The Help

So earlier in the week, I headed down to the corner CVS. I was still basking in the afterglow of my Baltimore Ravens wild and crazy upset victory over Peyton Manning and the Denver Broncos, and was rocking my Ravens hoodie and a purple wool cap when I walked into the store. As I was walking around, I noticed this guy in a store uniform eyeballing me every step of the way. I go into the CVS enough that I'm familiar with most everyone that works there, but I hadn't seen this guy before. So why was he giving me the stink eye?

Finally, I decided to mosey on over to where he was stocking shelves to find out what was up.
"Ravens ain't shit", he said when I got close to him.
"Excuuuuse me?"
"Ravens ain't shit. They got lucky in that game against the Broncos."

Really? This is how you talk to customers? Okay...

"Ummmmm, let me ask you a question." I said while chuckling and shaking my head. "Are you new here? This is the first I've ever seen you."

"Yeah, I just started."
"So you think it's a good idea - as a new employee who hasn't established any rapport with the regular clientele - to start antagonizing customers the first time you see them?"

He stood there, looking confused. I wasn't sure if he didn't understand the notion of not pissing off customers, if he didn't get that there's a time and place for expressing his dislike of the Ravens, and this wasn't it, or if he just didn't know the meaning of the word "antagonize." Whatever the case was, I just walked away shaking my head at this jackass...only he started following me, talking shit about how he couldn't stand the Ravens, this player ain't this, that player ain't that, they were a lucky team, I bet I wouldn't be wearing any more Ravens gear after they lost against New England, blah blah blah...

Dude, don't you have a job to do?

Finally, I had enough. "Look," I said. "I came in here to buy these few items, not to talk shit with the help. Maybe you should go back and do your job." He looked like he wanted to open up a can of whoop ass on me, but before he could say anything else, he spotted the manager walking in our directly, and slunk off back to whatever shelf he was stocking.

"RAVENS BABY!" I yelled at him, and laughed while I was walking off that he couldn't say anything now that the manager was right next to him...

I am NOT the Father...

So  I was riding the bus the other evening after a (sort of) hard day at work, and sitting across the aisle from me is this very unattractive, very, obnoxious, very vulgar, very LOUD young "lady" (and believe me, I use that term very loosely), obliterating the ears and sensibilities of a bus full of commuters just trying to have a peaceful end to their days (can I just play my damned Words With Friends without having to hear you embarrass yourself at the top of your lungs?). Everything that came out of her mouth - whether she was on her phone, talking to the other female sitting with her, or just (so it seemed) just raging to no one in particular about God knows what - was just a profane, nonsensical stream of craziness.

At some point during this ride (well, at several points actually, but only this one point of significance), I looked up from my phone and cast a quick side eye across the aisle in her direction. Unfortunately for me, she happened to be looking enough in my direction at the same time to catch my side eye...

"Why the F--- you looking at me?" She bellowed
"Excuse me, I'm not looking at you" I lied.
"Nigga, please, you was lookin' right at me!" (I was) "What, you like me or somethin'? You want some of this?" (Absolutely, positively, unequivocally, HELL TO THE NAW would there ever be anything about your loud, ignant, ill-shaped, Buckwheat haired, gold toofused, sloppy ass that would make me remotely want you, even if you were the last woman on earth...)

"I'm just sitting here minding my business."
"Yeah right, you want some of me..." And on and on she went, proclaiming that a) I must want her, and b) I wasn't man enough for her (expressed in as a crude a fashion as you might imagine). I sat there, pretending to ignore her, but listening intently, all the while sensing that the other passengers were looking in my direction wondering why I was taking her insults without a response. The fact was, I was too damned tired to get into a back a forth with her; besides which, doing so would just be a waste ("Never argue with an idiot; onlookers might not be able to tell the difference"). However, I did want to have an opportunity to get in a good shot at her; my smart ass tendencies wouldn't allow me to have it any other way. So I waited, confident that this ignant broad would present me with a set up to get back at her.

And then it happened. The bus finally got to Mz. Thang's stop, and as she lifted her big, awkward body out of her seat, still yapping, she leaned over in front of me and said, "And look at you; you oooooolllllllddddd! Don't nobody want your old ass! You old enough to be my father! Sheeeeeiiiittt, you might just be my father for all I know!"

BINGO!

"Well, miss" I said, "I'm pretty sure I've never had sex with anyone ugly enough to spit out something that looks like you. So no, I'm not your father..."

POW!

She was staggered by the verbal blow, enough that she didn't have anything to come back at me with. Just then the bus pulled to her stop, and she got off, the whole threatening to F--- me up if she ever saw me again. Meanwhile, I went back to take my next turn in Words With Friends as I quietly soaked up the laughter around me...

