Pocketful of Mumbles

soft touch ...

2010-01-08T04:49:00.002-05:00

...yesterday I was riding home on the subway and, at Downtown crossing, saw a bunch of kids in red coats with white stripes on them. "Would you like to donate a dollar to help kids with HIV," they were asking everyone who walked by ... and everyone just walked by, including me.
"C'mon," I'm thinking, "I wanna help as much as the next guy ... but I gotta have my soda money, right? I mean, how's a brother s'posed to deal with his caffeine addiction if he keeps giving his soda money to folks in the subway?"
But I must look like a soft touch ... all four of the red-coated kids walked by the little old lady who looked like she'd give you the coat off her back and came straight to me, one after the other.
"All right, all right," I said to the last one, "y'all just won't leave me alone." I gave her every one dollar bill I had in my wallet.
Today the soft touch is drinkin' from the water fountain and jonesin' for diet coke!!

Blogging is Boggling ...

2009-12-28T12:09:00.003-05:00

The picture has nothing to do really with what I wanted to post ... it's just one that I like. Only thing Sister Baby asked for this Christmas -- a globe. Guess you can take that two ways EITHER she didn't want very much OR she wanted the whole world. You know the kid -- whatta you think?

So I'm rethinking my whole blogging strategy and here's what I've come up with. Right now I have three separate blogs ( this is the only one I've been actively using ... and we use the word "active" very loosely it having been a month of Sundays since i last posted anything). I had originally intended to use the blog in three different ways:

As a sort of a diary ... keeping track of my thoughts, ideas, activities and opinions and taling about my family and friends. Reminiscing, daydreaming, venting ... you know, that kind of thing.
As a way of thinking about (re-thinking) my religious life ... where my faith is, where it has been where it's going (if there's any left, that is).
A writers notebook where I put down all the ideas I have for stories and characters.

So what I'm thinking now is that I'd like to continue that, but I'll pursue each topic in it's own blog. This'll be the diary blog. A-Funny-Thing-Happened-on-the-Way-to-Emmaus will be the religious one. And The-Autobiography-of-Uncle-Skunk will be the writer's notebook.

And that there is about as close as I'll get to making a New Year's Resolution. Write, write, write ... I need to try harder to keep my mind from becoming a fossil.

And here's another danger I need to avoid -- I feel myself sliding alomost irresistably into the mean-old-man mode in my life. I even said "dag-nabbit" the other day in front of Sister Baby (who immediately cautioned me to watch my language). Seriously, though ... I find myself forgetting or (even worse) deciding not to be ... well ... just kind to people. I certainly don't want to be THAT guy so, to that end, one more resolution two words:

"RELENTLESS KINDNESS"

Hold me to it, will ya.

Can't blame this on me, I'm sick in the head ...

2009-10-06T16:50:00.000-04:00

I mean, I have a head cold and had to stay home today ... and there's only so much TV a boy can watch before he begins to go loopy. So I wrote this ...

An Un-Poem

I’d like to write a poem but does it have to rhyme?
I’d like to write a poem and today I have the time.
Just a simple something really not an epic or a tome,
Just a mental callisthenic for my brain while sick at home.

So, here goes … I need a topic something frivolous and light,
“The leaves that stir the breeze …” no, wait, that metaphor ain’t right.
It’s the breeze that does the stirring not the leaves let’s get it straight.
Can a thing be called a poem when the lines add up to eight?

No, still not quite there yet, I’m still a literary peasant.
I’ve already used an “ain’t” (it’s more convenient than “isn’t).
I’m just being realistic – this is not the Iliad.
Though I could be like a Homer (the one that Bart calls Dad)!

That’s twelve whole lines I’ve written, but I haven’t said a thing
I’m beginning to despair of my ability to sing.
But THAT was kinda nice -- comparing poetry with song
And now we’re up to sixteen lines and moving right along.

That last one was a little weak, how pitiful a stanza.
I guess I’ll just watch TV – there’s a rerun of Bonanza.
‘Leave poetry to poets,’ is the moral of this story.
Twenty lines and I can’t even find a rhyme for ‘story.’

So here I’ve reached the end of my poetical potential
Clearly lacking talent that is lyric’ly essential.
Here’s hoping that tomorrow this old head-cold goes away.
Lest I try another poem on another shut-in day

"Oh ... Just a little Marvin Gaye, you know ..."

2009-10-05T19:22:00.003-04:00

I am of the belief that everybody has them ... those songs on their playlist that they don't want anybody to know that they actually listen to. You know the ones ... you've got your headphones on, listening to 'em and loving it and somebody comes along and asks "whatcha listenin' to?"
And you're too embarrassed to say ... so you turn the volume down, hide the screen on the laptop or the mp3 and say, "oh, you know -- just a little Marvin Gaye" or some other undeniably cool artist who won't reveal your inner eccentricities.

But I for one am tired of living a lie! I'm just gonna put it all out there, y'all and expose the skeletons in my musical closet. Here they are and in no particular order. Enjoy them while you can because tomorrow I'll say it was the cold medicine or the lack of sleep that drove me to such contrivances.

1. You Make Me Feel Like Dancin'

Artist: Leo Sayer (1976)
~ What can I say ... back in the day I thought old Leo was a cool white-boy with an afro and a mean falsetto. Wait, "mean" and "falsetto" don't quite go together, do they? Oh well. The sad truth is that when I am at home by myself and I play "You make me feel like dancing," I do feel like it. Sometimes I even actually do (dance, I mean). Go on, Leo ... witch BAD self.
Favorite Lyric: "You really slipped me a potion / I can't get off of the floor / All this perpetual motion / You gotta give me some more / You gotta give me some more"

2. Theme from "Mahogany"

Artist: Diana Ross (1976)
~ "That song is NOT cheesy like some of those others," remarked Mrs. O when I told her this one was in my mp3 Hall of Shame. She's right, of course. It's here because ... well, it just ain't the kinda song most dudes would admit to listening to. Of course, I could make a testosterone-charged excuse like, "man, that scene when Diana poured the hot candle wax all over herself ... I was only thirteen but at that moment I knew I was a MAN!"
~ Well, the truth is not so prurient.
Favorite Lyric: "Do you know where you're going to / Do you like the things that life is showing you / Where are you going to / Do you know?"
~ The boyish-man in me replied, "no, I don't know!" On the other hand, the manish-boy said, "Diana, wherever YOU'RE goin', that's where I'M goin'!"

3. Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Artist: Judy Garland (1939)
~ Can't be funny about this one. Back in the day, before cable TV and recorded movies, there were certain movies that came on once a year, and always around the same time of the year ... The Wizard of Oz was one of those. I was little and crushin' big time on Dorothy. When she sang that song I was entranced ... and convinced that this was the girl I would marry one day. One year we were watching and my mother said, off-handedly something like "too bad she's gone." "Gone, what do you mean gone? She's right there." She explained to me that Dorothy wasn't really Dorothy but an actress named Judy Garland who had died just recently. I asked her how she died and my mother said she was just very, very sad so she died.
~ I get teary-eyed just thinking about it sometimes and I don't really like to listen to that song. But I keep it on my play list ... after all, she was my first girlfriend.
Favorite Lyric: "Somewhere over the rainbow / Skies are blue / And the dreams that you dare to dream / Really do come true."

Sheesh ... I need somethin' a little more light-hearted after that one ... first some kleenex. Now ... on with the countdown.

4. I'm a Believer

Artist: The Monkees (1966)
~ I like this one 'cause it is just plain true ... story of my life. As a young man, I thought I was in love on about 32 separate occasions. Now most of those girls never said so much as "boo" to me. Now there were a few who noticed me ... a couple even liked me a little. But somehow I always ended up being Mr. Congeniality when Mr. Right showed up. I was always trying my level best to sweep the girl off her feet but dude would come on the scene with a vacuum cleaner. I was just about ready to abandon to pursuit of love when into the George Sherman Union building walked this pretty little girl with a gheri curl ...
Favorite Lyric: "I thought love was only true in fairy tales / Meant for someone else but not for me / Love was out to get me / That's the way it seemed / Disappointment haunted all my dreams / The I saw her face / Now I'm a believer "
~ And she's still HERE, y'all ... minus the activator, of course!

5. Oh, Mandy

Artist: Barry Manilow (1974)
~ So, I like to blame my mild but persistent Barry Manilow addiction on my little sister Carol. I say that I like him because she likes him and his songs remind me of her. Lies, lies, lies. The truth is that it was me ... I am the pusher who addicted her to the drug of Barry when she was still young and impressionable.
Favorite Lyric: "I'm standin' on the edge of time / I walked away when love was mine / Caught up in a world of uphill climbin' / The tears are in my mind / And nothin' is rhymin' / Oh Mandy"
~ O, but, Barry, it is rhymin' ... it's ALL rhymin'. Dude, you ARE Music and you DO write the songs!!!

But, alas ... I sense my momentary vulnerability wearing off. So before I think better of it and delete the whole post, I'd better leave it at this for now. If you want to know more of my Guilty Pleasure Play List you're gonna have to come clean on some of your own cheesy-easy listenin' grooves.

So, in the words of one of my other favorite tacky songs: "There you are with yours and here I am with mine so I guess we'll just be ending it like this."

Thoughts in the wee small hours of the mornin' ...

2009-10-05T04:42:00.004-04:00

"... four in the mornin'
crapped-out, yawning,
longing my life away ... "

Okay, so the "longing my life away" part is a little melodramatic, even for me, but the ungodly hour tends to magnify every feeling ... I am longing to go back to bed, though.

The early rising is the price I pay for the school that Sister Baby attends. She is in a special program that allows her to attend school in the suburbs and she goes to one of the top school districts in the state ... probably in the country. The difference between her current school and the very obviously disadvantaged Boston public schools tweaks my sense of justice and I occasionally feel guilty for winning the lottery that put her where she is ... but mostly I feel lucky. Maybe a tirade about the inequality in the system at a later time ..,

See, I feel better already ... just a little writing and I'm already beginning to resemble a human being again. That doesn't usually begin to happen until sometime after 8:00!

====================================================================
====But now we interrupt this program for the morning routine. Time to wake the girl and get her ready. After that I will be completely human ... perhaps even downright amiable. The li'l girl tends to have that effect on me. ============================================

So ... wham-o ... now it's like 13 hours later! I have regained and expended all the energy required to get me through the day and I am tired all over again. A little frustrating ... but I've taken the ol' laptop and set it up in the only quiet room in the house (the kitchen -- after dinner, of course) in the hopes that I might catch some random train of thought before the last one leaves the station tonight ...

Well ... I got nothing.

Oh, wait ... here's something. I can tell you about the new character I'm writing. His name is Calloway Nickel. He's the me I might have been had circumstances been slightly different. Soemtimes he's the me I wish I was and sometimes he's the me I'm glad I'm not and then there are times when he is the me I might yet become. I think I need him to tell some of the stories that have been stuck in the back of my head for decades ... so far, he's scraped a couple off the top.

