Suburban Sideline Warfare

Thanksgiving weekend, the oldest daughter participated in a soccer tournament with her team. The soccer tournament, is one of those weekend consuming affairs that gives you those hard earned parenting stripes that if you knew what it involved, you would probably leave those stripes right where they were. Tournaments are perfect storms of the little things that make it the rabid female dog. The odd scheduling, (early morning game with a late afternoon game), the remote locale (somewhere out in the boonies), the down time between games, team meals, small talk with other parents, splitting the bill and never having cash. Not to mention the general anxiety of hoping your kid isn’t the one who screws up on the field.

While the kids get to compete on the field, an unspoken, somewhat implicit competition exists on the sidelines between the parents. What’s on the line? Nothing as trivial as bragging rights. No, something far more important than that. The question to be answered in each soccer match is which team has the better set of parents?

The battle lines are drawn with clusters of parents sitting together in their carefully placed sport-brella chairs, discussing last night’s sleepover or some current event, or heaven forbid the weather. While the game is being played, we cheer on the girls, check the refs, and offer support when they make mistakes. It’s difficult to do sometimes, especially when, for whatever reason, the other team seems to pipe their support in through bullhorns. Thankfully, these battles are not won and lost with vuvuzelas and volume alone.

The girls still have to play on the field; and after suffering through a barrage screeches from the others mothers (let’s not forget the barks of their fathers) of the other team, there is nothing sweeter than hearing the heavy dose of hushmouth that quiets the other side as our team scores the goal that takes the lead. It’s not like you can ask the other parents to stop being annoying, or do you mind breathing on another field? We have to wait patiently for our daughters skills to do the talking.

And when it’s all said and done, and our daughters walk off of the field victorious in battle, there’s a feeling of validation in the air. Not just validation of the hours spent, and the dedication and support you’ve given your little one in both defeat and victory; but validation that you are a better parent than those loud-mouthed cretins on the other side of the field.

No Country for Old Produce

It might have been one of those peripheral glances in the mirror that triggered it all. A profile view of the belly region, captured and framed on the closet door mirror in all of its gelatinous glory. A thought materialized, ‘this should be covered with a shirt’. A second thought followed, ‘something must be done about this’. A third thought, uttered aloud, half-statement half-query “Babe, we need to join a gym”.

Nevertheless, the spark was created. The call to action was sounded. The maybe we should alter our eating habits before we commit to the gym thang became the *ahem* more sensible course of action. Something had to be done. We headed to the grocery store post haste. Produce was bought on sight and in bulk. The grocery basket was the fruits and veggies equivalent of a Benetton ad. Our conversation home was a tactical one; construction of meal plans, future exercise regimens and next leveling this ‘rebirth of sexy’.

But the heady moments of inspiration never consider the all too real mundanities of execution. Soccer practice, science projects, drivers ed classes, or just plain laziness exhaustion all have ways of getting in the way. Like the McDonald’s bags that make their way to the back seat, so do our well intentioned meal plans. Our poor vegetable bin might as well have been the subarctic chill of Siberia, where our perishables were sentenced to perish.

And perish they did. Discolored, deflated, and downy, they probably festered in their own nutrients and vitamins before they got all gooey in the bag. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way though, we were supposed to get on that good ELijah Muhammad and learn how to eat to live as opposed to live to eat. Maybe we should just buy canned vegetables. At least when we don’t eat those we can give them to a food bank.

Do You Smell That? (Colonel Kilgore’s Ode to Coffee)

You smell that. Do you smell that?
Coffee, Son. Nothing else in the world smells like that.
I love the smell of coffee in the morning.
You know one time we went to work at 7:30 am and stayed for hours
and when it was all over I walked back to the Minivan
The smell, you know that freshly brewed smell?
the whole day… smelled like – Victory.

Family Approved Awesomeness

This commercial is chock full of awesome: New Honda Odyssey, Black Panther, Godzilla on the DVD screen, Redemption Rd on the navigation system, a Marshall amp AND Judas Priest?

Don’t Be This Pedestrian

I get it. You’re a pedestrian. You have the right of way, and I should yield to you at all times. There are traffic laws are in place to reinforce this; the laws of physics however, do not necessarily agree. In the interest of your well being, my insurance premiums and possible manslaughter charges, I ask that you don’t be this pedestrian:

Phony fundraiser guy/girl: Usually a semi-official looking crew of misfits, wearing either matching t-shirts or neon safety vests. People give them money and they give you a colored flyer and a smile. Technically they don’t impede traffic, but their aggressive style of cheeriness is enough to make you want sideswipe them. (or run over their big toe)

The Slow Walker: This pedestrian is breaking the law. A jaywalker by nature, they cross the street wherever they please, and as indicated by the name, they cross slowly. Is their depth perception is off? Are they surrounded by an invisible force field? Are they expressing a benign suicidal cry for help? In the end none of that matters, I just need them to put some pep in their step and then go sort out their problems on the sidewalk.