I Love "Writing"; I Just Hate to WRITE

I know many of the Angry Nerd's readers (well, many might not quite be the right word; how about "several of the Angry Nerd's handful of readers"?) have been asking me lately why I haven't been posting much lately. I've wondered this myself, as I go through these occasional periods of not posting despite having plenty of material that I could be putting out there. Well I think I finally figured it out, and the answer is this post's title: I love "writing", but I just hate to WRITE...

So what the heck does that mean, you ask? Well, my experiences, background, personal history, the people I know, the people I cross paths with, conversations I overhear (eavesdrop on), things I read or see on television or Internet, etc. provide me with a never ending source of ideas to write about...only that "writing" mostly takes place in the grey matter between my ears. Even though I carry a small notepad with me almost everywhere I go, ostensibly to write stuff down to use in this blog and in the collection of short stories that are all in various stages of incompletion, about all that ever gets written in them are occasional one-liners of blog/story ideas, or maybe a quote or two of something I've overheard. Otherwise, everything is all "written out" in my head, where it rattles around for weeks or months (or in a few cases, years) before I get around to sitting down to my computer to transfer my words into a form that someone else beside me might some day be able to read. And even then, it still takes longer than it needs to, due to distractions or just plain procrastination. See, like most writers, I suffer from writer's block; the difference with me is that my writer's block is rarely a mental one, but almost always a physical one. There's just something in me that makes me not want to physically write or type all these words that fill my head. Come to think of it, there may be some underlying mental thing that makes me so reluctant to put my stories in physical form - or maybe it's just plain laziness - but in any case, it tends to get words out of my head and into a word program file.

This is obviously not a good situation for someone who claims to want people to read and know the inner workings of his mind (or at the very least, the projections of "cleverness" he likes to convince himself he possesses). I even thought about paying someone to type my shit for me. That, however, was an idea with two major flaws: one, I would probably have to pay someone (I mean, unless I found someone who was so enamored of my brilliance that they would do it for free - OK, stop laughing - or, maybe finally found my true soulmate who would do it for me just because she loved me so much - yeah, I know, that's even funnier); and two, in dictating my stories to someone, it kinda means I would actually have to talk to that person -- ehhhh, I don't think so...of course, I guess I could dictate the stories into a recorder and have someone do dictation off of that, but, really, has anyone really listened to what my recorded voice sounds like? They'd be asleep before they finished typing the first paragraph...

 The good thing, though, is that since I started writing this blog, this condition of not wanting to write my "writings" has changed from being a seemingly permanent one to one that is more cyclical, or perhaps more accurately, like a see saw. The way it works is like this:

1. Write a couple of blog posts and additions to my assorted short stories. Get tired of physically having to write stuff down. The see saw slams down hard on the side of no physical writing.
2. After a period of time (a week, week and a half), people start asking when the next post is coming. "Leave me alone," I think. "I don't feel like writing" - meaning, I don't feel like physically sitting down and transferring the next post(s) from my brain - where they have already been completed - to my computer.
3. After a little more time passes, the questions about when the next post is become more frequent and insistent. Now instead of feeling annoyed, I start feeling guilty and lapsing into a brand self-flagellation that I am particularly good at. The see saw starts to give a little and rise up towards level.
4. Finally, I the combination of guilt and desire to show off what's been rolling around in my head rises to a level that is greater than my hatred of typing. The tipping point is reached, the see saw slams down hard the other way, and you loyal Angry Nerd devotees get to be dazzled by my brilliance until such point as I decide that I've written enough and I'm tired and the whole thing starts over again.

I say all of that to tell you you that if you want to know what the hell's been up with me, be warned: you're about to get hit with as much Angry Nerd crap as I can stand to spew for the time being. Enjoy it while it lasts...

Stanky Legg

So I boarded the #15 bus downtown after work to head home, and found a seat next to this rather sullen looking young lady, who as I sat down promptly shifted slightly away from and leaned up against the window. Typical kind of response from people who think they're supposed to have two seats to themselves. So we're riding along for a little bit, and all of sudden I feel this warmth along my right leg and hip. What the hell is that? I thought, and in very short order I got my answer as I gagged from a particularly noxious stench.

Oh HELL no, I know this wench did not  just FART on me!!!

But fart on me she had, and the odor circulated quickly through that immediate area, causing riders to comment - loudly - about the smell. Folk started turning towards the direction of the funk to locate its source, which meant they were now looking in my direction.

Oh no oh no oh no, I am NOT the one! Direct your attention to the dainty little thing sitting next to me. I looked squarely at lil Miss funk bottom, who was conveniently looking out the little pretending not to feel all those eyes pointed that way...Dammit, own up to your stank! Embrace the funk! If somebody try to blame me for that stink bomb, it's gon' be some consequences and repercussions up in here!

