rest in peace, willis...

Note: This is one of those heavy posts.

When I moved to California, I had spent all of my time in a really small private school, and upon moving, enrolled in a slightly larger private school. At no time in my life had I ever consistently spent lots of time in huge classrooms, and as you can imagine, I had never been around a ton of Black people in school in general, and in class in particular (prior to this, I had NEVER been in a class with another person, and only knew other blacks went to school because I had a brother who was also going to the same school). Once I got to public school, I figured out more about life and expectations than I had ever expected.

One of the things I marveled at was the ability for most students to walk among the crowd totally unnoticed- when you go to a really small school (I had a class of 3 and a class of 4 for a full academic year) going unnoticed is actually impossible. But with so many people, I was enamored with the idea that I could go about my day, totally under the proverbial radar. What I didn’t realize that in a big school, things that made you stand out, either physically (really big and strong, or conversely- under 5’ tall) or intellectually (if you’re the dumbest fucker in class or the kid fucking the curve for the rest of the class) make it virtually impossible to skate through the world un-noticed. So you can imagine a kid, 4’11” tall, and a virtual academic all-star who tended to score among the highest scores in a given class, my ability to go un-noticed was non-existent. I was now the short smart kid that fucked up the curve in Math, Chemistry, History and Spanish (never an off the chart English student, felt the kind of writing I was allowed to do was a tad stifling and the writing I currently do was not only not allowed, but openly shunned and mocked as illegitimate (Fuck yourself, Joan Cone), because it was too much like me and not enough like the King’s English (which if you know me, I never stray too far from, even in a motherfucker laced writing sample).

Coupled with this backdrop, it’s important to remember I’m Black. This had at no point in time ever been realized by me as being anything other than matter of fact (I’m Black, I’m also male, short, right handed- story sometime- and kind of obnoxious). It was only upon entering El Cerrito where it really started to play a role. But initially, it was odd for me just to be around the sheer number of Black people I was around. Coming from a county where you’re the only Black FAMILY and going to schools where there were NO Black people, it’s easy to imagine my image of what Black in America was might have been romanticized. I had my family and really The Cosby Show to refer to (didn’t watch much TV at all, and we didn’t live in an area where it mattered, as there were so few PEOPLE where I lived, it didn’t really matter what you WERE, just that you were). So going to EC meant I now would meet more Black people than I had ever imagined- and there was one overarching theme about the experience- I was told, by ALMOST ALL of the Black kids one of these statements:

“You talk white” or “You talk like a white boy.”

“Why you tryin’ to act white? You ashamed of being Black?”

“Man, you an Oreo.”

I had never HEARD any of these accusations, didn’t know Blacks could ever even be accused of acting “white” much less by other Black people. I didn’t even know the Oreo reference and assumed the kid had seen my lunch snack choice. He laughed and told me it meant “Black on the outside, white on the inside.” Another statement I didn’t understand. If this was how this public school shit was gonna work out, I was probably going to be arrested or killed soon, because this was some bullshit.

So I’m the short, smart Black guy that’s harassed in classes for fucking up a curve here and there, I’m literally the shortest person at the school, I’m a year younger (at least) than the rest of the school (skipped grades earlier in life) and now I’m being demeaned by kids who are raping the English language like Jodie Foster was in The Accused and I have nobody to talk to…this is going to be a shit-tastic experience…

…until I walked into freshman Honors World History class. It was the first place I felt a zone of protection, where nobody wanted to give me heat for being a smart kid. It was in this class where I met Willis Abraham…

…and it was a relatively uneventful meeting. Except that he was in the Honors class. One of the things I noticed is that the school did something called “Tracking” where they try to rank students academically and then, based on that ranking, try to get students of like academic skill sets in the same class- allows for kids that need extra help to get it and kids that need to go faster to do that as well- but it does make these determinations and it’s really hard to get into another track (for example, I transferred from a top-tier private school, but was tracked in “average” classes- until my Mother came in and made them make me take a placement test- was in Honors the next day, so I guess it worked out). By the time kids got to High School, most were locked into tracks, and in the Honors track, there were just not very many Black kids. Willis was one of those kids. But he was, for lack of a better term, a different cat. He just operated to the beat of a different drummer, and was unabashedly indifferent if you were with him or against him, as long has he was doing what he felt was right…this starts by being a smart guy…

…for my first significant block of time at EC, I really didn’t speak out- in class or outside of class. those that know me pretty well can see a world where this not speaking thing was standard operating procedure. I was afraid if I opened my mouth people would find out one of two things, both in diametrical opposition: 1) I was as smart as they thought I was and would never want to talk to me, or 2) I was NOT as smart as they thought I was and they wouldn’t want to ever talk to me- seems like an effective catch-22, which meant I NEVER spoke up, even when I felt I had something positive to contribute. I noticed that in these honors classes, as with my classes at the private school, it seemed that students were free to express themselves, and free to be incorrect and learn from their mistakes. After the negative impression I got from the Black kids at the school (I quickly learned that “white” could be interchanged with the term “educated”- which made me WAY WAY more angry with the Black kids- why in the FUCK do “white” and “educated” get to be interchangeable, and why should my Blackness be fucking questioned as inauthentic because I can string together sentences?) it made me kind of gun-shy about being willing to speak up in class (dare I say- in general). And based on where I was, as much as I liked the white kids in my class, and as much as I didn’t feel any of them even could play the same academic sport as I could, it took ANOTHER BLACK KID being willing to speak up, ask questions, be right and especially BE WRONG and not care as long as he got what he needed, gave me the confidence to begin to speak up myself, which I could never do what I’m doing now (teaching Public Speaking) if I hadn’t gotten that impetus to act from a dude that had NO IDEA of the role he played- at least in that instance…

