Roy L. Pickering Jr.'s Blog, page 17
September 12, 2013
SERENA WILLIAMS - Daddy's Girl
Since my column written for Suite101.com back in the day is no longer archived there, I am presenting a few of the articles here at A Line A Day . Many of them were time sensitive so I’ll pass on taking a stroll down memory lane with those. But a few stand up pretty good in reprint despite the passage of years since they were written. I have reprinted IMAGINE here because athletes being busted for taking performance enhancing drugs continues to be a plague on sports. More recently I reprinted
Once upon a time. No, let me be more precise. On June 11, 1978 an event took place that would end up transforming the world of tennis, though not for many years to come. It was on this day that Virginia Ruzici won the French Open women's singles championship. A man who resided in Californiawas watching on television and he found himself amazed not so much by the skill and effort displayed by Virginiaduring the match, as by the size of the check she received at the end of it. Over twenty thousand dollars for a day's work. Not bad at all. The man vowed that any children his wife gave birth to in the following years would play tennis. Since those children would need to be taught how to play, and he was by no means a wealthy man who could provide them with top notch instructors, he bought some books and videotapes and taught himself the game. Within three years the man's family had grown by two daughters. They were named Venus and Serena.
Their training ground would be the less than pristine glass strewn public courts of Compton. Unlike a sport such as basketball that requires no more than a single ball to be shared by everyone and a rim attached to a backboard, the considerably pricier game of tennis rarely generates its stars from ghetto neighborhoods. American phenoms in expensive sports like golf and tennis tend to be white, and they almost always have the advantage of elite training at top tier institutions. Neither was the case for Venus and Serena. What they did have was a determined father with a master plan. And since their starting point was not the conventional one, it stands to reason that the steps taken along the way were radical as well. Eyebrows of those who thought they knew it all were certainly raised when Richard Williams pulled his daughters from the junior ranks, even though Venus by that point at age 11 had earned national attention for her prowess. He relocated his family to Fort Lauderdalewhere for the next 3-1/2 years there would be no tournaments or competitive match play for the Williams sisters. Even after the traditional route had become an option, rather than following it, Richard arranged for his daughters to practice, practice and practice some more with academy instructor Rick Macci. Instead of going through the machinations usually employed to churn out professional tennis players, Venus and Serena kept tennis as a focal point, but not as the only thing in their lives. They earned high school diplomas with top marks, developed outside interests such as their love of fashion. But all the while, the eyes of Richard and his daughters remained on the prize. And now, twenty three years after that fateful match won by Virginia Ruzici, the most prevalent questions being asked in tennis circles are the following three. Will Serena Williams once again reign as the US Open women's champion? Or will the 2001 version of this contest be won for the second time in a row by arguably the best female player in the world - a gal named Venus? And lastly, wouldn't it be something if they ended up playing each other for this honor in the Final? It seems there was a method to Richard's madness.
Why then has the extraordinary success of Venus and Serena been routinely accompanied by controversy and flat out resentment? Why are these talented, intelligent, attractive young ladies the least popular players on the tour? Was Venus' sudden withdrawal before a match sufficient cause for Serena to be subjected to a cascade of jeering rather than cheering as she earned a championship at Indian Wells earlier this year? And even if the circumstances of that day were somewhat suspicious, why was it reported that words far more offensive than "boo" were yelled at Serena?
Some would blame the perceived "unladylike" arrogance of the Williams sisters, demonstrated by the fact that they rarely credit losses to superior play by their opponents, and the audacity they showed in turning down lucrative endorsements until the stakes grew sufficiently lofty. Others would cite envy of Venus and Serena, who seem less dedicated than those they routinely annihilate because they play in considerably less tournaments than their top ten peers. There are those who are convinced that the outcome of matches between Venus and Serena are fixed, depending on whose turn it has been determined to be the victor. A few people probably had a problem with the beads once worn in their hair, or the colorful form fitting outfits they don to better exhibit their tall, lean, muscular physiques. Would someone be playing the so called race card in claiming that the brown skin of Venus and Serena is at the root of the troubles they find, or simply stating the obvious? There do happen to be folks on the professional tennis circuit who have predominantly positive comments to make about the Williams sisters. There actually are players who do not form competitive alliances against them, such as was admittedly done by Lindsey Davenport and Martina Hingis during last year's US Open. But even the majority of these people cease to compliment and start expressing disapproval towards the architect of the Williams master plan - Papa Williams.