Soon enough, the funk dissipated and everybody calmed. Lil Miss Funkbottom stopped pretending to be fascinated by whatever was outside, and was now sitting straight up and down. But then at some point, she started leaning forward and then...

Arrrrrgh, this chick done farted  AGAIN!!!

I looked over at her like with an expression I can't even visualize.  Seriously? What the hell did you eat today? Only this time she looked back and said, "Excuse me", in a voice and expression so pitiful that I couldn't even be mad at her anymore. Po' lil stink stink, you just having a rough time, huh? Well that's all right, at least you pointed your ass away from me this time...

Thankfully, by this time we were approaching my stop. I got up and did the Stanky Legg all the way off the bus...

HOW 'BOUT 'DEM O'S!!!

 

Hi, I am the Angry Nerd, and I am a life long fan of the Baltimore Orioles (hi, Angry Nerd). My dear, departed Grandmother, Ethel Rae Keel, was responsible for getting me hooked on this 50 year addiction. From the time I was in diapers, I was going to the old Memorial Stadium with Grandma watching the O's. I spent my childhood summers in the left field bleachers as a Junior Oriole, got to see playoff and World Series games, and the closing game of the old stadium as well as the opening of Camden Yards. Everyone who knew my brother or me knew of our Orioles addiction, and if they knew us from our childhood days, they knew Grandma Keel was at the root of it. And while I love me some Ravens, and cried when the old Baltimore Bullets moved out of the truly crappy (even in the '70s) Civic Center and moved to Landover to become the Washington Bullets (and now the Wizards), nothing has ever quite compared to 'Dem O's in terms of my fandom.



 

Well, after many years of knowing nothing but success from my favorite team, the last couple of decades have been pretty rough on O's fans. Since our last World Series Title in 1983, we've only made the playoffs twice, in 1996 and '97, with heartbreak and controversy (Jeffrey Maier got an ass whooping coming if I ever meet him...I kid...maybe...). Since then - nothing but embarassment. I tell ya, it's got rough standing up for this team. I fought the good fight defending them and trying to project some optimism, but it ain't been easy to do in this millennium...

 

 

Until this year, that is! The Orioles, against all odds, and defying all logic, are in the  playoffs! As I do at the beginning of every year, I came into the start of the season with plenty of optimism/blind hope that this would be the year the boys got it together and turned things around, but who saw this coming? 93 wins, coming right down to the wire for the division title against the hated Yankees, still earning a Wild Card spot? UN-friggin'- BELIEVEABLE!

 

All the years of disappointment, all the getting mad at people who ridiculed the team, all the arguments even this season every time fans were ready to jump ship when the team hit a slump - all that is behind me now, as I anxiously await the one game, win or go home playoff against the dangerous but slumping Texas Rangers!





 

So to Buck Showalter, thank you for molding this group of young men and steering the ship to a playoff route. If you're not manager of the year, something's wrong. To Dan Duquette, thanks for not paying attention to some of our fans who ridiculed your hiring and some of your moves, and instead got players in here when we needed them. To Adam Jones, Matt Wieters, J.J. Hardy, Jim Johnson, thanks for holding it down for us. To Nick Markakis, thanks for solidifying that leadoff spot until fat ass Cap'n Crunch Sabathia broke your thumb. To Manny Machado, welcome young man. To Wei-Yin Chen, welcome to America. To Mark Reynolds and Chris Davis, keep hitting those bombs.

 

To all you guys that got picked up off the scrap heap and had some of thinking, "here we go again, picking up a bunch of nobodies and has-beens", thanks for proving us wrong. To Jim Thome, hopefully you'll finally get that World Series ring on the way to the Hall of Fame. To Robert Andino and Pedro Strop and Nate McLouth, thanks for that spirit and energy.



 

To all the know it alls that said it couldn't be done,  well look at us now! To Bobby Valentine, who turned us down before we hired Buck, and who called us lucky this season, good luck finding another job...

 

To everyone in the Orioles family (yes, even you, Peter Angelos), congratulations and a big THANK  YOU for such a fantastic season! No matter what happens from this point, I think it's safe to say that you all far exceeded the expectations of even the hopeful fan! No go out and beat Texas so we can take on those Yankees!

 

 To my fellow die hard O's fans, who have stuck it through 14 years of losing, and seen our once proud franchise become a laughingstock of the baseball world, well WE'RE BAAAAACK!

 

 

And finally, thanks to Grandma Keel for instilling that love of baseball in my brother and me. No doubt we would have become fans anyway, but you were one who got the ball rolling. I only wish you were still here. You would have LOVED this team!



You're a Nice Guy...