…over the course of high school, he went from being a Black guy in my class to someone I was proud to consider as a friend. As most of my high school friends were trying to really live the role of HIGH school to it’s fullest (and I can not, in good conscience say that I did not enjoy some of those afternoon/evening/weekends myself), Willis was one of my friends I knew I could rely on to have a good time, but one that involved no alcohol or drugs. In a world of intense peer pressure, and among the kids we were taking classes with it was particularly prevalent- lots of those kids in class came from money, which meant they were more willing and able to throw it around on extra-curricular activities. But hanging out with Willis meant none of that, but it also meant you were going in for a fun-filled adventure. I lived next to a Golf Course for years and had never considered buying blocks of ice and riding down the groomed hills of a golf course. I’d never even considered playing “Capture the Flag” much less in an international airport (adding an extra component-trying not to get arrested while playing- a component I did not see coming- which happened a lot). But there were other times too, just chillin’ at his house, with his moms upstairs, watching Trespass (a great flick if you haven’t caught it, I may have to see if I can catch it on Netflix) and talking about just stupid shit- how as a frosh he was happy to have a girlfriend at UCLA: “man getting a woman here is hard, if you’re not Greek or Troy Aikman…” or about how much scandal there was in the local church: “man that pastor gettin’ on the express elevator to hell…” or just how he just LOVED and EMBRACED what life gave him. You have a car but it’s a 1964 Dodge Dart- you probably bitch and complain about it, talking about how all your friends have better cars and why can’t you get your own car, etc. That’s why you weren’t Willis. He took the Dart and OWNED it. Drove it tough, like you’d drive an Escalade. Spoke of it with pride. Drove with his head high. And after awhile, it became an privilege, even an honor, to ride in the Dart, something ONLY Willis could have pulled off.

It is only in his death that I have gotten to reflect back fondly on the times we spent together. But I never really thought about what that time means to me now, and how it was crucial in shaping the person I ended up becoming. I had a lot of “friends” in high school, some of which I still have, some will even read this- and they may be surprised. I only say that as I was surprised as well. I hadn’t really thought about how what he did help me do what I did. I’m pretty sure I told him this once, when I found him on Facebook (I quickly unfriended him, as I had done what I needed to do, and one of the unfriend mistakes I could take back now). I hope he understands what it meant to me and for me.

And I can say, for sure, I will miss my friend.

All Race No Place

I hate being alone. Actually, that’s not entirely true, but that’s due to some semantics that exist for some people, but not for me. You see, I rather enjoy being by myself, that is, having nobody else around me. As much as I hate sitting in traffic on my way to work, I do enjoy getting to delve into my own head and psyche in the stop-and-go traffic that makes the Silicon Valley one of the most sought after places to live in the country (if our rent is indicative of anything). What I hate is the feeling that the thing I think and/or the thing I feel is somehow not a legitimate response.

I know I come from a different social location than most African-Americans- I know this because I have had it reinforced to be, by the African-American community my whole life. One of the things I enjoy most is having African-American women who know I’m engaged to (or at some of those times, dating) a white woman. I generally will get read The Riot Act about how I “turned my back on the race” or how “there are lots of good sistas out there, why you with a white girl?” My answer is simple, and they don’t want to hear it: when I was younger, and I was TRYING to date black girls, they wanted nothing to do with me. I was “an oreo” (which I was also called this evening, on the way home, by a homeless black kid I didn’t have any change to give), someone who was “black on the outside, white on the inside” and thus never given the time of day, much less an opportunity to date someone. Fast Forward 15 years: all those women who blew me off to fuck some roughneck are now single, with a kid usually, and wondering where “all the good black men went…We left...Got tired of waiting...i digress, that will happen sometimes…I was saying I recognize my variant social location, so I realize that this complaint may fall on deaf ears, as most African-Americans don’t get to eat (by choice a lot of the time, but sometimes by limitations) at some of the locations I’ve had specific complaints about. But here we go…

…we were out to the Faculty Dinner for the place I’m working, and we are dining at a fine dining seafood establishment in a hotel. It’s a Friday evening, and the restaurant is pretty busy, and we have a party of 25+. There is a set of orders taken before I arrive, so there’s some food on the table when I arrive (always a plus). When the waiter comes to take orders, I place my orders with him, clam chowder soup, surf and turf (filet- medium rare) and grilled shrimp (the option was shrimp and scallops, I opted for all Shrimp, most others opted for scallops only or both. I also order a Coke. Of this order, the only thing not messed up was the Coke. The soup was, literally, forgotten about (although they took our order on these fancy hand scanner type things which allows them to beam info from kitchen to waiters regarding food), which means 1) we had to ASK OUR WAITER FOR FOOD WE ORDERED, which is not standard operating procedure- I believe we would not have gotten them had we not asked). Now, if this was the only thing they messed up, I’m probably frustrated, but definitely not vocal about it (if I bitched about EVERY possible offense, I’d literally never eat out). When the food comes out, I’m handed a steak and a plate of scallops. Not what I ordered. Maybe they just mixed up the plates. It could happen. I get it. But in light of the first mistake, why should I, once again, give them the benefit of the doubt? I don’t have to assume mal-intent to have this experience be frustrating. To everyone at the table, it’s just a couple of things, why is it a big deal? Here’s why...here are some of the things it is to me…