Three Blind Mice: Another pack of pedestrians, typically in a residential district walking three wide in the street. Their engaging conversation and leisurely pace will not be interrupted by oncoming vehicles. So check your league’s rules, because some offer partial points for clipping one or two of the Three Blind Mice as opposed to an all or nothing scoring system.

Smells Like Teen Spirit: This type of pedestrian is why school zones exist. They walk aimlessly into traffic with nary a thought about their safety, your need to get where you are going or that wandering into traffic can end in death. I’d say some mean things, but I believe the children are our future, teach the well and to stay out of the way.

The Mean Mugger: Similar to The Slow Walker, the Mean Mugger also walks slowly into oncoming trafic. However, this pedestrian type sports a more defiant attitude and aggressive manner. They walk into traffic at a slow, deliberate pace, and drip with a ‘what-you-gonna-do’ swagger that begs to be tested. Let these disturbed folk make it, knowing full well that in the battle of man vs. machine, the machine will always win. John Henry be damned.

Worst Summer Ever

It’s been a few months since we last spoke. Well we don’t really speak now do we? I write something on this negligible blog and you politely read (god bless your poor little soul if you do read this) and hopefully think ‘that was amusing’ or ‘this is kind of funny’ or ‘what the?’. But whatever, it’s been a while.

And for what it’s worth, I have had plenty of ideas come into my head about new blog posts that never came to fruition. But, like a good procrastinator I spent my down time doing other things that were even less productive than putting together sentences for a blog that few people read.

It wasn’t all laziness on my part though, let’s just say that a brief spat with unemployment, no summer programs for the kids, triple digit weather, and a drought that doesn’t look like it will let up until next year is exhausting. It’s a recipe for a lot of down time spent together in close quarters; and as big as this house is, it wasn’t big enough this summer.

But all of that is over now. School has started, and it is back to just me and the babies. We’ve had a few outdoor excursions in the minivan since, and I hope to update soon. Until then, this post will serve as a placeholder for more to come.

This post needs a song doesn’t it?

Whole Foods is the Devil

Let me say this first. I get it. A healthy / socially conscious store that caters to your better intentions when it concerns the environment, health and fair trade practices all for a slight premium. I mean that’s what you’re buying right? And who in their right mind would be against that?

I’m also a firm believer of you get what you pay for, so in general, I am willing to pay up for quality. Like most things in my life, the Mrs exposes me to things my feeble male mind would not even consider, and Whole Foods is one of them. That said, I’ve come to appreciate the quality of meats we buy from them. As far as the produce is concerned, I will say that I’ve never bought produce from WF that wasn’t fresh and properly overpriced. As stated earlier, I’m ok with paying up for quality.

However, I am not cool with being taken for a ride, playing the mark, or making a cameo appearance as the proverbial sucker born last minute. But one fine day, the wife and I were in Whole Foods, buying a rotisserie chicken, and a few other items for dinner that evening. I was kind of excited because I thought for the first time ever, I would leave WF without spending more than $20. The chicken was $9 (a bit high for a rotisserie), but it came with a family size side item for free. (we chose macaroni salad) So I’m waiting for the wife by the express checkout lanes, looking at the heavily tatted dreadhead white chick checking customers, and then notice their coffee selection. I look for french roast. I find french roast. I open the french roast bin and grab a handful of fresh beans and sniff. Mmmmmm. They smell awesome. I think to myself, I haven’t kept any coffee in the house for a few weeks, I should get some. But this coffee was $13.99/lb (most I pay is $9.99/lb). I was immediately pissed, it wasn’t the money, it’s the principle. Sure, I could have bagged up half a pound of that fine Columbian and kept it moving. But nah homie, we got principles, and paying $13.99 for something I can get for $9.99 is something we just don’t do. So now, I’m ready to leave this massive money pit of a grocery. Finally, the wife arrives with the chicken, and we walk a few short steps to wait in line to checkout.

Simply Overpriced

The wife, love of my life, mother of my six children, spots some Simply Lemonade and thinks aloud “Ooooh I’m thirsty” and reaches for one. Me, watcher of menial expenditures, lord of the cheap bastards, conservative watchdog of familial’big spending’ respond with “Nah, not from here!”.