For many men, these are four dreaded words to hear. "You're a nice guy." We hate those words because a)they are being spoken by a woman we are interested in, and b)because the word following those four words is always BUT, as in "You're a nice guy, BUT":

• I already have a man
• My ex is talking about getting back together
• I'm not looking for a relationship right now
• I met this guy this past weekend, and I think I'm gonna check him out
• You're not my type
• I'm probably not really your type
• I'm trying to focus on [work, school, family]
• I'm a lesbian
• You're just too [insert negative adjective here] for me
• [So much hysterical laughter at the thought of her being with you that she never gives a reason why]
• [Eye rolling, teeth sucking, and/or other assorted non-verbal signs indicating her insult at you even thinking you had a shot, and Chile, PLEASE, do I REALLY have to explain why?]

For these nice guy-phobic ladies, us nice guys really only serve three purposes: to buy/give them stuff, to do stuff for them, and to provide shoulders to cry on when the bad boys who command their attention and who they lust after for every other need inevitably treat them like crap and break their hearts. Now the smarter/savvier/slicker of these women will let you down nicely, and try to pump up your egos afterwards, because for them, they're about maximizing their resources and income, and they're not going to jeopardize losing the potential for a source of the same by stomping on a nice guy's emotions any more than they have to. So as a result they will follow up their reasons why THEY don't want you by telling you how great a guy you are and listing the good qualities that some OTHER woman would want. This buttering up has the intention of preventing any alienating the nice guy, thereby keeping him on ice until she needs to use him again (the meaner girls, on the other hand, are not the least bit concerned with sparing a nice guy's feelings because a)she figures she's hot enough that no matter how crappy she treats him, he will still come running when she snaps her fingers for her to do something for her, and b)if he won't come back, there will be plenty of other nice guys around to be used).

So, nice guys, let's translate the typical let down:

Statement                                                   Translation
You're a really nice guy................................Brace yourself...
but..............................................................There's no f-ing way I'm going to be your lady
[reason/excuse/explanation].........................And here's my maybe true, maybe bullshit reasons why
You're a really great guy.............................Hold onto your wallet, here comes a set up
And plenty of women.................................(Women besides me, of course, hahaha)
would be lucky to have you........................Of course, those women would be much less
                                                                    awesome than me, and I'm betting I can always
                                                                    distract your attention from  them long enough to
                                                                    get what I want from you when I want it...

***

Maybe I should just get myself a "Wanda". What's a Wanda, you ask? Well, remember the show "In Living Color" from the early 1990's? Wanda was a the hilariously ugly woman played by Jamie Foxx:

She was always chasing around poor Tommy Davison's character, and no matter what excuse he gave for trying to get the hell away from Wanda, she always had the same line: "I got you", after which she would pull out whatever it was Tommy said he was looking for...

I got you...damn, I can't even imagine how that would feel to have a woman say those words. I got you...not "gimme", not "I want, I need", but I got you. Hmmm, maybe I need to adjust my sights a little bit...

Then again, if Wanda ever tells me, "You're a nice guy, but...", then I'm REALLY in trouble...

It must be COLD in here...

So a few years ago, I was out doing some shopping while talking on the phone with a female (platonic) friend. Somehow or another I ended up wandering into the women's clothing section of the department store I was (probably following behind some outrageous booty in a pair of ultra-tight jeans and not paying attention to where they would lead me). Once I finally figured out where I was, I looked around to get my bearings so I could get out of there, and noticed something very interesting (to me, anyway), which lead to the following exchange with my friend:

Me: You know, these female mannequins have some slammin' bodies! You don't see many real live women with bodies like these..."

(long pause)

Her: You need to find yourself a woman...

Me: (bows my head in embarrassment)

***

Fast forward to a few months ago. I was walking into my favorite Baltimoron mall, Mondawmin Mall, near the entrance of the Forever 21 women's clothing store, and as my eyes followed the parade of scantily clad ladies parading in and out of the store, they caught a glimpse of something that seemed a little odd, but I shrugged it off and kept it moving. Later that day, I was in Target and saw the same thing, and then again as I walked past another store and looked through the window. What the heck is up with this?

After that, any time I was in a mall or downtown, it seemed like this same sight, this same phenomenon just kept showing up, even when I wasn't looking for it. The more I saw it, the more baffled I became by it. There seemed to be no reason for their increasing appearance, yet there they were in full view all over the place, standing tall and proud. And after a certain point, I could nothing but wonder in amazement, and ask myself:

Why do female mannequins have nipples?

And I'm not talking about just any old, run of the mill nipples here, either; I'm talking about some serious headlights with the high beam flashing, poke out your eyes, hollow point bullets! Wow, these poor mannequins must really be freezing! Or maybe it's just, as my friend E said with his typical smartassedness (a trait which I admire, given that I am an incurable smartass myself), that they are really excited to see me (which would, sadly, make them different from the overwhelming majority of the living and breathing female population)...