The other sort of new character I have is Miracle DeVries ... who is nothing like me. She is ... how can I explain it? She is a combination of some of the women who have influenced me (positively) over the years ... She's very cool and likable. I think that's important. I've got to like someone to write them.

Actually ... that may not be a good thing. One of the things I strggle with is making the characters I don't like seem like anything more than cartoon bad guys. They tend to talk and act like characters from old sit-coms and melo dramas. Gotta work on that one, I guess.

Ink versus Pixels

2009-09-19T09:40:00.003-04:00

I've been a bad blogger, I know ... but it hasn't been due to idleness.

Okay, so there has been a little bit of idleness, but I have been busy. Sister Baby and Brother Man have both started new schools so there was a lot of twisting, turning and maneuvering of family schedules to accommodate the change. Right now, my day starts at 4:30 AM (I know, right?). And since I used to do the majority of my writing late at night and the ol' mind only stays functional for so long before it goes into shut down mode ... well, there you have it.

The weather has been nice, though, and I have found that if I go out at lunch time and find a quiet bench somewhere on campus, the muses visit frequently and their inspiration is golden! I am working on a story that I am very excited about (and hope to share sometime soon) as well as a series of spiritual --- uh, I guess you'd call 'em essays. It's been fun.

I think there is something about the physical act of writing ... I mean, pen-in-hand, ink-on-paper ... that facilitates the process for me. I think I type faster than I think which tends toward drivel. But I write slower than I think -- or maybe at the same speed. It's not very efficient, and sometimes I get impatient with my output and throw down the ball point and trudge back to the key board but in the end I always end up back at the notebook.

But it's no excuse ... I miss my old blog and plan to be a little more faithful to it. Hold me to that, will ya.

Jared's "First" Shirt ...

2009-07-18T12:32:00.005-04:00

This is Brother Man ... wearing his Famous Shirt. The other night he says to me, "Hey, Dad, remember when we were on are way moving from New Orleans to Boston and we stopped at that Wal-Mart in Alabama or something to buy some clothes?"

I remembered ... we had evacuated after Katrina and had only about a long weekend's worth of clothes for everybody. So we go in the store and we decide to let Jared pick out his own clothes ... must have been the first time we ever let him do so. He picked this shirt and I didn't like it. "Man," says he, "You hated that shirt." I think I did. Or perhaps what I really hated was the fact that home boy was getting older which meant that one day he won't need me to help him with such things. Anyway, I told him to put it back ... angrily, I'm sure ... but Mammacita persuaded me to let the boy have his shirt.

"Seriously, Dad -- I get compliments every time I wear that shirt ... how nice the color is, how good it looks on me." And it still does as you can see from the picture I took yesterday. Isn't it funny how, the day after we had this conversation, he went through his drawers (which he never does) and found that very shirt and wore it. He didn't say anything about it -- just put it on. Maybe it was his way of reminding me that he is growing-up. My first thought was to be flippant and say something like "well, you chose it but who paid for it." But then I thought better of it. I stopped him on his way back in from taking out the garbage and snapped this photo. "Why're you takin' my picture."

"Just 'cause," I said. "There are certain things that fathers like to remember about their sons." And there are. And now I will.

...you're always running here and there ... you feel you're not wanted anywhere...

2009-06-29T06:48:00.006-04:00

So ...

I was going to attempt to avoid this whole topic ... who wants to read another post about Michael Jackson? But then I remembered, nobody reads this blog anyway, so ...

I've been asking myself how one ought to grieve for someone he never really even knew. A better question is why ought one grieve. But the thing is, if you are an african-american of my generation then you grew up with Michael Jackson. I have known him {okay, known of him} since I was old enough to know anything. Over the years he became sort of like a crazy cousin ... one you never understand and often disagree with but whom you were always glad to see. His passing has made me inescapably sad, y'all. And in spite of my attempts to remain above it all, to adopt a more sagacious perspective on the spectacle that is still playing itself out, I am still just very very sad.

In the title I quoted the song "Ben," MJ's first solo #1 hit. It is about, of all things, a rat ... the vicious ringleader of a pack of man-eating rats at that. You can listen to it here . The tender song didn't really go with a horror movie ... wasn't even a very good horror movie either. In the it, Ben-the-Rat's friend was a lonely, misunderstood, abused-by-society, misfit named Willard. And at the end of the movie Ben and his rodent cohorts killed poor Willard who did kinda bring it on himself having trained the rat's to do murder at his bidding.

I suspect that, in Michael's case, a tender soul did not really go with the horror movie his life became. I think Jackson's "Ben" was his celebrity. It gave him astronomical sums of money, colossal fame and, I think, an unprecedented amount of sadness. Now, I'm not saying that some of his misery ... maybe even a lot of it was not self-wrought. But a soul is such a delicate thing, and more so the soul of an artist ... what is it about the American style of celebrity that tends to devour some of our brightest (and therefore some of our most fragile) souls? I don't know ... you'll have to ask Billie Holiday, Elvis Presley, Kurt Cobain, Karen Carpenter Michael Jackson and all the other's whose fame seemed to shorten their trajectory and turn it prematurely downward. Here's to the hope that Rock and Roll Heaven is real and that over yonder backstage passes are plentiful and readily available.

So now, I say about Mike what I say about other departed friends and family members --"those I loved and did not understand" as Norman Mclean put it at the end of his beautiful story A River Runs Through It ...

Damn, bruh ... wish I coulda -- I don't know -- been there for ya ... Or something.

All We Are Is Dust in the Wind ...

2009-06-20T08:23:00.014-04:00

... or maybe we're plastic letters on the fridge?

Saturday morning ... and I woke up to the very pleasant sound of Sister Baby's morning show. She has these magnetic letters on the refrigerator and each one is a different character in an elaborate drama. Funny to me that with all the high-tech (and expensive) trinkets we have attempted to delight her with, this is still one of her preferred play activities ...

Sort of reminded me of my occasionally idle mornings and afternoons when I was a kid. When the sun was just right, shooting nearly solid beams of light into the room through the windows between the slits in the curtains, I would go and find a t-shirt or a dry towel. If you wave the thing in the shaft of light you release thousands and thousands of floating specks of dust and lint. I would pretend it was a dogfight ... Allies vs. Axis over the skies of World War II Europe. The smaller specks were the fighters ... the little spitfires soaring deftly among all the flack. The larger ones were the bombers, lumbering toward their intended targets, pilots white-knuckling the controls, gunners spinning in their turrets. After waving the t-shirt, I had no control ... the dust fighters fought furiously till there were only a few left and then the victors flew slowly, gratefully and pensively home. I couldn't control it, all I could do was watch ... some of my favored pilots made it, some didn't.

I wonder if that's how God is ... having waved the T-Shirt of the Cosmos, setting this whole thing in motion. Is He waiting for the dust to settle? And after we have flown through the fray, protecting some harassing others, who among us will make that peaceful flight home?

Or is the Universe more like the refrigerator and God, like Sister Baby pulling all the strings ... lots of action and high drama ... danger, fun, love, strife, hate, bliss, misery and (occasionally a little) peace ... but in the end, everything comes out okay.

You Know You're Gettin' Old When ...

2009-06-15T23:08:00.003-04:00

You watch one of those movies with lots of different big name actors and with a bunch of semi-complicated, interweaving plots and the one cat you relate to is Morgan Freeman!!!

Oh well ...

Back in the Day, 'Round the Way ...

2009-06-13T14:39:00.009-04:00

We've had a pretty feeble spring her in Boston. Every time we get a bit of good weather and begin to hope that it might stick around for a while the rain and the cool winds come and chase it away. Today is nice ... yesterday afternoon was too. So here's hoping that Persephone can stay out and play with us for a little while.

And, speaking of playing ...

The other day, Shemetra and I came home from work only to find a gang of kids hanging out in front of our house. Okay, yeah we do live in "the 'hood" but it wasn't a gang as in Crips and Bloods ... more a gang as in Our Gang -- you know, Spanky, Alfalfa, Buckwheat 'n' 'em. Yes, these were young kids, riding bikes, playing ball, being children. There was something quite heartening about it. Reminded me of the kind of fun we used to have as kids 'round the way, back in the day. But these kids don't play like we used to play ... sure we had days like their's that were sort of unstructured, free-for-all fun, but we had actual structured games we played. Here are a few of the best ones:

Hot Peas and Cold Butter. In this game, one kid would take a leather belt and hide it somewhere, preferably in a vacant lot that had a lot of flotsam, jetsam and debris strewn around. When the belt was hidden, the hider would scream out "hot peas and cooooold butter!" This would let all the other kids know that it was time to come and look for the belt. The hider would give clues ... at first, everyone would be pretty "cold," that is, far away from finding the belt. Then the hider would say, "Rodney is getting warm." At that moment, each player would have to make a decision: do I go over by Rodney to try to find the belt or do I ease my way back to the base. Because, you see, whoever found the belt was then permitted to beat the crap out of anyone he or she could catch before they got back to the base (usually somebody's front porch a considerable distance from the field of play). As the hiding place became more compromised, the tension would build ... "Rodney is red hot! Oh man, he's burnin' up! He's on fire!" By this time the most timid and the slowest runners are already halfway back to base and only the boldest are still searching. Believe you me, you don't want to be anywhere near ol' Rodney when he finds that belt ... especially if you were the dude that smacked him hard right 'cross the bee-hind with it a couple of rounds ago.

Red Rover. This is the game pictured above. Two teams would line up facing each other. Each team would link hands to form two opposing human chains. After some consultation, one team would say to the other, "red rover, red rover send Frankie right over," at which point Frankie would run as fast as he could attempting to break the link between two of the opposing team members. If he broke it, he would rejoin his team in triumph, if not he would have to join the other team. Now, the strategy was for Frankie to find the weakest link and then run in a swerving pattern to surprise those two players at the last possible minute. Now the game was supposed to end when one team had acquired all the members of the other by forming the most unbreakable links ... but it usually ended when someone (often yours truly) unable to break a link either flipped over it (hitting the front of his head on the asphalt) or bounced off it (hitting the back of his head on the asphalt). Note: somehow we never quite figured out that you shouldn't play this game on ASPHALT ... grass or even sand would have been better. But of course, there ain't too much of either of those in the city.

Chinese School. Sorry for the politically incorrect and racially insensitive title ... but we were kids, we didn't know any better. This was a much less violent game and was essentially, stand up comedy for elementary school kids. The audience would sit on the front steps of somebody's house and the teacher would step to the front of the group and recite the following rhyme:

"Chinese school has just begun,

No more laughing, no more fun.

If you show your teeth or tongue,

You will get a penalty done."

Then the teacher would launch into a stand-up routine to try to get people in the audience to laugh. If you laughed, the teacher would then give you a penalty ... often something silly or embarassing ... like singing a love song to the next girl to walk down the street or getting a wedgy and having to keep it ... er ... lodged until the end of the game. My brother Darryl was the master of this game. If you know him, ask him to do the "frozen pudding" routine for you ... but you'd better prepare yourself for the ensuing penalty 'cause there's no keeping a straight face in the midst of the "frozen pudding."