…it’s being a sophomore at UCSB and trying to move into these cool loft apartments with some of my friends. They ran my credit rating and I didn’t get approved (I was 19 years old and had no credit at all). I assumed it was standard. I find out later they, for the white kids I was to be living with, ran THEIR PARENTS credit (which if they ran my parents credit they’d have found two perfect scores, which gets me in). so either they did something not standard without running my parents credit (shady) or AFTER (criminal). But I gave the benefit of the doubt….or the time when I was at Harrah’s in Kansas City at a debate tournament, and somehow, with like 5 of us, they somehow managed to 1) forget my order, twice and 2) give me the wrong order, twice, while somehow not messing up ANYONE ELSE ALL NIGHT…or the time when we went to a Michelin Star restaurant and they put us behind the Sommonier’s table next to a family with pre-toddler kids…or the time…well, you get the picture- at some point, all these “benefit of the doubts” begin to really just look like some passive aggressive racist shit, rather than a “get out nigger” they just give you, specifically, shitty service, hoping you get the point…

…so it’s really hard for me to just assume that “mistakes happen” and that “it means nothing.” Maybe it’s the “we have to be BETTER than everyone else to get EVEN footing” concept that makes me furious when people, whose FUCKING JOB is to serve you in a reasonable and competent fashion, seem to CONSTANTLY makes mistakes on your stuff. If it was an overarching theme with the restaurant, I kind of get it. But if you fancy yourself to be a nice restaurant, you can’t go 0-3 on my food stuff, not go 0-3 with ANYONE else and have me NOT assume it’s racist.

The benefit, dare I say, privilege of being White is that when incompetence happens to you, you can just assume incompetence. But when it happens to me, my mind CAN’T NOT go to the idea that it could be malicious or hate filled, and yet so passive aggressive. I wish I had that liberty, unfortunately, I don’t get this liberty, and as a reward, I make about .75 to the dollar of a white man doing my job.

Many of you think I’m on some delusional, self-important rampage- wrong. To say it has anything to do with me, specifically, is some bullshit and something I’d have a hard time believing even it was proven to be true. And I don’t think it’s some conscious shit. But I do think it happens, and anyone that tells me it doesn’t has never walked a mile in my shoes.

Black people know what I’m talking about, but for some reason, because it comes out of someone that looks, dresses and sounds like me, it’s given less credence. It’s maddening to be disrespected and disregarded by your own people, because I don’t fit in the mode of what they consider “black. I consider Black people to be My People, and I am aligned with The Struggle of Our People, and I am reminded of my place within that struggle every time I hear a siren pull up behind me. I am reminded every time I walk through a mall and get followed by the same security guard through multiple stores (if this seems specific, it’s because it happened to me going to the Apple Store last week and to a Men’s Warehouse and to the Best Buy, same guard, terrible at tailing people (point is to not be seen). I’m here in town, working for one of the most prestigious academic institutions in the world. I’m smart. I’m articulate. I have a pocket FULL of cash to buy shit. But to them, I am a joke that my dad used to tell me when I was young, and it didn’t make sense to me at the time…

“What do you call a black man with a PhD. From Stanford in a $1000 suit?” Nigger.

He told me this joke because it was told to him at work. My dad was a Genetic Engineer, with a PhD. from Stanford. And my dad rocked the $1000 suit. He told me this because if he didn’t tell me this at home, and tell me that THIS is what I should expect from people if I ever get to the top of the profession, that I should expect this. And that I should have someone to tell, so he didn’t “kill that motherfucker.” It was the first time I 1) ever saw him curse, 2) ever saw him lose his cool, and 3) ever saw him show me ANY emotion other than Love. It reminded me that life was pretty fucked up, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t understand why that man said that to my dad. And I wondered why he told me, rather than telling Mom. Sometimes Mom had just had enough, and wasn’t really trying to hear Dad. Maybe she never got how much it fucking killed him inside. When I have really hard days, I just try to remember my Dad, doing things that I can’t ever imagine doing. I feel shitty when I have to hold my tongue to keep the peace (which fucking KILLS me that my being angry about shitty treatment should be anyone’s business- you have the right to disagree with my anger/hostility, but you don’t get to have a say in whether it’s REASONABLE to have that response). 

The duality of being treated like you don't belong by Whites (by assuming that you're over-reacting and making everything about race- [aside: when you're Black, everything IS about race] and not just assuming old fashioned incompetence or just people being assholes) and having Black people discount your experience as inauthentically Black is enough to make me just want to tell EVERYONE to fuck themselves. At the point where I get to feel alone, i don't really want to deal with the bullshit of having to pretend to conform and/or give a fuck what you think about it. 

