So I’m rocking some public transit action to the city. I got a dinner invite and I’ll be providing some cheap Mexican beer.
That’s right Tecate in a can.
So here I am sitting in the back of the bus (where all the bad kids sit) listening to some Cat Empire on the old iPhone, when all of a sudden this kid jumps out of the seat in the middle of the bus and starts throwing these cryptic gang signs out the big back window.
I pull one of the earphones out to hear what he’s saying as he’s signing.
“five one oh four nine nine ……etc etc” and in between signs he’s rapping his cell phone on the window
I was completely flabbergasted.
I looked at him and said “dude, did you just try to pick up on some chicks,..from the fucking bus?”
He goes “naw man..” as he shows me the screen of his phone with a text from one of the girls with her name “..I didn’t try, I got them fucking digits son”
With that he clanked his brass balls together and sat back down.
So today I was walking across the parking lot at work, where I saw a penny on the ground. As I knelt down to pick it up, a coworker asked me if I dropped something. I just replied, “Nah, it was a penny”
To which he replied that it wasn’t worth it. Like his time is too valuable to bend at the waist for so little compensation.
So I did a little experiment and found that it takes me about 2.8 seconds to recognize a penny and pick it up. And of you extrapolate a penny for 2.8 seconds of effort, it works out to about $12.85 an hour.
So it’s such a pretty day that I decided to take a stroll around the hood. I usually just walk to the bus stop or down to some store on the main drag here in The Laurel. But this time I decided to check out the actual neighborhood. I mean I see people walking around when I’m watching Hood Tv , so it would stand to reason that I might see other people from the neighborhood to chat with. Although I really didn’t get more than a smile and a “How’s it going” or a wave here and there. But I discovered that it is a very hilly and steep neighborhood.
Well it was trash day today so the scavengers were out. These are the folks that root through the trash and recycle bins set on the street, and retrieve the recyclables to take them to the recyclers for cash. Most of them just stick to aluminum cans and plastic bottles but the really hard core ones get the glass bottles too. That’s when I saw her. A little Asian woman pushing a heavily laden shopping cart. Judging by the clinking noises it was mostly full of glass. With bags filled with cans and plastic jugs tied to the outside of it. It was the size of a VW Beetle. She, however, was about the size of a ten-year-old. She couldn’t see over the top of it. She was pretty stocky but at maybe 5′ even, that puts her at about 140 pounds tops. I turned the corner ahead of her and started clopping down a very steep hill. In the back of my mind I was going to say something or offer help but I don’t think she should be doing it in the first place. I think the scavengers are a problem, and a liability. I mean I’ve seen the damage an empty cart does when it gets a little speed in a parking lot. I can only imagine what a 250 pound cart full of glass and garbage would do if it started sailing uncontrollably down a steep hill and slammed into a car. Or worse yet into an intersection. As this thought was milling about the ole noggin I heard the frantic slapping of little Asian feet in flip flops from behind me.
Guess what I saw?
C’mon, guess.
That’s right, it was a 250 pound shopping cart full of glass and garbage sailing uncontrollably down a steep hill right towards a Pearl White Toyota SUV. It was quite uncontrolled despite the best efforts of the little Asian woman. She was in front of it trying to slow it down with out turning it as it would have toppled over and spilled the product of hours of trash rooting. Facing the cart and frantically back pedaling down the hill, the carts momentum conspired with both of her cheap flip flops and soon she was just a lump of meat being shoveled down the hill by the runaway cart. I was already running up the hill to help her out as the front wheels had swallowed her legs and she was sliding on her hips and the palm of her hands. This whole grizzly flesh and glass contraption had drifted to the left and she was pinned against the curb by the time I got up the hill to her. I had to put my back up against the front of the cart and give it everything I had to lift the front a few inches so she could get her legs free. Then I wedged the casters against the curb so it wouldn’t go anywhere. She winced and inspected her road rash. I was really surprised nothing was broken. She looked like a Picasso when I got to her. But I guess she was really flexible.
Then she asked me to call her phone because she couldn’t find it. I did. She found it. I helped her get the cart to the bottom of the hill and then during her recap of the events my sorry for her feelings kinda went away.