Kill The Man with the Ball. This was one of several manhood testing games. Nothing complicated about this one. The ball ... (usually a deflated football or baskettball that wasn't good for anything else) ... would be thrown into the air and whoever caught it would have to elude everybody else because there was only one rule in this game ... you have to kill the man with the ball! It was a test of agility, endurance and guts. Oh, the bruises, chipped teeth and scraped elbows and knees this glorious game produced. I still have scars.

Chase. This was the most Homeric of all neighborhood games ... really seperated the manly boys from the girly-men. Two teams would start at opposite ends of the predetermined territory (usually about a three block radius) and would split up in groups to find members of the opposing team to beat the crap out of and then capture and lock in a "prison" (somebody's porch that was guarded by two or three guys). The object of the game was to capture everyone on the opposing team. There were ambushes, jail breaks, traitors, valiant last stands, heroes who fought, and a few cowards who hid. It was AWESOME ... no weapons, only hands, feet and wits. It was like an inner-city Iliad! This game is probably the reason I don't walk right to this day.

Now ... if you are a kid reading this, let me say that you should NOT try these games at home. We were trained experts working under controlled conditions ....

Okay, so we were nuckle-heads, risking limb (if not life) for the sake of a good time. But nobody died (at least not that I can recall) and we sure had us some fun ... boy, I'm tellin ya!

"I don't hate Balboa -- I pity the fool ..."

2009-06-13T11:54:00.005-04:00

So, by way of confession, let me just say that I LOVE THIS MOVIE!

I know, there is nothing good about it from an artistic standpoint ... it was arguably the end of the Sylvester Stallone's acting career and the beginning of his downward spiral toward the grunting, mumbling action hero muscle-head.

Watched it again this week ... okay, let's be honest. I watched it TWICE this week. And here's the thing ... not only do I watch it but I get misty-eyed when I watch it. It's like I'm a crack-head but the Rock I'm addicted to is a juiced-up make-believe boxer named Balboa.

This movie shamelessly displays all the worst things about the 80's ... the clothes, the music. But I can't help myself. I have even addicted my poor daughter who now will not enter the bathroom in the morning to brush her teeth unless hum the Rocky fanfare:

Dah di-di dah di-di dah dah dah,

Dah di-di dah di dah di dah,

Bam baaaaaam!

Oh no ... I'm jonesin' again. Yo, Adriennnnnnnne!

Somebody please help me ... recommend me a movie with subtitles or foreign accents or an actual plot. Have some pity on this fool!

Happy Birthday, My Love!!!

2009-05-20T11:51:00.005-04:00

First ... because I am not much of a poet ... some words borrowed from Stevie. They express nearly perfectly how I feel about you:

"That girl thinks that she's so BAD

She'll change my tears to joy from sad.

She says she keeps the upper hand

'Cause she can please her man.

She doesn't use her love to make him weak

She uses love to keep him strong.

And inside me there's no room for doubt that it won't be too long

Before I tell her that I love her

And I want her

And my mind and soul and body need her ...

Tell her that I love to

And I want to

And I need to do all that I have to to be in her love."

Celebrating today the fact that the world is a better place because just a few ... ahem ... years ago you came into it. I know my world is a better place ... as a matter of fact, my world IS because of you.

Your story, my darling, is something close to epic -- and well worth telling. People who come from backgrounds like yours don't often make it. They succumb to their surroundings. They let the harshness of their environment abort their dreams. They fade and shrivel under the pressure ... sometimes they simply perish.

Not you! You are the rose that pushes its way through a crack in the concrete, blooming, growing and thriving. Do you realize what an outrageous, fantastic success you've made of your life ... made out of little more than the love of your mother and grandmother and the strength of your will and imagination? I know you are not one to blow your own horn so I'll do it. There's something special in you and it shines through you and on us whom you love everyday in innumerable ways.

Somebody needs to write that book about your life (shoot, if you don't I will). You are a sort of contemporary Jane Eyre ... overcoming hardships and obstacles with a mixture of tenacity, good will and relentless optimism. All that and you are still irresistibly gorgeous too! Nobody believes me when I tell them your age (don't worry ... I haven't told lots of people) because -- well, frankly, you've got it going on (and on) Mammacita! Beautiful.

And so I feel like I always feel on this day -- how is it that you have the birthday and I get the gift? You are an outstanding mother, a wonderful wife ... my partner, my sweetheart, my best friend. Shemetra Owens, I LOVE me some YOU!

Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Birthday!

So, what IS with the bow-tie anyway ...

2009-05-15T11:20:00.007-04:00

… I ask as if anyone really cared to know. I think I have a (mostly) sober estimate of myself – and at a time when even “the imaginary-audience for my life is growing small and silent,” I don’t cling to any delusions about most folks giving more than half a hoot about what I do, think or say. Still, there’s that nagging little trait, that strident interior voice that looks for, longs for, insists upon and sometimes even creates a sense of personal significance in the face of the overwhelming anonymity of modern existence. That’s the voice that blogs and posts on FaceBook and shamelessly looks for attention from some kind of real (though maybe only virtual) audience. It’s the voice that believes it has something significant to say and declares that you would do well to listen.

Then again … it could be that, even as old as I am I have just not been able to shed that little part of my psyche that is still painfully self-conscious … wonder why that is and where that feeling comes from …

{Cue the harp music … picture gets all squiggly … fading out of the
present and into the past … first day of kindergarten 1969}

~ The day started really bad (all tears and snot when the parents left) but got better as it went on. It was time to “go to the basement” which was the euphemism the teachers taught to keep us from saying “I gotta go pee.” Well, when we got there, we were amazed at how big the room was … and all along one wall, a row of gleaming white porcelain urinals. They were as tall as the tallest kid in the class and stretched all the way to the floor. I for one had never seen anything like it. While I stood there in awe, a kid named James pushed his way past me and very confidently and deliberately (here, please forgive my indelicate usage) dropped trou, copped a squat and did #2 in the urinal. At first I was merely disgusted … it was liking watching someone defecate on Stone Henge or something … but then I was terrified. Right as James was finishing his …er … movement, the upper classmen (i.e. first and second graders) came in. They roared with laughter at James’ error and dubbed him the name he would carry for the remainder of his elementary school career – “Doo-Doo Boy.”
Well, seemed like James was okay with the new moniker. He turned out to be a paste-eating, hair-pulling, cookie-stealing wild boy, quite worthy (and I think even proud) of his nickname and notoriety. I, on the other hand was horrified … how one false move, one mistaken violation of some societal norm, could mark you for life. Why, given a different set of gastro-intestinal circumstances, I might well have become “Doo-Doo Boy!” ~

But, I digress … play the harp, squiggle the picture and let’s get back to twenty-first century, middle-aged me – to-wit, the bow-ties. Whether it’s from my juvenile need for attention or my even more juvenile insecurity about what people think of me, when I turn up the house-lights in the theater of my mind, one of the three people in my imaginary audience stands and says, “Yeah, so, what’s up with that anyway?”

Well, madam, I’m glad you ask. I have been accused of making a political statement (either I’m a Louis Farrakahn-like radical or a Tucker Carlson-ish neocon). At one point I even considered making up a Nathaniel Hawthorne-style story, attaching some grave and deep spiritual significance to the donning of new neckwear and the doffing of the former and more traditional. But the real reason is not as controversial and compelling as all that.

I just like bow-ties, y’all. I always have. They are a little uncanny … somehow a bow-tie manages to be both cool and geeky, sharp and frumpy, traditional and edgy. And, it makes you a little less invisible … might be frivolous and vain on my part but people seem to see and acknowledge me more when I’m sportin’ a bow. I wouldn’t say it’s gratifying – sometimes it’s not even desirable … but it is kinda nice. And in these dismal days, kinda nice is actually – well – pretty darn nice … and a positive like that deserves a little accentuating.

So, I’m a convert, friends! Bow-ties forever! How ‘bout you pick-up a few and join me – we could start a club!

"Ship" Happens ...

2009-03-27T12:30:00.008-04:00

… And that’s not just what one whale said to the other whale when he bumped his head on the hull of a passing oil tanker … more than a pithy double entendre … this has become something of a motto in the Owens House, courtesy of Sister-Baby.

**WARNING** in spite of the innocent face of it’s subject, the following post is rated PG-13 (parental guidance both suggested and solicited).

So … we’re all sitting in the living room on a wintery Saturday afternoon, watching Gordon Ramsey’s cooking show on the BBC America cable station. He was making some kind of a lobster dish and, to prepare, he took a live lobster and cut it in half while it was still moving. After the collective “EEEE-ooooo” we let out, Abigail felt obliged to speak her mind. “What is that,” she asked. “Lobster,” her brother replied. And after a brief pause, “Well … I won’t be eating any of that lobster SHIP.” And the expression on her face showed that she was completely serious.

The rest of our expressions weren’t nearly so serious … Jared was rolling with laughter while Shemetra and I were holding back our own laughter with the appropriate amount of parental indignation. Had she just said what we thought she said … did Chica just say a cuss-word? Well, no, not quite -- there was, after all, a distinct P sound at the end of that word, not a T. Still, there could be little doubt as to the intent of the remark.

In dutiful-dad fashion, I immediately began my investigation. I turned to Shemetra who spends a great deal of time navigating the streets of Boston in our little car (an activity that tends to increase the use of such spicy epithets). “I say things,” she insisted, “but not THOSE things.” Further pursuit of this suspect being hazardous to the health and well-being of the investigator, I turned my attention to the most likely culprit. Brother-Man watches Abby for a couple of hours every day after school ... and we all know the kind of foul language that can come from the mouth of a teen-aged boy. “Wasn’t me, Dad.” A likely story … in fact the SAME likely story that had become his mantra ever since, at the tender age of seven, he became aware of the concept of plausible deniability. Only this time, I actually believed him. When it comes to his sister, Jared has something of a puritanical streak … he is often a more attentive and protective custodian of her formative character than I am. Though I don’t doubt that he says things among his friends that he wouldn’t say among us, I am pretty sure he watches his mouth around his sister.

I was about to start blaming some potty-mouthed little kindergartener when I realized who the culprit was – none other than Chef Ramsay himself! Before the newly sliced lobster had stopped squirming he (Ramsey, not the lobster... though if lobsters could cuss ...) had let fly the very word in question no fewer than five times. Of course, censorship was declared forthwith.

But too late, I’m afraid. Later in that week, I had told Abby that she needed to clear all of her toys out of the living room before supper time. “Dad-DEEEE,” she complained. “Don’t 'daddy' me, Miss Thing, get on with it.” She did … but as she walked down the hall, Shemetra heard her say under her breath, “I’m so tired of this SHIP.”

Well, so we talked later and she has since stopped using the word. But I know she knows it and that she will undoubtedly use it again. Here’s my night mare:

Abby on the playground at recess in the midst of a rip-roaring game of Dora the Explorer. Sister-Baby, is of course the titular protagonist of the drama and, as it unfolds, the lad portraying Swiper the Fox is circling in, preparing to abscond with Dora’s back-pack or Boots’s boots or something else of value. Instead of the iconic, obligatory (but somewhat cumbersome) catch-phrase, “Swiper no swiping, Swiper no swiping, Swiper nooooooo swiping.” Abby turns around lending her own defiance to the sweet an unobtrusive character of Dora: “Dude,” she says “chillax … enough of this swiping SHIP. You’d best step off, yo.”

