Award Tour Vol. 38: Could It Have Been More Symbollic?

I lived in Atlanta for a few years when I went to Grad School. I stayed with old friends from my undergrad days; Shannon, Solomon, and Jalen (names you may have read about in some of my other stories such as: "Happened to the Best of Them", "The Greatest Show On Earth", and "Self Inflicted" ). On occasion we would have people come to visit us in Atlanta. With Shannon it was always his old girl Anna, for Jalen it was whatever random woman he could convince to come and see him, for me it was various people - sometimes family, sometimes friends.

But no one's guest were ever more disruptive, ever more troublesome, ever more misaligned to the concept of law and order than Solomon's friends. When they would show up you'd almost have to ask yourself, "are they really visiting Solomon or are they ducking the authorities in some other city and state?"

Take for example, the time when Solomon's friend Campbell came down. I was walking over to Solomon's room to ask him a question when I noticed Campbell sitting on the bed. The conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Hey Solomon
Solomon: Aye yo son, what's up
Me: Aye I just wanted to ask you about... oh your boys made it in town
Solomon: Yeah, you remember Campbell don't you? He went to Undegrad with us
Campbell: Aye wasup son
Me: Wasup...

[Campbell sits next to a black 9mm hand gun which I am now noticing for the first time...
I look at Solomon - he reads the look loud and clear]

Me: You got that on safety right?
Campbell: Naw this is glock - so for real - "I" am the safety.
Me: Oh you're the safety
Campbell: Yeah, I'm the safety
Me: Mmmmmmm... okay. Solomon let me holler at you for a second.

I have two objections. My first objection is not the fact that there is a gun in my apartment, but that it's owned and operated by Campbell - which leads me to my second (and most troubling) point. Where did Campbell get the idea that his ownership of the gun was simultaneously a safety device? Does he not remember who he is?

I don't mean to make Campbell out to sound like the next profile you'll see on "America's Most Wanted" (he might be but I don't know that for certain) but to suggest that he is some kind of "Volvo" of firearms where our general safety and well being is assured or self-evident because he is who he is... I'm sorry, that's ludicrous. He is Campbell - the only way his name should be mentioned in a sentence that says, "a responsible person that follows guidelines" is if the phrase begins with "he is in NO way..."

This is the same Campbell that almost got people killed when he showed up at a strip club called Magic City, in Atlanta, and penetrated one of the dancers with his fingers (use your imagination), and she in turn, spun around and slapped the Cayenne Pepper out of that dude.

Campbell is not the model and mold for responsible behavior - he is the model and mold for the kind of friends Solomon had come by to visit - people who were magnets for trouble.

On one infamous occasion, Solomon had some friends of his down to visit - Tuerca and Salty Paul (those aren't their real names, although considering the heinous nature of Salty's crime, I probably ought to use his real name - but you know my longstanding policy of providing anonymity). Why Salty Paul is down visiting, I do not know. When I queried Solomon about details of that fateful evening in order to better recount the story, he told me the special event was Morehouse's homecoming. That makes sense - I think we can go with it. Otherwise I would be forced to go with my original thesis that postulated he was down in Atlanta hiding from a crime he committed somewhere else, and Paul was too stupid to have actually committed a crime and not have been apprehended immediately. So, Morehouse homecoming it is.

We agree (at some point during the day) that we'll go out to some club (Solomon told me it was the World Club - and though I don't remember it that way, I was drunk and he wasn't - so let's go with Solomon on this one. It was the World Club). We get dressed up and go. As chance would have it, Solomon runs into one of his old lady friends there at the club. Seems she's just in town for the weekend and has some girlfriends with her - at least 3 of them. YAHTZEE!!!

Solomon convinces his lady friend (we'll call her the Diva Ringleader) to come over, and to bring her friends with her. This night is showing some potential. Salty Paul will fix that in short order. He gets warmed up for his performance later on as we are leaving the club.

His reign of terror begins by walking drunk in the street weaving in and out of slow moving traffic to try to "rap" to various women in cars. He settles in on two light skinned women in a gold porsche. As you might have guessed, his reach exceeded his grasp. He had little to say that they were interested in hearing, and so after entertaining his babble for a moment, he eventually said something that was equivalent to a "dialogue escape hatch" which they took as soon as it was offered.