So what's the deal with all the nippleage (nipplitude? nippleocity?)? I tried to find an answer on this, but no one really seems to know for sure. Is it to create the impressions to women that wearing this blouse or sweater is exciting, even arousing? That was one theory I saw floated about, but really does the average woman want to walk around in public this visibly aroused (not I would complain about it, but still...)? The other theory I saw was that all these gigantic (literally) displays of polystyrene/fiberglass/wooden nipples would catch the attention of (and distract) legions of bored husbands and boyfriends trailing their wives around department stores while carrying bags and bags of absolutely nothing for them enough to alleviate their torture.

Well, maybe...for about 30 seconds. Personally, I would have much preferred a live model parading around bra less displaying assorted sheer clothing while babymama spent hours carefully perusing clothing and (especially) bras that she was almost invariably going to end returning the next day (retroactive note to the babymama - not that she would pay it any mind, since she never listened to me when we were together -if you hadn't kept trying to stuff those Double D titties into single D cup - or worse, C cup bras, we might've gotten out of some of this friggin' stores a helluva lot sooner! But I digress...). Then again, if there were live models instead of mannequins, there wouldn't be too many wives and girlfriends dragging their husbands and boyfriends to go shopping with them, now would there be?



Is it me, or do the mannequin's boobs look lopsided?



But who am I to question how some other sex-deprived husband gets his jollies? And if those men getting their jollies helps the store make money, you can bet your sweet ass they don't mind either...

So my research was done without me feeling like I have any more understanding of the polystyrene/fiberglass/wooden nipple madness than I did before. While they never fail to momentarily catch my attention and provide a source of amusement/befuddlement, they certainly aren't nearly as entertaining or attention-grabbing as many of the human females milling about in malls in assorted outrageous clothing - although, strangely enough, no matter how much of their bodies these lady customers put on display, you rarely see them showing off their nipples the way these supposedly life-like dummies do. Hmmmmm...

The moral of the story: I still need to find myself a real live woman, one that hopefully won't be calling the cops on me for playing with her nipples.

(Note: This has NOT happened to me! I have never played with a mannequin's nipples, nor have I even gotten close enough to one to even think about playing with any. I repeat, this has NOT happened to me!)

***

***

***

(YET)





I'm All Ears...

Ever wonder why a baby or toddler with an ear infection screams uncontrollably? Simple: because it's a friggin' miserable, non-stop painful feeling! I've had a few ear infections over recent years, usually in the winter, and each occurence pretty much unfolded the same way: scratchiness in the (always right) ear, as well as in the throat, followed by the onset of an aggressive, unyielding pain and a stopped up feeling in that ear, leading to a visit to the doctor's and a prescription for some antibiotics, and the whole mess is over with (until the next time) in a few days...

Well, a couple weeks ago, it happened again, only this time seemed a little different. For one, it happened during the middle of the summer. Also, whatever I thought was a painful earache was nothing compared to what was hitting me this time. My right ear felt so stopped up and full, it was like my inner ear was going to come exploding through my right temple. My jaw felt like I was a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot that was one more punch away from getting its head lifted up off its body; by the time I made it to the doctor, I was reduced to eating nothing but yogurt, soup, and ice cream - and even the chunks of chicken in my chicken noodle soup were torture to chew.

So I got my antibiotic drops, with the instructions to call the office if nothing improved in a few days. This was on a Saturday; by Tuesday, not only was the right ear not feeling any better, but the left ear was now going through the same set of symptoms, to the point where I could barely even hear at all. Yes, it's ear infections in STEREO! On top of that, I was staggering around in a haze of vertigo, had a fever, and to top it all off, a particularly active case of diarrhea. To sum it all up, I was live and in 3-D: deaf, dizzy, doo-dooing. So back to the doc I go...

This time I saw my regular doc (the first trip was on a Saturday, so I got the doctor that was covering that weekend), so I had to run through the whole sequence of events from the beginning, followed by a bunch of questions from him about what symptoms I had or didn't have, when each symptom appeared, and how severe each one was. Then just when it seemed like the Q&A was done, I mentioned the diarrhea, which sparked another round of questions (who knew bowel movements would be of interest in ear problems? I mean, I know some people about whom it could said have "shit for brains", and some more that are so full of shit, it ought to be running out of their ears, but still...), and some contemplation and a quick internet search by the doctor.

"Mr. Angry Nerd, could you take off your glasses for a moment?" the doctor asked. I'm going to hold one finger up in front of you, and I want you to follow it with your eyes only as I move it around." Simple test, right? One we've all done plenty times...but I absolutely could not do it this time. First I was moving my whole head, then it was moving my eyes in a delayed reaction, then, when I tried to bear down and focus, that made it even worse; my eye's were just out of control. I don't believe I can't do this!

"Well, Mr. Angry Nerd, it would appear you have a condition known as Meniere's Disease. It's an inner ear order that affects your hearing and balance."