“Aw, c’mon, DaddyO,” I say to myself. “She’s still your sweet little girl – and always will be.” That’s the story I’m sticking with then … at least until some appalled nun from Sacred Heart Elementary school calls me saying that we need to talk.

And even if/when that happens, I guess its part of raising the bambinos. I’ll just shrug my shoulders and go to the meeting. It’s par for the course when it comes to parenting. SHIP happens.

That Guy ...

2009-03-01T16:52:00.003-05:00

Okay, revealing another guilty pleasure … I like Bruce Willis movies, particularly the “Die Hard” series. I know they are gratuitously violent and filled with improbable if not impossible feats of derring-do but I just like them …

So, anyway, in the latest installment (the name of which is so corny and ridiculous I am too embarrassed to repeat it) the following interaction takes place: Super, resilient, indestructible hard-boiled detective John McLane, having just defeated an entire cadre of crazy bad guys, is riding in a car with the young fellow he has just rescued from said baddies. Paraphrasing, John says, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not with all this hero stuff,” young dude says. “I’m not that guy.”

“Believe me, pal, I don’t like doing this stuff anymore than the you do.”

“So why are you doing it?”

“Because I have to – because there’s nobody else here to do it.”

“And that is what makes you that guy.”

And so now … last week there was a big conference at my place of work. Required that everyone wear jacket and tie. I decided to buck the trend and wear a bow-tie instead of a regular neck tie. I like bow-ties – always have. Mammacita made me stop wearing them when we first married … said they made me look like an old man. Now that I am an old man they make me look … well … like me, I guess. Anyway, one of my colleagues said she liked the look. I thanked her and told her I was thinking of converting -- all bow-ties all the time. “You know if you do that,” said my friend Mike, “you’re gonna be that guy. Are you sure you wanna be that guy.”

The two coincidental uses of the same phrase got me thinking about identity. How much of it is reputation and how much is role (job title, spouse, parent etc.). How much of it is the “real” me and how much is mere affectation, put on to portray the guy I want to be … or to conceal the guy that I think really am. Such were my thoughts, until I remembered that I am (and forgive my French here) a grown-ass man. I am way past all that kind of thinking. The fact is that I am not who I thought I was going to be back when pipe-dreams and ambition consumed me and substituted for integrity and character. I am actually pretty all right with the person I have become.

And the other thing is, just because I have come to a particular age doesn’t mean that I have stopped “becoming” ... something more or better or just other than who I am right now. Now, I’m obviously not gonna be John McLane and I am pretty certain I want to be more than just the guy with the bow-tie …

Saw a story on TV the other day about a minister who leads a small congregation somewhere in the US. They don’t have a building and the minister doesn’t take a salary. Every dime they collect when they pass the plate on Sunday is then given away to people in need. They pay people’s rent, and help them with their medical bills, and feed them and keep them warm. Sounds cool to me … wouldn't mind being that guy.

The President in his speech to congress last week mentioned a corporate ceo who took every penny of his substantial yearly bonus and distributed it to the people he felt who earned it – the people who work for him and run the company. How ‘bout being that guy.

In the Bible Jesus talks about a particular type of generosity. He speaks of a kind of indivudual heroism that is as real as it is unsung. He says that you should give in such a way that your right hand doesn’t know what your left hand is doing. A worthy aspiration …I’d like to be that guy.

Muses Like Water ...

2009-02-25T23:51:00.005-05:00

I think I am becoming a bit of an insomniac ... okay, but I know I am a hypochondriac and I tend to exaggerate any minor malady I experience. Having a hard time getting to sleep tonight and I did last night too ... but that doesn't make me an insomniac ... right?

Yesterday, in a fit of maniacal inspiration ... {jeez, look at my wording here -- four lines and I'm already a hypochodriacal insomniacal maniac ... perhaps my lack of sleep has shut off my verbosity filter. Ease-up there, big boy ... this ain't a college application essay} ... But, where was I? Oh yeah, so yesterday I felt inspired to sit down and write out a little summary of all the stories I've been trying to write for the last 15 years or so. I always get hung up on the actual telling of the stories ... the muses, when they visit seem always to act like either a drippy faucet or a fire hose ... neither of those being a very practical way of getting a drink of water. Well, yesterday the fire hose was in full effect ... but rather than let it flow until I ran out of time or emotional energy or both, I took my pen and just wrote down the gist of each story. Names of characters and a very brief two or three line description of the who-what-when-why-how of each scenario. The result was three pieces of yellow paper with some very specific ideas ... a sort of outline for what I hope will become a book of inter-related short stories if not a full-fledged novel.

"Dude, wishful thinking," says the rat under my bed to the little yellow man in my head. "You haven't written anything yet and you ain't gonna write anything now." Well, that's what he thinks ... we'll see if we can't prove him wrong.

And now I'm getting sleepy ... I knew if I did this the electric glare of the laptop would sear the old irises to the point of fatigue. Better spell-check this puppy {so if you think I'm crazy you won't also think me stupid} and call it a night. The fire hose is not a good thing to be foolin' with in the wee hours of the morning.

Sunday Mornin'

2009-02-22T09:34:00.002-05:00

... the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen and the sound of Mammacita and Sister Baby having a pleasantly animated conversation. Brother Man is still asleep and probably will be till around noon time ...

It feels like complete happiness. I am recording it so, someday in the future when happiness seems hopelessly elusive I can remember how very simple it is.

What's Up? ...

2009-02-20T06:37:00.005-05:00

I think I must be something of a manic/depressive when it comes to blogging. Feast or famine with me ... guess that's part of the problem with my writing. But we ain't here to talk about that now!

The kids have been in Nashua, New Hampshire with their grandparents Nonny and Kahuna (those are the nicknames they chose) ... so Mammacita and I have been home alone for nearly an entire week. Now, you know I love my kids ... but it's a veritable wonder what a week without morning routine, bedtime routine, Dora, Blue and Spongebob can do for your sanity. 'Course, I can't blame all my seasonal insanity on the kids -- they are actually a very small part of it. Work was absolutely crazy during the month of January and for a good part of February too. I feel like I had no time to think ... which also means no time to dream or meditate or read or write or anything. I'm sayin', it sucked y'all. Wasn't much use to my poor wife and children during that time. Gotta plan better for the hellish first month next year ...

But this week has been quite blissful. Aside from going to a movie {Slumdog Millionaire -- which was fantastic} we haven't done much. We have enjoyed being with each other without Brother Man and Sister Baby there to distract. I feel like we have come back together ... and it's not (as I had assumed it was) all about sex either. It's more about togetherness. Gotta work on preserving and protecting that, even when the kids are here ... we need it. And, yeah, it is partially about sex ... Mammacita can still stop a clock and bring ol' DaddyO to his knees!!!

A couple of personal breakthroughs are quivering on the horizon for me, I think. The story I've been trying to write for fifteen years has come back to me on an errant breeze {Mammacita's analogy} and I am writing again ... if you're good I may post a little somethin' somethin' from the story here. Also been thinking a lot about religion and faith ... beginning to come to some conclusions about what I do and do not believe ... if I'm good I'll post a little somethin'-somethin'.

That's about it ... what's up with You?

The Koolest of the Filter Kings ...

2009-01-13T20:19:00.006-05:00

Maybe it’s old age steadily creeping up on me but I find myself these days thinking a lot about departed loved ones … I think about them and I feel sad for the time {sometimes minutes, sometimes days} it takes me to bridge the gap between remembered grief and cherished memory. But I’m reminiscing here … not self-analyzing so –

Today I was thinking about my cousin Skip. I chose this picture:

Because those are the kind of cigarettes he used to smoke.

Skip himself was perhaps the coolest cat I ever knew. Confident, funny and just COOL … I’m talkin’ cool enough to spell the word with a “K” and seventeen “O’s.” If anybody was the Kool Filter King it was Johnny “Skip” Owens Jr. Here are some memories of Skip …

He introduced us to James Brown … he loved the song, The Payback … {“I don’t know karate, but I know KA-RAZY!”}. He would listen to the forty-five (that’s a vinyl record with a single song on each side for all you youngbloods} for hours … cigarette dangling from the lips, bouncing up and down as he sang and danced along with James. Listen to the song here .

…I am parenthetically reminded that we once went to see James Brown at The Playhouse in the Park – and outdoor venue that used to be in Franklin Park in Dorchester. We were pretty close to the stage and James had on a fire-engine red suit with red patent leather shoes, lookin’ like the Devil himself … and he DID NOT sing The Payback. I remember thinking it was a good thing for James that Skip {who, himself was quite capable of KA-RAZY, as you will soon see} wasn’t there …

Skip lived with us for a while in the mid ‘70’s and during that time he was always very respectful to my father and especially to my mother even though they were probably only a couple of years older than he was. He loved my mother’s spaghetti … one night, somebody had loosened the cap on the extra large bottle of Frank’s Red-Hot Hot Sauce {my father and Skip ate that stuff on just about everything} and Skip spilled a whole bottle of it on his plate. Rather than disrespect my mother’s cooking by throwing away an otherwise perfectly good plate a spaghetti, Skip sat there and ate the whole fiery meal. Now dude had the quintessential 1973 soul-brother afro … but by the time he finished that the spaghetti he had just about sweated that bad boy straight!.

When we were about 8 and 9 years old, our older cousins Jonathan, Billy and Adam decided it was time to teach us how to fight. They did so by taking us outside and kicking our butts in the front yard for what seemed like a good long time. After a while, I decided it was best to stay down but Darryl kept getting up and the guys kept hitting him harder and harder … you know, to teach him a lesson … make him tough. Right about then Skip pulled up. He asked my cousins what they were doing. “Teachin’ Van and Darryl how to fight, man. You know, so they won’t be a couple of little punks.”

“A’ight,” Skip said, taking off his shirt. “Why don’t y’all teach me how to fight.” They were scared, but the dude-code wouldn’t allow them to back down. I tell you, they made a very valiant attempt to do to Skip what they had been doing to Darryl and me. But their failure was colossal … and quite entertaining to behold. I mean he beat ‘em bad … beat ‘em till the tears and snot flowed freely … made ‘em look like three ragdolls wrestling with a rotweiler. And all the while, that Kool Filter King dangled between his lips as he trash-talked, belittled and beat the crap out of the hapless boys. “Now look at them,” Skip said, pointing to us on one side of the lawn (by now smug as all get-out) “and look at you” pointing to them sprawled on the other side, two of ‘em spread-eagled on their backs and one rocking back and forth in a fetal position. “Who looks like punks now.” We walked tall for a good little while after that one.