The irony of it all is all this makes me want to do is sit around, smoke blunts and be the person everyone assumes I am anyway.

some days you just need to shut the hell up

Sometimes, the general idiocy of life is such that you feel compelled to get it on paper, as to provide some kind of proof, to future generations, to avoid such madness. You can only hope that, in it’s reading, that one person, one solitary person, may get the message, and decide to walk into moving traffic or play Russian Roulette, except hoping, praying even, that there really IS one in the chamber, and that you can only hope it blows your whole head off- you never want to go out like Prince’s Dad in Purple Rain. This is a reflection of one of those days…

…as I wake up, I go to work and discover there is a staff meeting at work. I’m not sure what you think of staff meetings, or even if you have them where you work or have ever had them. If not, say a quiet “Thank You, God!” and move on, hoping that your luck will continue. But in the same way that, eventually, you do hit the combination of alcohol and age to get a hangover, you will eventually have to go to the dreaded staff meeting. There are a variety of worlds where I could imagine that me being in a staff meeting could serve some benefit to me, but that would be in a world where anything, anything at all that I thought, wouldn’t be viewed in the same way one might view walking on your dad terrorizing your mom’s snatch like he was named Osama Bin-Ladin. My presence is only required because everyone’s presence is required, meaning my need to be there far outstripped any desire I had to be there. This meeting, we were discussing a logistic issue – we have too many employees to work the allotted slots that exist, but all the workers really want more hours. We batted around a variety of ideas to help resolve the problems- creating more shifts, creating more business to allow for the people that want more work to work more, changing hours of operation to allow for more shifts, etc. But there is a dilemma, we can’t really afford to offer more hours or more shifts, and it’s infeasible to change operational hours to make any of these things happen. One of the topics of discussion that was never broached, in this brainstorming of ideas was the simple, most obvious one: tell them “no, you can’t.” This idea was looked on in the same way the average American might look at a Tijauna donkey show. So the battle begins, about ways to achieve the goals without telling them “no.” So at the end of the conversation, here’s how I read the process: They want to do something we think is a bad idea, can’t afford it economically or execute it logistically. And yet, we’re still here, having a conversation about how to best execute this miserable idea (an idea you don’t agree with, and can’t logistically do or fiscally afford, seems to me to be a bad idea)…this is when I tuned out and thought about getting a sandwich…

…I arrive at the sandwich shop, and looking on the menu, I see a sandwich on the board. It’s $7.95- the most expensive sandwich on the board (Turkey, Bacon and Avocado). I’m not a fan of avocado, so I ask for the sandwich without it. I get the sandwich (which was AWESOME, by the way), and as I get the bill, it seems a little high, so I ask for the receipt- which explains it all. I was charged $8.45 for my sandwich, not $7.95 (this isn’t as big a deal as the general principle of this, as I lose .50 more times a month than I know). I decide to ask, in which they tell me that the $7.95 sandwich is a special (Turkey, Bacon, Avocado) but my sandwich isn’t (Turkey and Bacon) and because it’s not a special, it’s $8.45 ($7.45 for sandwich and $1 for the Bacon). She then asks me if this makes sense. I ask her if the sandwiches are pre-made, to which she says “of course not!”

“Then it makes no sense.”

She seems flummoxed- can’t imagine why. I try to explain to her, that, while this is her restaurant, and she can charge what she wants, and that I can HATE the way she operates, and still buy sandwiches if she doesn’t ban me from the establishment, that I can’t imagine why NOT putting an item on a sandwich costs me MORE money than putting the item on. If the sandwich is pre-made, then it makes sense, as there is no labor issue. Since it takes you product (that costs you money) and time (to put the EXTRA item on the sandwich) to make the sandwich with avocado, it should not cost me MORE to get that stuff NOT on the sandwich. Still, she seems flummoxed. She calls for the manager to talk to me- I just want to get my sandwich and to go somewhere and eat it. I have to re-explain to the manager, who, literally, just REPEATS what the first woman told me. He seems frustrated by my general musings, and is quickly becoming annoyed. I remind him that they can do whatever they choose, and the only reason this is still an issue is because you all want me to agree with you, and it doesn’t make sense to me, for the reasons I explained. I’ve also ALREADY PAID YOU, so it’s clearly not a big deal, but one I was curious enough to ask about. I leave the shop with my sandwich, but with no resolution…

…so let’s see how this worked- twice today, I wanted to say something, told myself it was a terrible idea, knew it would fall on deaf ears, and at the end, I would wish I hadn’t spoken up in the first place. And, yet, for some reason, I felt the need to speak my mind anyway. If insanity is defined as repeating an action and expecting a different result, then…

my 21st birthday...or...i'm really not sure what happened...

Some blogs are hard to come up with, trying to figure out what to write about is by quantum leaps the hardest part about writing a blog. if there was a stipulation that said that, if i blogged every day for a year, the world would figure out the cure for AIDS and Cancer, and if I didn't, they'd cut off my penis, I'd like to believe I'd blog everyday, but I know myself pretty well, and I'd bet against myself (if for no other reason to have enough money to start over, because when a dude cuts off his junk, you can only imagine things go in a totally different direction) I imagine I'd not only want, but NEED, a new set of friends- I know I love my friends, but if they got Jim and the Twins cut off in this situation, I'd make fun of them mercilessly, which is why I would imagine they'd want to stop hanging out with a brother...but as usual, I digress...

This all takes place in Chico, CA, and this is the year between the years when it was the #1 party school in America (it lost out the University of Florida this year), so there is an inevitable backdrop of drinking in this story...just know the night before, at midnight exactly, I hit a couple of spots, and as entertaining as that was, it pales in comparison to what I was told happened this night (you'll notice some of this is being referred to as heresay, and that's because it was heresay- I have no clear idea what happened the last 8 hours of this story, but, in good journalistic integrity, I only speak of things verified by a member of my party, and at least one "innocent" bystander and/or person I infuriated, enraged, humored or just openly mocked that was not with us, but over the course of the next year was told about things I did to them or members of their party- for all of these things, I openly apologize, again)...but anyway...

