There Are Still Good People Out There

So, back in the summer, some time in August, I ran an errand to pick up some Talk 2 Q face masks from a friend of mine.  I was about five minutes from my destination when I hit a pothole and blew out my passenger side front tire.  I pulled over near a church parking lot and surveyed the damage.  The temperature was in the 90's on this particular day and I'm sure that the heat index was well over 100.  

Anyway, I open my trunk and start to unload my spare tire and equipment that I need to change the flat tire.   As I'm pulling things out of the trunk, a minivan pulls up beside me.  It's a white lady, maybe in her mid-to-late 50's, kind of heavyset.  You know, the type of person you would envision if someone asked you to think of what a grandmother looks like.  She asked me what was wrong and I told her that I had a blowout.  She asked me if I had any water.  I told her that I did have a bottle of water in my car.  She said that it was too hot and I needed more.   

She then proceed to get out of her van and go into her backseat.  She emerged from the other side of the van with six bottles of water in her arms.  She said that if she knew how to change a tire that she would help me, but she wanted me to at least stay hydrated in the process. I thanked her profusely as I accepted the bottles.  She got back in her van, wished me a nice day, and drove off. 

I resumed working on my tire and I realized that my tire iron wouldn't fit the lug nuts on the flat.  So, I'm unable to remove the flat tire and put on the spare.  I'm racking my brain trying to figure out why the tire iron will not fit.  I then realize that without that, I'm stuck.  So, I grab my cell to call my dad to get him to bring his.  It will take him about 30 minutes to arrive, so I sit inside my car to turn on the A/C. 

A mid-sized sedan then pulls up in front of me.  A black man gets out.  He's probably early 30's, wearing an undershirt or what some people refer to as a "wife beater shirt".  Sounds terrible to say that out loud on the air, but you know the shirt.  He has a few tattoos and has the look of a construction worker, so to speak.  He asked me what was wrong and I recited my story.  He told me that he had a lug wrench in my car that would fit my tire.  He retrieved it from his trunk as I slowly got out of the car.   

I called my dad to tell him that I didn't need him to drive all the way across town and while I was doing that, dude started changing my tire.  After I got off of the phone with my dad, I tried to stop him and let him know that I could take it from here.  He simply replied, "It's all good, man.  I used to work at Goodyear.  I can change a tire in my sleep". 

Dude had the tire changed in a matter of minutes.  I offered to Cashapp him some money for his troubles, but he refused.  He said that he saw an opportunity to help and did so.  I thanked him and he drove on. 

I guess I shared all of this just to say that there are still some good people out here.  Social media will make you lose faith in all of humanity because of the level of selfishness and ignorance that we see on there every day.  But, I had two people, each who appeared to be from different walks of life, stop to assist me.  An older white woman and a younger black man.  A conservative-looking lady and an urban-looking, for lack of a better phrase, dude.  

Good people come in all shape, sizes, ages, and colors.  Stop letting social media and the talking heads on the news continue to divide us.  There are no secrets in getting along with people.  Just be decent and the rest will work itself out.

I Dropped The Ball

I made a mistake.  I bobbed when I should have weaved.  I  leapt when I should have ducked.  I felt that being comfortable was more favorable than trying something new and now I'm kicking myself.  I let a woman get away from me because I was distracted by someone who didn't really want me.

I met a really nice woman quite some time ago.  I'll refer to her "Woman A."  We usually only saw each other in passing, so our conversations were always limited.  Most of the time she was with her mom or her daughter, so it's not like I really had opportunity to get her know her on a more intimate level.  But I had chances to at least try and secure a date with her.  I just never did.

There was another young lady who was very much pursuing me that I'll refer to as "Woman B."  Her and I had known each other for a very long time and had actually stolen some kisses here and there in the recent past.  She wasn't trustworthy though.  In my mind I knew that she wasn't, but I was mesmerized at the thought of ultimately being with her because she had a lot of qualities that I liked.

My mistake.

So when I finally decided that I was going to ask Woman A to go out on a date the next time that I saw her, I got distracted by Woman B asking me to give her a chance to show she could be all that I needed.  I thought about it: do I try something new with someone who appears to be made for me or do I go with someone who really isn't my type, but I'm very familiar with her?

I thought that fate had made the decision for me.  I didn't see Woman A again for over a month.  We used to run into each other at least one a week, but her routine changed and I went a very long time without seeing her.  I thought about reaching out to her on Facebook, but I didn't want to come off as "that inbox guy," so I didn't.  I went with Woman B.

My mistake.

I wound up in a very unfulfilling relationship for a few months with Woman B.  Things were awesome for a month or so and then the real untrustworthy side finally showed up.  I eventually found myself single again and I can only assume that she moved on to the man she had waiting for her.

But I wasn't sad by any means.  True, I wasted my time, but it wasn't a big deal.  I'd lost what I'd felt for her and it was clear that she didn't care if I was with her or not, so I didn't sweat bailing on the relationship.

Unfortunately, I've had to bail on quite a few relationships in the past year or so.  I know that I have issues with being patient with people, but sometimes people do immature things that are hard for me to overlook.  Once I see immaturity in conflict resolution or acts of selfishness then I'm probably going to emotionally check out at that point.  Is it fair?  Some may not think so, but having immature conflict resolution techniques and/or being selfish is a deal-breaker for me.  Communicate with me like an adult or leave me alone.

Anyhoo, I was more determined to reach out to Woman A and ask her out after failing with Woman B.  I decided to go ahead and request friendship on Facebook and she accepted within just a few minutes.  I got ready to start my inbox message to her to ask for her number to call and I decided, "Well, let me look at her page first."

I was never sure of her age, so I wanted to check her "About" section to make sure she was within my preferred range and then I saw it.  "In a relationship with (Dude)."

"Oh," I thought as I slumped into my seat.  "I never knew she had someone already."

Then I continued to read the next line to see the start date of their relationship.  It was a month after I'd decided to give Woman B a try.  Woman A was available when I wanted her, but now she's not.  Not only is she not as of now, she's been in a relationship with this dude for months now.

Good for her.  I'm actually happy that she found someone who appears to be treating her right.  Not so good for me though.  I chose comfort over something new and I guessed wrong.  For someone who believes in strategy and planning, I didn't do either when I made my decision on who to try.

And don't get me wrong.  It's not like I'm sitting home depressed over this.  It does suck, but this is just a part of life I wanted to share and a tough lesson for me to learn.  Lord knows that I've encountered quite a few liars.  I've crossed paths with so many girls masquerading as women.  And I've unfortunately dealt with so many indecisive females who have successfully discouraged me from ever leading with kindness again.

Dating was not this crazy in the 90's.

But I still go out on dates regularly and I enjoy myself when I do.  I just haven't found someone who I'm interested in long-term or who is interested in me long-term.  I find myself attracting 20-somethings who are intrigued by my perceived financial stability and potential travel opportunities or 40-somethings who spent the last 20+ years making bad decisions and are needing yet another do-over.

I don't have time for either.  But I don't want to date just to be dating.  I actually want to be married.  I know that sounds odd for a guy to say, but I'm serious.  I love having someone to come home to every night who will give me a big hug and kiss upon seeing me.  That's where I am at 45 years old.  All I can do is pray that God sends one my way who is actually on the same page that I am.  I'll be patient and focus on other things I need to work on (like my patience) in the meantime.