The last time I saw Skip, he came to visit us at my mother’s house in Mattapan. He was getting older … the afro was gone. He had that still-makin’-it-but-just-barely look about him. At this point my father had been dead for ten years or more and the distance between us and most of our Owens cousins had grown steadily during that time. I had begun to reject the inner-city tough guy machismo that dudes like Skip exemplified. But much as I had come to resent that lifestyle and as much as Skip seemed like a relic from a time long passed … dude was still inescapably cool. As he was leaving the house, he asked me to step outside with him for a minute.

“I just want to ask you something,” he said to me, while lighting a fresh Filter King. “And you can be straight up with me.” He took a long drag – hesitating, I think. “Do you think I’m a good man?”

The question took me by surprise … how could I answer that? He must have sensed my struggling. “A’ight, put it this way … do you think I’m a bad man? You don’t think I’m a bad man do you?” I told him no. “Good enough, cousin. ‘Cause you know I tried to be good to y’all.” He hugged me. Promised he would come by again soon. Never got a chance to.

I sometimes wonder if he knew at that time that he was dying. I wonder if he was reaching for something by asking that question. I wonder if my answer gave him what he was looking for.

And I wonder if, wherever he is now he can hear the answer it’s taken me all these years to confidently affirm. “Yes, Cousin. To me and mine, you were a good man. The Koolest of the Filter Kings!!”

Feelin' Like a Hoopty ...

2008-12-27T09:42:00.006-05:00

From the urban dictionary:

1. hoopty -- Basically, a piece of crap car. Usually cheap and/or broken down. Can be any size, make or model, but must (or should) be embarrassing to drive

With the new year about to roll in I have been thinking about resolutions … well … no, actually that’s not quite true … “thinking” is too strong a word. I have been entertaining an occasional fleeting thought about resolutions … now, that’s more like it. Truth is I’m a little jaded about the whole process. “Why,” I say to myself. “What possible good can come from resolving to be a new and improved version of myself on January 1st only to roll out of bed on, say the 15th, look in the mirror and realize that all I did was spray a fresh coat of cheap paint over the same old high-mileage hoopty I was last year.” Yes, the check-engine light on the dashboard of my weary soul is flashing … and I’m afraid that the price of a tune-up might be higher than the blue-book value on this old clunker.
……….

Okay … so I wrote that on December 26th and I am marveling at how swiftly the post holiday blues sets in … “check engine light on the dash board of my weary soul”… Geez, sorry about that one. I leave it here only because it reminds me and gives you a glimpse into my melancholy, overly dramatic mind. Feeling better today … but still cognizant of the fact that most of my days are pretty mundane and that the same old same-old, though comforting in its predictability also threatens to undo whatever is left of hope and optimism in me. And aren't those the qualities that make you believe there is still good work to do in this life, positive change to initiate and effect? Iguess I just need to remember that everything in my life that I feel is “mundane” and “the same old same-old” was once wonderful and highly desirable to me. The problem is NOT that these things are any less wonderful or desirable, it is that I have gotten used to them and that I do not wonder at or desire them like I used to when they seemed to be just beyond my reach. My family, my friends, my job, my home, even the relative health of my aging mind and body … wonders of my world for which I am today (and ought to be every day) deeply grateful.

And so now, sufficiently tuned-up, I prepare for another year. It’s all a matter of perspective, isn't it? I’m still a ’64 … but rather than thinking of my life as a busted old hoopty I’ll think of it as a classic. Vintage … Yeah!

Think I’ll put the top down and take her out for a spin!

DUDE & FOOD ...

2008-11-28T10:55:00.004-05:00

So …

The other night I got up in the middle to make one of my infrequent raids on the old fridge …okay, so their fairly frequent but I usually just window shop these days. HONESTLY ... I get up, open the door look around for goodies and then end up getting a glass of water and going back to bed. But on this particular night I had more sinister intentions – you see, Shemetra had brought home a nice 2 liter bottle of orange soda … it was for Jared (DaddyO gets diet Coke ONLY). It’s 2:30 in the morning – not a creature stirring. I make my move. My side of the bed is against the wall so getting out requires some agility (so as not to disturb Mrs. O) and some fortitude (just in case I do). Success … and from there it is a short tip-toe to the fridge and the frothy orange deliciousness. But, alas, I open the door and there … where it should be … is the two liter bottle. But it is nearly completely EMPTY … I’m sayin’ the thing has about half a thimbleful of orange soda in the very bottom of it. “Who the … what the … why would anybody …”

Rage, despair, bewilderment …

... and then a shudder of realization. My son is no longer my little boy, no longer the kid he used to be. He is now a DUDE … a fledging, a young-blood but a dude nonetheless. Only a DUDE would drink all except the last fifth of an ounce of soda so he wouldn’t have to dispose of the bottle.

Well, it’s been a long time since I co-habited with another DUDE so I thought it might be worth my while to remind myself what that was like so I can prepare myself for what’s in store. DUDE just turned fourteen so, the way I see it, I have four more years before I kick him out … I mean, send him out … into the world. Couple of DUDE stories for those of you who haven’t had the privilege of encountering one in its natural habitat.

When Shemetra and I were dating, she made me this gorgeous chocolate birthday cake. It was the most amazing cake I had ever seen … chocolate with shaved pieces of Hershey bar and little silver sugar candies on top. It was divine – when she gave it to me I just knew THAT girl loved her some ME. Next day, one of my roommates stayed home from work because he had a cold. Later that day, he called me at work, “Uh, VanO, I was wondering if I could have some of your cake.” I should have known better – I mean, this was a DUDE. I knew that the only consumables in the house were a half a box of four month old Grape Nuts, a can of tuna and my cake. But I gave in. “Sure, buddy. Have a piece.” Well, I got home that evening looking forward to my dinner of grape nut tuna casserole and chocolate cake for desert. When I lifted the bowl that had been covering my cake I witnessed a veritable miracle. Before that moment I would never have believed that a sliver of cake that thin could have remained upright. There it was, quivering on the plate, a piece of cake so thin you could see through it. I gasped, and the slight stir of air it caused knocked the piece of cake over and it disintegrated.

Rage, despair, bewilderment. “DUDE … seriously!?!”

Then there was the time (same apartment) when the other DUDES and I decided to have a bunch of fellas over to watch a football game. They all came in. At first I had them take of their shoes so as not to dirty the carpet, but when I realized that the room smelled of corn chips and there were no corn chips on the premises I had them all put their shoes back on. Someone had the grand idea of ordering pizza, which we would all throw in for. I ordered it … but as we were going around asking people to contribute, one DUDE had forty five cents; another had a bus token and a ticket stub, a third had an expired coupon for a different pizza shop … some had no money at all. Out of twenty DUDES I collected about six dollars … and the pizza was already ordered.

Rage, despair, bewilderment …

... but wait, that’s not the worst part. I coughed up the thirty five bucks needed to cover the balance of the meal and, just as the pizza was arriving, the phone rang. It was Shemetra … so I had to take that call, I mean the girl LOVED her some ME and I LOVED me some her. We talked for a few minutes. When I got off the phone – maybe twenty minutes later – every box of pizza, I mean EVERY SINGLE BOX was empty!!! All that was left were the grease spots on the bottom. “DUDES … seriously!!???!!!” I watched the football game while eating tuna and grape nuts.

There are many such stories, most of them ending with me hungry – ALL ending in rage, despair and bewilderment. And now that Jared is fourteen, I fear that the cycle may repeat itself. But, look on the bright side … I am older and wiser now. And yesterday I took three Devil-Dogs out of the box and hid them in strategic places throughout the house. So, if you will excuse me, I am going to have a snack. .........................

………………Well …no Devil Dogs!!! The DUDE strikes again …

.... rage … despair …bewilderment. “Jared … DUDE …seriously!!!???!

Sister Baby & Baby Sister

2008-11-18T12:53:00.004-05:00

I LOVE this picture ... two of my best girls.

If you loyally follow my blog ... and you should ;) ... then you are already well-acquainted with Sister Baby. Now I'm introducing you to Baby Sister ... Carol Lynn Washington.

During the worst of my bad days ... and I've had some BAD ones in recent years -- when horrible circumstances or just my own chronically low self-esteem threatened to undo me, I knew that there was at least one other person (besides Shemetra) who thought I was good man. Sister Washington has always had my back!

When we were kids, we used to call her Mommy ... because that's how she has always acted toward Darryl and me. Now I ain't gonna lie and say that we didn't resent it at times while we were growing up -- I mean, chick IS my BABY sister, after all. But now that I am older it is very comforting for me to have her as a second mother. Carol is simply one of the most encouraging and supportive (and, yes, protective) friends that I have. I confidently call my sister my friend ... and how cool is that. It is also very cool that my daughter, besides looking like her Auntie Carol, has some of those same matronly characteristics. She is convinced that her brother Jared ... though 8 years older than her ... is in near constant need of her guidance and insight. I guess it's in the genes.

Carol is about the sweetest person on the planet ... but don't mistake it for weakness. Mess too much with her or one of hers and there will be, as my grandmother used to say, "hell to tell the captain!" The earrings and shoes will come off and somebody will get hurt. What an amazing woman she is. One day she can wrestle down a grown man (as she used to have to at times when she worked as a correctional officer in one of Boston's notorious lock-ups) and the next day she can be in tears because my son and hers have had an argument. That's my sister y'all. Ain't she somethin'!

The Original Brother-Man ...

2008-11-18T11:57:00.008-05:00

...Is, of course, my brother Darryl. He is, as we are both fond of saying, my favorite living dude on the planet. And we do rib and tease each other a lot ... so much so that every once in a while it's necessary for me to remind myself how much he really means to me. So, a story from those "thrilling days of yester-year..."

For some Christmas during the '70's ... I wanna say it was 1973 ... Darryl and I got exactly what we had asked for: Lone Ranger and Tonto action figures -- they looked like this:

We had the horses (Silver and Scout) and everything ... and we LOVED those toys! Played with 'em almost non-stop. Well, one day, during one of their many wild adventures, Tonto fell off a cliff (it was actually the dish cabinet in the dining room). He landed funny and one of his legs snapped right off. The injury did not at first seem too serious. But after hours of surgery involving Scotch Tape and Elmer's Glue the grim reality began to settle in upon us. Tonto was dead. Now Tonto was Darryl's toy and he was, as you might imagine, devastated. I suggested that maybe Tonto could be one-legged ... you know, like a pirate. No, Darryl insisted, he's gone. "So what do we do now," I asked. "What you're supposed to do when somebody dies," he replied. "Have a funeral."

Darryl began preparations for the interment the next morning. Meanwhile, the Lone Ranger attempted to venture off on his own which theoretically should have worked out okay ... I mean dude was the LONE Ranger, right? But it wasn't quite right, not at all right actually.

So, the next morning we had a funeral -- attended by Darryl and me along with the Lone Ranger and the two horses. I don't need to tell you, it was a terribly sad affair. The Lone Ranger couldn't take it ... he swooned and dropped dead right there in the back yard. "What happened," Darryl asked. "He's dead," I replied. He then tried to convince me otherwise ... nothing was wrong with the Lone Ranger ... he looked as good as new. "I know, but the Lone Ranger's no good without Tonto!" And so we had a double funeral that day.