I'm not sure what slurred combination of words represented that "final straw", but right after he spoke them they immediately spun their car around quickly and floored it, tires squealing as they took off. As they zoomed past they nearly clipped Salty Paul with the side view mirrors (actually they partially ran over his boots - I don't know if that rises to the level of hit and run, but if I had known this was just a precursor to what he was about to do back at the apartment, I probably would have shoved him directly into the path of the speeding porshce so they could have hit him square on). Anyway, to recap, Salty Paul talks to women, upsets them ... and they leave in a hurry. Remember this template... sadly you will see it again

Salty, confounded by their abrupt departure, simply stood in the road and blocked traffic - as though he was waiting for the driver to realize she had made a mistake - and turn the car around. His antics were greeted with a chorus of angry horns of cars he was blocking. Jalen and Solomon are forced to grab him and drag him out of the street after which he is thrown in the car (literally) and told not to come back out till we got to the apartment.

We get home, Solomon makes a few more calls to make sure Diva and her friends are coming and at what time. This gives us time to clean up a bit and, regrettably, time for Salty Paul to sober up. He must have examined the "givens" and performed some post-inebriation analysis:

Four men live in this apartment, each with his own bedroom, and only 4 women are coming. Shannon is out of the picture because his girl has already come by. So there are 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, 5 men, and 4 women in play. Salty Paul instinctively knows he's the 5th wheel. Jalen, Solomon, and I all have rooms, and Tuerca is a close friend to Solomon... Salty Paul was just along for the ride - literally. The math is starting to crystallize for him and realizes his situation. How will he level the playing field?

Simple. He will be the Salty Paul we feared he had the potential to be, and will soon come to hate. Borrowing aspects from "Scorched Earth Policy" and flipping "Game Theory" on it's head, Salty Paul becomes a one man Olympic Gold Medal Champion c***-blocker. If abstinence has a code name - it is Salty Paul. If he can't enjoy - no one will.

When the women arrive, they call up to the apartment (I say they called "up" because we lived at the top of a high rise). Solomon goes down the elevator to let them in - Salty Paul goes with him. No one is quite sure what happened, but somewhere after "hello", Salty Paul obliterates any forward momentum we had in two or three ill-advised sentences, and the women, who were once happy about coming over - are now pissed off. Let me say that again... they have only just stepped into the lobby - and already they are pissed off - this has to be a record. The elevator ride up is less than 30 seconds. But by the time they stepped out of the elevator on the 6th floor they were already looking for reasons to leave (Salty Paul would supply those momentarily). The only thing more incredible than the speed with which these women do an "about face" is Salty's ability to make it happen in the first place. Consider: it's almost 4 a.m. in the morning, they are tired and their feet hurt, relief is only 1 hallway away, and (at this point) they have no place else to go - and yet and still they are ready to leave rather than suffer anymore at the hands of Paul. Ladies and gentelmen, if you aren't impressed - ask yourself why not? You can hate an artist and still admire his work. How many people do you know are that great at being that bad? Fiber optics could not channel "hate" at the speeds and at the volume at which he was doing it.

When the group of women, trailed by Solomon and Salty, showed up in the common room, I was in my own room working on music production. I didn't even know they had arrived until I heard Salty Paul arguing with some of the women. Naturally I am confused, because... what could there possibly be to argue about?

Much of what he said, to this day I cannot recall, in part because of the sheer stupidity of much of what he was saying required me to forget it the instant he was finished talking. All I really recall is walking out into the common area where the women were seated, and seeing the growing annoyance etching it's way into their frowns. This is a look that is typical of women who have been harrassed and a$$ grabbed at the club all night who don't want to speak to or interact with another man for the rest of the evening - no matter how nice you are. It's not usually the look of women who come over to spend the night. All I got out of them was that their names were, "Asha", "Tasha", and "Basha"*

*Obviously their names were not Asha, Tasha, and Basha - that's just what they called themselves - just a hint for the fellas if you hadn't caught it already. When you ask women their names - and they all rhyme - those aren't their real names.

- and that they were pissed. How has Salty Paul accomplished this fete? Weren't they happy just 45 seconds ago when they were downstairs?How could he piss off 3 women simultaneously?

With dialogue like this:

Salty Paul: What you got in that bag?
Asha: That's food
Salty Paul: Why you got food? Are you hungry?
Asha: No I'm hypoglycemic - I have to eat food
Salty Paul: What you got some sort of disease or something? You got Leprosy? Your arm going to fall off?

