made".

Assessment of Current Condition:

I am 43. Not old by today's standards, but I'm no kid. I see the changes in my face, the bulge at my waistline. I am a middle-aged man. Younger people are assuming positions of power and because I don't share their value system or move in their social circles, I am less likely to matter to them. In the eyes of such people, with each passing day, I am more of a relic. This means that a part-time seasonal job at some big-box store is not a viable option for me, not that I wanted to do that anyway. Moreover, I have a fairly unique skill set. I am as handy with a laptop as I am with a drill, but I lack experience working professionally with my hands and while my computer skills fetch a good wage, this sluggish economy does not favor freelancers.

Whatever, which I use in the determined sense of the word rather than the apathetic. Why? Because for people like me, life is a perpetual obstacle course and, I'm almost sorry to say, we get our jollies
running over each one. I just don't care what it takes, my family will have theirs.

The American Presidency: Obama's Thankless Task

Let's not kid ourselves about why so many people hate Barack Obama.

Regardless of the good he does, the good he wants to do or how he carries himself, he is the first American of African descent to be elected president of the United States. Arguably the most powerful man in the world is *gasp* black.

Many who have grown up in households and neighborhoods where minorities washed the cars, mowed the lawns, scrubbed the toilets then scurried elsewhere at sundown are simply unaccustomed to, and often unaccepting of, the idea that someone they see as little more than the audacious offspring of a domestic might be sitting in the White House. Pow, booyah, bing, eureka and case closed, no matter how his detractors try to sugarcoat it, regardless of how right-wing media tries to spin it. Any person who has ever been the object of hate for hate's sake understands this intuitively.

Is this merely the opinion of a plebeian with a limited understanding of the world in which he lives? Perhaps, but I can write the following with total conviction: I have seen first hand that there are plenty of whites, though definitely not all, who, when encountered with a capable person of color, seem somehow threatened. In the context of collaboration, whether subconsciously or not, they seem to actively undermine such a person. Why? For the simple fact that, for many whites worldwide, the idea that a person of African descent can be her/his intellectual peer -- or even superior -- is folly unworthy of articulation. And it isn't their fault. They are simply working off of an old playbook passed down through the generations -- not unlike Jews and Arabs, Sikhs and Muslims or Tsutsis and Hutus.

Yes, the race issue in America is right up there with the world's longest standing feuds based more on the human capacity for such foolishness than any real differences between those engaged in the conflicts. Likewise, the race issue in America may never be completely sorted out; I fear there may always be parties on either side of the racial divide who, for whatever reasons, cannot fully let this sad thing die a long overdue and undignified death.

In the context of such struggles, to hope or suggest that people simply wake up one day and turn their backs on ingrained hatred of others that is almost part and parcel of their ethnic identity is the real folly. A better strategy for capable people of color is to continue to defy odds and expectations, to thrive where others expect them to fail.

Doing as much is not just cathartic for those driven to live up to their potential, it's beneficial to the greater society, which brings me back to my original point: The fools who cannot bear the thought of a successful Obama presidency and work feverishly to block him at every pass ultimately hinder the progress of us ALL.

Think of the energy and time wasted by these people that could be better spent fixing what ails America. It's simple: When people on either side of an impasse work toward a resolution, it's one thing for the sides to contentiously seek compromise, but entirely another for one side to block the progress of ALL by refusing to concede anything.

It's clear that many rich, influential people figure Obama's seemingly populist agenda threatens to break their stranglehold on the finer things in life. It only makes sense that they would fight to maintain the status quo. Many may feel they are sitting on enough to ride out the tide of another election, another muddled transition of power and another shock to an already battered economy. What they misunderstand is that their dogged efforts to exclude all comers from the kind of lifestyle that most only aspire to breeds in others the kind of seething resentment that fuels revolutions. And I have news for them: They are hopelessly outnumbered. Just as Custer learned too late at Little Bighorn, there comes a time when arrogance must yield to good common sense.

So block away, a-holes. Throw all kinds of mud at Obama to see what sticks, though nothing has yet. Then, after your herculean efforts to obfuscate any positive achievements of the Obama administration have paid off, usher into the White House some spokesperson who better fits your image of the American presidency. He or she will look and sound great while saying nothing, and accomplishing even less. At the end of the day, when you're on your therapists' couches trying to work out why your kids left Harvard to Occupy Wall Street and hate you even more than you hate Obama, you can parrot that rubbish about fighting to preserve "core American values" as the rest of the country suffered terribly for want of progress -- and the world moved on.

The Meltdown in Midtown: Autopsy

Once I hit the street, not even the heat and humidity of August in New York could diminish the sense of relief that washed over me. For sure, I am NEVER happy to walk away from money, but we were simply not paid enough to justify the shit we had to take from these schmucks and their dopey minions, nor the damage being done to our family.

Our working relationship with them lies before us on the slab. Let's make with the scalpel and examine the evidence.

Foremost, our children were suffering for lack of attention. Wifey and I had morphed from "two" parents into "too" parents: "Too" busy, "too" tired, "too" stressed and "too" damned lazy to do anything or, to be fair, as much as we thought we should be doing with our kids.