"Never heard of it."

"You have all the symptoms. Check it out on the Internet when you get home," he said, handing me a post-it note with the name written on it. "I'm going to give you prescriptions for a different antibiotic ear drop, another ear drop for pain, a pill for dizziness and nausea, and some prescription ibuprofen."

Aye yi yi! Four medications? I'm too absent minded to reminded to be trying to remember when to take all that crap...

So off I went to get all this stuff from the pharmacy. And wouldn't you know it, the one I needed the most - meclizine, for dizziness (I've had enough injuries that I can function with pain; spinning rooms are another matter entirely) - was the one that my insurance didn't cover. "I won't fill it if you don't want to get it," the pharmacist said.

"No, no, that's the one I need the most," I said (and I'm sure some of you probably think I should've been taking something to prevent me from being dizzy years ago LOL); and next thing I know, I was strolling out of the pharmacy with a big bad full of drugs...

And as for the part about being too absent minded to remember when to take all this stuff? Well, symptoms have a way of reminding me...

So for all of you who have asked me about my condition, there you have it. Thanks for your concern, and hopefully it wasn't TMI. But I figure if you read this far it wasn't TMI (and you didn't get turned off by my shit talking LOL). Besides, anytime I can turn feeling like crap into a blog post, I gotta do it...

           

Meet the Parents

So as y'all know, I became a grandfather for the fourth time; since the baby and his big brother, and their mom are all living with me, that meant that there were a steady stream of visitors at the Angry Nerd residence for a few days - not all of whom I had met before. In once such instance, a couple came to the door that introduced themselves as Kevin's (the babydaddy's) parents. Very nice couple, friendly, seemed very good together, seemed like they interacted pretty well with their son, and they seemed genuinely happy about having a new grandson. Seems like Kevin is from a solid family; that's a switch (actually, that's not quite accurate; the family of the moron my daughter made her first-born with was quite nice; HE was the problem, not his people, and I'll just leave it at that).

The next afternoon, another unfamiliar visitor was at my door. "Hi, I'm Kevin's mom", she said. And then, in a moment of absolute stupidity, I said:

"Wait, I thought I met  Kevin's mom yesterday?"

The expression on Kevin's mom's face, while maintaining her bright smile, tightened up ever so slightly and subtly - almost imperceptibly... "No, I'm Kevin's mother", she stated (still smiling). "You probably met Kevin's father - and his wife..."

BBBBBRRRRRRRR...it sure got cold in here...

"Ooooh, I'm sooo sorry", I grovelled.

"Oh, it's quite all right", she said, smiled still pasted on her face. "Wow (changing the subject), your daughter really takes after you, I can really see the resemblance."

"Yes, everyone says that", I responded, happy to be let off the hook, and from there we went on to have a nice little chat while my body temperature rose back to normal. Meanwhile, that smile never left her face the entire time...



#4

So I am a grandfather again, for the fourth time - all boys (one of these days I will get a granddaughter, although hopefully no time soon). My newest, Mr. Kevin was 7 lbs, 10oz, and like his big brother, #2, "Hurricane" Darius, took his sweet time making his arrival. But he's here and will be returning to (my) home with mom and big brother in a few days. Something tells me that in the very near future - given the power of Mr. Kevin's lungs - I may be thinking about changing my name to the Sleepy Nerd...

Life's "Special Moments", episode 2

To read episode 1, click here

Episode 2:  "Burn, Baby, Burn!"

   One of the more interesting things about Baltimore is the sometimes stark juxtapositioning of its neighborhoods. Some of its classier neighborhoods are known to run right up against some of its more dangerous. Crossing a major thoroughfare in the city sometimes seems like crossing a border into another country.

  Back in 2004 I was living in an old brownstone subdivided into apartments in the Marble Hill neighborhood, a historic community on the westside known at one time as one the earliest and most prominent communities for middle-class Blacks. By 2004, however, it had fallen on some hard times. There were well-preserved homes, such as the one where I lived, side-by-side with abandoned and boarded up ones (complete with the sort of element those houses attracted). If you walked a couple of blocks south of Marble Hill, you ran smack into the McCulloh Homes housing project, which is historic only in its inspiration for the TV series "The Wire", as stronghold of the infamous Barksdale drug distribution ring (there were days when the whole area was blocked off for the shooting of an episode of the series).

   If you were to leave my apartment, walk to the end of the block, cross McCulloh Street and walk another block, you would suddenly enter what seemed like another world: the even more historical - and unquestionably better preserved - neighborhood of Bolton Hill, which is one of the jewels of inner city Baltimore, and a fully yuppified-to-upper crusty center of culture and history in the near-downtown Baltimore area. The contrast to Marble Hill, and especially to the McCulloh Homes projects and the Upton neighborhood next to it couldn't possibly be more stark.