After 15 minutes of non-stop gems like this, no amount of sidebars on my part and Jalen's part seem capable of salvaging any of this. Salty's "anti-game" engulfed the room and pissed off everyone in it's presence like a noxious gas. Every comment he made contributed to an already dense self-perpetuating fog, that clouded everything. Eventually that dark fog crept underneath Solomon's door - (and Solomon is already in the throes with the Diva Ringleader). He is forced to stop, come out from behind closed doors, and address Salty Paul pulling him over to a foyer away from the common room (can you imagine how pissed he was?).

Solomon (in a low voice): Yo man, why you wildin' out?
Salty Paul (loud voice): I'm wildin'?
Solomon: Shhhhhhhhhh... you're too loud
Salty Paul: Oh my bad, my bad
Solomon: Dude, man listen, you are messing it up
Salty Paul: Me?
Solomon: Yes, You. You need to calm down. They came over here to have fun and you're messing it up.
Salty Paul: I am?
Solomon: Yes... I mean, I'm trying to get with ol' girl and I have to come out here and talk with you? Come on man... you're messing it up for everybody.

Salty Paul (in a loud audible voice): You're right man, I'm sorry. I'm messing it up for everyone. Ain't no one gonna get no a$$ because of me!!!

With that comment, the the visual disgust on the faces of the 3 women in the common area, became more like the acute expressions of anger on a Kabuki mask - they were surreal. Jalen calmly put his drink down and said, "you know what? You're right - you have messed it up for everyone" and he went to his room and closed the door and went to sleep. No lie - this actually happened. I can't even blame him - the man knew a losing hand when he saw one.

Almost simultaneously, Asha, Tasha, and Basha let the Diva Ringleader know that they were ready to go. I'm sure Solomon attempted to broker a deal which would keep Diva there long enough to do what he needed to do - but the "ashas" were in no bargaining mood. Neither Solomon nor Diva was able to negotiate a deal that allowed her to stay even 10 more minutes - Salty Paul has triumphed - he has snatched defeat from the jaws of victory and no one could do anything about it. I don't know what happened much after that cause I went to my room and went to sleep minutes after Jalen - (I know a losing hand when I see one also - I folded).

I was told that as they were leaving, Salty Paul and one of the "ashas" got into a confrontation. I'm not sure how it evolved (based on historic precedence there's a good chance Salty Paul started it) but somewhere in there, one of the women made a reference to Salty Paul's mom, and he pushed her out the door by her face (a fitting end to the evening. Could it have been more symbollic?).

Award Tour Vol. 37: The Irony of That

There are many instances, where myself, my brothers, and my cousins have destroyed property that did not belong to us. Not intentionally but... does that really matter?

There was the time my younger brother Dee, broke two t.v.s in the house in one day (and it was the early 80's - back when t.v.s had dials that went from Channel U to 13 - and the dial was the remote control... unless you broke the dial - at which point the pliers you used to change the channels became the remote control). There was the unfortunate incident in which my brother Tre and I, dropped my father's bar - you remember that one right?

Our destructive ways weren't limited to things in our own house (oh no... we shared the wealth). There was the time when I went bowling, and I sent my ball hurtling down the alley employing a style that I created called the "Three Fingers of Death"(indicative of the fact that it is a style that relies solely on power and makes no account for accuracy whatsoever). Inexplicably, the pin sweeper activated as the ball was coming down the alley. The ball was not amused, and showed no mercy, cracking the sweeper at both hinges and sending pins and debris into both adjacent lanes - that my friends is destruction.

Of course, I could go into the story about when my cousin Martin and Tre were outside playing catch with a football, and one of them (throwing an errant pass) struck a transfomer on one of the telephone polls, and knocked out power to the entire block.

And who could forget when Mitchell (Martin's older brother) got a full head of steam, came running down the alley way to dunk on a basketball goal that we all knew couldn't take what he was about to give it. We tried to stop him exclaiming , "Mitchell, NO!" but to no avail... as he took flight and brought the "hammer down" on the rim - it just gave way like a sliding door at Wal-Mart on black Friday. The worst part of course, was that it wasn't our basketball goal... it was just a goal in the neighborhood that occasionaly we could go shoot on (until after that day). Being the responsible youth that we were, we looked at the destroyed basketball goal...

... and ran.