...i wake up on the wonderful day...well, i woke up a little late. The bars in Chico, and apparently, everywhere, but I was particularly impressed with this rule the previous evening...i had a couple of adult beverages, and came back to the spot and went to sleep. I awake to a knock at the door, and I assume it's a floor mate to tell me it's time to eat some breakfast before the 9am class. It was that floor mate, but not to tell me to go to class- he had generously gone to class and taken notes for me, which allowed me to sleep in. When I asked why he was being so friendly, he gets a sly smile, which lets me know a couple of things 1) something shady was about to go down, and 2) it was probably going to fuck me over in some way or another. He tells me it's because I bought a party ball (in the early 90's Coors Light made a ball that had 5 gallons of beer in it, complete with a little tap and pump- it was called the Coors Light Party Ball, and I'm pretty sure the reason they stopped making them was nobody I know had ever even heard of them) last night and we were going to drink it BEFORE the evening festivities, so my under 21 cohorts could be involved in some form of the shadiness that would be rapidly approaching. Since my only class of the day had already been missed, I decided a shower, a bite to eat and the total destruction of this party ball (note, it's 9:23am at this point). So I shower, eat some pizza that, apparently, I bought the night before, but have no clear recollection of purchasing, and at 10:00am, we begin. At first, it's just Shambo and myself, 2 dudes, sitting in a room, playing video games (Nintendo, the original, you better recognize) and are listening to his favorite song at the time by some band we thought was solid, but nothing spectacular...



what's your man got to do with me? I'm not tryin to hear that, see...but back to the story. After just a couple of minutes, a couple of other guys come over, the Brians (two dudes on my hall, both named Brian, and as I write this, I couldn't distinguish between them, and I'm definite one was Latino, and one was white) came over, with a case of beer of their own to throw into the party, we had Rudy and Steve, some dudes come over from the other dorm, and they brought a little of that indonesia,



rolled up into these things they insisted we call blunts, and after a couple of tokes, it was obvious where they had obtained such an abrupt and straight forward nickname, as well as some beers of their own (those of you in college living in dorms, it is a lot easier to get away with a party when the day is in it's operational mode- less people are looking out for you partying, they're just trying to get their grind on so they can go home and masturbate to internet porn or play bingo or read Harlequin novels at home with a bunch of cats- they're wholly uninterested with what you're doing as long as it doesn't affect them). After awhile some of the ladies from downstairs came over as well, bringing with them the blender and some blue concoction that seemed like a Long Island Iced Tea, except it was blue (this would later be known as an "Adios Motherfucker" and if you don't know why, google Long Island Iced Tea and figure it out).



We drank and smoked and listened to music for what seemed to be an eternity, but when the second party ball (yes, second, never really sure when it showed up, just know at the end, there were two of them, both bone dry) dried up and a little AD popped on, we knew it was time to mobilize and get something to eat, as it was now close to 3pm and people were heading towards out of control drunk, which would have thrown a monkey wrench in our plans for the day, gotten a bunch of people in trouble and, quite honestly, based on the amount of pot that had been smoked as well, would have inevitably involved members of the Chico Police Department, which most of us had more run-ins with than we care to think about (which could have been one)...after a little time to sober up for the collective, I decided to, instead of going out to a fancy dinner (which I had done the Saturday previous with Ma Dukes) I decided to eat in the dining commons with my peoples, as I would be parting ways with the great majority of my floor mates when I hit the bars a little later in the evening. Someone (I imagine it was probably me, as I was the evil catalyst in this group of people) decided that, while we were at dinner, we should bring a water bottle filled with rum and play a game called 3 man with rum and coke, in the dining commons. It was as dumb as it sounded. But I also know that, as soon as dinner is over, I'm about to go out with some of my friends, and all they've told me about the evening is "you're not allowed to turn down any drinks," which seems like it' s a terrible idea. As I get dressed to start the evening, I was bumpin a little of what was, at the time, the new Pete Rock...



...we head downstairs and start playing 3 man at our table (3 man is a dice game where someone is essentially "it" (the 3 man) and any time anyone rolls anything that has a three, or equals three, they have to drink until they roll a 3 and can give the 3 man away, or until someone at the table rolls double 3's then they are the 3 (wo)man), which started as a small game, and when the Resident Assistants busted up the game, there were 23 people playing the game, with 3 sets of dice going- I left the game when the second set of dice came and figured it was getting out of control. The only irony is that I was the person that started the game and yet wasn't there when it got busted (and it made me look great when people blamed me and I wasn't there- an easy win for me). I left to go to a place that was the closest of all the bars near the campus, a bar called Madison Bear Gardens, which was built on the site of an old bank, and had some of the most diabolical drink specials in the world (for example, my favorite was the 2-10 Thursday special of 1.75 burger and fries and 1.75 pitchers of any beer in the house- Chico was famous for specials that seem to be even against good business sense, but seemed to work for them (how can you justify giving away .10 drinks, even if for only the first 10 minutes?!?). The special of the day at the Bear? $2.00 pitchers, of course. When you live in Colorado, the local tap is Coors. If you live in Missouri, it's Budweiser. But when you live in Chico, CA, it's Sierra Nevada- and you can get most types, on tap, in most bars in town (it can really spoil a brother who, would for the first year and a half after I moved, ask for Sierra Nevada Porter, on tap, from places that had never heard of Sierra Nevada, as a mountain range, much less a potent potable). We stop there, have a pitcher (each) and take the first two shots (someone got me a "blowjob"




