Random, but...

I'm watching EXTRA.

Does Mario Lopez have old lady neck?

I still can't see A.J. Calloway as a "journalist."

Why, when interviewing Tim Allen about his new show, did A.J. ask Tim about Steve Jobs??? Done I am.

On a brighter note: Hi!

I'm not "scurred" of lions and tigers and "burrs..."

Dear St. Louis:

What is up with the language?

I was waiting in the check-out line at Wal-Mart the other day and a man leaving the store struck up a conversation with a cashier on the way out.

"Your sister was in hurr the other day," she told him.
"I know. We was supposed to be hurr together but she left me thurr," he said.
"Hahaha! Why she leave you thurr?"

What? I felt like I had walked into a Chingy video ("I like the way you do dat right thurr (right thurr)...").

It's beyond me to understand why "there" sounds like "thurr." Same goes with here (hurr). I could say it's part of the Lou's southern feel. I mean, people in the south drink sweet tea and talk about things "over yonder." Who am I to judge?

I was standing in line in Ponderosa one weekend and a lady was asked if she needed a high "churr" for her toddler.

The man giving me my haircut asked if I wanted my sideburns cut up to "hurr." I suppose he meant the bottom of my ear lobe.

I'm not understanding, and I really want to. If someone can explain it, please do. In the meantime, St. Louis, do you. Just as long as it doesn't catch on with me.

Charlie v. The Homeless Man

She stepped gingerly, sniffing the ground as she got used to her new surroundings. Then, she let her stream flow.

It always takes Charlie a minute to find herself a new place to go to the bathroom, so the fact that she was starting her process less than 30 seconds after we arrived at Kaufman Park near our new digs. She ran around in a circle for a second before beginning the second phase.

"Hey! Hey! What the..." a voice began.

Out of the shadows came an older black man, maybe in his late 50s, looking exhausted, but frustrated with us.

"Why you got her doing her business on my floor?" he said, slurring his speech.

By "floor" he meant grass. In a public park.

But Charlie had already seen too much. She stopped in the middle of what she was doing and, tugging at the leash, beckoned me to a place far away from our first enemy in our new land.

I brought her out the next day to try again. She wouldn't go. It was like she was waiting for something.

Waiting for him. Waiting to be interrupted again.

We walked two blocks in the other direction toward the park between the St. Louis Schools building and my new job. There, she had no problems at all.

Old is new again... (Pt. 2)

Charlie and I had just made our way outside the lofts to make the two-block walk to the park when I noticed broken glass behind my Equinox.

But the car was still there, and I know I made sure to take all my valuables with me. What gives?

On closer inspection, the glass wasn't from Ernie the Equinox. It was from the Thunderbird I'd seen parked behind me the night before. Unfortunately, that car was now gone. I checked all my windows and sighed that sigh of relief seeing all were intact. But when I got to the driver's side window, I noticed my CDs and car forms were all over the place!

I went to open the door -- which was unlocked -- and the alarm went off. I'm thinking whoever jumped in the front seat dug for what they could after the alarm sounded and bounced.

They took nothing. Even my mp3 player was left inside.

Maybe it was a homeless person, rummaging for something they could sell. Or maybe it was an mp3 snob, upset that I didn't have an Apple product.

Either way, what a welcome to my new city...

Old is new, again...

Coming to you live from St. Louis!


So much went on since my last post that I figure a quick update is warranted.


First, I got a job offer from this beautiful newspaper here in St. Louis. Yes, THAT St. Louis. The crime capital St. Louis. The "it's gonna get cold soon" St. Louis.


But I'm from Detroit. How much could one city put on me?


I figured my biggest obstacle would be wondering whether Charlie could make it -- and I could get up -- from the comfort of our sixth-floor loft and make it two blocks over to the closest park for her to do her business. If push comes to shove, I'mma start growing grass in the corner of my walk-in closet, which is about 6x10. I don't need all that!


We got up Sunday morning to tackle our first morning as loft-dwellers to find good weather and talkative neighbors. They all were pros at the regimen we were about to figure out. This HAS to be a cakewalk.