This brings us to the topic at hand. Myself and Tre, have gone to another neighbor's house (this time with permission) to play basketball in the backyard. Their basketball goal is ridiculously low (maybe 9 feet high on a good day) so no one really comes to play any serious basketball. All there is to do here is to dunk - sounds like fun (reads like trouble).

Cameron goes first (afterall this is his court and his backyard). Though the court is already lowered, Cameron has absolutely no "hops" (ability to jump high) and as such he requires the use of a picnic bench to get an extra boost before doing his dunk. His first offering, a one handed jam...

...I am not impressed.

"Yeah, baby yeah", Cameron said in self congratulatory tone as he strolled back clapping his hands. "Was that it?", I asked in a disparaging manner. He seems unaffected by my comments but that's okay because this was just the first salvo. I plan to wear him down.

"Uh oh - looks like we got a challenge", said Tre stirring the pot. I backed up with a smirk on my face (cause really - what did Cameron think he was doing here? Certainly not winning, not against me). I got a decent running start and launched. Though I didn't actually need it, I also jumped off the same picnic bench threw down a thunderous one-handed tomahawk dunk that echoed in his enclosed back yard. I didn't have to say anything as I strolled back... the silence said it all.

Cameron remained quiet and collected himself. He slowly nodded his head and sucked his tongue like, "okay - good one, good one". This was not him conceding defeat - but like I said I planned to wear him down. (Besides... what did Cameron think he was doing here? Certainly not winning, not against me)... He backs up, gets a running start (refusing to dribble the ball opting instead to carry it in his hands in front of him like a football), jumps off the bench and soars until it seems like he's floated in mid-air for a moment. "Hmmm", I thought to myself, "this seems all wrong. I mean, this shouldn't be majestic at all... but yet there he is... levitating gracefully in mid air like I do... which also shouldn't be happening. He should have plummeted like a rock... cause...well... he's not ME." Cameron sends home a two handed dunk that went in with a boom - shattering the silence. The whole scenario was impressive.

Tre "ooohed" and "ahhed" outloud in part to continue stirring the pot - but also because it was warranted... dude just came with it. Now it was my turn to stand in stunnned silence as he once had just a few seconds before. Where did that come from? I didn't know he had that in him. Someone check the settings on The Matrix I think someone has been fiddling with the controls. No way he should have been able to pull that off.

His last jam wasn't just spectacular - it was a turning point. You're saying to yourself, "How could that be so? You were only 3 dunks into the contest. How could one dunk change so much?". Good question... what one must never lose sight of is the fact that Cameron is Cameron and I am me. There is to be no competition here, anymore than lambs being led to slaughter are said to be competition for those who will soon kill them.

There was the belief, the expectation, hell... there was everything except a specific law of Physics mandating that Cameron would present no serious threat or challenge to me at all. Afterall I don't just play basketball - I live it - Cameron on the other hand is a skater (and from what I hear... not altogether a great one at that). When he leaves from here he is probably going to go hit the half pipe and "catch some air" - will he also go regaling his friends with stories of how he just dethroned a verifiable neighborhood legend? Will I allow such Tom-Foolery to transpire? No.

I don't care what hyped him up - I will not be deposed by a skater. If I lose this contest, I might as well renounce my melanin and go home and hide in the basement. I cannot allow this to happen.

I back up a step and close my eyes, as though I was whispering a prayer in the wind. All is silent and I remain still - I am channeling all my African ancestry and 400 years of oppression into this next dunk. From Shaka Zulu, to the run-away slave. From Henry Flipper to Colin Powell (I'll over look that whole "Bush Administration" thing for now) I'm about to paint the White House black (if you thought this last set of metaphors was the pinnacle of my ridiculous descriptions, I promise you I will do even worse in the next few stanzas).

I open my eyes and take off towards the bench. As I barrel forward I can hear each step thundering beneath me, and each one more powerful than the next. I plant one foot on the bench and launch as though I meant to never come back down again.

This is how things should be... Cameron on the ground earth bound and ME flying through the air... THIS is the natural order of things.

I fly through the air and close my eyes. Afterall, I don't need to see this... only those standing around me who are unfamiliar with my work need to. I am Thor and this basketball is my hammer - whom we will call Mjolinor. I need not gaze on in awe as you casual observers will... for I and my hammer Mjolinor - are on all too familiar ground. We shall once again do the astounding as though it were trivial - and you, who are uninitiated, will watch on and be amazed. [Insert Acute Delusions of Grandeur here]

I cock back with both hands and let fly with the dunk.