Woman B is engaged from what I've heard and I wouldn't be surprised if I see that FB status update on Woman A being engaged at some point in the future, too.  Although I had no way of truly knowing if Woman A would have even given me a shot back then, I should have listened to my heart instead of taking the easy way out.  Now I'll never know.

For someone who is a firm believer of "a closed mouth never gets fed," I ended up starving to death before I decided to open mine.  Lesson learned.

#Ferguson: A Year Later

Last week, I found myself in the St. Louis area on business.  I decided that since it was only a 20 minute drive to Ferguson that I at least wanted to see the city to see what it was like.  I had no idea that I would leave with an empty feeling inside.

Arriving in the city didn't feel like arriving in any other city.  All of the stories in the media over the past year and has turned Ferguson into somewhat of a "haunted house" type of feel.  You're looking around as if to expect to see something "pop off."

But as I drove through the city, I didn't see media vans and cameras.  I didn't see any protesters (most protests occurred during the evening and I was there during the morning).  The city appeared just like any other city.  There did appear to be tension in the air just from some of the locals we came into contact with, but for the most part, just another day in an every day city.

We thought about just turning around and leaving, but then I decided to pull over and Google the Mike Brown incident.  I wanted to learn more about where it occurred.  Maybe we were on the wrong side of town and the commotion that we see each night on TV is elsewhere.  That's when I came across the street name where Mike Brown was shot.  It was about a 10 minute drive from where we were.

(Right click and open link in new tab to zoom)

I wasn't aware of the memorial dedicated to Mike Brown.  When I drove down the street where everything happened, I was actually surprised to come up on it so quickly.  There was very little traffic at the time and the few cars that did drive by did so slowly.

Four kids, no older than 12 years old, came walking by the memorial.  They barely looked at it as they crossed the street and said "hello" to us on their way into their apartment.  I didn't want to ask them if they knew Mike Brown or not, but somehow I knew that they did.  What did the memorial mean to them?  Did it make them hate cops more or did it make them fear cops more?  Did they look at Mike Brown as some sort of martyr for allegedly standing up to an officer or did they look at him as a troubled kid who took things too far?

(Right click and open link in new tab to zoom)

Once I drove past the memorial, I pulled over to get a closer look at some items placed on the side of the road.  This is where I felt the bottom of my stomach drop.  I saw stuffed animals with names written on their shirts: 

• Aiyana Jones, a 7-year old killed in a police raid in Detroit.  
• Tamir Rice, a 12-year old killed on a playground in Cleveland with a toy gun.
• Sandra Bland, a 28-year old arrested for resisting arrest despite never being initially charged with a crime.

There has to be another way for cops to do their jobs without incidents like these.  Why does everything have to end in tragedy?  At one time, being a black man made you feel like prey, but I never imagined that feeling would extend to black women and black children.

If you've read my blog long enough then you know that I have no tolerance for criminals.  But you also know that I believe in the punishment fitting the crime.  We'll never know if Mike Brown actually tried to harm that officer on that day because he's not here to tell his story.  A lot of people have not gotten to tell their stories because they are dead.

As we left Ferguson, we were silent for a good 20 minutes.  However, before we got outside of the city limits, we saw two kids walking down the street and it made us wonder if they would make it home that day.  So many never did.

Click here to visit www.Batteriser.com

Attitudes and Missed Opportunities

(7/22/15) I'm getting into the elevator as this attractive lady is stepping out. I say, "Excuse me, ma'am?" as I point to the floor.

She never makes eye contact and says "good day" and keeps walking.

I then blurt out, "You dropped something on..."

But, before I can finish, she says, "Thank you, have a nice day, sir," in one breath and disappears around the corner.

I step into the elevator and proceed to pick up the $10 that I can only assume that she dropped.

I understand that some women get flirted with constantly.  Especially when you're attractive.  However, every guy is not the same.  99 may try to get your attention in an attempt to vie for your affections, but Guy #100 may just be trying to tell you to watch out for that oncoming bus.  Stop assuming.

Oh, well. Lunch is on her today. :)

A Provider and A Protector

Father's Day has come and gone and my dad just celebrated his 74th birthday.  I'm so thankful for the positive influences that he's had on my life.  I firmly believe that my father was put on this earth for two things.  And those two things are all he's done his entire life. He seems to only get enjoyment out of seeing everything and everyone taken care of. Well, I take that back. He also gets enjoyment out of his occasional afternoon naps.
However, his main purposes in life is to be a provider and a protector. Is that old school way of thinking dead to us now?

I remember when I was in 1st grade and my mom would wake me up for school, I'd hear my father walking through the house and getting ready for work. He didn't have to be there until 7 AM, but he was usually out of the house shortly after 6 AM despite it only being a 15 minute drive. He didn't believe in being late for anything. He would take cold cuts and crackers for his lunch because he didn't require much. He brought his paycheck home to my mom to take care of the household and kept very little for himself. He only needed gas for his truck and enough to buy something to eat to hold him over until dinner time.

After working in a factory from 7 AM - 4 PM, I can remember hearing his truck driving across the railroad tracks as he entered the neighborhood. Our dogs would start barking because they knew the sound of his truck. They also knew that it was time for them to eat as well. My older brother and I would be sitting on the floor doing homework or watching cartoons by the time he got home. He would sometimes come into the house, drop his keys on the couch near the door and would just start dancing. My father's dancing style was (and still is) very similar to a one "George Jefferson" from the popular 70's sitcom "The Jeffersons." As he would dance, he would say, "Work it out, Pop!" I'm not sure where that saying came from, but it ultimately became the reason my brother and I have called him "Pop" for as long as we can remember.

After his performance, I would grab my shoes while he was taking time to greet my mom. She was usually putting the finishing touches on dinner when he got home. If she had to work late then my grandmother (on my mom's side) would be finishing up dinner for all of us. Before settling down to eat, Pop would go back outside to feed the dogs and I was right behind him as he walked out of the house. After a long day of work, he could have easily gotten fed up with a 6 year old following his every movement. In fact, that's kind of how I got the childhood nickname "Shadow."

But he never ran me off. I'd watch him feed the dogs and refill their water dishes. Afterwards, he would do one of many things that may have been needed around the house from changing the oil in the vehicles to working in my grandmother's garden where she grew vegetables year around. Despite a day that started out at 6 AM, Pop would work until it got dark outside on most days. His reward? A full stomach from a delicious dinner and watching TV until after the news went off.

He did this for 20+ years for sometimes six days a week. Going to work for Challenger Electric/GTE wasn't Pop's job. Being "Pop" was his job. And he took it seriously.

But he was (and still is) more than just "Pop". He is also "Uncle Leroy" or "Mr. Leroy" to kids in the neighborhood. Everyone in the neighborhood knows my father. He's the one who will give you a popsicle in the summertime when you're a good kid, but will also chastise you for being a disrespectful kid. You have to say "yes or no, sir" when addressing him. You have to say "thank you" when receiving something from him. Any sign of disrespect will pretty much get you banned from the property regardless of your age.

Pop believes in a natural order to things and that includes a kid knowing his/her place. Step out of line around adults and you'll quickly get reminded that you are a kid. Another thing that makes Pop an icon in the neighborhood is that despite his generosity and willingness to help, he has a temper. Not necessarily a fly-off-the-handle type of temper, but a temper nonetheless. His tolerance for foolishness is extremely low.  He does not tolerate anyone messing with his family.