She was holding the phucking phone in the crook of her neck when she lost the cart. She just wasn’t paying attention.Yakking away and didn’t notice how steep the hill was because her cart was too high to see over and she couldn’t look around it because she was holding the phone with her ear against her shoulder. “I need both hands to push the cart” she said.
So,this morning I was watching the news. I always do when I’m having my ritualistic morning cup-o-joe.
This morning though I was insulted even more than usual. They were continuing their coverage of the Sandra Cantu case with the courtroom appearance of her accused killer. The insulting part was when the news anchor described the scene when they brought Melissa Huckaby into the courtroom to face the charges.
“Here you see Melissa Huckaby, in the red prison jumpsuit with shackles, as she breaks into tears when the judge reads the charges against her. She faces charges of Rape with”…..lewd…with a minor..kidnapping…blah blah oh yeah and murder.
They then went on about the death penalty and what not, but the part that insulted me was the description of Huckaby.
I’m sure I’m nit picking, but does he really have to point out that she’s the one in the prison clothes with the shackles? I mean does he think that I’ll confuse one of the bailiffs with the woman who’s been in the news more than the president? It kinda plays into how stupid the news assumes we are. Whenever they mention OJ Simpson they always throw in the bit about him beating the rap for killing his wife. Do they think I’ve forgotten? They even remind me about the Sharon Tate murder whenever Charlie Manson is in the news. What? Charles Manson is in Jail??!?! When did this happen?
Majic Johnson has AIDS? Bobby Brown is Whitney Houston’s estranged husband? Lovell Mixon did what?
I mean at some point a person’s celebrity becomes durable. Lets assume that there is a certain amount of collective memory and deductive reasoning. If you don’t get it, you probably shouldn’t care.
Side note: I hear the radio personalities saying the horrible things that should happen to Huckaby, whipping their listeners into a reddened, blood thirsty froth. I hear that the Tracy police have all but called of the search for any leads for another killer. There are no other suspects. With the pubic outcry and pouring of sympathy, I hope the law enforcers weren’t too hasty in giving us all a head on a stick. I hope for Huckaby’s sake that she is the killer, and she’s getting what she deserves. Because nothing could be more hellish than being railroaded for a crime like this. I hope for the sake of all the nice little girls, that the focus is being aimed in the right place.
So I have a few friends coming over this afternoon. They’re both girls so I make sure that the Castle’s bathroom is clean and serviceable. Nobody likes to hover.
I have been crazy busy with work lately and really wasn’t putting much priority in the pisser. But today I realized it looked more like a crime scene, than a bathroom.
I’m a gross slob, what can I say?
So I go to empty the bathroom waste bin, and find the used evidence of a safe sexual encounter of some one that wasn’t me. I mean I’m thankful the thoughtful gentleman( or lady) didn’t flush the latex baby barrier as the plumbing is old and who knows what that would have caused.
But I must say I was surprised to find a condom and a pair of rubber gloves!? Again. I appreciate your proactive measures but if safe sex with you requires MOPP Level Three personal protective gear, maybe you shouldn’t be having random hookup sex at parties.
I guess there is a possibility that it’s the evidence of multiple safe sexual events. Or maybe there was sex and a pelvic exam. The gloves are really throwing me. If you recognize yourself in this post, please clue me in on what you did with them. The speculation is killing me.
OK so it’s been a while since I’ve posted. I was hoping to finish up the grand Oman Adventure before I moved on to other things but some things have transpired lately and I feel the need to write. Even though it’s out of sequence.
I’m sure you’ve heard about the Four Oakland Police Officers that lost their lives in the line of duty a few Saturdays ago. I was getting infuriated with the media giving so much airtime to the few people that were willing to say on camera that the killer was a nice guy and a victim of circumstance. That he was everything he wasn’t and even comparing him to Oscar Grant. I knew better. I knew that not all of Oakland was behind a ruthless murderer instead of the men and women of OPD.