Boom!!!
Creak... POP!!!
Tinkle, Tinkle, Tinkle...

It is finished - except for the sound still echoing in the neighborhood - The Dunk is over. I am on the ground with my eyes closed...

...with the rim still firmly grasped in both hands - it was at this point that I knew something had gone terribly wrong.

I open my eyes to see 3 things: the entire backboard and rim ripped off it's foundation and sitting at my feet, Cameron holding his head with both hands with a look of shock on his face similar to a man realizing he hasn't won the Lotto just after he told his boss to kiss his a$, and Tre jumping up and down laughing so hard that no sounds were coming out.

No one has to tell me that I won the dunk contest - I know I have (there certainly won't be any chance to prove I haven't with the entire back board torn from it's foundations and washers, nuts, and bolts still tinkling as they rained down on the pavement from their once fixed position on high) . I get the feeling that this is going to be another Pyrrhic victory. I look at the backboard and back over to Cameron who is frozen in place, and back at Tre who is still laughing.

Broken Backboard + Not Mine = Time to Go (It's a tried and trusted equation that's never failed me before- why change up now?)

I gather my basketball, apologize quickly and then what do I do? I go home and hide in the basement - like - the basement was some sort of cloaking device and though people might come looking for me they would never find me. Silly to the nth degree I know... but still there's something about all this that you have to appreciate it... when I find out what that thing is I'll get back to y'all - just know for now that there is something.

Award Tour Vol. 36: I Wouldn't Be Around To Tell You About It

So I'm young... really young (meaning this story takes place years in the past). My younger brother Dee is still in diapers at the time this story occurs. On this particular day he was already upstairs in his crib - presumably asleep. We won't be far behind him. Our parents have told us as much - bedtime is in twenty minutes. We are already dressed in our robes and underneath that, our pajamas with the footies.

What? Act like you didn't have a pair of pajamas with the footies.

Anyway, I have my pajamas on, and Tre has on his - and we are playing with our Batman figurines in the family room. Because he is the older brother he gets to be Batman (again) and I am Robin (despite my protests). Defying the generally accepted canon - our caped crusaders create their own storyline. Ours are not the Batmans and Robins who stand unreasonably close to one another as they take turns partially solving facets of some inane riddle or conundrum. In our alternate universe, the Dynamic Duo has little use for utility belts, never consults the Bat Computer, and shuns the much vaunted Batmobile, choosing instead to fly through the air (on their own power) so that they might better rain down thoughtless and brutal terror on their enemies (as true superheroes should).

I know this might enrage some of the Batman "purists". So be it. We were just doing our part to balance out what was a blaring inequity amongst the membership of the original Justice League (What? Act like you thought Batman, having no super human abilities, had the right to rub shoulders with the other Super Friends. You didn't - you know you didn't. He was a water boy - and you hated him for it. But I digress)

Our mission, or rather Batman's and Robin's mission, started at the edge of the kitchen. As the storyline unfolds, we are required to fly over to the hide out (represented by the desk) and then an all out battle took place over near the canyon (the bar) - allow me to elaborate.

Many years ago, my father had a portable vertical bar in the family room, shaped to look like a large rock fire place. At the the bottom of this faux fireplace was a plastic molding shaped like firewood. There was a light behind it that, when switched on, gave the impression to the observer (or at least it was supposed to) that the fire place was lit. At the top of the bar was a lid that, like the rest of the bar, was cleverly disguised as part of the rock formation - you just had to love the 70's (even if you weren't around for them).

Anyway, inside the bar was what, even by today's standards, had to be considered an impressive stash of alcoholic elixirs, assorted spirits, novelty glasses, and custom accessories. If the family room had a crown jewel (apart from the floor model t.v. that looked as though it had been carved straight out of the trunk of a California RedWood Tree) the bar was it. My father had a right to be proud. Apart from the expensive alcohol, it had taken them years to acquire all those shot glasses, sniffers, tumblers and wine glasses - some of them they acquired when they were on their honey moon.

And now here come Batman and Robin (the new super-power enabled Batman and Robin). You probably have some idea of where this is going.