Then, there was the neglect of our home. There were weeks we'd be so busy we couldn't even manage to clean our bathroom. The hard water stains around the toilet bowl might as well have been drawn with a Sharpie. The kitchen? Like a meth lab from an episode of Cops. The kids' room? Buried under a foot of debris. The great room? Enough crumbs under the dining table to put out on a tray as hors d'oeuvres, papers piled sky-high on the desk and dust bunnies had colonized the area rug.

[Disclaimer: Wifey has gone on record as being firmly opposed to the posting of the above characterizations, but I figure they're just too funny to not share.]

Then there was the damage Wifey and I sustained as individuals and as a couple: the stress, the bad eating habits, the missed exercise and the deficits of energy and time we had to devote to each other.

Then, of course, there was THEM: The twin ulcers. Where to start? Suffice to say they lack insight, they lack foresight, hell, they even lack hindsight. Though they have managed to maintain an office and pay the salaries of a staff for several years, to watch them in action, one has to wonder if it's by accident.

The two biggest issues I have with them? Their senses of entitlement and almost pathological need to be dominant over me. I can deal with that type of testosterone-driven foolishness over the phone, but I can't have some egomaniacal asshole draped over my shoulder to show every one that he's The Big Boss Man while I'm trying to get some work done. I mean, how simple is it: We're good at what we do, we're proven at what we do, right now, you can't do what we do, so go do what you do and let us do what we do.

For the relative security of two monthly checks that were a fraction of what they should have been and the convenience of working from home, Wifey and I allowed ourselves to be led astray. Even if the pay was better, it's clear we would have lost far more than we ever stood to gain had we continued.

The cause of death? Sheer hubris.

These saps had gone all in to grow this business. To their credit, their sales guys developed the leads, made the calls and snared the clients, but Wifey and I DID THE WORK. Anywhere. Any time. West Street at rush hour. New Year's Day during a blizzard. On vacation in Puerto Rico. Waiting in the emergency room with our children when they both had stomach flu. And through it all, Wifey and I understood that growing a business requires that kind of sacrifice. We didn't gripe. We persevered. Ultimately, that wasn't enough.

Once Frick and Frack had finally built a decent client base on our sweat, they got carried away with themselves. They figured they had me by the bolitas because we are buying a house. They swore to God that we couldn't afford to just walk away. To their way of thinking, two and a half years of work counted for dick, all because Wifey and I prioritized buying a home over showing up at their shitty little office for a few days in August.

I'm glad they overplayed a weak hand. Their misreading and mishandling of the situation may ultimately have saved our family, or at least a few years of our lives. The pressure they tried to exert was that serious. And it backfired on them.

It's all over now. I wish them all the best. As for Wifey and I, we have other plans.

The Meltdown in Midtown III

I had made it as far as the reception area when it hit me that I had personal files on the laptop I was leaving behind. Still taking care to avoid eye contact with anyone, I about-faced and made for the laptop. The office creatures standing around with mouths agape did not stand in my way.

Once I had picked up the laptop in its carrier and again made for the exit, the junior partner moved as if to block my path. Without looking at him, speaking barely above a whisper, I advised "Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it." He checked his motion.

I'll give it to the guy -- he had more stones than his partner pretended to have when he was chewing me out over the phone the previous day. Faced with the monster his big, fat, ignorant, arrogant mouth had created, that clown's lips were suddenly laced tighter than a baseball's cover.

Though, by now, Junior had given up the charade that he or anyone there was going to do anything "brave", he did ask me to surrender an expensive USB device critical to the business, and I did that. Clearly, there was concern that I was going to do something vindictive.

Fools. After 2+ years of working with me, they had no hint of who I am. Then and there, I had rescinded their license to say so much as "ouch" to me if I was standing on their collective big toe. The moment was about emancipation, not petty vengeance. I had ZERO interest in destroying them, their enterprise or anything or anyone connected to them. I said I wanted to clear my files off the laptop and that is what I meant, but I wasn't going to sit in the middle of that toxic dump of an office to do so. I wanted out and right away.

I walked briskly out of the office, down the hall and to the elevator bank. Just when I thought I had seen the last of the twin ulcers, I spied them sneaking down the hall, as if stalking me from afar. They were like the Terminator, only instead of simply shooting me, they threatened to annoy me to death. Damn those slow-ass elevators!

I turned to face them, shocked and dismayed that they had followed me. I guess the look on my face said it all because they stopped a good 20 feet away. Somberly, Senior inquired as to when they could expect the laptop. Through clenched teeth, I growled "Tomorrow!" As I said this, I raised my hand away from me at left mid-torso and with an abrupt sweep to the right, I summed it up with "You have my word on it!"

The Rose!

Finally got to DVR The Rose, Bette Midler's 1979 tour de force re a rockstar on the fast track to Palookaville. How's THAT for most cliche's in a single sentence? Somebody call Guinness Book! I'm gonna be famous yet.