Then I spotted the glass on the ground behind my car...

"You done good..."

I wrote a story that I knew was going to get people to talking, and I wanted to make sure I toed the line because the subject matter was sensitive.

So I ran it by my mother.

My mother underestimates her value. She's a wealth of institutional knowledge when it comes to life in general. She advises me when I'm steering in the wrong direction.

She's my personal dictionary.

So I sent her the story, which talked about how an exchange between two councilmen, one black and one white, that involved evoking a cotton field had spurred conversations in the community about whether it was racist, simply over the line or whether blacks are hypersensitive when it comes to certain things.

She said it brought back the story of how she'd been shot in the leg (not by a real gun, but injured nonetheless) while visiting family in Alabama. They took her to the hospital, but she wouldn't be seen.

That's 1960s Alabama for you, when George Wallace ruled with an iron fist and black people weren't worthy to him til he lost the ability to walk and later became "born again."

"You done good," she said. That's all I needed.

Not well, but good. You know how the vocab has to be a little hood when you do something better than well - like puttin yo foot in some food?

Is it possible to bring a blessing your way?

I asked for the job situation to get better. I asked that love no longer pass me by.

And, as usual, that money become less stretched.

All have been accomplished.

Did I do too much?

I'm one of those people who believe that everything in your life CANNOT go right at the same time. Right now, though, it is.

Can you truly pray you way out of a rut?

I'm beginning to think it's possible. I've never been the most religious person. I've always had a spiritual backing to my thoughts and emotions. I pray when I'm not in need.

But I've been a praying fool these last few weeks. Trust me when I say I've felt "in need."

I've asked for one thing recently, and it appears to be coming my way. But if it does, what do I want for? I guess there's the fact that the girl and I are in different cities. But that's never been a problem for me. I dunno.

I hate feeling like this, like there's nothing for me to strive for in terms of personal wants. It's a place where people get, then become apathetic and complacent, lacking the drive to push out of the current state of being.

I always want more.

But how do you want more when everything seems so good?

Baby steps

A month ago, I couldn’t squeeze a stress ball. This morning, I bench-pressed 100 lbs.

Maybe I underplayed the seriousness of the injury I suffered to my hand in that car accident.

It’s my nature; I don’t like to make people worry.

I remember getting out of the car, looking at Nina in all her mangled glory, grabbing my laptop bag and telling an editor I wasn’t going to finish the day. It was 9:45 in the morning.

I tried to act like I was fine. I played tennis the next evening, just to test out the grip of my hand. It hurt like hell.

I didn’t say anything. But I decided then that I needed to see a doctor. My mother was acting anxious. My girlfriend had already threatened to come take care of me. Neither of us could afford for her to make that trip.

“You sound so far away,” she said as we spoke by phone that day.

“I’m laying down,” I said.

It was a lie: I was in the kitchen, standing. The call was on speaker, the phone sitting on the counter. My hand wouldn’t stop shaking as I held the phone.

I worried about not being able to hold her hand, or a cup for that matter. I worried the numbness that came and went wouldn’t subside. I worried, because there was nothing to my pain that the eye could see, that the doctor would tell me to give it time.

When I finally got to him, he told me to work through the pain. My kind of doc.

The accident had also left a large gash on my forehead, fluid on my knee and a lump the size of a golf ball on my shin. When I put my hand to any of them, I couldn’t feel it.

Leaning on my left hand for most of the last two months has been cumbersome. Every so often, I would forget and grab something – a book, my tennis bag, Charlie – with my right hand. Then I’d grimace if no one was around while trying to complete the action.

Ever have a thought that something might change you forever in a way you never expected? I did. And I didn’t know what would happen if my hand never gave me what it used to give.

I set the barbell down and stayed there awhile, reclined on the bench, silent. I almost cried. It had been two months since I even tried to pick up weights in the gym.

After today, I’ll make it much sooner next time.

"Who's feeding you these stories?"

