My Last Blog Post? Already?

Last week, my computer decided to stop working. It didn't just go on strike like any good employee, it just quit on me. I guess I should have expected that was going to happen. It had been four years without major incident, and I would imagine that, in Dell world, that is a very long time.

What makes this situation so dang missed up, is that I don't think I did anything wrong to her.  I didn't invite unfamiliar or dangerous looking files to come hang around her. I gave her days, even weeks, off at a time. And I always protected her dignity by deleting my browsing history after porn sites "accidentally" popped up and I "accidentally" watched them.

Now I find myself scratching my head at the prospect of trying to keep up the 'daily-ness' of this blog. Surely this is going to be a test of my dedication to it.

I was so eager to write about my three day community service before Lucy (aka my computer) decided she wanted no part of me or my blog.  It was my first time in some mess like that and let me just say, it was nothing like I imagined it was going to be.

In any regard, today's post is just to let anyone out there, who I hope reads this regularly, know that things will be getting a little irregular around here. (This is not my last blog post! I wont go down without a fight. Give me blog of give me death!...that last bit might have been a little extreme.)

In any regard, I'll try my best to keep posting as often as possible while I look into getting Lucy fixed or replaced.

Thanks for stopping by and checking it out. Stay tuned.

Confession: I Was An Elementary School Predator

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"As I remember it, yes."

Yahira was the prettiest girl in Miss Smiths fifth grade elementary school class. Maybe the entire school. It would not have been a hard distinction to get, the school was so small that our auditorium also doubled as our gym, which, graciously doubled as our lunch room. Let's just say, for the young boys of Brooklyn's P.S. 397, the pool of single, attractive young ladies in the fifth grade class that year, was quite shallow.

Looking back, one of her earliest advantages was that she was the only Spanish girl in a sea of African-Americans and West-Indian children. Things like that tend to make you stand out. They also tend to bring unwanted attention.

So for a young boy, beset by an early taste of a thing called hormones, that little Spanish flower was the bee's knees.

In P.S 397 the playground was like a jungle made of asphalt, rubber mats, and steel bars. You had your monkeys on the monkey bars, the cheetahs playing tag all around, and a lioness keeping a watchful, yet cursory, eye on everything.

To a kid, that small patch of land tucked amongst industrial buildings, car repair spots, and a garbage truck depot, represented freedom. But to many others, it represented anxiety, humiliation and life and death danger.

The funny thing about the jungle is that you can very quickly discover your position in the circle of life.

It was on that playground that I became a predator, when I decided I would go for the most exotic prey - Yahira.

I became relentless in my pursuit. I did everything possible to get her attention. At first, I was subtle, I didn't want to scare her away - so just to let her know that I was thinking of her, I pulled her hair (not too hard, just a tug. I was in love but I wasn't ready for marriage if you know what I mean).

It was the perfect plan really. It started with steady and prolonged stream of physical abuse and progressed to calling her name every time I walked by - "Yahiiiiiirrrraaa!". 

Strangely enough, after what seemed like months of effort, nothing seemed to be working. Here I was, pulling out all the stops for this girl and I was getting nowhere. What was a boy to do? Did I need to hit her harder?

I would never get the chance to find the answer to that question. Something would happen on the playground that would change our relationship forever. It would also be, what can only be called today, my Herman Cain moment.

On a beautifully warm day out on the asphalt jungle, I was mysteriously called in by the principal of the school, herself a rare sight in the mucky and murky world of child's play. The unusual nature of it all gave, what was about to happen, the feel of an execution - I was a dead boy walking.

What did I do wrong?, I asked myself. I was known for talking up a storm in class but I was getting that under control. Surely that couldn't of been it.

I reached the tiny corridor that lead from inside the school to the playground and found the love of my life standing there with two adults. I recognized the first one as the aforementioned, rarely seen, principle. The other lady was completely unfamiliar to me.

The principle introduced us, "This is Yahira's mother, she's here to talk to you".

Did this mean what I thought it meant? Was she going to give me permission to marry her daughter?Everything I had been working so hard for was about to pay off. All the teasing, hitting, and general behavior of annoyance was all worth it.

As it turns out, she wasn't there to betroth her daughter to me.

Yahira had been telling her mother all about the sweet little gestures I was doing to win her over but she didn't find it as charming as I thought she should have. On the contrary, she was upset, really upset.