When Richard Williams encounters racism, such as he said he did at Indian Wells, he is not shy about bringing it up and shouting it down. When he merely suspects that he detects it, such as when Irina Spirlea bumped into Venus during a changeover, he does not hesitate to brand her "a big, tall, white turkey", nor to contend that the incident was motivated by a broader racist attitude on the tour. He did later apologize for insulting Spirlea, but he is never apologetic about exposing racism, nor about exhibiting excessive pride to the point of gloating over his daughters' accomplishments. Richard Williams has been blamed for and accused of many things, but subtlety is not one of them. This is a man who has attended matches sporting signs that read "It couldn't have happened to a nicer family" and "I told you so". This is a man who once went on to the court and performed a celebratory dance on behalf of Venus while her vanquished opponent stormed off. Richard Williams has not chosen to hold his tongue about additional fees he feels his daughters should receive due to the greatly expanded fan base they are wholly responsible for bringing to tennis, much as Tiger Woods has done in golf. Speaking of Tiger, it is natural to compare his feats and impact to that of Venus and Serena. They do after all share the ability to win virtually at will and often with great ease; a plethora of lucrative endorsements; a Jackie Robinson like effect on the formerly lily white sports they have come to dominate; and unique names that match the flair of their playing styles. Yet even Earl Woods, father of Tiger, has been critical about the antics of Richard Williams and how Venus and Serena's behavior reflects poorly on their upbringing.
The more Richard Williams shouts to be given his due, to have the near miracle he has accomplished be properly acknowledged, the more scorn and derision he invites. And some of it inevitably spills over on to his daughters whether they deserve it or not. Instead of the genius who managed to put two of his children simultaneously in the upper echelons of tennis, enabling them to earn fortune and fame, he is cast in the villainous role of detriment to their brilliant and apparently limitless careers. There will probably be no end to the stream of conspiracy theorists and Martinas like Navratilova and Hingis who claim that rather than being held down by race, Richard takes advantage of it in a politically correct climate to get away with what others would be crucified for. And they probably do make some valid points, even while mostly missing the point.
In rebuttal, I believe Richard Williams would say to his detractors, and most likely stated far more boldly than I will put it here - "Do you think you can do a better job molding well rounded, well adjusted, one (make that two) of a kind multi-millionaire athletes out of nothing but a ghetto dream inspired by a memorable moment of television viewing? Let's see you try."
Being who he is, and his relationship with the media being what it is, even with his lower profile Richard Williams still manages to steal headlines away from his daughters from time to time. For example...
September 10, 2013
A Black Quarterback By Any Other Name Would Be
I have often stated my amazement at the fact that the President of the United States of America has been a black man for just about the entirety of my seven year old daughter's life. A person's view of the world is shaped by the particulars of their existence. If a single person could lead two lives, one of them beginning in 1953 and the other starting in 1993, the result would be two different sets of belief systems and attitudes. Practically two different people. It may as well be two different planets they resided on rather than merely different decades. My daughter and her peers will not grow up thinking that becoming the most powerful person in the world is beyond any of them, be they girl or boy, black or white. I can't honestly say that this is how I felt as a 7 year old. No matter how you feel about President Obama's policies and the way in which he has presided, the significance of his presence in the oval office cannot be minimized and its impact will spread indefinitely.