   As alarming as those differences between these bordering communities were, and as sad -even tragic- the differences in the plights of the people residing there, Bolton Hill is one of my favorite places to visit, just to walk or drive around and take in the history, the architecture, the beauty of it all. I would often walk or jog through Bolton Hill to admire the scenery, and every day I would drive through the area to go to and from work, even though there were faster routes to the job.  Something about driving through Bolton Hill just always put me in a good frame of mind. Until...

   One Friday afternoon, on a beautiful spring day, I was driving home in my 1992 Grand Am, windows down, music blasting, contemplating what I was going to do that weekend. As I exited off of I-83 and got ready to make my sceninc drive through Bolton Hill, the car started to sputter. It had been acting a little funny the previous days, so I figured I would get up early and take it to the shop to have it checked out, and I'd still have the rest of the weekend to enjoy. But as I turned onto Lafayette Avenue to begin my drive through Bolton Hill, the car's sputtering turned to rather pronounced jerking, following by the car stalling out altogether. Terrific. Me and this old car are really going to be a sight in this neighborhood.

   I put the car in park, and popped the hood (not that I had a clue as to what I was going to be looking at or for), and as I got to the front of the car and went to raise the hood, I could see there was smoke coming from the engine. Oh it just gets better. Then as I stood there cursing my bad luck, just like that, the luck got even worse...

  "Oh shit, FIRE!" yelled the guy crossing the street at the exact same time I was thinking it. "I'll be right back he said, as he ran into his house to - I presumed - grab a fire extinguisher or something. Instead he came back with a camera. Others joined him in taking pictures or just marveling at the sight of a car engine burning, until someone finally asked if I had called 911, which in my shock I had not.

   Within a few minutes, the fire and police departments were there almost simultaneously. I had never seen such quick response in all my life (I guess living in Bolton Hill has its privileges). The fire crew quickly soaked the car and drenched the flames. Then one of the firemen approached me and asked me to see if I could start the car and maybe move it to the curb. Seemed like a ridiculous request, but in my state of semi-shock, I trudged over to the driver's side, opened the door, got in, and - forgetting that the windows had been down - sat in a gigantic puddle of water in the driver's seat.

   Of course the car didn't start, so now all I had to show for that effort was a wet ass. I got out of the car, and the police officers approached me and said that if I didn't have a number for a tow truck, that they would call one to take the car to the city lot, and then I could make arrangements later to get it from there. I didn't, and so they did. While waiting for the tow truck, I went started taking some belongings out of the car: three bowling balls in a bag with wheels, a few books and some other assorted odds and ends. A gentleman who lived one of the houses in the block gave me a trash bag to throw the stuff in. A young woman with a toddler in tow asked if I was hungry, then disappeared into her house, returning with some animal crackers and a juice box. So next thing you know, I was standing on the corner, big wet spot on the back of my khakis, with a garbage bag and bowling ball bag beside me, eating animal crackers and sipping from a juice box...

   Finally, the tow truck arrived, the driver got my info, and hooked up the car. He and the cops drove off their separate ways, and the neighbors returned to their houses, without anyone so much as offering me a ride. No big deal, I thought, I'm only about 4 or 5 blocks from home. And then...I felt a drop of rain...and then another, and then a few more. Oh boy, better get a move on!

   So I slung the garbage bag full of my belongings over one shoulder, grabbed the handle of the bowling ball roller bag with the other hand, and started trudging my squishy drawers wearing self home. After about a block or two I didn't have to worry about the embarassment of having a big wet spot on my behind, because it was now raining so hard that ALL of me was soaked.  So I kept it moving as fast as I could, although one can only move so fast in the pouring rain dragging almost 50 pounds of bowling balls and a Hefty Bag filled with a collection of crap I could have taken from Fred G. Sanford's junkyard... I can only imagine the thoughts of the drivers who drove past me, more often than not splashing water on me as they sped on...ahhhh, good times...

Life's "Special" Moments, episode 1

Like everyone else, I have had my share of interesting/embarassing moments and occurences. In "Life's 'Special' Moments", I will relive a few of these...

Episode 1: "Gettin' It In"

  It's the summer of 1982, and I'm home from college. My future babymama is over the house hanging out, when my moms and brother and sister head out to go shopping...hmmmm, house all to ourselves...well, you can imagine what happens next...
  I shared a bedroom with my brother. We had some old-school wooden bunkbeds, and I slept in the top one. So as not to leave any potential evidence of what we were about to do in my brother's bunk, we climbed up into my top one. Things proceeded from intimate to heated to, shall we say, rather vigorous in fairly short order...
   Well, at some point during the proceedings I thought I heard a cracking sound, but since I was otherwise occupied I didn't pay it any attention...well, I probably should have, because shortly thereafter, a couple of much louder cracks were heard as the slats underneath my bunk gave way under our weight and...umm...activities...
   Next thing you know, the two of us and my mattress gave way to the laws of gravity and came crashing down on my brother's bunk, with enough force to also break the slats on his bed and well...
   We picked ourselves up off the floor and determined that we were both okay...the beds, however, were another matter...then of course, was the bigger issue: how in the HELL to explain this to my mother...