My brother and I took different paths from a lot of the other kids in my neighborhood. My neighborhood has turned out drug dealers, rapists, and even a murderer or two. But, none of those guys every brought that mess to our house. Because they knew what Pop would do to them if they did anything to negatively influence or harm me or my brother. No police force would be able to stop him from getting to that person. He made that known to the small-time criminals who were once my friends that they were no longer welcomed at our house.

I once thought that they developed other interests and stopped coming around because of that, but as I got into my teens I realized that they stopped coming around because of Pop. They knew that if they attempted to get me ormy brother caught up in their lifestyles that Pop would come after them. However, he didn't just want to save me and my brother from that element, he also wanted to save them as well. I remember as a 10 year old that a friend of mine from around the corner came by to play. He'd recently gotten in trouble for stealing a pair of skates from the nearby skating rink. Pop was aware of the incident and when he came home from work and saw us outside playing he was upset with the boy. He asked him if he stole the skates and the boy admitted that he did. Pop scolded him about stealing and gave him a firm lecture while I watched uncomfortably. He told him how thieves ended up in jail or shot while trying to take someone's property. He told him that he needed to get his life together, but until then, thieves weren't welcomed in his yard.  The boy left and ultimately never came back. He eventually got sent to prison a couple of years later and someone killed him in jail when he was in his late teens.

So, the bad elements simply stayed away from our house and my friends eventually changed. The guys that he couldn't talk any sense into got older, but they never lost respect for Pop. Many houses got broken into in our neighborhood, but never ours. Many kids got "jumped" by so-called "gang members," but never me or my brother. Many arugments and fights took place in my neighborhood, but they were never in front of our house.

At 74 years old, Pop is still the same as he was when I was a kid. He's a taxi for my 92 year old grandmother (mom's side) to make sure she makes it to all of doctor's appointments and to church. He's always the one that people in the neighborhood call when they have car trouble. He's the one that a 3rd generation of kids refer to as "Uncle Leroy" when they want a popsicle on a hot day. And despite living by himself, when he's away from home for long periods of time, nearby neighbors (some with criminal records) watch his home to ensure that nothing happens to it.

My father has his flaws and he's far from perfect. Like many of us, he's made some mistakes in his life that he undoubtedly regrets. But, although I am self-sufficient and living my own life just a few miles away from the old neighborhood, he would be there if I ever needed him for anything. He's still a provider and a protector. It's what keeps him going. And even at 43 years old, I'm still hoping to be just like my Pop.

HORRIBLE Customer Service at @DestinationXL

And I stress the word "HORRIBLE!"  However, this is par for the course in today's America.  A lot of today's companies have little interest in keeping you satisfied as a customer.  They just want your money.  If you're inconvenienced or wronged in any sort of way by them then that's just something you have to deal with on your own.

I went to Destination XL (Jackson, MS) on 3/16 to find a new pair of dress pants.  I've shopped at this particular location for at least 10-15 years.  Before they re-branded themselves as DXL they were known as Casual Male.  I don't know the employees in the store by name, but I've shopped there long enough for us to recognize each other's faces.

I found a pair of pants in my size for the waist, but the length was too long.  After all, they're called "Big & Tall" stores and not"Big & Short."  So, the lady who worked there asked me if I just wanted to order a pair online from within the store and have it shipped to my house.  Although I needed the pants sooner than later, I decided to go with that option rather than buy the lengthy pair I had in my hands and paying someone to hem them.  The lady verified my info, placed the order for me, and told me that it would be 5-7 business days.  I got my receipt and left satisfied.

Today (six business days later) I received a package in my mailbox.  Although I'd hope to get the pants in 3-4 days, I wasn't upset because it did arrive within the window they promised.  I got the package inside and popped it open.  Instead of a pair of black slacks, I pulled out a Carolina blue polo shirt in a size 7XLT.  Now, I'm a big dude, but I'm nowhere near a 7XLT.

I double-checked the receipt to see if I received the wrong package.  But the receipt showed that the package contained one pair of black slacks although that's not what I received.  Go figure.

Now, I'm a bit ticked off that I've waited a week to get the wrong order.  I know that it's not the fault of the employees in the store, so I don't show my frustration.  The lady took my receipt and a manager showed her how to refund my item without the item actually being present.  She asked me to sign a receipt showing a credit back to my card and she handed me a copy.  I said "thank you" and she said "you're welcome" and she went on about her business.

I paused for a second and thought that surely at least I'd get an apology, but no, that wasn't the case.  Despite waiting a week for merchandise I never received and having to make a 2nd trip to the store, I never even got a "we apologize for your inconvenience."  And as petty as that sounds, because I left that store with a bad taste in my mouth I don't plan on ever shopping there or any of their locations again.  I will order my items strictly online or go to the mall.

I'm not one to look for a handout just because a mistake is made.  You don't have to give me a coupon or something free.  However, when a mistake is made I do expect an employee to apologize on the company's behalf.  I definitely expect a manager to know better.  But these two employees didn't feel the need to do that.  They're probably not even trained to do so because why should Destination XL care how I feel?  Either I'm giving them money for their product or I'm not.  Fat people have to shop somewhere, so they know that I'm not going to Old Navy without a serious weight loss plan.  Why bother to put forth the effort to satisfy me?  And I know this may have had more to do with the actual people than the store itself, but I have had other complaints about DXL that I'm omitting at this time.  This was just the icing on the cake.

An apology can go a long way in any situation, business or personal.  I stopped doing business with Edible Arrangements because of their lack of empathy in screwing up a Valentine's Day delivery.  How are you going to deliver something after everyone has pretty much left the office for the day?

But some people wait for you to start to walk away before they apologize.  I'm sure that if I would have said, "I'm never shopping here again" that I would have received an reactionary apology.  But, I've been coming there for 10-15 years.  I'm not going anywhere else, right?

Wrong.

Being Polite Isn't Flirting

How sad is it these days that when you're nice to someone they can get suspicious of you? Does everyone who does something for you want something in return other than a "thank you"?

Pretty much. That's the society that we've created in the United States. A bunch of selfish and entitled people who can't see past their own feelings. And as you can see, I'm disgusted by it.

I'm was walking in downtown Jackson recently and it was raining. The building that I was leaving had a cover over the front steps and I was about to walk across the street to a garage. However, the rain seemed to pour down rain even harder once I reached the bottom step.  I could barely see 15 feet in front of myself.

Luckily, I had my large umbrella with me and I opened it up and got ready to cross the street. A lady came out of the building without an umbrella and made her way down the steps to make a run for the garage through the rain. I asked her, "Would you like to use my umbrella? I'm rocking a bald head, so the rain won't bother me. I can just get it from you on the other side."

She turned up her lip as if she was offended by my gesture and said, "Why would you do that for me?"

Ignoring her negative demeanor, I replied sarcastically in question, "So that you don't get wet? You don't want to mess up your clothes, do you?"

She sat idly for a second as she appeared to be pondering the pros and cons. All while she looked at me as if I was playing some sort of con game on her. Before she could respond, I simply turned around and walked across the street with my umbrella. She may have said something to me as I walked off, but the rain was hitting my umbrella so hard that I couldn't make out if she did or not.

Look, I'm all for being cautious, but not to the point of paralysis. I asked her if she needed my umbrella not to get into a windowless van. She was so hesitant in her thinking that she probably thought that I was going to hit on her for allowing her to use my umbrella to cross the street. I didn't ask for her to get under my umbrella with me and walk together. I didn't ask for her name or number. I was simply trying to do what I thought was the right thing.