i wiped the cream off with my fingers, drank the shot and wiped the cream on someones face, which i'm pretty sure was not part of our party (which, from what i understand, was a common, and very recurrent theme of the evening- me trying to either include people in our entourage, or me trying to keep/kick people out that same entourage...we go from bar to bar, where we take at least one shot per bar, but seemed more like 4-5 shots per bar. They told me to keep track of them at the beginning of the evening, but i'm sure I wrote the answer to a physics problem someone asked me on the back of the napkin at the second bar (some kind of sobriety test, which was the death of me, as i passed all of them and they ratcheted up the shots and the severity of the shots after every test- didn't help my friends asked pretty easy questions). The last bar I remember was a bar called Lasalle's, which. like most Chico bars, had no real specific type of clientele, just a ton of random people, which is the perfect storm for a birthday entourage with no real voice of reason. The bartender got everyone a round of shots (jagermeister- cold doubles for all), and gave me a special shot called a Barmat (which is exactly as it sounds, a bar mat (troth, rag, etc) placed in a shot glass, with a hint of grenadine to offset the atrocious taste combinations that can happen when you give someone the run-off of every overspilled drink- for the record, mine had the distinct tastes of some kind of wine and gin as the dominant taste, if my palate was more refined, i could have identified more of the repugnant flavors, but a combination of events was going to thwart even my best efforts: 1) i was, at this time, laughably drunk and in no state of mind to identify my own sister out of a police line up, much less try to distinguish between variant alcohol "flavors" and 2) they put grenadine in the drink to cover up the taste of death with a hint of cherry (or whatever in the hell grenadine taste like- haven't had any in any memorable capacity since I last had a Shirley Temple- and I'm not even sure I was a teenager then..anyway, after I drink my barmat, i have no really clear, consistent and cogent memory of the block of time...all I know is when I came to, in the afternoon the next day, I had an amazing headache, an unusually large sum of money in my wallet, based on what I remember leaving, I seemed to be entirely out of pot (which, in my college days, never really seemed to happen, oh, how I miss those days), and I, for some god-forsaken reason, had sawdust in my hair. I'll repeat that, sawdust in my hair. I immediately called one of the guys I went out with, and asked, in as calm a way as humanly possible, "What in the fuck did you all let me do last night?!? I have sawdust in my hair! What kind of barn did you take me out to?!?" To this, he tells me this abridged story of a small sub-section of what happened in the evening. I remember the conversation as if it was yesterday. I will preface this with, I DID NOT believe him when he told me, until I tried to go into the bar...well I'm getting ahead of myself...
..."Dude, you were Robert Downey Jr. fucked up last night! That shit was insane. So you don't remember going to Riley's last night? For dollar night? Dude, you were in rare form, even for you...don't worry, we made sure you didn't do anything arrestable...so anyway the bartender offered you anything you wanted, and you asked for a Long Island Iced Tea...you kept saying you didn't know where Long Island was but you loved their tea...at some time the bartender told you someone offered you a drink- it was a barmat- you seemed to almost embrace the idea...you knocked it back, jumped on top of the bar, and sang, along with the jukebox, the full first verse of Alive by Pearl Jam,



got the bar to sing the chorus with you and then you fell off the bar, onto the floor [aside: which, apparently is where all the sawdust came from]...we obviously were asked to leave the bar, went to like 5 other places and ended up at the fraternity house, where you proceeded to, while throwing up in a trash can next to you, beat all of us out of about $175 [aside: which is where all the money came from]...I walked out of the fraternity house, on my own power at around 5:30am and walked to my former home, and then to my home at the time, and apparently just passed out.

of course, i can't verify any of this...

If you want purposeful musings, go to that website...

...but if you're looking for some hate-filled vitriol, then this is the place to be. I spent the greater part of the last few months trying to figure out exactly what the function of this blog was supposed to be. for some reason, I assumed that my blog, in direct and usually hostile competition with the rest of who I am and how I do things, had to have a specific purpose, a goal, if you will, of some things I needed to say. And when I put the shackles on myself like that, I felt constrained, like Michael Jordan in Dean Smith's offense at North Carolina or like Plaxico Burris in general.



But, after quite some time contemplating what the function of this was supposed to be (and when I say contemplate, what I really mean was sit around in my underwear, drink scotch out of the bottle and masturbate with the vigor of an old roommate), I decided that it should HAVE NO FUNCTION. it's purpose is to be whatever i need it to be in a given day. Some days, it will be a hate-filled spouting about something going on in the world that pisses/pissed me off, some days it's be wonderful insight on music or theater, some days it'll be a description of the day-to-day grind that is my life, and sometimes, I'll just post a bunch of jokes and stupid puns or video's or shit I just find totally entertaining....



I'm sorry, but this just kills me every time I see it. You think it would get old, but, no, this shit is still hilarious...but I digress...but as some of you know, i have been known to do that sometimes...