That's the question I got this morning from a source about a story I wrote recently.

With all the drama going on in Warner Robins, I've been getting notes thrown at me, calls to look into everything, e-mails from anonymous accounts, even random people coming up to me at lunch giving me things I need to verify.

In the meantime, I keep doing my job.

While some of the rumors I'm approached with wet the palate, they're never able to be determined. And I've probably heard them before.

I've got stories I've been working on since before the relationship between the city's mayor and council hit a feverish pitch.

If I've written about something, I'm making sure to keep up with the developments.

And then there's the stories I do in between to keep my sanity intact...lol

It's the life I chose. And I wouldn't change it for anything in the world.

"Is anybody out there?"

I've been looking for a place to talk about my craft, and the oddities that make their way into my stories as I navigate my way through life. I asked for a blog at work, and was even told yes.

I'm still waiting.

Those who know me know I'm not really too patient. When the going gets tough, the...

Basically, I'm pumping some air into the blog.

You'll see a little something here about what's going on with me -- be it at work, on the tennis court or even as the lady and I work on our "second time around."

I couldn't do it without you, my loyal readers.

Is anyone still out there? Hell, does anyone still blog?

I hope all is well, and I hope to get people back in the habit of checking this place out.

Caught up...

I bit into the apple.

I always seem to find the wrong apple. I always seem to bite off more than I can chew.

In Warner Robins, the apple came in the form of a girl -- 19 and about 5-foot-8 with sun-kissed skin, hazel eyes, blonde highlights that flowed down her back -- I met on an assignment covering something wack.

She told me about Georgia Bob's. I had to check it out. Oddly enough -- and a month later, no less -- she was there when I went.

The food was bangin. I'll definitely be back (but they can keep that concoction they tried to pass as banana pudding).

We sat there and talked. It was weird, because I haven't had a real conversation with a girl/woman in years (unless she's Cunty). We talked about everything from the state of the economy to the excitement for Whitney Houston's new album (which my boy says stinks, but we'll see).

Sunday night, I got invited over for a movie. "There's nobody here, and I hate being in this big house all by myself," she insisted.

I went.

I was there for an hour before we got the movie in. Seems neither of us had seen The Hangover, and she had it on bootleg. We were sitting through the previews when I felt her breath on my neck.

"I hope you don't mind..." she said, trailing off between kisses on my neck.

I was getting seduced. And I was liking it.

Innocent turned to full on when I realized she had her hands on my waistband, sliding the zipper down my Polo jeans.

Just when she slipped her hand inside and was pulling the toy out the cereal box, in walks her mother, groggy and yawning, wiping snot from her eyes...

(to be continued...)

A sign of the times

I've had a hard time keeping my apartment clean lately. It's not the size (which I'm still trying to get used to) or the fact that I work long days at least twice a week, and still find time to fit in tennis, too.

My life is in disarray.

I've yet to adjust to the new climate and culture of my new habitat. I haven't really given myself a chance to sit still and say, "so, this is gonna be done here, and here, and here, and here.

The only thing in my life that's on a schedule is Charlie (and she's doing fine by her standards). So I'm taking Lazy Sunday to get my act together.

I need to eat better: I may have IBS, or be slowly becoming lactose intolerant. Either way, I'm cutting things out of the diet to determine the correct route for fixing things. The first sign that something was wrong? The fact that I'd lost 15 pounds in less than two weeks, then put it all back on overnight -- with the tight stomach and cramping and back aches that come with a sudden body change. I was tempted to do like my melanin-challenged counterparts and simply get a colonic. Aah, but that pricetag is a bit too much... lol

I need to respond to the demands at work: I was told specifically what I'd be covering when I got here.

Boy, has that drastically changed.

Now that I'm doing the job of two people, I need to do a few things to make sure all the stress isn't falling to me. My editor needs to know some things (such as that business portion of my beat) need to be reconstructed on my beat. I also need to figure out how to let him know politely that I'm paid for 40 hours, so I'm about to start putting in 40 hours. I don't make enough for the madness!