Pictured above is not President Barack Obama, but rather, 9 of the 32 quarterbacks who started for NFL teams in week 1 of the 2013 season. Now if you were born in 2003 you might simply look at this picture and shrug. If born in 1993 it might give you slight pause. If you had my ancient birthday however, you'd likely say something like - Well damn, will you look at that! One cannot deny that there is significance to this event, not if one has been around long enough to remember when the occurrence seemed quite implausible.
At The Big Lead @thebiglead an article was written by Jason Mcintyre provocatively titled "The NFL is Entering the Golden Age of Black Quarterbacks". The photo above illustrates rather clearly why it was written. The reasons cited were primarily football reasons rather than social commentary about the evolution of race relations in this country. Defensive players, particularly linemen and linebackers, are growing increasingly fast and athletic. In order for quarterbacks to excel, they needed to do the same. Dumb stereotypes about black men not being able to handle the thinking man's position of QB have fortunately gone by the wayside over the past few decades, as most false beliefs do (see flatness of the earth as an example). Removal of such ignorance freed football teams to simply go with the best man for the job, and that has increasingly become the more athletic man, and this leads to the choice being the Black Man more so today than ever before. If the trend continues, and I see no reason why it won't, then the title of Mcintyre's article is fairly accurate.
This title/premise annoyed at least one sports writer - Robert Littal aka
Rather than writing a rebuttal or endorsement of either piece, I am reprinting an article that I wrote for Suite101.com in 2001 entitled THE BLACK ATHLETE. That's right, I said in 2001. Told you I was no spring chicken. So much water has passed under the Cliche Bridge since I wrote it and yet I didn't need to change a word to re-express my opinion about the issue of race in sports. Turns out I agreed with both Mcintyre and Littal long before they ever got around to expressing their views on the matter. Check it out:
Do African-Americans (and individuals of African heritage in general) tend to excel in athletic competition? If answered in the affirmative, what is the rationale behind this phenomenon? And most important of all, what are the implications of this reasoning?
Considered objectively, African-Americans clearly represent a significantly larger percentage of professional athletes (particularly at the most elite levels) than the portion of the population that they represent. This is beyond debate. On the track, if anyone will be gaining ground on Marion Jones or Maurice Greene any time soon, in all likelihood they will not have blonde hair and blue eyes. Whether in short distance sprints or long distance marathons, the person who crosses the finish line first usually has brown skin. On most teams in the NBA in recent history, if you were searching for a white man you would have been best served starting with the twelfth man on the bench, if there was one to be found at all. Disproportionate numbers of blacks occupy positions in the NFL that require the most speed, agility, and leaping ability. Think about it. If you were choosing sides for a game of pick up basketball and had to decide between the remaining white guy and the remaining black guy, all other characteristics appearing equal, whom would you choose?
Scientists have researched, and some even claim to have found physiological differences that prove members of one race are predisposed to do better at certain tasks than members of other races. If it is taken as factual that a person's heritage makes them more susceptible to a particular disease, then can an equally valid point not be made about one group of people genetically having faster twitch muscles than another?
And so, with both impartial numbers and unbiased science supporting the case, why is the statement that blacks are superior athletes to whites such a controversial one? Why do some people vehemently oppose such a seemingly obvious notion? The answer can be written in black and white. America is a land obsessed with race relations. Racial prejudice is by no means a lost art in the land of the free, home of the brave. So any broad statement that divides us along color lines will be open to great scrutiny. Even if a generality seems benign, it still constitutes a stereotype. Once a stereotype is accepted by those it is being pinned on, the argument for other less pleasant stigmas is strengthened. Is to accept being labeled as naturally faster worth the cost of also being considered inherently lazier, or less intelligent, or more criminal minded? Of course not. This is a clear cut case of the negatives far outweighing the positives. Sometimes evidence is best left ignored.