It wasn’t the money, it was the principle. The principle of not overpaying for something you can get cheaper somewhere else, the principle of not going into WF and paying an arm and a leg to get out, the principle of leaving WF just once, JUST ONCE without spending more than $20. None of that mattered to the Mrs. The fiscally responsible jist of my message was not communicated properly, and my best friend, the love of my life, responded with something like this. In retrospect, I deserved it. Furthermore, I ended up buying one of those overpriced chocolate squares they have at the checkout as some weird unresolved concession where neither of us got what we really wanted. And, I still spent more than $20 in WF.

Bumping NPR

As much as I love hip-hop, I think I might have outgrown the modern day format for urban radio. Urban radio has become a blitzkrieg of over-sexed, materialistic, vapid songs posturing for posturings sake. Even the advertisements, cater to the lowest of the low with constant adverts (no I’m not Bri’ish) from payday loans establishments, bail bondsmen, and strip clubs. So as I’ve aged, I find myself listening to a lot more talk radio than I’d care to admit. More specifically, I find myself listening to National Public Radio a lot.

When I do listen to talk radio...I prefer NPR

I’m fine with it actually, I love NPR. I love Michele Norris’ on All Things Considered, Michel Martin on Tell Me More, then there’s Fresh Air, A Prairie Home Companion, and This American Life. All of these shows have more than a few things in common; the soft spoken hosts, the mild literary humor, the quirky vignettes that put personal touches on matters big and small. It’s nice, it’s polite, and it’s interesting, and at this age that’s all I need. I know the kids hate when I switch the radio to our local NPR station, but I’d like to think that they don’t hate it as much as they put on.

But back to why I started this post. I was driving home, listening to NPR’s Tell Me More, and I hear this poet by the name of Talaam Acey, in the middle of a poem about a man, in a minivan with four baby seats, a pistol and a bottle of scotch. I think the poem was about how hard life is, or how hard fatherhood is, or how true friendship endures the roughest patches of our lives. Honestly, I don’t think I’m deep enough to glean meaning from that rambling poem. But the rhythm of his speech was captivating, and the reference of the minivan was priceless, and that’s why I wrote this I guess. Because any minivan reference needs to have a light shone on it, and not that NPR needs it but a little shine can go their way too.

Feel free to listen to Allison Keyes feature here.

hood figga pt iii (running man)

I have been meaning to write the next installment in the hood figga series for a while now; and the only reason I haven’t written one sooner is because I wanted the next installment to include an impromptu (see unauthorized) photo of the next hood figga. A couple of problems though: 1) cell phone pics from a distance are worthless 2) taking pics of random people on the street just might get your butt kicked.

With that said, I have been secretly trying to catch a shot of the latest hood figga for a little over a month. His schedule, for whatever reason coincides almost exactly with mine whenever I go to drop off or pick up the son. Because of this, I can almost count on seeing him when I hit a specific intersection.

He’s a big dude, probably 6 ft, 240 maybe 250 lbs. He’s one of those bulky dudes, bordering on fat, but slightly athletic. He wears this dark green nylon pullover regardless as to whether or not it’s hot outside. Anyway, his routine is pretty simple; jogs at a very relaxed pace (slower than a good power walker), stops at the corner and then walks backward back to his starting point. That’s his morning routine.

His afternoon routine is basically the same thing, but he brings his three little girls along for their afternoon workout with Dad. It’s kind of cool really. And on a good day, I’d like to think I would do the same thing. But who am I fooling?

Strangers In the Night

Got them DVD's

I live in an ‘urban’ area. I won’t get into the politics of that word and what it implies (partly, because I’m not really sure), but at the moment, I take it to mean dealing with some undesirables (people, places or things) more often than I would like. Let me also note that I’m certain that the list of undesirables I would find in the suburbs would be equally disturbing, but that is neither here nor there.

Now, I’m all for entrepreneurial endeavors and folk making a way out of none, but not so much when it involves pulling dollars from my already slim pockets for sub-par product. So when a mysterious man in a generic black fitted and gold tooth creeps up on me in his black Dodge Charger on blades at the gas station , I put on my meanest face when he simply asked “Hey, how ya doing? You looking for some DVD’s?”. I have to admit, the nicety “how ya doing” threw me off for a millisecond, but I was able to re-apply the screwface and add the appropriate level of bass in my voice when I replied “Nah man.”

And that was it. He snaked through each section of pumps politely asking the patrons whether or not they needed the newest latest DVD’s on the bootleg scene. I took a blurry pic of his Charger to capture our exchange.