She bent over to come closer to my level, pointed her finger in my face, snarled her teeth and said, "Everyday, my daughter comes home crying, because of you."

I couldn't believe it. Was that true? I looked into Yahira's face for the answer. The tears streaming down her face told me it was. But the tears coming from my eyes should have told all of them that it was all a big misunderstanding. Yes, I basically terrorized her every chance I got, but I didn't want to hurt her.

In that meeting, it was made clear to me that if I didn't want my elementary school career to be marred by this sexual harassment  scandal, I would have to stay away. I received the harshest punishment short of suspension; a principal mandated restraining order.

That moment has stayed with me ever since that day. Until the unfortunate 'butt slap' incident in 7th grade I kept everything on the up and up with the ladies - never touching or hitting or talking to any of them. It wasn't until high-school, and with clear understanding that we were boyfriend and girlfriend, that I had my first kiss.

I put my heart out there, and It got crushed. But hey, It could have ended a lot worse - I could be Herman Cain right now.

"Thank you. No more questions, your honor."

"Then witness is excused"

"Thank you"

"Next witness to the stand. Yahira Rodriguez."

Why Monday's Don't Suck

Well, here we are on another beautiful Monday. The hate of a which seems to be a fun national pass time. I stopped hating Mondays when, it hit me one day, that coming off of a restful weekend,  Mondays was time to snap back to the important work of dream fulfillment. Like the birth of a new child, Monday's are bathed in new hope and opportunity.

(that was a little pretentious, I know, I can't help it. A little pretension goes a long way sometimes)

Over the weekend I went to a friends first performance of a song he had been working on for weeks. We're part of a group of friends with huge artistic dreams and thus we all know what it means to create something and expose it - sometimes raw - to the public.

So we rallied up and we all went to his show. (Which was amazing. I can't wait to see how he progresses with it.)

We all were able to meet up later for a hang out session. There is just something about the experience of hanging out with like minded (with different personalities) that charges the creative cells. It's like turning on the engine to a classic muscle car - it hums and roars and purrs to life.

And just like a classic whip, the sound your creative energy makes is unique to a certain type and model. We are the creative generation. We truly long to make our mark on society by showing our inner lives through our natural gifts and honed craft (and I aint talking mac cheese! ow!).

To possibly run the car metaphor into the ground, it seems that too many times, people want to settle on being the assembly line version of someone else.  They want to play it safe and copy what someone else has done or is currently doing.

Partially it's the fault of a society that constantly seeks to diminish creative ambition with the mundane realities of life. And the other part is squarely on the people themselves. Being a copy cat is the easy road. But they  ultimately find out it doesn't  lead where they thought it would.

I realized I use to hate Mondays because it was the day we went back to work, usually at our little place holder jobs (no surprise there) but it was more than that. Underneath that rational, and oft shared feeling, there was a layer of fear. Every new Monday became a challenge posed to all of us; Do you dare to be happy?

You ask somebody that question and the answer is always going to be yes. But there always hovers that nasty possibility of failure.

But it's not like that at all. Not just Monday's, but every new day that comes isn't about failure. It's about the chance to get the level of  happiness and success you dream of. It's chance after chance to quickly learn from your mistakes and rebound the next day.

The smart ones among us do that everyday; adjusting their play book, ever so slightly based on what they learned the last round (yesterday).

So there we were, talking, sipping, laughing and I stopped, turned to my friends and said, "I'm having a good time, let's do this again".  To which one of them replied, " Yeah, How about Monday?"

If another beautiful moment could happen again, then why shouldn't it happen on a Monday? My engine is primed up, humming to its very rhythm, and I'm ready to go.

Monday old friend, It's always good to see you. Let's keep doing it again and again.

Hang, Invite, Go, Play, Be and Explore Your Way to a Better Weekend

It's Friday. Which means the weekend is finally here. For people lucky enough to have a 9 to 5 in this economy, the weekend is like an oasis in a desert of punch clocks, dopey bosses, and corporate minutia. The end of the week is your time.

So you would think most people would take the time to shake things up a bit - they don't. Going to cousin Maria's baby shower in the Bronx is as shook up as things get. Where's the spice?

Could it be that some among us don't know how to make life more interesting? Did the corporate slog beat the sense of adventure out us? Or maybe it's the kids, do you have kids? Children can really suck the fun out of adult life. (they get to play all day, and we get 'responsibility').