...it's near then end of the semester, and Daddy couldn't be happier. It's been a hectic semester on a variety of fronts, with highlighted successes being intermingled with epic failures...like Nestle (yeah, they make Crunch Bars) buying the weight loss company Jenny Craig. I'm not smart enough to make that one up as a joke...

http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/business/chocolate-maker-buys-weight-loss-firm/story-e6frez7r-1225971043751

...but as I was saying, it was an up and down semester, but one thing that's been keeping me going has been my love for basketball, and getting back into playing fantasy hoops. I know it's not actually like being a general manager, much less like actually playing the game, but it does allow me to have something to engage that's not just my job (which is pretty much work and debate, all the time). It forces me to engage in something else, and I find, as I usually do when I actually do things, that it's not just fun for me, it's a tad theraputic (sp?). It allows my brain to just go to another place, where I don't have to worry about whether these essays will grade themselves, or whether or not I've gotten enough hotel rooms for the weekend, or whether those letters of rec are going to get finished on time, or even will I have time to wash these dishes before I leave for the weekend. Seems to serve a similar function to running or playing actual hoop, but it's most to me like playing video games...something you can envelop yourself in it's sensory overload cocoon and just forget the world exists for awhile (while the girl was out of town, I played Black Ops for like 11.5 hours, literally until the screen went blurry...
...will I write every day. Hell no, not even if I was paid to do so (actually, I'm clearly fronting, if I was paid to do so, I'd get it done, but not in that Cal Ripkin, come to work everyday with my best, I'd smooth dial it in on a couple of occasions- one of the reasons I like teaching is because you can't really dial it in, as your class will lose it's mind, because you have ceded control to them by not caring- that's when teaching feels a lot like that scene from Pulp Fiction where Ving Rhames takes it in the poop shooter. about the 1:30 mark...



...there will be more, just not now...

I have become the dinosaur I used to hate...

or, in a nutshell, I have become an old man. It's not that surprising, for any of you all that have known me, I've somehow managed to be an old man while simultaneously being almost legendarily immature. But the realization of my age is something that has found itself permeating into my addiction- debate. I have become a dinosaur- one of those old dudes that just can't stand most of the things I see going on in the activity....
...i will preface this entire conversation with the relative increase in skill set among debaters. Most debaters are substantially better than they were in my day. The ability of the average, middle of the road debater to make and execute strategy has increased probably 5 fold from my last days as a high school debater, and good high school debaters today are able to walk into college rounds and win immediately, which was pretty much unheard of in the day (a freshman walking in and being in the quarters of a major tournament was pretty much unheard of, and it happens frequently enough now that it's not that big of a deal). But this skill set has a loophole in it- most of it is merely cosmetic. Debaters have gotten better at playing the board game that is debate, but they have, for the most part, fallen off on the "debate" part of it- the part where there is a free exchange of ideas, where there is a give and take, where people have to actually come up with things on the fly, that part of debate has died, along with the afro, capri pants (and good riddance- who in the hell told women THOSE would be a good idea- i'll make my legs look short and my ass look fat, dudes will LOVE THAT) and the preference for light-skinned blacks over us dark skinned brothers (sorry Tribble). What in the hell are you rambling about, black man? Well, let me clear my throat...preface- I will only give one of these at a time, as I really don't have the time to vent all of the vitriol I have for



1) Debate simultaneously over-relies on the line-by-line while it's debaters ignore the line-by-line. For those not familiar with debate, the concept is quite simple- when people say stuff, generally, it's a good idea to have something to say that provides a direct response to that claim- as you would in even a general conversation. However, the over-viewization (clearly, not even close to a word) of debate. Sometime awhile ago, somebody smarter than I am, but clearly lacking in foresight, decided it would be a good idea to make sure students were prepared in all instances with not just ideas of arguments students would need to make (as had been since the beginning of debate as an activity, and probably introduced by Dionysus Alexandrnus, who figured it would be a good idea to predict arguments his opponents would make, and then prepare answers to those claims). Good idea, as the hardest part of debate is when something unexpected happens, and you need to adapt and respond to those claims. But what you may read as the one of the most difficult aspects of debate, I read as one of the most valuable skills in debate. And it's a skill we're, for the most part, teaching out of our students. The easiest example of this is in theory debates- debates about debate, but also debates about debate, where, ironically, debate almost invariably goes to die. This is because, those of you that have watched these debates clearly knows, theory debates are ones most people feel are prepared for entirely off site- this implies that most of the answers are thought about and written at home, and then just read, usually at top-speed, with almost no regard to what your opponent actually says: you hear conditionality bad, you reach, immediately, and grab conditionality good, with no regard to what is actually being said in the debate. If they only said conditionality good, with no nuance or trickeration, then you have no problem. However, if they say, further down the flow, conditional PIC's are uniquely bad, you'll lose, and Dave Register will steal a win from you...
...but while all of this is going on, the community has a lot more of a focus on the importance of the line-by-line. flowing on a laptop has, in my mind, changed the way we evaluate debate. I think most kids type as well as they write, and so the days in which debaters just flat out miss arguments has decreased substantially. But the implication of this isn't necessarily better debates, as one of the scenarios that is unexpected is rounds where less mistakes are made earlier in the debate, the more rounds where the last rebuttal has to actually make the correct decision, which would be problematic if so many debates were not prepared through the last rebuttals. The last two speeches are where arguments are synthesized, where you have to make the crucial decisions in the debates, where the true debating happens. But instead, students read pre-prepared blocks, and just shove the square peg in the round hole, and hope nobody notices. All the more frustrating is it's all done on word processing, which facilitates a world where it's possible to craft each last rebuttal specifically, by attempting to craft the pre-made rebuttal into one that applies in a given debate- but they just don't....
...maybe I'm just salty as I'm seeing the smart debater choose to be the over-prepared debater, not recognizing the smart debater can resolve the achilles heel of the over-viewized debater- the situation when someone makes an argument you're not ready to answer...