I need to be on that treadmill: I got on the other day after realizing I was walking around hungry, but my stomach was full. Three quarters of the way in, panic (and back pains) set in. I know it wasn't because I hadn't been on the treadmill in a month, but still...

I'm headed out to Kroger to get some things to get the week going. Then I'm back to the house, cleaning up and washing/ironing clothes for the week ahead.

Peace.

Papa Can You Hear Me...

I feel like I'm neglecting Charlie.

I leave early and come home late. I play tennis and work out to get down this weight. I stay on the ground to get to know the people here (and learn the secrets).

In between, I find time for Charlie.

We walk together when she's not being a butthead. We play with the toys until she bores of them (which is usually within 10 minutes). But she's still trying to go home with everybody. She even gets more excited to see strangers.

Today, I put her in her cage on the patio because I unleashed her and had her walk with me, but she ended up jumping on another dog smaller than she.

I had to go retrieve her when the floodgates opened. She was in the cage, struggling to stay dry in the small space that hadn't gotten rained on.

I hated myself some more.

I love my puppy. I really do. But everytime I feel I'm doing right by her, something happens to make me realize I may be neglecting her. My cunty friend has already said I should give her up if I must beat her. I beat her -- beat the hell out of her -- when she disobeys, like this morning.

What's a guy to do? What say you?

Save me...

Hello, old friend...

I've been busy as hell trying to adjust to life in humid Georgia to even think about getting on here and updating you.

My sincerest apologies.

In the meantime, there's so much going on in Little Town, Ga., that I have to share. Drum roll, please:

Frank, the drunk tennis guy -- I broke a racket playing tennis with the reformed alcoholic military vet who says he's getting back into the game because his son plays. I love playing tennis, and it's been good for all this unemployment weight. But here's the problem: Frank's legs don't work no good. He shuffles to smack a corner-line-grabbing volley only to miss the one on the other side. SO I find myself hitting shots directly to him, which isn't gonna do anything for my game.

Tiff, the make-up lady -- Anyone who knows me knows I'm a sucker for a pretty lady, but I think the one I've met here wears too much make-up for my liking. Sure, she's an attractive woman. She loves the puppy, we get along well AND she apparently knows how to bake. But, er, there's a problem if I have to worry about your face rubbing off on my clothes and furniture.

I'm at work, so I'm gonna stop this now. But there's more. Trust.

A change is comin

OK, so I haven't been here in a few weeks because I've been getting ready for some major changes.

First, I'm moving.

Again.

This time to Georgia.

I also have to get a new car, figure out what -- if anything -- I'm taking with me, find a new apartment, make new friends, get enough vacation to do the things already on my calendar, track new flight schedules from ATL, say goodbye to the people in Raleigh, find a barber, get someone else to pay me real money for a tennis blog (that I'd keep up with... lol).

Oh, and say happy birthday to Venus Williams.

Blame it on the...

The tennis game was exhausting.

Caprice, the 34-year-old who may become a regular hitting buddy, ran circles around me for nearly two hours, with a score of 6-1, 6-4. It didn't matter. After the first reply to my Craigslist ad, just getting out on the court was a blessing.

So I jumped in the car after the match, called my boy Greg back and remembered Mickey D's is offering any size drink for a dollar.

Great!

The plan was simple: Pull through, get sweet tea, keep it moving.

By the time I pulled on my street, it was gone. It. Was. That. Good. And I wanted more.

So I hatched another plan.

I kept driving past my house, through to the other end of the road, near a gas station. I pulled in a block later.

It was another McDonald's.

This time, I ordered a sandwich. When I got to the window, I asked the woman for a refill on my drink.

She stared back.

"I. Want. A. Refill." I said, like the Mexican woman couldn't speak English. I felt bad, but PC goes out the window when the sweet tea is callin!

"Let me ask my manager," she said. By now, Greg couldn't stop laughing at me.

The manager told me to come inside to get a refill. When I got inside, they looked dumbfounded.

Like I wasn't gonna come in for some free stuff? Psssh.