I'll give her the benefit of the doubt by saying that maybe she's had a ton of bad guys disrespect her to the point of skepticism.  I can halfway understand that and if that's the case then it's just a sad way to have to live a life.  A lot of people do want something for something.  Quid pro quo.  Not many do something for the sake of being generous of chivalrous.

Evidently that's so rare these days that people expect it to come with a cost. Unfortunately, it's her loss because when I drove by her on my way out of the garage she was soaked.

How the Con Game Was Foiled

It was shortly after lunch on a gorgeous 62 degree day in downtown Jackson a few weeks ago. I'd had a somewhat satisfactory meal and I was on my way to an appointment when I was approached by a man in the parking lot of the restaurant.

 He had a beard in serious need of grooming. His clothes appeared dirty and tattered a bit yet he had a kind and gentle demeanor to himself. "Excuse me, sir," he started, "but may I ask for your help?" "What's going on?," I asked. "I'm from Tupelo and I'm stuck down here. I don't have any money and I don't have means to get in touch with my family. Is there a way you can help me out?," he asked.

I'm thinking to myself that I don't have time for his sob story. Although there are people on the streets who truly need help, there are a ton of others who are just lazy or are con artists. It's difficult to determine which is which, so I choose to donate my time to charity rather than money most of the time. I don't know if the guy could sense my reluctance or not, but he continued with his story. "Sir, if I could just get a couple of dollars then it could go a long way towards me getting home. My mom..." (a muffled, generic ring tone plays) I tilted my head one-sided a la a German Shepherd when I heard a ring tone coming from the man's jacket. He took a deep sigh and without ever taking his eyes of me, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. Not just a cell phone, but a smartphone. Not just a smartphone, but a really nice smartphone!

It appeared to be an HTC M8 which was something that I wanted at one time. He silences the ring tone and places the phone back inside his pocket. His eyes never left me throughout he process. I took my eyes off of his jacket and refocused on his face. He had this look of defeat that was priceless! And if we were on cue, at the same time we both erupted in laughter. Me and this "homeless" dude laughed for a good 30 seconds as if we were sitting front row at a Chris Rock comedy show.

How many homeless people have HTC smartphones? And he had no way to get in touch with his family? This guy was one of the reasons a lot of people shun the homeless and needy. A lot of us think that we're being taken advantage of to line the pockets of someone who doesn't need it, someone who will drink/smoke the money up, or someone who is just too lazy to work.  It's a shame because there are those out there who truly need help and can't get the boost that they need to get back into society. Despite all of that, I wasn't angry with this guy because I was too busy laughing at how his con game was foiled.

As I turned to walk off, still laughing and wiping tears from my face, the guy says, "I guess I should turn that ringer off, huh?" I never even looked back as I agreed, "Yeah, you should!"

 I'm guessing that if I ever run into that guy again in downtown Jackson that he will definitely remember me. And I'm sure that we'll laugh all over again.

Do You Pick Up Hitchhikers?

"Don't mind the axe. I'm a lumberjack!"

Back in high school, I was riding with a couple of friends of mine to a school event.  We're going up the interstate when up ahead there was a guy sitting down with his thumb out.  Now, hitchhiking may have been big in the 60's and 70's, but in the late 80's, it was the first 5 minutes of a slasher movie.

I was sitting in the backseat and I sat up and directed my attention out the front window once the driver, Greg, started to slow down.  "Greg, what are you doing, man?" I inquired as I wondered if he was pranking the hitchhiker or actually stopping.

"I'm going to give this guy a lift," he replied.  "He looks cool."

"What do you mean he looks cool?" I started.  "How do you know he's cool?"

"I mean, he looks like he needs a ride," Greg responded looking in the rear view mirror at me.

The passenger, Henry, said nothing as he sat in the front seat.  By this time, we're about 50 yards away and the hitchhiker notices that we're slowing down so he starts to stand up.  "Greg, don't pick this dude up, man!" I said getting more nervous.  "He could be crazy!"

"Chill, Q," Greg started,  "we're only a couple of exits from the school, so at least that will help him out a bit."

Now I'm really nervous.  This fool is going to actually pull over and pick up Charles Manson on the side of the road.  Since I'm in the backseat alone, this psycho will probably end up sitting next to me which isn't cool.  Why?  Because I'm the only black guy in the car!  And we all know that the black guy is always the first to die!

Desperate times calls for desperate measures.  "Greg, if you pull over I will punch you in the back of the head!"

"What?" he replied not sure if I'm kidding or not.

"I'm not playing, Greg!" I said with a quiver in my voice.  "I will punch you in the back of the head!"

Evidently, Greg could hear the fear and seriousness in my voice and see it in my eyes in the mirror.  I was a man trapped in the back seat of a car with very few options.  I was going to punch him in his head.  He increased his speed and we blew right past the confused hitchhiker.  "Lighten up, Q," he replied.  "That guy might have really needed a ride."

I didn't reply as I sat back in my seat.  I could hear my heartbeat in my head.  I really was going to punch Greg in the back of the head... repeatedly.  He has no idea to this day that as he was slowing down the car that he was just 5 mph away from getting punched in the back of the head.

I don't take chances with my life, but I was going to risk an accident over having Jason Vorhees in the backseat with me.  Unfortunately for hitchhikers in need, axe murderers have messed the game up for them as far as I'm concerned.  I don't stop for hitchhikers.  Period.  I don't care if it's a woman and she looks like Tika Sumpter.  The moral of the story is: if you pick up hitchhikers then you'll get punched in the back of the head.  Don't get punched in the back of the head.

Have you ever picked up a hitchhiker or have been a hitchhiker?

Do Other Languages Offend You?

(thinking to herself) "Oh, no she didn't wear that!"

Okay, so I'm sitting in an Asian restaurant last week.  A Japanese restaurant to be exact.  The waitress comes to my table and speaks very good English while getting my order.  I noticed about five minutes later that she and a co-worker were off in the corner having a good laugh.  They were looking towards a customer and giggling all while talking in their native language.

Were they making fun of the customer?

I haven't a clue and I can't say that it bothers me to know what they are saying.  I just assume that they're more comfortable in speaking their native tongue.  However, I do remember a story a former coworker told me once.

First of all, my former coworker is black.  I have to give you that background to help you understand the context of the story.  She was one of four other black women getting a pedicure at a local, Vietnamese nail salon when an older, black woman walked in and sat down next to her.  The older woman was wearing something resembling African tribal attire (really gaudy ensemble including a large hat).

After greeting the older woman (in the English language) and figuring out what services she needed, the Vietnamese lady working at the location proceeded to start the pedicure.  Another Vietnamese salon worker walked by, laughed, and hurled an insult in her Vietnamese tongue about the older woman's attire.  She assumed that since everyone in the salon was black that they wouldn't know what she was saying.

What she didn't know is that my former coworker lived in Vietnam for three years and is very fluent.  She told the salon workers (in Vietnamese) that they would do that lady's pedicure for free or she would tell the woman that they were insulting her.  Of course they were stunned (along with everyone else in the shop) that someone spoke the language and to make a long story short, they did do the older woman's pedicure for free.  The older woman never knew why she received the free pedicure, but she was appreciative on top of being confused.

A lot of English-speaking people are skeptical when we don't understand something.  We feel extremely disrespected to think that someone could be bad-mouthing us right in front of us.  A lot of times we assume the worst, but I think that story is an isolated incident.  With so many people being educated in foreign language, it's not wise to assume that someone doesn't understand what you're saying.