The Haitus Ends...or...I know why Tiger's game is terrible....

It's been quite some time since I've written, I've been kind of just enjoying my summer- kicking back, occasionally doing some minor gambling, but for the most part keeping myself just busy enough to not really relax like I want to/need to/should. Honestly, I hadn't even really considered writing all summer, as nothing really jumped out at me to make me want to write. And then it happened. Watching ESPN, some numbers popped on the TV that just made me want to write.

Those numbers: 74. 72. 75. 77. +18.

Anyone that happens to be a golf fan will recognize that those are some pretty dreadful golf scores. No legitimate professional should put up numbers like that, with those scores being reserved for household names like Michael Jonzen and Henrick Stenson (the 79th and 80th finishers respectively). Oh, forgot to throw Eldrick "Tiger" Woods in there, who finished 78th of 80. That's miserable. Usually, people stinking up the place like this would usually get to leave the course on Friday, after the cuts. Unfortunately, the World Golf Championships at Bridgestone don't have a cut, so Eldrick had to embarass himself, and well, really, Asians and Blacks as well, for his miserable performance. This is merely a continuance of a pattern of pathetic play that has been the standard since his late November tryst with bottles of Ambien and Vicodin, a driveway accident, and apparently a harem of willing, and remarkably quiet women all over the place (he took Ludacris's song to heart more than most).



there's been discussion in all kinds of formats about what's wrong with Tiger's game. Was watching the Golf Channel and homeboy that helps motherfuckers fix their swing seems to think that not having a swing coach is killing him. Some clowns from KC were talking on their radio show that he's not able to focus because Elin is trying to (my words) "break a nigga", asking for some outlandish number from Eldrick for getting his Morgan Freeman on...at this point, shouldn't what we've been calling "The DL" be changed to the Tiger Woods? I mean, come on, man. That dude was clearly banging out dirty sluts all over America (Shony's Restaurant parking lot, a Church Parking lot, various rental cars all over the great 50 states). And although we all know that when your mind starts wandering to issues where the amount of cake you've got is a concern, that your ability to concentrate on other shit just goes away- but we also know that niggas got to go to work, regardless of how stressful my shit is. Can't get FIRED because you can't not bring your problems to the job- then you've got more problems. Biggie said "Mo money, mo problems. But he also wrote a rap that never got released- it's called "Being broke sucks dick." I even heard a discussion about it in the airport, where these two women were throwing their .02 into "how Tiger needs to straighten his shit up." They both thought his not being able to see his kids was making it harder for him to concentrate, and an example of that would be when Eldrick went back to the US to be with his kids a week before the British Open, something he wouldn't have to do if he hadn't put his dick in the mashed potatoes- but he did, and now seeing his kids is something he has to schedule time to do, as they're not at the house. All of these ideas have some merit, but they all, to me, seem to be missing the point. Everyone else has stated an opinion, and now, so will I...

Tiger Woods has been a shitty golf player because pussy to Tiger Woods was like hair to Sampson. Tiger Woods has been a shitty golf player since he went to Mississippi (and really Eldrick, there has to have been a sex addiction camp somewhere, ANYWHERE else than in Mississippi). He signed himself up into sex addicts camp, got the taste of dirty whore out of his system, and BAM! He's a better man. And nobody is doubting that he's a better man. But this was a world class Junkyard Dog. The entire world thought "Tiger Woods is a machine. Always practicing. That's why he always wins". But after he got caught up in Pussygate 2009, he was exposed. But not just the cheating, which was surprising. But it also poked a hole in his vaneer- once it was obvious just how much dirty pussy this guy was getting, it became apparent to everyone that he wasn't practicing all the time, that he wasn't always at home watching video on them to figure out when they were changing their game physically, but that when he was off the course, he was an undisciplined pussy hound, like Birdogger, the guy from your fraternity that now has a shitty job because he knocked his girl up. In other words, it made Eldrick seem mortal. I will repeat, it made him seem mortal. In all games, it's obvious that if people think you're the best, they project an aura of invincibility- one Tiger just grabbed and ran with, coupled with his game, made people believe there was no stopping this man. But after girl number 8 came forward, an ugly one that said she got caught with him by the National Enquirer but bought out of the story...but I digress...think about it. I'm a particularly superstitious person, to the point where I bought 4 blue shirts for out-rounds at nationals, because it was 4 days and I didn't want to have to depend on finding a washer. All competitors have something they do to "get themselves up" for an event- Wade Boggs ate chicken before every game, all the time. I had a friend who debated who, to get himself up for a big debate would have to "rub one out". What if Tiger's been banging out the dirtiest sluts he could find before a tournament? Like rolls into town, grabs a wad of money and heads to the strip club, to find a nice, wholesome woman with good morals and values. He then rolls up, dirty, on the first 20 women he meets, and since he's Tiger MF Woods, it works out for him- usually ends up with sex somewhere dirty (in the pie hole, in an ear, nostril, ect) in some place dirty (bathroom at a Shonys, stairwell at the Motel 6 where they leave the light on because it's outside).

Golf needs Tiger Woods to be good. Ratings are up when he's good, and everyone makes more money- it's kind of like when the Yankees and the Cowboys are good- even though you may not like them, they have substantial fan bases, and when they win, people, nationally, watch. When he's not good, everyone just waits to find out what Ratief Guussun is wearing. So if you want Golf to be good again, it's this simple:

Give Tiger Woods some pussy.