In the throes of an intense aerial battle near the "canyon" - Batman was struck down and fell to the depths of the canyon (really Tre just lost a grip of his figurine and it fell behind the bar). Tre reasoned that if we had told my parents what had happened, not only would they not get the figurine for us, but they also would have sent us to bed (and on this he was right). He subsequently determined that we could get the figurines ourselves (and on this he was wrong).

We attempted to tilt the bar back only so slightly, with both of us holding it, to get the figurine - but Tre couldn't reach from his side of the bar to grab it while still holding up his end. He postulated (incorrectly) that we might have greater success if he held one end, while I tried to reach in for the figurine - but my arms were just too short. So, in a moment that will live in infamy, we decided to switch positions. Tre who had longer arms tried to reach for the figurine, while I, alone tried to hold the bar up on the opposite end.

This idea represents the final ingredient in this recipe for diaster. Tre's arms were longer but his body was also wider, and so we had the tilt the bar further away from the wall to get to the figurine. It eventually listed over at an angle measured from vertical, that was too great for me to continue to hold it (not even with Tre's help, as he would soon find out - much to his abject horror).

As Tre pushed in to get the figurines, I heard assorted glass objects shift in the bar, and suddenly it became unearthly heavy. "Tre I can't hold it, I can't hold it", I cried as the weight from the bar begin to inch me back. Our failure to account for the low coefficient of friction of footie pajamas on the dry flatweave carpet would prove our undoing. Tre hearing the desperation in my voice, quickly rescued his Batman and tried to help push the bar up - his efforts were futile. His feet begin to give way just as mine had and the bar continued to tip even further from vertical. As he strained to push the bar back up he said something that I will never forget, "come on man, you can do it, push it back up!!!"

???

[Beak]
I would come to learn over my childhood years, that almost everytime we got in trouble it would follow this model. It would begin with Tre forming a great idea to which I would co-sign blindly, it would take a terrible turn when it became obvious he had miscalculated a key variable, and it would end with us, looking for divine intervention to get us out of an all-too-certain fiasco
[unBreak]

In those next few fleeting seconds with Tre's comments still swirling in my head... I had time to think about a few things.

1. If Tre is counting on me to hold this thing up, if he is banking on my strength (which is considerably less than his own at this time) to turn the tide - if he has concluded that he doesn't have the power to lift this thing up but somehow I do - then he is deluded. I'm looking to Tre to exhibit some last minute burst of superhuman strength that will get us out of this - how could I possibly save the day?

2. Soon all that will be left to do is to jump out of the way as this bar falls... because we cannot hold it... and we dare not be caught undearneath it when it hits the ground - should I jump to the right, or backwards towards the sofa?

3. Wow you really can see your life flash before you just before you die.

The bar lists forward a little further, and both Tre have no choice but to jump back to safety - he on the left hand side of the bar, myself on the right hand side. And it came down with a deafening crash - I don't think I've ever heard so much glass breaking simultaneously in my life.
Ordinarily when I and my brothers:

a). Got into trouble
b). Broke something
c). Did something wrong
d). All of the above

we could hear my father's angry footsteps, as he was forced to leave the comfort of his bed (and undoubtedly the best part of the game) to investigate the happenings down stairs- each stride stomping out a warning that Terrible Swift Justice was on the way. We usually had 3 or 4 seconds to wig out knowing that "The Authorities" were on the way and there was no way to escape or hide the evidence - those 3 or 4 seconds were agonizing. Tears would well up in your eyes before he even got downstairs - just thinking about it. This time was different.

This time I didn't even hear any footsteps... my father was just all of a sudden there - and I know he hadn't been before. He was upstairs watching the game as he so often was - but by the time the bar hit the ground - I turned around to look and he was standing there... as though The Enterprise had just beamed him down. At first he glanced quickly to see if we were hurt. Seeing that we were not, his face became ablaze with anger.

Alcohol of every variety seeped out of the now horizontal bar and soaked into the carpet. My father walked over to the edge of the bar and opened the lid whereupon even more liquid rushed out onto the ground carrying with it hundreds of glittering pieces of wet broken glass and shards of what "use to be" cascading onto the floor - oh but we are in trouble now.

My mother quickly grabbed us and escorted us off to the kitchen. She sat us in chairs (deliberately out of view of my father) and said to us in a low but urgent voice that conveyed all the gravity of the life and death situation, "You sit here - and you be quiet. You don't say a word - you don't make a sound - you don't move. I don't even want to hear you breathe. Do you understand?" We both nod as silently as possible. She leaves, returning to the family room to help my father clean up the mess we made.