A quick thought on OPD. The people that join the Oakland Police Department aren’t ignorant of OPD’s reputation among the citizens of this great city. It takes a special person to lay your life on the line to protect the lives and property of a population that will spit in your face as willingly as pat you on the back. It’s simple and random acts of kindness that mean so much and reinforce the sense that you make a difference. When I walk around my neighborhood, everyone smiles at each other. People say hello, and sometimes even thank you. So I would like to recognize some one that I could never recognize in person if I saw him. Some random dude named Jack.
A few days ago some of my coworkers needed to get some supplies from Home Depot. When they were done they cruised over to the Starbucks next door and ordered a few drinks and snacks. When they got to the register they were arguing about who would pick up the tab. One would pull out his wallet and say “I got this”. While another officer would use some expert Cop-Fu to block the monetary retrieval with “Oh No no no, I got this one, you got it last time”
Before the third officer could try to claim financial responsibility for the cups-o-joe, the cashier waves them all off and says “Actually guys, we got this” and she grabs a Coffee Card from the register and swipes it in for the payment. Reading the puzzled looks on everyone’s faces, she explains “On Friday before the funeral for those OPD Guys that got killed, this guy named Jack came in and put a few hundred dollars on a coffee card and told us to use it for any Cop that comes in for a coffee. “
Just like that, their day was made. Then they came back to the Seaport and made all our days with that story. I’m sure the money on the card has been exhausted by now.( i mean c’mon it is a Starbucks, after all) And even though I did not get to get some free coffee from Jack, I just wanted to say thanks.
So I guess it’s about time I share my thoughts,pics , and ,this time, videos of the grand trip to Oman. Just like the trip to Vietnam last year, I was an instructor teaching some foriegn border security force, how we do what we do at the Oakland Seaport. It was a business trip and I’m not going to get into the business part. But it was also the first time I had been to DC and points beyond with any time to spend. So, that will have to do as the focus of this here bloggy blog.
The first part of the day was uneventful as I took a cab to the West Oakland BART station, rocked the train to SFO, and got on my flight bound for the nation’s capital. I was pretty excited because it was Monday, a week and a day before Obama’s Inauguration. But more so because every time I had been here previously I was an unaccompanied minor. I was just passing through Dulles on my way to summer vacation in Ohio from South Carolina.
I got there in the late afternoon, just at dusk. It was cold and kinda drizzly and sort of a sad catalyst for some potential traveler’s malaise. But even the shitty weather couldn’t get people down. Everyone seemed happy and full of hope. I remember thinking to myself “wasn’t this the Murder Capital of the world a few years ago?” Now I feel like every one I pass is about to hug me.
The Willard Intercontinental
By the time I checked in and dropped my shit in the room, it was Dark out. I asked the Concierge where to eat, that was within walking distance and he gave me the Jersey P-shush (with an afro-feminine head slide and the “hand”) and said “Pssshhhhh, Puhlease. The Old Ebbit Grill, no brainer!!” So I walked around the corner to find some food. I was a little worried, since it was just a random Monday night, That there would be a challenge to find the company of some decent strangers. But when I got there, the place was nuts to butts. It was packed to gills, they were hanging ‘em from the rafters. I had to take off my Chrome bag to negotiate my way to the bar without spilling people’s drinks. As I was approaching the Hostess stand, she started to roll her eyes and I could see the gears turning in her head as she tried to calculate how long she would tell me the wait would be for a table. When I asked if they served food at the bar she told me yes, much to her relief.
It's a truly Old establishment
Inside the Lodge Decor was classy
Service was a blur
I opened a tab and got a beer. I told the Bartender that I was waiting for a spot to open up at the bar. As I stood there waiting conversations flowed easily among the people around me. In no time at all I was being asked about the Oakland Seaport, and being congratulated on my first home purchase and entertaining couples with the tale of reconnecting with Mi Vida. I was having a great time and then the Bartender got my attention to let me know I had a place at the bar. a couple had just left so I had a seat and an empty one next to me.
That’s when Heather asked if anyone was sitting there. I said “No” and before long her boyfriend Scott joined us. The three of us bantered back and forth over a few beers and oyster shooters. We talked about food and politics and music. We covered romance and relationships and things to do in DC, San Francisco and Oakland. Of course I got to tell the story about Mi Vida again and I managed to bring the conversation around to motorcycles more than once.