Smart Ass

Those of you who know me, know that I am capable of being a smart-ass (I know, I know, not exactly a major revelation, right?). My babymama told me once or twice (or maybe seventy times seven times; I lost count) that being a sarcastic smart ass was my greatest talent (now, mind you, she was being a sarcastic smart ass whenever she would say it, but according to her, this was my fault, due to the apparent Svengalian hold I had over her that made her become a smart ass against her will), a "compliment" which I accepted with great humility and honor...
Those of you who know me also probably are aware of my tendency to (over)analyze things. What can I say, I just a need to break things down, pick them apart and try to garner some explanation (even when none is necessary) or meaning (even when none exists, except on the most trivial scale).
And now that I have reminded you of two of my more prominent proclivities, allow me to indulge myself for a moment and put said proclivities to work for a moment by introducing my terminology of what it means to be a smartass:

Smartassedness The condition of being a smart ass. Smartassedness is something that comes naturally to us smartasses. It is not forced or done for effect, and it is not done with any intent to hurt anyone (though occasionally another can be hurt by it). Being a smartass for the purpose of intentionally hurting someone isn't smartassedness, it's mean-spiritedness (or if you prefer, jackassedness or maybe assholishness). Trying to come up with smartassed comments for effect or to create a persona for oneself isn't smartassedness, either; it's fakeassedness...

Smartassery A smart-assed comment or action. The best smartassery is something that is created in the mind of a smartass without much effort or any contrivance. It either rolls off the tongue (or the fingers) reflexively, or comes to mind while waiting to speak one's turn. It does not require any planning on how or when to strike; it just happens.
Smartassery doesn't have to be just words either. The late comedian George Carlin, in one of his standup routines, told the story of how he was sitting on a park bench, and there was a section of newspaper sitting on the bench underneath him. Another man came and sat next to him and asked if Carlin was reading the paper. Now Carlin could have been a jerk and called the guy all kinds of stupid for asking whether he was reading a newspaper he was sitting on. Instead, he simply said, "Why yes, I am", stood up, turned a page on the newspaper, and sat back down on it. Classic smartassery.
See, smartassery is often a more tactful way of addressing or responding to someone who has asked, said or done something you consider objectionable or silly, without hammering them with the psychological blunt force trauma of a direct, angry, tactless, mean-spirited comment. A good piece of smartassery will hopefully cause amusement or thought, rather than anger or hurt feelings (although if you're dealing with someone who is overly sensitive or in a bad mood, or who just doesn't like you to begin with, then all bets are off). But let's be clear, we smartasses aren't saints; when dealing with someone he/she doesn't like, it is certainly not out of the question for a smartass to impulsively unleash a bit of smartassery that serves no purpose except to stick it to the recipient.
One final word about smartassery: like most things in life, it is best enjoyed and most effective in moderation. As much as I enjoy a good piece of smartassery (even when i am on the receiving end of it) someone who overdoes it will have me and everyone else wishing he/she would just STFU. Thus there will be times when a smartass will need to let an opportunity to use some smartassery go by the wayside; after all there is a time and place (and smartassery target) for everything, so you gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. Besides, unused smartassery tends to get stored in the recesses of a smartass' mind, to reappear later when needed. Good smartassery never truly goes to waste.

Smartassitude A state of mind where one's smartassedness is heightened, and in which a smartass will be especially prone to unleash smartassery on others. When in a smartassitude, the smartass must be especially carerful not to go overboard with his/her smartassery, as the impulse will be strong to overdo it, both in frequency and intensity. What brings on a smartassitude will vary from smartass to smartass; perhaps the smartass is going through some hard times, or maybe someone pissed him/her off, or maybe it's just a matter of being in the presence of someone the smartass can't stand. Whatever the case may be, the smartass has to keep the smartassery in check, lest he or she veer out of control and work him/herself into a state bordering mean-spiritedness.

So there you have it, my guide to being a smartass. Hopefully, you have a little better understanding of smartassedness, and can accept our smartasseries for what they are: just good, clean, (hopefully) thought-provoking and smile-inducing fun. Don't take us smartasses too seriously, or our smartasseries too personally. And if you happen to catch me in a smartassitude and I go a little over the top with my resulting smartassery, I give you my sincerest apology. And if none of that is good enough for you, well I don't know what else to tell ya...a smartass has gotta be a smartass...