Do you get offended when people, who speak good English, speak their native tongue around you?

"Ay, que feo!"

Who Will Tell Their Stories?

One of my father's childhood friends stopped by his house recently while I was visiting. Listening to them talk about growing up together was so entertaining! I sat back and listened to each story that they told.  Knowing what life was like for my father as a child is fascinating to me.  He's told me so many stories of how he and his brothers grew up in 40's and 50's in Mississippi.  I value each and every story I get from family as a timeless treasure.

The photo attached is one of my mom and her siblings.  I know a story about every person in it.  My uncle in the black shirt once told me a funny story about jumping off a moving truck in an attempt to impress girls as a youth.  My aunt next to him told me a story of how her husband forgot to play her usual numbers for the Minnesota lottery the one day her numbers were actually selected.  The lady in the middle is my mom, so of course I know everything about her.  My uncle in the suspenders shared with me how his dad (my granddad) broke him from smoking cigarettes.  My aunt in the red shirt shared about how she once had to discipline my mom for being bad.

So many entertaining stories that takes you back in time as you listen to them.  However, it sometimes makes me feel pretty bad about not having a son or daughter to share these stories with about my family. My cousins have kids, so they may attempt to share some things.  Although I have god kids and my lady has kids, they probably wouldn't understand the dynamic of my family. Especially on my father's side.  If you didn't grow up around my family like my cousins and I did, then it would be hard to understand some of the inside jokes that come from the stories that they tell.  It's almost like walking in on the middle of a movie.  You may figure some things out, but you'll never have foundation that all good stories must have.

But, me not being able to pass things down is not the real tragedy.  The real tragedy is that I don't think kids have an interest in hearing those type of stories. If it's not about "Twilight," a reality show, an Xbox game or something like that, then kids tend to tune grown people out after three minutes or so.

So, where will these stories go? Will they die with me?  

Unfortunately, I think that they will.  Talking to elders is a thing of the past.  Previous generations and how they live aren't important in our society now.  They probably haven't been in more than a decade.  At least not any more.  I'm not the only one who recognizes that fact either.

The cable network called AMC (once called American Movie Classics) changed their name because they wanted to get away from the classic and appeal to younger generations.  It's why they now have programming like "The Walking Dead" and "Breaking Bad."  They know that very few want to watch old black and white movies today.  Do you know anyone under 40 years of age who can watch a black and white TV show/movie?

The United States is probably one of the only countries that doesn't hold its elders in high regard.  In Asian countries, older people are revered for their experience and wisdom.  To sit with someone who has truly experienced life is an honor to most of them and other countries.  Here in the States, it's considered a waste of time for some.  Kids don't want to hear how things used to be.  They don't care what life was like before cell phones and remote controls.  It doesn't affect their lives so it has no place.

That's so sad to me.  Storytelling is a lost art.  I used to enjoy sitting on the porch and talking to my grandmother about her days as a little girl.  I heard about how she had to work from the crack of dawn to sundown as a pre-teen.  I remember hearing that she didn't have her first TV until she was in her 30's.  She's told me about how racism was rampant in Mississippi.  In fact, she just recently told me about how she cooked breakfast at her sister's house for two of the three civil rights workers not too long before they were later murdered in Philadephia, MS.

Hearing how she lived gives me perspective on how I live.  Perspective is something we severely lack in society.  We can't put ourselves in someone else's shoes because we don't have to do so.  My generation doesn't appear interested in sharing things with its kids.  In fact, my generation invented things to keep kids occupied so that we wouldn't have to talk to them.  Why else would someone think of putting a DVD player in a vehicle?

How can a kid understand the privilege of having a car when he/she doesn't even know that his/her grandma had to walk to school?

How can a kid appreciate having over 200 television stations when he/she doesn't know that granddad only had four while growing up?

How can a kid value the time family spends together when everything promotes individualism (iPod/earbuds, cell phone, tablets).

As much as it pains me to say it, "cherishing our elders are a thing of the past."  I honestly think that my generation (70's babies) is the last one where a majority of us truly appreciate the stories we were told by those a generation above us.

It's a shame, too.  Now that I'm 42 years old, I have lived life long enough to have stories to tell.  Some funny and some serious.  But, "who wants to hear them" is what I ponder.  The only people who will probably know about my stories are the ones who follow my blog.  The rest just don't seem to care.

Am I wrong when I say that our elders are no longer relevant to a majority of young people?

Going Back to Cali

(written on 10/10)

I'm in pain as I type this. My upper shoulder area was sore prior to going to bed last night and now it feels as if Jason Statham just kicked me in the neck. I guess I need a firmer pillow and not one you can fold and put in your pocket. Anyhoo, I'll get over it.

Last week, The Mrs. and I spent Sunday-to-Sunday in Carlsbad (San Diego), CA for her birthday. Not only did we have a great and relaxing time, I also slept much better than I did last night (the pillows were firm at the SeaPointe Resort)!

The one thing that I did gain even more perspective on, while vacationing there, was the value of hard work. I met and unofficially interviewed almost every housekeeping and maintenance employee at our resort. To hear them talk about the jobs situation in America was fascinating to me.

One person in particular that I met was a housekeeper named Caridad was from Mexico. She has been in the states for most of her adult life (I'm guessing she was mid-20's). I asked her, "if I were to move to Carlsbad, would I have a problem finding a job?"

She replied, "office job?"

"No, just a good job." 

"There are plenty of good jobs here, but a lot of people only want desk jobs."

Intrigued, I followed, "why is that?"

"I don't know. Americans don't like to sweat."

Of course, she followed that statement with a nervous laugh to try not to offend me. I wasn't offended at all. I knew exactly what she meant. American-born people tend to want things easy when it comes to the job. I remembered my days of working in a cell phone company's call center and seeing people complain about being "tied to the phones."

But, every other day at the resort, I watched a 50-something Hispanic woman rake even rows in the sand of a beach volleyball area. It took her 20-30 minutes to erase all of the footprints, but she did it and made sure that the rows were even.

I recall wanting some more towels for our bedroom and watching Caridad run to retrieve them. When she returned, I asked her why did she run and she simply replied, "to get them to you faster."

Really? Who does that?  Was it because I was nice to her and I spoke to her daily or just because she understands the real meaning of customer service?

Don't get me wrong. We all complain about our jobs at some point. Mainly over the people we deal with more so than the job, but we complain nonetheless.  I'm sure that even LeBron James wishes he could stay in bed late some days instead of going to the gym. Even a male photographer for Playboy Magazine probably gets tired of packing luggage to go all over the world for nude photo shoots.  Well, maybe I'm reaching there.

From the Filipino woman at the airport named Tess, who was very helpful, to the Pacific Islander Seapointe Resort front desk attendant named Olga, who had the most pleasant of attitudes, I learned something: I learned that we have people, born and raised, in this country capable of being hard workers. The difference between the U.S. and the places where these particular employees originated is the culture.

We don't teach the value of hard work like we once did. So many people have rapped/sang, ran/jumped and sex-taped their way to financial freedom that a lot of us just wait on our "big break" instead of creating it. Do you know how many kids that I know who want to be a singer/rapper, basketball/football player, reality star, etc.? A lot more than when I was in school, that's for sure.

The point that I'm trying to make is that people aren't born lazy. We're turned into lazy bums by enablers. We have companies (insert fast food restaurant here) who hire "warm bodies." Some companies could care less if you're nice to the customers.  They just need you to flip the burgers and take the money.