Let's stop the insanity before it's too late. (If time flies when you're having fun, try and see what happens when you're not. It's torture)

This sheep knows what I'm talking about

Remember, It's called a social life. And the fastest way to kill it is by giving it an overdose of repetition. Think of the weekend as a chance to give your social life some fresh air and exercise to keep it healthy. Here are some tips on how to get yours off to a good start.

Hang Out with Your Mom. No matter how old you are, mothers are the opposite of cool. But if you can get past the nagging about your love life, your clothe, and your hair, hanging out with your mom can be enlightening. You can ask her to teach you how to make your favorite dish, get the ingredient and make it together. Bonus: You get to hear her side of your childhood antics. Like what she thought when you and your brother broke grandma's vase.

Invite an Enemy to Lunch. Now, I don't mean 'mortal' enemies since that implies death (that's not fun). An enemy in this case can be someone you don't get along with at work or a person you've stopped talking to. The outcome of a sit down lunch can change everything.

Go to an Open Mic Night. Nowadays, everybody is a singer or a rapper or comedian - And most of them are awful. This is a plus for you. It means finding an open mic night wont be hard. Since the talent at these things is usually sub-par, it's also a cheap thing to do. Just make sure to bring a friend that makes you laugh. You guys can pick a seat close enough to hear, but far enough to make fun with being heard. Bonus: Open mics always have drink specials.

Play Dress-up. (for the oh-so-macho out there, call it "Dress to impress" or whatever reinforces your masculinity)  We tend to slack on the weekend, instead go the other way, dress it up if for no other reason, than for yourself.

Be Spontaneous. Just because it's cliche doesn't mean it's not true. You have to be willing to go with the flow sometimes. Planing is fun but give yourself space to be wild and free.

Explore a Strange Ethnic Neighborhood. There are little communities all over the place where certain minority ethic groups coalesce. Find one and go. You might end up discovering a unique restaurant, clothing store, or custom. Think of is as being an anthropologist with out the degree.

Have a great weekend.

What The Grammy Awards Tell Us About America

The Grammy nominations came out yesterday and the inclusion of the British songstress, Adele - mega hit "Rolling In The Deep" - got me thinking about how much today's musical landscape thrives on blurring racial lines.

When Adele came out with her first album, "19" back in 2008, the first single off of it had most people thinking she was a black women. Like Amy Winehouse before her, this actually allowed her to cross over into black households that embraced her soulful, and "soul-filled", voice (black folks love a white woman who sings like a black woman).

I doubt that was her goal but it couldn't have hurt record sales.

Today, we see all kinds of artist of various racial backgrounds mixing, cross pollinating, and merging all the different genres (What's a Bruno Mars?). The thought of their being a certain type of music for Blacks, and another for Whites is almost complexly non-existent

Bruno Mars (Puerto Rican and Filipino)

Back in the day however - I'm talking 1930's back in the day  - Getting a cross over hit was a hard thing to do, especially if you were a Black artist who wanted White people to listen to your tunes. (Call it "sonic segregation").

When Jazz came on the scene, the culture started to change. In the '30's, the leftist ideology felt that jazz music was more inclusive. The music was even used as a political tool to attract younger black people to the communist party (talk about a crossover, am I right?).

Politics is like a volatile chemical substance, If you mix it with something else, the result can be explosive (like Mentos and Soda).

The mixture of Jazz into politics set off a movement that advanced black music into new territories. American born Jews started hanging out with their black brothers and sisters and gained each others support.

In a way, the movement forced the rest of the country to accept Jazz as true American music. That help Blacks folks gain a foothold by a White audience. By many measures, the movement was a success; bringing White intellectuals, Jewish impresarios, and Black and White music artist together.

And music continues to bring us all together still to this day.

The Gammy nominations - and the awards show itself -  is the  best snapshot of how far crossed-over we are. When the show is broadcast Feb 12, next year, the audience at home will be having a good time mixing things up, with a little pop from Katy Perry, dancing her but off to by David Guetta and rolling in the deep with Adele.
  
And like Micheal Jackson once sang "It doesn't matter if you're Black or White just buy my record (Okay he didn't say the last part but he was thinking it)

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Reference: "Swingin' the Dream" by Lewis A. Erenberg