And now, here we are 35 years later ... grown men with families and careers and schedules that keep us from hanging out as often as we would like. And when we do spend time together our camaraderie is punctuated with a sort of mutual -- though laconic -- respect, admiration and love. I can honestly say that we have never fought ... I can't think of many times when we were even angry at each other. He's still may BOY -- and I'm still his! That, and the two plastic dolls lying side by side under about 8 inches of soil in the backyard of number 51 Hiawatha Road are testimonies to the fact that, even to this day ... the Lone Ranger ain't much good without Tonto.

My brother is a good man ... the saying goes that you can't chose your family only your friends. I am glad ... I am proud to say that Darryl Owens is both to me.

The Good (in more ways than one) Book ...

2008-11-16T19:57:00.006-05:00

So ...

I haven't written anything in what seems like a very long time. It hasn't been for lack of trying. Wrote a couple of potential entries that I ended up scrapping because they came out all contrived ... like I was trying to hard to entertain my "fans" {all 2 of you!!!}.

The other day I was in a particularly dismal funk ... wanting to write and not being able to put more than three or four coherent words together. I felt sort of like the old adage about the tree falling in the forest ... if nobody hears it, does it really make a sound. "Well, VanO, what good is a blog if nobody reads it." I'm such a melancholy cat ... I'll get over it. As soon as Sister Baby interrupts my brooding with one of her jubilant pronouncements about something mundane to everybody else on the planet but her.

So, I was thinking about my books ... the ones that "perished in the flood." I had some good ones, y'all ... and I do miss them all, but one in particular. It was a King James Bible with a Masonic seal on the front. It looked like this one:

It was my fathers. Sometime shortly after he died in 1974, my mother had given the bible to my older cousin who was a member with my father of the same masonic lodge. Some years later, he happened to open the book and found this written in my father's hand on the inside cover:

"To my oldest son, Van

--Willie Joe Owens"

So he gave it back to me ... I guess I was like 12 or 13 when the book found its way back into my possession. From that time up until it got destroyed I would, from time to time, pick it up. Occasionally I would try to read the contents ... hard to do, couldn't ever get with all the "thee's" and "thou's" ... but mostly, I would just read that inscription on the inside cover. Read it and run my finger across it hoping that maybe by some kind of cosmic phenomenon I could come in contact with that man. Nothin' ever happened but I wasn't done trying. And now the old book is as gone as he is ... and that sucks. It sucks out loud.

But the thought re-energized me when it comes to writing in general and writing this here blog in particular. I'm going to keep it up ... whether I have something entertaining or funny or profound to say or not. It will be a good thing if, some disease or accident should suddenly shuffle me off this mortal coil, my kids have their own inscription ... to know a little about ol' Daddy-O

Was that depressing? Hope not ... Next time I'll say something funny ... I'll try to.

True Colors ...

2008-11-05T21:57:00.003-05:00

So ...
I wrote this on my FaceBook page last night:

Okay ... I KNOW it's not all about race. I also understand that it is not all like "pie-in-the-sky, racism is dead, the dream has been completely realized." There is still a LOT of work to do ... a lot of inequality ... a lot of hatred and misunderstanding ... but just a little perspective ...

By the time I was 13 years old I had been called the "n-word" more times than I could count. It was written on the walls of every bus ... on the benches of every subway station ...

"N's Suck" ... "N's Go Home" ... "Kill all N's"

We had stones thrown at our school bus because we were black. We were chased out of Hyde Park by a mob of baseball bat weilding kids because we were black ... and we had it ten times easier than the generation that came before us ...

And now my son, who is 13 years old tells me he has NEVER heard that ugly epithet hurled NOT ONCE.

My 6 year old doesn't have black friends or white friends or hispanic or asian friends ... just friends. And now we have elected the first African-American President ... a Good Man, a Strong Man who happens to be a Black Man ... My hope for a better day has never been more VIBRANT!

"Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet,
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?"

Most of my friends responded well to it -- they shared or at least acknowledged the utter elation I was feeling when I heard that Barack Obama had won. But a couple of friends railed at me ... impugned my faith and my patriotism. It was ugly beyond belief. And these were not mere "virtual" friends ... these are people I really knew (or thought I did) and spent time with ... their kids and my kids were friends. We attended the same church and called each other brother and sister.

What I said had nothing to do with politics and religion and they made it completely about that. It saddened me ... very nearly disheartened me ... I love thes people and they completely misunderstood what I said. They really "kicked me to the curb" as we used to say back in the day. A man of color was elected and "true colors" were shown.

I guess for a brighter day to ensue a sad sunset has to come to pass ... and this was a bitterly sad one.

The Brother-Man / Sister-Baby Comedy Hour ...

2008-10-23T18:55:00.005-04:00

Two jokes my kids recently told me:

From Bro'-Man:
Three men arrive at the Pearly Gates and are standing before St. Peter. "I am afraid that heaven is beginning to get very crowded," Peter said to the three. "We are now restricting entrance through these gates to those who died the worst possible deaths. The first man steps forward. "I suspected my girlfriend of seeing another man, so one day I paid her a surprise visit to her twenty-fifth floor apartment. Much to my dismay, I find a man hanging from her balcony. I was so filled with rage and despair that I took a hammer and began to beat on the fellows fingers until he loosed his grip. He fell to the ground but landed in a bush and was relatively unhurt. Well, I was still seeing red. I went back into the apartment grabbed the refrigerator and as the cad was brushing himself off I dropped the fridge on him crushing him to death. The stress of the whole thing was too much for me and I had a massive heart attack and died."

"That's pretty horrible," Peter said, "I guess you can come in."

The second man stepped forward. "I am a health conscious man, Peter," he began. "I was exercising on the balcony of my 26th floor apartment. I got a little carried away and before I new it, I had flipped over the rail. Somehow I managed to grab onto the rail of the balcony below mine but then all of a sudden this raging maniac hits me with a hammer. I fell, my life flashing before my eyes. Then another spot of luck -- I landed in this particularly soft shrub. Because of the bush and my fantastic physical condition I survived the fall with only minimal injuries. I was dusting myself off, looking up, counting my lucky stars when suddenly a refrigerator fell from the sky and that was the end of me!"

"Now that is the worse on I've heard all day," Peter said. "Dude, you are totally in!" Then, turning to the third fellow, Peter said, "I hope you have a good story."

"I do," said the third man. "You see, I was hiding in this refrigerator ...."

And this one is from Sister Baby:

"Why did the chicken cross the playground ..

...to get to the other slide!!

Ba-dum-BUM!!!

...apologies to Dan Fogelberg ...

2008-10-21T08:45:00.008-04:00

So ...

When I was in high school -- junior year -- I sat next to this beautiful girl in two of my classes. She was smart and sweet and pretty ... and unlike every other girl I had known up to that point who matched that description, she noticed me. She would occasionally even speak to me. I thought, "one day I'll summon enough courage to 'throw some g' her way { that is hopelessly out-dated slang for 'ask her out on a date' ... I think}. Actually I should have said 'if' not 'when' because back in those days I was so shy that it was literally painful ... I'm sayin' -- it was pathological!

Well, junior prom time rolled around and I really wanted to ask her, even attempted to do it a couple of times {imagine an '80's inner-city version of George McFly ... "hey girl, with yo' fine self, you just might be my density -- uh -- I mean, destiny"}. I just couldn't keep my head out of my shell long enough to get the words out, so I never asked her.

Now, for some reason, the prom was held on a Thursday night and the people who attended had a blanket excuse from morning classes the next day. So that Friday it was just me and a few scattered members of the chess team and the physics club wandering the halls telling ourselves that the really cool kids were too cool to go to a prom. But when I walked into my second period computer class who was there but HER! "You didn't go to the prom either," she asked me. Don't think I managed to say anything in response ... but I must have managed to shake my head or something. "Well we should have gone together, then." So after I regained consciousness {kidding, I only almost passed out} something strange began to happen. We began to talk, or I should say she did. During the course of that 45 minutes I felt my shyness begin to release its grip on me. We had the wonderful conversation about I don't know what --apparently she really liked to talk and I sure liked listening to her. I left that class thinking that we might just become friends and if we became friends then we might become something more than that and then ... well you know the stops on that train of thought -- senior prom, marriage, house in the suburbs, etc. etc. But after lunch the prom goers arrived and I began to recede again. For the rest of that year and the next Sheila continued to be very nice to me but my overwhelming shyness and her immense popularity put an end to all my pipe dreams.

So, yesterday, I was in the second-hand store {to which I have become shamefully addicted} and who do I run into but Sheila! The makings of a tacky love song were all there -- to quote one, "just for a moment I was back at school and felt that old familiar pain," the pathological shyness I mean. For a few minutes I was that skinny, goggle-eyed 17 year-old McFly doppelganger. When I told Shemetra about it later that evening she said, "Please tell me you didn't punk out and walk away without saying anything" {not a shred of jealousy -- Mammacita is the COOLEST}. I was proud to say that I had NOT. "Excuse me," I had said, "are you Sheila?" Of course, I knew she was ... she hadn't changed a bit {and I'm not exaggerating ... sister still has it goin' on}. I don't think she really remembered me, but that's okay. We had a nice conversation about spouses and jobs and how we had both somehow managed to miss all the reunions { "just like we missed the prom" ... should have said it but I didn't. Snap!}.

Now, I'd be lying if I tried to say that the thought didn't cross my mind ... you know the thought ... "what would have happened back then if I had only ..." And, hard on the heels of that thought came the next one ... "what would happen now if I ..." But it was easy to dismiss the whole notion as ridiculous -- I love my wife {who's got it goin' on and on} and I respect my old friend Sheila {also happily married} so our nice conversation stayed nice and cordial and brief. No tacky love song theme music playing in the background -- just a "so nice to see you" and a "you too" and that was that.

Besides, what would a brother look like "throwin' G" in Morgie's with a wedding ring on his finger and an armful of second-hand sweaters and shirts?!

AM Radio Soul ...

2008-10-17T21:18:00.004-04:00

Just My Imagination …

Love this song … do yourself a favor and check this classic link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hfOSnEgwxs

When I was younger, and my brother and I would go to the barber shop, when this song would come on the radio, Leon used to turn up the volume and turn the clippers off. "Listen to this," he would say to us youngbloods in the room. "Y'all don't know nothin' 'bout this here, do you?" He was right -- we didn't. But now I do, and since I am now older than Leon was then I guess I qualify as one of the ol’ folks, and I find myself drawn more and more to the classic soul that’s was more a part of my parents generation than it was of mine. So allow me to illuminate you youngbloods out there ...

This song right here … let me tell you something… you can’t get any smoother than Sweet Eddie Kendricks’ singing lead. These cats were the definition of COOL.

And I relate – or I should say related – to these lyrics:

Each day through my window I watch her as she passes by.
I say to myself, “You’re such a lucky guy.
To have a girl like her is truly a dream come true.
Out of all the fellas in the world SHE belongs to YOU …”
But it was just my imagination running away with me,
Just my imagination running away with me.