We have parents who do everything for their children. "Helicopter parents" who hover over their child and won't let him/her do anything on their own.  And then other people have to deal with their children once they become "adults."

We have the media who portray sluts, slackers and drunks as idols.  No need to have talent!  Just do something really stupid that people will talk about on Twitter.

Where did we go wrong? (Sigh)

I enjoyed our vacation in Carlsbad.  I hope that some day we'll be going back to Cali for another stay.  I not only enjoyed the weather and sights there, but I also learned that there are people in this country who still take pride in their work.

It's just that must of them weren't born here...

Are we too far gone as a culture to restore a hard-working attitude back into the U.S.?

My Uncle Bernie

Well, he was really my great uncle...  Anyway, since my mom passed away in June, I've spent a lot more time with my father.  I've also paid a lot closer attention to the stories that he tells about his childhood.  After all, I may some day have to pass these family stories down myself.  Then again, I don't have any kids.  I guess I could tell my god kids, but they wouldn't understand the dynamic of my family.  Maybe my cousin will pass it on to his kids.  In the meantime, I guess I'll share this one with you.

My Uncle Bernie was a character.  He was my grandmother's brother (father's side) and he is the subject of many funny, family stories.  For the most part, he was very mild-mannered and didn't have much to say.  That is, until you get a drink or two in him.

When my Uncle Bernie had a few sips, he became a "Me vs. The World" type of guy.  I remember him when I was younger and I'm guessing I was about 10 years old or so when he passed away.  Of course, I was too young to remember a lot of his antics that may have occurred when I was around.  After all, kids used to be kids back then.  We stayed out of grown people's business.

My father told me of a story that happened before I was born about a man who once came by looking for my great aunt, Leanne.  Who this man was is still a mystery to us to this day because Uncle Bernie rarely asked questions. He just frustrated you with short answers until you left him alone.

Uncle Bernie was sitting on the porch having a drink and cleaning his church shoes when a car pulled up.  My uncle was immediately skeptical because he didn't recognize the car.  Out pops a middle-aged white guy dressed in a suit.  Now, I specify the man's race because it does play a role in the story.  My uncle was not a fan of white people (especially back when this incident occurred - approx. 1960).  Luckily, that's not a trait that I inherited.  Quite a few of my older relatives had some very bad experiences with racism prior to 1975 before things got slightly better in Mississippi.

So, when it came to Uncle Bernie: Alcohol + White Men = Sarcasm.  The man approached the porch and my uncle never looked up from cleaning his shoes.  "How are you doing, sir?" the man asked.

"I'm doing well," Uncle Bernie replied.

"Is Leanne home?"

"No, she isn't."

"Do you know where she is?" the man asked as he put his foot on the first step of the porch.

Not my uncle's house, but it does look like it a bit.

That's when my Uncle Bernie looked up, first glancing at the foot on his porch and then the man.  My uncle was a skinny guy (his nickname was "Rib").  About 5'8" and 115 lbs.  He talked slowly with a raspy voice and he had a look that he would give you as if he wanted to punch you in the mouth.  He gave that look to the man.

"Yeah, I know where she is," he finally replied after staring at the man for up to 10 seconds.

The man paused for the answer of my aunt's location only to be met with silence as Uncle Bernie lowered his head and focused back on cleaning his shoes.  After about 10 more seconds of silence, the man finally spoke softly, "can you tell me where?"

Uncle Bernie looked up again.  He's clearly agitated at this point because he's being disturbed from cleaning his shoes.  After another uncomfortable moment of silence, "Yeah, I can tell you...  She's at the church."

There was a church within walking distance of where my uncle lived.  It was a church in which a majority of our family were members.  "Do you expect her back soon?" the man asked knowing that he was pushing his luck.

"Nope."

"How long has she been gone?"

Uncle Bernie then looked up and put his shoes down which caused the nervous man to take his foot off the first step of the porch.  "About 15 years," he replied while staring intensely.

The man laughed at what he thought was a joke until he realized that my uncle wasn't laughing.  "Okay, I'll go up there and see if I can find her," the man said as he put his hat back on and turned towards his car.

He had just gotten his right leg in his vehicle when my uncle got his attention one last time, "Hey," he started.  "don't you want to know where to find her when you get there?"

"Yes, sir, that would be most helpful," smiled the man thinking he'd finally broken through my great uncle's tough exterior.

Uncle Bernie started rattling off directions, "go into the church parking lot and go all the way to the back.  Get out and walk about 30 feet and look down.  She's buried right next to my daddy's grave."

The man looked horrified and mad at the same time after he put 2 and 2 together.  He never responded as he quickly got in his car and sped away up the dirt road leaving a huge trail of dust.

My great Uncle Bernie sure was mean when he was drunk.

Do you have a family member who just doesn't play nicely with others?

Tippin' Isn't A City in China

(Source)

Despite the fact that I hate doing this, I must throw out a disclaimer: I was 18 years old and very immature! So, if someone reads this and gets upset over what (almost) happened, then remember that I was a kid.  Now, on to the story...

Going to school on a campus in the middle of nowhere can be boring. Very boring. My homies and I decided that this particular Friday night, we were going to do something different. I had no idea what they had in mind. All I knew is that it was Friday night, 70% of the campus had obviously gone home for the weekend and it was absolutely nothing to do.

One of my homies was from Shaw, MS. In fact, I never knew his real name and always referred to him as "Shaw." The other guy was from Tyler, TX and guess what we called him? We called him "Al." Duh! That was his name. Nah, seriously, everyone called him "Ty." I guess we weren't very creative at this particular time of our lives. Two guys from two small towns in two different states, but apprarently, they both have a similar, late-night hobby. "Q," started Shaw, "I know what we can do, man. Grab your keys."

I didn't hesitate. I was just about down for whatever. We were halfway to the car before I asked, "where are we going?"

"I'll tell you later, but for now, I just need you to drive," he replied.

We hopped in the car and started heading towards town. The closest town, Greenwood, is about eight miles away. We arrived at the city limits, I asked again, "where are we going?"

"Just keep driving. It's going to be a while," he smiled.

I'm not nervous yet. Although I don't normally hang with these two guys, I knew them well enough to know that they weren't criminals or anything. So, I didn't feel like I was heading towards something that would land me in trouble.

After another 30 minutes of driving north towards Senatobia, MS, I asked again, "man, I'm going to turn around unless you tell me where we're going. I'm not driving to Memphis tonight. It's 1 AM."

"Give me 20 more minutes, Q, and we'll be there," Shaw assured.

Sure enough, 20 minutes later, Shaw told me to pull over on the side of Interstate 55. "Right here, right here," he said looking out of the passenger window.

I looked out the window as well and noticed a pasture. "I don't see anything," I said.

"Q," Ty started, "we're going 'cow tippin',' dude!"

Now, I wasn't raised on a farm or anything, but I definitely knew what "cow tipping" was. "Tippin'" isn't a city in China.  I had once been told that cows "sleep" (or get in a relaxed state) while standing. The object of "cow tipping" is to push them while they are in that state and watch them fall.  I'd never seen it done before, but I'd heard about it in high school from some guys. However, because I'm not down with farm animals whatsoever, I was not comfortable at all around them and had no plans of participating.

"Okay, Q," started Ty, "here's what you gotta do..."

"Oh, I'm not going out there!" I responded.

"Man, these cows ain't gonna hurt you," Ty laughed. "Well, if you let them catch you, then you may get hurt. Just sneak up on them, get a running start, use your hands to push them and turn around and run."