And per her instructions we didn't make any noise... didn't even move... not even to look at each other. Our chairs didn't squeak, our clothes didn't even rustle. We were deathly quiet. And so were my parents - they didn't say anything to one another. All that could be heard for the next 30 minutes was the sound of broken glass being swept up into a dust pan off of a gin and vodka soaked carpet.

Each time there was a pile great enough to be dumped in the trashcan (which was also in the kitchen) my mother made the delivery herself, being careful to keep us out of view of my father-she made sure there was no direct line of sight (in truth, we would not see our father for the rest of the evening - and if I remember correctly for the next few days. Thankfully I had parents that knew when they could and couldn't punish their children and that evening was one of them - my mom saved us that night).

After the recovery effort, my mother first convinced my father to go upstairs and to finish watching the game. Then, and only then, when he was distracted from the colossal error his sons had just committed, did my mother quitely come to the kitchen and get us and take us to bed - same rules for survival apply: Do not make a sound. And we don't - not even when slipping into bed on oridnarily squeaky mattresses.

Many years later, now we can all laugh about the bar incident. It wasn't funny then - but we can chuckle about it now (since my father doesn't even drink anymore and the bar has since been retired). We never did get punished for crashing it - Thank God - otherwise I wouldn't be around to tell you about it.

Award Tour Vol. 35: I Didn't Have to Call Him a Punk

So once I was doing an internship in Houston, Texas (I did alot of internships... most of them gave me the opportunity to see what I DIDN'T want to do for a living). This internship is really no different in that regard. I get along well with the interns and the lady who recruited me to start with - but the people I work with are a bunch of walking a$$es masquerading as normal likeable people (it's been almost 10 years, and I can still say that). Let me further clarify my statement. The technicians that I worked with are all salt-of-the-earth kind of people. Hard working, good natured, humorous. Them I liked. Basically everyone who was paid on an hourly scale - they were people you looked forward to working with. Then there were the engineers.

Before I begin, let me preface my statements, I am not biased against engineers... I am one. That's what I do for a living currently (and only because that Mega Millions things hasn't quite worked out yet... damn those astronomical odds against winning). So it's not that I have an axe to grind against the profession - more like a poisonous dart that I throw at it from time to time. Why? Again - it's not a grudge - it's just that I am also a living breathing human being - and on occassion, I treat others like they are human beings as well... (it's a novel concept but it has actually paid dividends more times than the Lotto has).

Humanity was a concept that was foreign to the engineers at this company (which will remain nameless). These people weren't even people... they were more like the missing link between us and the prototypes of the Terminator. They looked like human beings, and sounded like them but in reality they were just a bunch of souless automatons, who plugged themselves into a wall and fed themselves through an umbilical chord at night. Their lives didn't just revolve around finding a way to back-bite and out-manuever their coworkers... they were dedicated to it. That is what they did. They engineered and they double crossed . I'm willing to bet that some of them actually believe that they got paid to do both.

When they were not actively sabotaging others in an effort to climb another quarter inch up the Corporate ladder, they disguised the knives they intended to jab into the soft part of your back with pleasantries like:

"Hey how's it going"
"There he is"
"Hey want to go to lunch"?

Each one so remarkably insincere and forced, you would think they were testing themselves to see just how sarcastic they could really be. But since you asked let me respond. "How's it going? Didn't you just convene a meeting about my project behind my back after I JUST asked you to keep me in the loop if we were going to make any changes? How do you suppose it's going after some bull$h!t like that?"

If it were not for the social life offered in Houston, this internship would literally have shaved years off of my life expectancy. I took every opportunity to blow off steam... every opportunity to find new social outlets. It didn't matter how big or small... anything if it had nothing to do with work.

For example, I had to give my friend Rhonda a ride home from work. She lived a little ways north of the apartment I was renting out, and though it's a little out of the way, it's no problem because she is cute (and I'm laying the ground work for future rendevouzes... like I said social outlets). I drop her off, and stop at a gas station to fill up and to wash my car (Exxon used to have automatic car wash areas at their stations... some of them still do).