Heather failing to keep a straight face
Soon it was winding down at Old Ebbitt’s so a new venue was sought. Heather was an old pro at this Capital touring thing so She was showing Scott some places of interest. It just so happened that the next interesting place was the Round Robin Bar inside, The Willard Intercontinental. So in a round about way we all went back to my place and fanned the fires of our respective buzzes.
Once at the Round Robin the kickassest bartender named Tim took excellent care of us. I’m developing a bit of a taste for Gin so after the usual Gin and Tonic I asked if there was another cocktail that used my new favorite potable. The he told me about a Blood and Sand and made me one with gin. I didn’t find out till later that they traditionally call for whiskey, but whatever it was tasty and Tim’s stories of Rudolph Valentino were entertaining.
The Tim, striking a pose
His bitchin Cuff Links and my Gin Blood and Sand
After another round or two it was time to say goodnight to Heather and Scott. I went back to my room to sleep it off. In the morning I woke up and threw open the curtains to start the day.
Nice robe Hef!
So I packed my bags and gave them to the bell desk to hang on to. After I checked out I had a few hours to kill before I needed to be back at the Airport. I grabbed my camera and hit the streets. First thing on the agenda though, is some food. I was effing ravenous.
This looks as good as any
For some reason I was strangely drawn to this place. It also came highly recommended from the front desk staff at the Willard. I wanted a casual place to grab a beer and a burger.
MMmmm Buffalo
Are your nuts brown?
So I ordered an organic ale and a Buffalo CheeseBurger. It was the first time in a long time I have had the bison meat. I must say they do it well at Chef Geoff’s. It was lean and somehow very juicy. The real plus was the sweet potato fries. They were served with a sweet and horse-raddishy mustard that went well with the Ale.
After some mild small talk with others in the place I paid my tab and went out in search of interesting things to take pictures of. I had gotten a few points of interest from the Concierge before lunch but it looked like it wasn’t my day. The place was deeply gripped with the upcoming inaugural happenings and it was no longer the city of monuments and a repository of wisdom, it was all chain link fencing, bleachers and port-o-johns. It looked less like the capital and more like a county fair. It took real effort not to get a port-o-potty in every shot I took.
Water every where and not a place to pee. They were all secured with zipties
Seriously they were every where. I think I managed to catch a few cool things. Although I purposely did not take pictures of all the famous things. The Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial and what not. Mainly because it was such a shitty day. Everything was cold a grey. I want a reason to come back. Plus I NEED to see the smithsonian. So I found some cool little obscure buildings that looked old.
An old guard shack
The Old Lock House
I’d had enough of the cold and drizzle, it was time to go back, get my luggage, and head to the Airport. I would meet my co-travelers for this mission and we would head off to the desert. On the way back I came across these four people taking pictures of a trash can. As I got close I noticed that they were taking pictures of a squirrel . They got closer and closer, but that fat little rodent just hung out eating his acorn like it was nobodies business. I thought about getting my camera to take a picture or two but, I thought he would be scared off by the sound of the velcro when I opened my bag. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Two of the people got bored and left so I turned around with my camera out.
With that I chuckled back to the Willard. I went to the little cafe next door and got a bite and a cup of coffee. I went inside, retrieved my luggage, and asked the bellman to call a cab for me. It just so happens that a limo driver known as “the Phantom” was headed back to the Airport to pick some one up and would give me a ride for the same price as a cab. So I took him up on the offer. As we were on our way we did the usual banter. Where ya headed? Did ya like DC? What did you think of the sights? …ect
When I told him I didn’t have time to see a lot of the sights he took me to the airport the long way. Passing by different buildings and monuments and he was full of insightful dialog. He grew up in the 60’s and talked a lot about the historic moment about to happen. Our conversation covered a lot of topics. But racism was common theme throughout. Even though we experienced it from different perspectives we both knew about integration that wasn’t really integrated. We genuinely shared a common sentiment about what is so often legislated and what is really experienced by people living their lives. I would say though that first and foremost “the Phantom” was a patriot, and a veteran second. On my long tour to Dulles he stopped at the Marine Corps War Memorial. This place held special value to him that he didn’t go into, but he couldn’t let me come here and not take ,at least, a picture away with me.