I looked at this one cow that was about 20 yards from the fenceline. I thought to myself that I could do it. "Don't use your shoulder to knock them over!" Shaw instructed. "Use your hands becasue it doesn't take much."

I'm really psyched up at this point. I thought about being able to have a story to tell one day. I guess I was right about that part!

I slipped in between the barbwire fence while I tried to ignore the giggles from Shaw and Ty. There were roughly 10-15 cows in the area and all of them were absolutely still. The only light that I had was a full moon, so I could not see very far in front of me, but it was enough light for me to recognize a bull if I saw one! I got about 60 feet from the fence and very close to the "target cow." I'm amazed at how relaxed she is. I can't tell if she's asleep or just hasn't noticed my presence.  But, the cow is much larger than I thought before entering the fenced-in pasture. There was no way that I could simply push her over. That line of thinking is where I made my mistake. I'd never asked Ty or Shaw why I shouldn't use my shoulder when "cow tipping." I guess that I should have.

As I got within striking distance of the cow, I took a quick peek back towards the guys. I could barely see them as the moon slid behind a few clouds. I faced my prey, took three strong steps, lowered my shoulder and prepared to put every inch of muscle that I had into toppling the bovine.

Well, some where between lunging at the cow and hitting the ground, I realized that cows really aren't asleep when they're standing around at night time.  That's just a myth.  The cow easily moved out of my way and I fell and hit the ground face first.

Memo to readers: cows tend to get pretty rowdy when you attempt to shove them.

The cow went nuts! It was mooing and stuff as I was trying to get off of the ground. Then I could hear the sounds of the other cows in the pasture mooing like some sort of alarm system. The sounds seemed to be coming from all over and grew louder and louder. How many cows were actually out here?  50?  100?  I hopped to my feet and started running back to the fence as the sound of hooves filled my ears. "I'm going to get trampled," I thought to myself.

(Source)

As I started running towards the fence like an Olympian, the guys started to come into view. "Run, Q, he's right behind you!" I heard one of them yell.

I knew that I didn't have time to stop and slowly make my way through the barbwire fence without being caught from behind. My only option was to dive over it. At this point, the sound of the apparent stampede no longer filled my ears. It was just my heartbeat as I got within a few feet of the fence. I dove over the fence like Michael Phelps dives into a pool, but because the fence was so high, the barbs barely caught me at the top of the chest and scratched me all the way to the top of my thighs.

I landed on the other side and rolled over a couple of times not even realizing that I'd been cut. I looked back to see just how close the "killer cows" were to me only to notice that they'd all run the opposite way. I was never being chased. The sound of hooves running that I heard were the cows running from me.

I glanced over at Ty and Shaw and they are on the verge of pissing on themselves from laughing at me. I looked down at my t-shirt and notice that it's ripped from a few inches beneath each shoulder and all the way to the bottom. The top of my short pants are also ripped.  I'm really thinking about leaving Ty and Shaw on the side of the road at this point, but they were already getting in the car.

I started to smile about the whole thing as we got back on the interstate and eventually I started laughing with them. Ty and Shaw continued to laugh until I pulled into a gas station and told them to fill up my gas tank or hitchhike back to school.  Funny or not, college students are broke and driving that far for a laugh comes with a cost.

We arrived back at the dormitory and they immediately started reciting the story to the few people still left on our floor. I shook my head and walked to my room to change clothes. As I got undressed, I noticed two long, lightly-bleeding scratches from my chest all the way down to my thighs. I stared in amazement for a moment and then thought to myself, "had that fence been an inch higher, then I would have seriously torn into my flesh."

Thank God there were no cell phone cameras or "Tosh.0" back in 1989 or all of you may have already seen what I've just described by now.

"Next time, we're taking out your knees, hoss." (Source)

OMG. I'm A Cat Owner...

"Meow, man.  Meow."

I'm was on Twitter on Friday morning and I came across a tweet: "HEY everyone!!! I've found 3 sweet kittens that need a good home! DM me if you're interested!!!:) they get along with dogs & other cats!"

Now, let me give you a little background about myself... I've always hated cats. I've hated them with a passion since I was a kid. I got my first dog when I was three and I've hated cats ever since. Dogs are loyal and protective. Cats are manipulative and selfish. At no time did I ever consider owning one, but then I married The Mrs... She wanted a cat. I didn't care. I told her that I'd do anything for her except get her a cat. I don't want one of those things walking around my house in the way. Scratching up furniture. Tipping over fragile things. Being a nuisance.

"HEY everyone!!! I've found 3 sweet kittens that need a good home! DM me if you're interested!!!:) they get along with dogs & other cats!" "

"Why is that tweet jumping out at me?" I think to myself.

The Mrs. hasn't been feeling the best as of late. Back problems. Something like this could brighten up her day. That's when the devil on my shoulder appeared. "Idiot," he started, "you know that you hate cats."

Then the angel appeared on the other shoulder, "Do you know how excited it would make her if you brought home a kitten?"

Devil: "Whatever. She wouldn't like him because she didn't pick him out herself."

Angel: "She'll be happy with whatever you bring home. She'll be stunned that you love her enough to go against your dislike of cats."

(Sigh) I tweeted to the owner, "Do you have photos of them?"

Three photos appeared on my timeline and one of them jumped out at me.

"Ooh! Ooh!  Pick me!  Pick me!"

I contacted the young lady with the cats. She's local. I started following her on Twitter about two or three months ago because she came off as a pleasant and positive person. She agreed to meet me at a restaurant within walking distance on my job. I get out of my car and walk around to hers when I'm met by her dog, Dulce. A cute, little dog (couldn't tell you what kind though) who is running around the parking lot and maximizing the length of his leash.

Out pops the young lady who's giving me my choice of kitten. Her name is Maira.  She looks early 20's, Hispanic, long hair and very attractive. She smiles through her braces and reaches in the backseat for two kittens. Although they all looked similar, I knew that I wanted the one from the photo. There was no need to even look at the third kitten that was still in the car. I thanked Maira and got in the car with the kitten. On my way home, the kitten tried to climb up on my shoulder while I was driving. I immediately started thinking of the recent blog post I did about unrestrained pets in cars.

However, I manage to hold him until I got home. The fact that he seemed so friendly was appealing.  He was growing on me already.  I get inside the house and I'm hiding the kitten behind my laptop bag. The Mrs. looks at me funny as I approach her. I pull out the kitten and she has this look on her face as if Ashton Kutcher is going to pop out and tell her that she's been "Punk'd."

I later texted Maira to tell her how big of a smile the kitten put on The Mrs.' face. I offered her to let me send her something to show my appreciation, but she said, "just knowing y'all will be happy is more than enough."

Such a sweet girl.

So, after the first 100+ hours, a trip to Petco and cat-proofing my electronics, I'll admit that it's not so bad... yet. The Mrs. named him "Char," which is short for "charcoal" and the name of one of our favorite restaurants.

Omg. I'm a cat owner.  What have I done?

Dazed & Confused

"I am the greatest!"

I'll give you this bit of info upfront: the moral of this story is to "always ask questions."  Sometimes, you can save yourself from a headache if you just ask "how" or "why?"  On to the story...

I used to think that my fighting skills were on-par with the best. That, of course, is despite the fact that I'd only been in one fight in my life at the time and that was in kindergarten. A kid and I had a dust-up over who would get the last swing on the playground. We were racing to the swing set and he pushed me down. I wasn't happy about him cheating and pushing me down.  So, in the end, I took a swing (at him) to get the swing.