So I'm gassed up, car is clean. I'm going to head back home and see if I can make some plans for the evening. In certain areas of Houston in the suburbs (at least at the time I was out there) they used to have two lane highways all over the place but no protected turns. And when I say protected turns, I mean, lights that let people make left hand turns while oncoming traffic is held at bay. See the Figure.

I was at the front of the line poised to make my left, but it is around 5 or 6 o'clock, and everyone is getting off of work right now - there are a lot of cars on the road. I know it is a stretch of the imagination but - alot of those cars are headed in the opposite direction of where I'm going. This opposite direction represents on-coming traffic (I know, I know... I am always coming up with these new and unheard of paradigms - I mean who would think that traffic could go in more than one direction? This is revolutionary).

This means when the light turns green, I will have to wait before I can make my turn. This both confuses and angers a man driving a black pick-up truck several cars behind me. He's not into this whole unprotected-turn-wait-for-oncoming-traffic-jazz... he sees a green light and green means go. I understand his frustration in principle. I don't particularly care for people who are slow to react at green lights either... but there is no way for me to make this turn without causing a major accident in the intersection, and so I wait (another novel concept).

I guess it was too much to ask him to wait too. When the right hand lane on our road emptied out, he jumped out into that lane quickly, and then lays on the horn as he's driving up. And when I say he laid into it, I mean, he held it down like a man drowning his arch-rival in the shallow end of a lake. The horn blared the whole way up... I heard the Doppler Shift and everything. It was an angry, unbroken, protest in the key of "F#$% You" done for everyone at the intersection to see. Is this enough to assuage his anger? No. He hasn't insulted me enough yet. He must also drive past and flip me the bird. And so he does...

...perhaps he should have quit while he was ahead.

By this time I had actually started to take my left hand turn - as oncoming traffic had let up. I was already half way in the turn when I saw the truck drive by with the driver flipping me the bird defiantly. "Son of a -" I didn't even get to finish my thought before the gamma radiation took over. I whip the wheel back to the right furiously aborting my left hand turn and stomp on the gas... to chase this idiot down.

This is road rage in full blossom. "You're gonna blow your horn at me AND flip me the bird? And the bird?"

As I pulled out of my left-hand turn at the last second and gunned the engine, I looked up at the driver of the truck as he sped down the street. I saw him glance, in horror, into his side view mirror realizing to some extent what he has just done. As I slowly walked him down (and how I managed to do this, I'm not sure since he was driving what appeared to be an F-150 and I was driving a Ford Escort - in terms of comparison of horse power there wasn't one - the F-150 has it the Escort does not) I saw him check periodically with great nervousness in his rear view mirror as I got closer.

"Yeah... ma' f#$%^& - I'm coming after you. Don't check your rear view to see if I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere, I AM coming for your monkey a$$."

I finally managed to pull up beside him, and [no exaggeration] rolled down the passenger side window (with the crank, not with any buttons... no power windows on this model of Escort) and asked him, "Do you have a f#$%^&* problem???" - all while not watching the road.

Even with my window rolled down, and my car as close to his truck as I could possibly get it, I couldn't have heard what he was saying (even if he had had the sacks to actually say something - which he didn't). Instead he became a mime, gesturing in a much more humble and emasculated fashion than he had just a few moments ago at the intersection. He attempted to explain what he meant by his antics. Fortunately for you I speak "mimish" and can translate.

First he waved his hand side to side and shook his head. This means:

"No sir, I have no quarrel with you."

He pointed back towards the intersection that we just left. Not vigorously, but softly, like the fortitude of his spine. This means:

"I was flipping the bird to someone else."

Oh I see, so you were blowing your horn AND flipping the bird at the OTHER black guy in the Ford Escort making an unprotected left turn at the last intersection. Got it.

Rather than leave anything to debate or to question, I spurn the use of "mimish" and instead end the dialog with the audible and unmistakable, "Yeah, I didn't THINK so... Punk B#$%&!!!" The driver of the truck declined to respond - probably a good decision. I slowed my car down, at the next intersection... did a U-turn and went home. The other driver didn't dare look back at me (I know cause I glowered at him). I hope he had some Adult Huggies or Depends on, cause by the look on his face when I drove off, I think there's an excellent chance that he uh - had a gastro-intestinal evacuation during the confrontation. Oh well. I've been exhonerated. All's well that ends well.

What? You think that was too much? You think I was over the top. You know what? You're right. I didn't have to call him a punk.