I remember how that felt. As they say in New Orleans it "wasn't nothin' nice." As a very young man I dreamed about being in love -- longed for it just like the "lucky guy" in the song. As a slightly older (but still quite young and naive) man I thought I was in love probably 42 times before I met the Mammacita who made my imagination reality.

To have a girl like HER ... truly a dream come true!

Daddy-OLD!

2008-10-14T18:33:00.005-04:00

So ...

There's this commercial that comes on, usually during the evening news -- an advertisement for hair-restoral for balding men. Every time that commercial would come on Abby would look at the TV then look at me then look at the TV and then at me again and say, "Daddy you need that, huh?" Whereupon I would patiently explain the fact that Daddy is not bald, he just keeps his hair cut very close because that's the way that he likes it. It took weeks for her to get it -- every time we would see the commercial we would have the same conversation.

An then, a couple of nights ago, the commercial came on and Abby looked at the TV then looked at me and ... didn't say anything. Victory! But a few minutes later a commercial advertising hair dye for men came on. "Daddy, you would need that if you had some hair."

Yeah ... okay ... you got me, kid.

Mammacita, Brother-Man, Sister-Baby & Daddy-O

2008-10-11T18:49:00.001-04:00

Nothing to say about this -- except that I love the picture. It is soooo US!

A Gender-Role Call ...

2008-10-11T18:02:00.008-04:00

So ...

Mammacita and I have gotten into a Saturday morning groove. She and Sister-Baby get up and get out ... doing dance class, shopping etc. Brother-Man and I stay home and clean-up the house. And I am completely cool with it ... seriously. This is the 21st century and a dude is no less and dude if he does housework. Besides, it makes Mammacita happy and that's the number one rule of this house:

Happy Mammacita = Happy Hacienda!!

But today there was a disturbance to the normal copacetic flow of things, caused by a momentary surge of old-school chauvinism on my part. As Mammacita was leaving today, I said "Honey, are you going to Target today?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind picking me up a new pad for my dishwashing sponge -- I've worn the old one out."

I don't know how she replied because at that moment I thought to myself, "Dude ... what's going on here? You should be the one going out ... to the golf course or the bowling alley or the pool hall or something ... and she should be staying here cleaning the house! Oh, how the mighty have fallen!! What a world, what a world!!! DUDE ... Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot!!!"

For a few minutes I was reeling ... asking myself who wears the apron and who wears the pants in Daddy-O's household? Then my brother called me ... just to relay some necessary logistical information which is why one dude calls another. In the midst of the conversation I felt it necessary to fess up and admit to my shameful lapse in machismo. I told him the whole sad story. I was hoping for some word of wisdom to get me through my current crisis.

"Dude," said my brother (who is a black-belt martial arts instructing city COP), "I spent the morning reorganizing the kitchen cabinets and I'm on my way to the girls' ballet practice. Here's what you need to do: Take your shirt off and go stand in front of your house. Burp, spit, fart, scratch your crotch and get it all out of your system. Then go back in and finish folding the laundry."

Wise man, my brother ... I could go on and on about him but I gotta run now. The pot roast is almost ready!

Sail On, Silver Girl ...

2008-10-11T12:12:00.013-04:00

So ...
Flashing back 39 years...

I was five years old and it was the first day of school--kindergarten. Now, I had been pretty excited about starting school but the excitement was based more on the idea of school than it was on the reality of it. Somewhere around the time that the parents were leaving for the day I realized that this was definitely not what I had imagined. They were leaving me there! I didn't know this place ... I didn't know these people. I started crying and boy did I cry ... soaked my shirt, got my tie all snotty and had all the other kids wondering what my deal was (You see, they had all been through a year of kindergarten ... in Boston there was K-1 and K-2. This was the first day of the second year for all of them but it was my first first day). Okay, that's just an excuse, but you understand ... I was five and mommy and daddy had left me in a strange place with strange people.

As the day progressed I calmed down a little but I was still quite inconsolable. Wouldn't respond to any of the sincere attempts my teacher and a few of my fellow kindergarteners made to ease my anxiety. At nap time, it got bad again. I figured that if I laid down on one of those mats and fell asleep then I would just die from shear heartache. So I just laid there, sobbing, eye's wide open, tears running down the sides of my head and pooling in my ears.

"Van Owens," I heard my teacher whisper, "come with me." She led me into her office -- a tiny room adjacent to the classroom. Well, I thought, now I've gone and done it. Who knew what manner of unspeakable punishment lay beyond that previously concealed door?

"Now," she said, "normally snack time doesn't happen until after nap time, but since you're having such a hard time going to sleep ..." She poured me a cup of milk and gave me three oreo cookies. By the time I finished the first cookie, I had stopped crying for the first time that day. We talked, or rather, she did -- comforting, calming words. After she taught me how to hold the cookie in the milk till it got soft she pulled out an album with two geekie-looking white guys on the cover. "Do you like music," she said. "I just bought this new record. Maybe we can listen to it together." She pulled the vinyl LP from it's sleeve and placed it on the record player ... it was one of those ancient turntables, looked like an over-sized shoe box with speakers in the side and a rubber frisbee on top. The first song she played was "Bridge Over Troubled Water." Follow this link to hear the song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFruKvAq8PQ

You can imagine how comforting these lyrics were to me at that time:

When you’re weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes,
I will dry them all;I’m on your side.
When times get rough
And friends just can’t be found,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.

I don't know if she played me that song intentionally or if it just happened to be the first one on the album but either way, it did the trick. I was good for the rest of that day ... for the rest of that school year as a matter of fact. And Miss Guilfoyle, my first teacher -- because of that simple gesture -- became and remains my favorite teacher.

Like so many songs, this one has that one inscrutable lyric:

Sail on, silver girl,
Sail on by,
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine.

Don't know what it means ... heard someone say once that it was symbolic of drug use, the "silver girl" being a hypodermic needle full of heroin. I don't know about that -- I doubt it. To me, the "silver girl" will always be Miss Guilfoyle. As for the "dreams on their way," well, maybe those were her students into whom she poured so much of herself. I'm sure that's not what Simon and Garfunkel meant but that's what the song means to me.

the saddest minute ...

2008-10-02T08:31:00.006-04:00

So ...

Last night something happened to me that happens about two or three times a year -- I dreamed about my late father.

In this dream he was at my Uncle Henry's house, playing pool. Uncle Henry has this grand old antique pool table ... mahogany with a gold felt surface ... makes you feel like you ought to be wearing tweed and smoking a Cuban cigar in it's presence. Anyway, Joe (my father) was there and he challenged me to a game of pool and we played. And while we played we talked about my work and who I should vote for in the coming election and how I was treating my wife and what were the prospects for the Red sox and Patriots this year and all kinds of other things ... things that I imagine grown men talk to their fathers about.

Well, I woke up ... and for that first minute of fuzzy consciousness I thought the dream was real. I could still feel the smooth wood of the cue in my hand and hear the sound of the balls clacking together after each shot. And I could also hear the comforting sound of my father's voice. In that minute, the great incongruity of my existence seems to have been rectified -- all is right with the world and with me. Then, in the next minute, I realize that it was all just a dream and that Joe is still as dead as he has been for 34 years ... in that instant I completely forget what his voice sounded like though I had heard it so clearly just a little while earlier. Then comes the third minute and I'm mourning all over again -- it is the saddest minute (seconded only by the five or six minutes it's taking me to write about it here).

After a while I'll be over it. sometimes it takes a whole day, but I'll get over it. Then I'll be grateful for this and the other sporadic dreams ... they maybe the closest Joe and I will ever get to a "great reunion on the other side."

In the meantime, do me a favor: If your Pops is still around, maybe give him a call or something. Better yet, if he's close by, go pick him up and take him to the pool hall and shoot a little stick. Listen to him. Let him win. Buy him a beer ... and when you clink your bottles together propose a silent toast to Joe and me. Now that would be very cool.

Embracing his corpulence ...

2008-09-30T14:05:00.003-04:00

So ...

I was in the second-hand store today, looking for a pair of grey wool pants to replace the ones that I ripped on the sharp corner of a file cabinet. I was approached by a gentleman who looked a good deal more like this photo than I do (though, to be honest, I have to admit that I ain't but a few cheeseburgers and chicken wings away from bearing a remarkably similar appearance).

"Excuse me, sir," the porcine little fellow said to me, "would you let me know if you come across any larger sizes that you don't like? I'm having a hard time finding something that will fit."

I said, "Okay. Sure." But I thought ... dude, seriously? Do I really look as fat as you? Couldn't you fit two of me (okay, one and a half) in your pants?

After getting over being offended, I was self-conscious and wondering how fat I must be for this fellow to think of approaching me with such a request. Then, sometime later, after I got over being insecure, I thought about how this guy had no shame about how he looked. There was no insecurity or shame in him. He knew he was fat and he was okay with it.

So ... three conclusions ...

Feel good about yourself (who else will if you don't).

Shop thrift stores (I got a brand new pair of $60 pants for less than $10).

#1 and #2 are not good excuses ... I still need to get my fat butt to the gym!

sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground ...

2008-09-23T08:49:00.005-04:00

I'm going to put my religious thoughts under this heading ... just because that's the way I feel about my faith these days. I haven't given up on trying to put the thing back together but it is a far sight from reassembled!

The title is from the James Taylor song Fire and Rain which has a better spiritual lyric than a lot of spiritual music I've heard. Well, maybe not better but certainly very indicative of my current state of mind ... and it sets a tone for these postings:

Won't you look down upon me, Jesus,
You gotta help me make a stand.
You just got to see me through another day.
My body's achin' and my time is at hand --
I won't make it any other way.

It communicates so well the kind of poverty of spirit I think is so essential {and sadly so lacking} in the religious parlance of the day. I know it's been lacking in mine. I used to think that believers and non-believers stood on the same ground ... that we were all spiritual beggars and the only difference was that I, as a believer, knew where the bread was. Wouldn't even go that far now ... I'm searching -- frequently hopeful, occasionally ardent, open-minded most of the time and jaded at others-- but, still, searching.

So ... after twenty-four years of church-attending, Bible-reading Christianity I am still a beggar. And the bread ain't where I thought it was so the search continues.

{So, can a brother get a few crumbs, Lord?}

First day of fall ...

2008-09-22T09:24:00.003-04:00

...and the weather is damp and drizzly. The Patriots lost to Miami yesterday and half the office is out sick. There's an unmistakable something in the air{not really a chill, but something} that says winter is coming. I love the autumn --that famous briskness that allows you to wear your wool and your tweed and your sunglasses -- but would really rather do without winter.

Shemetra says she wants to take a trip somewhere warm this winter, to a place ...

where the sun keeps shining through the pouring rain,
...where the weather suits my clothes,
....banking off of the northeast wind
.....sailing on summer breeze
......skipping over the ocean like a stone ...

Yeah ... I think I might have to take her up on that one!

Brother Man: On the MOVE, Yo ...

2008-09-19T09:47:00.009-04:00

Gotta give both bambinos equal time and Brother Man is down two entries to none ...