But, that was 14 years prior to this incident. It was 1990 and I was an 18-year old freshman in his second semester. I'd started developing my "college personality" and had made plenty of friends. My school was located in the middle of nowhere, so we were frequently bored. We did whatever we could to entertain ourselves. This time, I wish I'd been studying instead of participating in relieving boredom on this night.

Someone on the 3rd floor had over-sized boxing gloves. Huge gloves filled with plenty of cushion, but still packed a punch like a well-swung pillow. A college guy's dream, right?  What started out as four of us swinging in the hallway for fun resulted in a crowd of 50+ people in front of the dormitory fighting for money.

I'm a huge boxing fan. I watched many matches with my father as a kid and in my mind, I had the technique needed to beat anyone. For a while, I was right. I disposed of my first seven opponents pretty easily. We would basically duke it out until someone gave up or got knocked down. For every dollar my dorm mates would bet, I'd get 50 cents of it if I won. So, I was making pretty good money with roughly 20-30 people betting on me each fight. 

I was some where around $70 when a suggestion was made that I fight James. James was a country, cornbread-fed, no-neck having football player from Clarksdale, MS. We nicknamed him "Donkey Kong" although I think James had more muscles than that barrel-tossing primate. Someone went to his room to get him while I pondered if I should consider an early retirement.

"Tim," I whispered to my roommate and holder of my money,"I don't think I want to fight James, man."

"Yeah, he is pretty big," he replied. "Maybe you should quit."

Since I had Tim's reassurance of me making the right decision, I got ready to take the gloves off until someone said, "$5 on this fight and the winner gets $3 per bet!"

$3 per person if I win? My greed choked out my common sense.  Don't judge!  Do you know how much that is for a college student? That thought quickly left my mind as James exited from the dorm into the parking lot where we were gathered. He was 5'6", 235 lbs. and was probably less than 12% body fat. He was a nice and jolly guy and always had jokes. "What's up, 'Chubb Rock?'" he started. "Someone told me that I can make $50 if I whip you."

"Chubb Rock" was a nickname I picked up in college. It came from a popular, chubby rapper at the time. James laughed as he slid on the boxing gloves. Tim collected the money from the gamblers. A group of ladies stopped by to see what the commotion was all about, so now there's the pressure of female presence making the stakes higher.

Someone said "ding, ding" to simulate a bell and James and I swung at each other like a low budget movie version of "Real Steel." The fight between us would later be described as "two guys throwing dynamite" as we scrapped like our lives depended on it.  I went toe-to-toe with a guy whose chest is so wide that he can't even reach across to scratch his other arm and I beat him. "You made $87!" Tim whispered emphatically.  Before I could respond, I heard a familiar deep voice say, "I'll fight him."

I turned around and saw our residential assistant. He was 6'5" and probably weighed about 240 lb. and his nickname was "Roughhouse." You would think that the origin of his nickname or his height would have concerned me, but I wasn't bothered by either. You see, Roughhouse was an ordained minister. And a minister can't fight. Right?  Besides, I'd just beaten "Donkey Kong."  I was 8-0.  I was invincible.

Roughhouse only agreed to fight if no money was placed on him as he slid on the gloves. Although he was much taller than me, I figured I'd wear out his stomach and once he dropped his guard, take out his head. I had it all planned out.

"Ding, ding." 

Roughhouse hit me so quickly that I wasn't sure if I'd been hit at all. Before I could make a decision on if I'd been hit, I felt two more blows that confirmed that I was definitely under attack. By the time I counted the fifth or sixth blow, I was dazed and confused. I stepped back to get my composure and by the time that I refocused, I didn't see him. I was facing directly towards Tim and he was laughing uncontrollably. "Where did he go?" I asked.

By this time, I'm noticing that I'm facing the crowd and that everyone is laughing. Roughhouse had hit me so hard and so many times, that I'd spun around and faced the other direction without even knowing it. I turned back around to face him, but he was taking his gloves off and laughing.

My undefeated streak was over. Not only did I lose, I didn't even get to throw a single punch. I never saw his punches coming.  I only saw them leaving my cheeks. I congratulated Roughhouse and asked him where he learned to fight like that. "Oh, I'm a blackbelt," he replied.  "You didn't know that's how I got my nickname?"

O_o

I Pissed Off A White Man

Tweeting with Q

I've been hanging on to this story for a while. Almost two months ago, I went to the doctor for a check up and got into a staring contest with a guy wearing a rebel flag cap. He was in the waiting room with his son who appeared to be mid-20's and unable to fill out his paperwork without assistance.

For those who are new to my blog, I am a black guy. That's important as I tell my story. So, rebel flag guy stares at me as if he wanted to dissect me with his eyes. I stare back until I realize that he's way too ugly to stare at so long. Out of the restroom walks a very attractive blonde. She was around 5'4" with an athletic build. She was like a miniature version of Laura Prepron. She sits next to me and the fun begins...

"Hi, how are you? My name is Quincy!" I say emphatically.

"Hi, I'm Becky and that's not much of a pick-up line," she replied with a smile and while extending her hand for a shake.

I started thinking to myself, "Okay, cool. She's friendly. This should be fun."

"Ooh," she starts,"I have a cell phone just like yours, Quincy!"

I now have the full attention of Mr. Rebel Flag. Although he's too far away (12-15 feet) to hear our conversation, he can see that Becky and I are enjoying each other's company. As I'm tweeting, Becky grabs my hand to get a better look at my phone and notices than I'm on Twitter. I look up and sure enough, RF Guy doesn't look happy that she's touching me.

She laughs at my tweet and then looks up and notices RF Guy turning redder by the minute. I look up at him with a huge smirk and then back at her. "What's wrong with him?" she whispers.

"I don't think he likes the idea of you talking to me," I reply.

Becky realizes that she's part of a show and decides to play along. She takes my phone from my hand and starts typing.

She gives me back the phone and flashes a huge smile. "Thank you," I started, "you just started the ball rolling on the sequel to "A Time to Kill."

"I'm sorry," she said erupting in laughter,"I couldn't resist after I realized what was going on."

By now, this guy is mumbling to himself and his son is looking over at us trying to figure out what's going on. RF Guy is still staring at Becky and I to the point that I'm starting to feel uncomfortable. She seems to be getting a kick out of it and she asks me about what I do for a living to continue the conversation. Before I can answer, the nurse calls her name to go to the back to see the doctor. "It was very nice to meet you," she starts, "You're funny."

"No, I should be thanking you for that Oscar-winning performance," I said quietly.

She smiled, glanced at RF Guy and then disappeared behind the double doors. I look back over at RF Guy and he looks like a lobster. I can't believe this guy is so upset. Does he hate black people so badly that a conversation with a white woman blows his lid?

A few minutes later, the nurse calls my name. I don't even look the direction of RF Guy and his son as I make my way to the back. Hopefully, I won't need a police escort to get to my car in the parking lot once I'm done. I'd hate to get outside and find RF Guy and six of his friends standing next to my car. After all, this is Mississippi.

I come out of the doctor's office and look around the waiting room. No RF Guy. I walk to my car smiling to myself thinking about everything that happened. I probably ruined that racist's day. I can't wait to get back to work and tell someone how I pissed off a white man. How people let other people's business affect their lives is beyond me.


Have you ever had fun at the expense of a stranger?