This was pretty cool
I thought that was the most fitting end to the day. It would be a long night. I was staring down a 13 hour flight across the Atlantic like it was the barrel of a gun.
Did I mention that I was flying economy class all the way?
So here I am sitting at my desk, trying to balance my need for hydration with my requirement for caffeine. Even though I look like I’m sitting in front of my computer listening to a Keyser Soze CD, I’m actually in South Carolina.
I’m sitting under the big fig tree in the back yard on Pine St (108 Pine St in Moncks Corner SC. 29461 if you want to Google Earth it), I smell bad because it’s summer and 90 degrees. Since this is the low country it’s about 85% humidity. The Cicadas are buzzing in the trees. I have the taste of plastic in my mouth from drinking from the hose all day. My mom doesn’t let me in the house when it’s this nice outside. I’m still a little out of breath from chasing my step-brother back to the house. His Grandma lets him inside to eat lunch and drink sweet tea. I choose to stay outside as going into the AC and coming back out again makes the sultry heat feel that much more unbearable. Besides his Grandpa taught me how to open a pecan without any tools. Pecan trees grow here like weeds. Now that I know how to hold two of them together in the palm of my hand and squeeze ‘em together till one cracks, the whole back yard is littered with snacks. Even though I have to use both hands to generate enough pressure to do it. It’s like a little puzzle every time trying to get it just right so the flesh of the nut comes out in two big halves. They taste a lot different raw too. Sweeter. Not salty like the Planter’s Toasted ones.
Then the phone rings to pull me back to the here and now. I’ll put the bag of raw pecans away so I can get back to work. Besides if I eat the whole thing I’ll get a tummy ache.
So I still have a lot of work to do on the pictures and videos from the trip to Oman, so be patient. If the write up of the trip is one tenth as good as the trip itself you will be thoroughly entertained.
But when I got back I had to re-assimilate into the collective of my life. Gone was the jet setting playboy instructor who didn’t bother wearing a watch because he would spend more time adjusting it for passing time zones, then using it to tell time. In his place was the hum drum work-a-day motocommuter, chugging coffee to get through the day. It started with a call to the guy that anchors me in reality, my dad.
I barely had time to mention the Oman national soccer team’s stunning victory over the powerhouse Saudi Team, and it’s amazing effect on the whole country, or what it was like to read an Omani newspaper editorial about the historic US Presidential Inaugeration, from a muslim middle eastern perspective, before he amazed me with the revelation that he is now the “Crazy Cat Guy”.
It’s not like he said “dude, I’m a crazy cat guy”. No! I had to deduce it from this convoluted tale of woe.
You see he’s always had a cat. Usually it was a big tom, who was a bully and ate squirrels. But his last cat, “Carmello” or “Carmie” for short, was a raving bitch. She was temperamental and had a tendency to communicate with either affectionate nuzzles or by pissing on the door. She was a perfect analog for every woman he’s ever been involved with. (Well, none of my step moms would piss on the door, but the one before last was pretty close.) Any way, when Carmie’s life came to a an end after 13 or so years I thought he was done with women, all women.
Then this stray started hanging around the house. When he told me about it I thought it would be cool. He would have a cat to hang out with on the porch with coffee in the AM. She would get fed, he would get some company, it would all work out. But no, he lets her in the house. Now he’s basically adopted her. He was telling me about how she’s fucking al the toms on the front porch in the morning and then he would tease her about being a slut. I asked him if he was going to spay her and he said “Nah”. So of course now she’s knocked up. Now Dad, is getting ready to be a grandpa. He’s got the cardboard box with blankets ready. She’s eating 3 cans of food a day. He’s genuinely excited that he will have a bunch of kittens in the house. Of course the only place he has to put the cardboard “nursery” is in the room I use when I stay there. How bad does “birth” smell, when mixed with urine and cigarette smoke?
I think I can smell it already. He might as well just fill the basement with litter. He’ll be elbow deap in cats in no time. At least there will be no rodents in the neighborhood.
Ugh!
I might have to scrap the trip to The Isle of Man for one more year to go see how the old man is getting along.