So I drove home, Greg still laughing at me, determined to drink slower the second time around...

Not the handout I was looking for.

Since I stopped playing tennis in the fall, I've been looking for someone to fill the void I knew I'd have when the tennis buddy and I parted ways. So I put out feelers.

I posted a note on Craigslist.org about looking for a tennis partner. The note was short, to the point and included just enough vague information so I could get someone to respond.

What I got was more than I bargained for.

"I've got a two-week load. Wanna take it?" the e-mail said.

When I scrolled down, there was a pic of a pasty white penis, erect and being held by a pasty white hand.

Seriously not the response I was hoping for...

I feel... beautiful?

The compliment came from the most unsuspecting place: A man, sitting on a shelf on the balcony outside a club in DC Saturday night, interrupted a conversation he was having with me, Fuzzy and my "cunty" friend.

"You have some of the most beautiful eyes."

He'd already gotten my attention by being overly attentive when I spoke. It was just, well, you know.

Weird.

I feel weird getting compliments from people, period. Moreso this time because it was from a guy. A guy sitting in the corner on the balcony at the club, getting high no less. But I took it, mostly because I've had a few less-than-stellar events recently that could've shaken my confidence more had I not been numbed by the whole unemployed thing.

(1) I was called a "fat fuck." This was after I'd mentioned going to the gym during a phone conversation. "How long have you been doing that?" "I've been going every other day." "I can't tell." Yeah, unemployment =depression, and I'd gained 20 pounds since the beginning of March (I've already dropped five of those since last week tho).

(2) This "face looks like HSB and the attitude isn't much better" dude I know from high school hit me up on Facebook. When I got around to approving his request for "friendship," I found out he was married with a fourth kid on the way. I'm still single.

(3) I had been talking to someone for a few weeks. The conversations always went well, and lasted longer than they should've. It all stopped suddenly after my trip to Jersey. Yeah, I feel like I dodged a bullet, but it was still weird to be told one thing, but shown another.

The conversation at the club was about... I can't even remember. I just remember the dude in the, sneaking one of my friends (nah, I won't say) a hit on his "cigarette," complimenting me, putting his number into my phone as we disbursed from the rooftop and smiling the whole way back to the hotel. While I wasn't interested (for more than one reason), it did more for me than I ever thought it would.

What say you? What makes you feel special? Who does it for you? Can you do it for yourself?

Keep pushing... or say die?

I've been a working journalist since three days after college graduation. I've wanted this since I was 9 years old.

But since I became unemployed, it's been hard to focus on the next step in the process. I told myself when I got my last job that I'd go from there into an editing gig. Little did I know it'd last about a year less than it should have. Now I need another job as a reporter.

Trouble is, there's about 10 of those open across the country right now.

I'm giving myself about three months to freelance and figure out if I could even see myself applying for something else. Hopefully unemployment will kick in and I won't have to worry about dipping into savings (though it's a good thing to have... lol).

There's a bunch of PR jobs and jobs playing spokesman for different agencies, but it'd feel too weird to not be the one writing about the happenings.

Friday, I spoke with a recruiter from one of my old jobs about the state of our industry and he told me I should think about becoming a professor. There's probably a class of beginning journalists who need me to teach them the basics, he said.

It made sense, especially since that's where I'd like to be one day.

Didn't know my goal for 40 would come at 27...


What say you? What happens when a dream looks to be deferred? Did you soon forget about it? Did you get back to it as soon as you could?

Back down memory lane...

SO I was going through my old blog reading some old posts and I came across a comment on this one that made me smile.

Promiscuous X said...

Lol I'm a 1st time reader. I'm dying of laughter in the car blogging to pass time. This post is def funny my nig. Its to many homeless people down south I'm riding 85 north (downtown Atlanta) an I see so many people holding signs. "God bless can u spare a dollar" a dam mess lmao.

Sun Oct 07, 02:07:00 PM 2007

Now then, I had no idea who in the hell this was, or that I'd still know him to this day. Strange how things happen...