I am so proud of Jared and the way he has really come on academically ... He is really embracing the challenges I gave him as school started this year and I honestly believe he is doing his best. He is a remarkable boy ... quiet, deep-thinking and very intelligent (takes after his mother in that way). I am sometimes too hard on him but evne then his attitude seems to be, "C'mon ... bring it ... need more of this."

Dude is getting big too -- but he is a gentle giant. Once I was teasing him in his room, trying to start a play-fight with him ... you know, popping him in his head a stuff. "C'mon, chump. Whatcha got, whatcha got?" "I can't hit you, Dad -- you're old."

Well, I shoulda listened but didn't and persisted in my teasing. "I give you permission to do your best. C'mon chump, whatcha got, whatcha ---"

Thus released from any liability, Brother Man pushed his old dad ... not as hard as he could but hard enough to send me hurtling shoulder first against the hallway wall. Hurt so bad I wanted to cry. "Good one, Homes," I said holding my shoulder. "Now ... uh, clean up this room." Whereupon I retreated to the bathroom to wince and cry and find the Ibuprofen and the Ben Gay.

Strong Boy. Smart Boy. My Boy!!!

The US Government’s Economic Bail-Out Plan – Stooge Lending Practices …

2008-09-19T09:47:00.007-04:00

Curly, Larry and Moe are walking down the street and Curly finds a brand new, crisp five dollar bill.

Curly [Holding up the bill]: Hey, must be my lucky day! Five smackeroos!

Moe [to Curly]: And what about that ten bucks you owe me?

Curly [to Moe]: O, right. [Hands the bill to Moe] Here’s five and I’ll owe you five.

Larry [to Moe]: Wait a minute; don’t you owe me ten bucks?

Moe [to Larry]: You’re right. [Hands the bill to Larry] Here’s five and I’ll owe you five.

Curly [to Larry]: Not so fast, pal. Remember that ten buck I lent you?

Larry [to Curly]: Right. [Hands the Bill to Curly] Here’s five and I’ll owe you five.

Curly [to Moe, handing him the bill]: Here’s the five I owe you.

Moe [to Larry, handing him the bill]: And here’s the five I owe you.

Larry [to Curly, handing him the bill]: And here is the five I owe you.

The all proceed on their merry way.

Now, re-read the dialogue above and replace Moe with Bear Stearns, Larry with AIG and Curly with the American Tax Payers and there you have it – the government’s financial bail-out plan!!! Works ... sort of ...right?

The Original Daddy-O ...

2008-09-16T20:01:00.002-04:00

Today was the 34th anniversary of my father’s death … a dubious thing to commemorate. I was ten when he died so I don’t have an abundance of memories of him, and some of the ones I do have are not very positive. But I do have a couple of very pleasant memories so I think I’ll choose those for today.

There was a summer in the early seventies when my mother took us away from Boston to spend the summer in Little Rock, Arkansas with her family … my father never went with us on those trips. We spent a long time there and I remember being very excited about getting back home. When we pulled up in front of the house I was the first one out of the cab and up the front steps, the first to ring the doorbell. Joe (we always called our parents by their first names) looked out of the window in the front door and his face lit up when he saw me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful smile … and it was all for me.

I used to be one of those guys whose inner child was always whining about how his father never told him he loved him. This memory dispels that myth. He didn’t say the words, but he couldn’t have delivered the message any louder or clearer.

Another great memory … I was in the first grade and Joe was walking me to school. It had snowed a day or so before and the trampled down snow had now frozen into a sheet of ice. I had lost my gloves and we were a little bit late so I was trotting along on the ice with my hands shoved in my pockets. “Van, don’t run with your hands in your pockets,” Joe said to me. “Why not?” Almost before I could get the words out I lost my footing and started to fall. With no hands to catch myself, I landed face first on the ice. Joe helped me up. “That’s why.” Object lesson to all you kiddies out there (Brother Man and Sister Baby take note!!!) when Dad says chill you better just chill first and ask questions later.

Anyway, I’m a little sad today. I barely knew the man even in the limited way a boy knows his Dad … sure would be nice if he was still around for me to know man to man. Dude was, after all, the original Daddy-O!

Our House (in the middle of our street)

2008-09-16T08:49:00.003-04:00

Here's a recent picture of the Miles Street gang (my beautiful family). There's:

Abigail Alexia Owens -as- Sister Baby

Shemetra Epps-Owens -as- Mammacita

Jared Nathaniel Owens -as- Brother Man

and

Your's Truly -as- DaddyO {the sunglasses are no mere affectation ... I need 'em for the sun!}

Now you have faces to attach to the names and aliases. Don't we just look so Huxtable-ish!

Lyrics (fortunately) MisHeard ...

2008-09-14T19:32:00.003-04:00

So ...

Shemetra, Sister-Baby and me are channel surfing and we come across the 2008 VMA Awards and Katy Perry comes one singing Madonna's "Like a Virgin." Well, before we could switch the channel ... and much to Dad's consternation ... Abby picks up the chorus and starts singing along.

Thank goodness she misheard ...

"Like a surgeon --- Woooo! --- Cuts for the very first time. Like a sur-ur-ur-ur geon ..."

So, if one day Chica becomes a world-renown cardiologist and wins the Nobel prize for curing heart-disease, in her acceptance speech she'll have to give a shout-out to MADONNA!

Abby's Letters

2008-09-14T11:40:00.008-04:00

That's Abigail Alexia Owens ... my five year old daughter.

When we moved into the condo, one of the very first things we did was put magnetic letters on the refrigerator. We figured that it would help Abby to start recognizing letters and encourage her to start reading ... and it has. But there's also been an unexpected development.

Abby has constructed a whole world for these letters. They have each become (or are in the process of becoming) individual characters, and with them she acts out all kinds of extravagant adventures. They sometimes act out things that go on in her own life -- like the episode where the character Sweetie -- who is portrayed by the lower case "k" -- had to confront her dad about throwing away her important things (earlier that day I had thrown away some old, and I thought, unimportant magazines she had stored in the corner of her bedroom). Sometimes the stories are pretty wild and adventurous ... I've often found on the floor letters who have perished in the pursuit of some wild adventure or another.

When I ask Abby to let me in on what transpires in letter world she usually takes exception. Apparently she doesn't know what they're going to do or say until they say it. I've thought about sneaking up on her and recording the whole thing, but it just seemed like an untoward invasion of her privacy (and theirs!). Sweetie and company made an exception to their strict confidentiality policy and allowed me to take this here photograph.

The saga continues even as I type ... and from the sound of things, there will be some dead letters on the kitchen floor this afternoon.

Who knows ... maybe this is how Harper Lee or JK Rowling got started!

who i am ...

2008-09-13T13:33:00.006-04:00

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog! --Emily Dickenson

I thought about creating a section that would be just about me so everybody will know ... what? How awesome I am? How ordinary or cool or smart?

So maybe I won't say that much. Emily didn't leave me much choice did she? I'm either a nobody or a frog ... I think I'll hold out for a third option.

Here's an interesting exercise ... take the last word in the last line of the last verse of the poem and slide an "L" into it. Kinda makes you wonder ...

Old Friends ...

2008-09-12T14:16:00.006-04:00

THOUGH you are in your shining days,
Voices among the crowd
And new friends busy with your praise,
Be not unkind or proud,
But think about old friends the most:
Time’s bitter flood will rise,
Your beauty perish and be lost
For all eyes but these eyes.

--WB Yeats

I recently reconnected with a couple of old friends. By "old" I don't mean their ages ... they're the same age as me and I ain't OLD ... (right?). The friendships are old -- and in a time when friendship doesn't seem to have much longevity, it is cool to find an old friend.

We're not near each other, my old friends and I ... one is in Italy and the other in Taiwan. Yet, I've had some very heartening (virtual) chats through e-mail, blogs and the like. I guess it's a pretty sad commentary on modern life that I feel a closer connection to these distant friends than I do to many of the people close by ... a little sad, but comforting nonetheless.

Thanks Seamus and Sue for being Old Friends with me!

The Glory of the Mundane ...

2008-09-12T06:32:00.003-04:00

Woke up this morning after having slept a full eight hours (which almost never happens) still feeling tired and unmotivated ... unprepared to dive into the morning routine.

Then I remembered something I once heard a preacher say. Now I had heard this preacher a number of times before and I've heard him a couple of times since and he's hardly ever said anything I thought worth remembering or repeating except this one time. He said that miracles happen all the time ... tiny ones that are virtually imperceptible unless you have tuned your soul to revel in the little things, to recognize that there is glory in the mundane.

That's a good thought for me this morning ... The sun rose as it always does. I get to see my children off to school, my wife off to work. We're all healthy and happy -- sheltered clothed and safe in a world where most people are none of the above.

Miraculous. Glorious. I'm grateful

Read a quote from David Frost this morning ... talking about a particular individual he said:

"He's turned his life around. He used to be miserable and depressed, now he's depressed and miserable."

Well, I know that guy ... shamefully, I often AM that guy. But not today!

stories

2008-09-11T20:50:00.006-04:00

So I've had this novel (or it maybe a screenplay or a collection of short stories or a mere aimless diversion) swimming around in my mind for about 14 years. It has thus far defied all my efforts to put pen to paper so I thought maybe I'd just try putting some thoughts here. Could be the makings of the next great American Novel ... or a highly acclaimed TV mini-series ... but even if it's just a way to pass time and shoot the breeze, it's probably worth a go.

Too Much Nickelodeon!

2008-09-10T22:01:00.002-04:00

So ...I had two dreams last night/this morning. In the first, I was in my high school caferteria waiting in line with my tray. It was fish sticks day ... I LOVE fishsticks. Only the line was extra long mainly because the caf was staffed by all the characters from my daughter's favorite tv shows -- Dora the Explorer, Blue, Spongebob etc. Just as I got to the front of the line, Dora came in and took the last 9 fishsticks. Now, girfriend probably deserved them ... it's difficult to bus tables in a crowded caferteria when you're two and a half feet tall and one-dimensional ... but I was LIVID. I took a cup of luke warm gravy which had suddenly appeared in my hand and threw it in her face.I woke up horrified at my behavior... but not too horrified to go back to sleep ...Whereupon I had another dream. This time, I was in a hotel, screaming at a housekeeper who was taking to long to make my bed and pick-up my used towels ... and did I mention that she didn't have any HANDS!!!
Now, I don't usually take dreams too seriously, but there seems to be a theme developing here. It might just have been the teaspoon a chocolate cake frosting I snuck out of the fridge at 3:00AM, but I must entertain the distinct possibility that someone we know needs to renew his Chill Pill perscription!

From my ol' pals Paul and Art ...

2008-09-10T16:41:00.006-04:00

I am just a poor boy and my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises.
All lies and jest, still the man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest ...

Not sure exactly what it means, but it feels like ... well ... how I feel. I guess this is as good a place as any to empty my pockets and see if I can make some sense out of it all.

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders of ever glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his pain,

"I am leaving, I am leaving," but the fighter still remains.