Besides, the latest wave of European imports and special American finds is slowly but surely bringing a semblance of racial balance to the NBA. If any race can be said to be tailor made to dominate Major League Baseball, that honor belongs not to blacks, but to Hispanics. Perhaps the next white heavyweight champion of the world is not lurking around a corner in nearby proximity (I was proven wrong here. See Brothers Klitschko). But a Brit did recently manage to win and hold the belt for awhile, which is just about as fantastical as the plots of Rocky I through V.
It's just plain sense that those who were initially excluded from competing at the highest levels of sports would end up excelling when finally given the opportunity. As for dominating or at least achieving fair representation in coaching and front office positions, this is probably still a long time away. One barrier at a time. Changing institutionalized perceptions is a slow process, and Jackie Robinsons come around only every so often. So as tennis goes the way of the Williams sisters; Tiger Woods elevates himself farther and farther above his tennis brethren; and African-Americans continue to smash pigskin myths by demonstrating an aptitude for "thinking" positions like quarterback; those who long for a paler shade of sports are left to take solace for now that not too many folks of brown, yellow, or red complexion have taken much interest in ice hockey yet.
If you've read this far, you rock!!! As bonus for those of you not suffering from short attention spans I will cut and paste below some thoughts I wrote about an exceptional athlete/quarterback/black quarterback/ball/er/phenom/whatever you wish to call him, during the 04-05 football season. The sky appeared to be the limit for this young man who was basically the personification of what I wrote in 2001. At the time I wrote about him he had led his team the Atlanta Falcons to the playoffs early in his career, and it seemed there would be no stopping him any time soon. There have been quite a few twists and turns in his story since then, but this makes the potential I saw in him and for the change he would bring about in the NFL no less valid. Check it out:
With all due respect to Tom Brady and his two impressive Super Bowl rings, or to Ben Roethlisberger and his impressive winning streak, the man to whom most eyes would be glued is MICHAEL VICK. Why is that? Well, he just happens to be the most athletically gifted highlight reel making player the NFL has ever seen. He plays the most analyzed and admired position on the field, and does so in an unconventional manner never before witnessed. Yesterday the NFL belonged to the likes of Dan Marino and John Elway, and today belongs to Peyton Manning and his two consecutive league MVP awards. However, if you take Peyton out of his domed home stadium and place him outdoors to face wintry elements, his prowess can be tamed by an elite defense. On any given Sunday a scheme can be concocted to thwart veteran pigskin slingers such as Brett Favre or emerging hot shots like Drew Brees. But just how does one prepare to face a player as talented and unpredictable as Michael Vick? He is two superstars merged into one, both a quarterback with a canon for an arm and a running back with lightning fast legs. Michael Vick may be providing a glimpse at tomorrow in the NFL. Football purists who believe the prototype of a quarterback is a white guy who stays in the pocket and throws perfect spirals right before getting hit in the chest by a charging linebacker probably do not fully appreciate Michael's gifts. Those who can take or leave aging aesthetic values and prefer to focus on the bottom line understand that Vick may beat you with his arm, or he may beat you with his feet, but the important thing is that he will beat you.
The NFL is known as being a copycat league. If a particular game plan proves to be very successful for one team, it’s a brief matter of time before half the league has adopted it. Offensive and defensive fads come and go, and for each one, numerous variations are devised. If Michael Vick proceeds to lead the Atlanta Falcons to Super Bowl victory, talent scouts throughout the NFL will go in search of running backs with strong arms, or quarterbacks with fast feet. The hybrid QB will be much sought after while the conventional quarterback will become an endangered species. Professional football as we currently know it may be transformed into an entirely different game, sort of like how the NBA went from a league of spot up jump shooters to one of acrobatic dunkers, or how sluggers in baseball could once lead the league in homeruns with 30 in a season, but now hit that many by the All Star break.
July 29, 2013
#DonLemonLogic
The reason there is so much violence and chaos in the black precincts is because of the disintegration of the African-American family. – Bill O’Reilly
STFU Bill – The vast majority of black people in America
Recently CNN’s Don Lemon proposed some solutions to deal with alleged persistent problems in the African American community (see video above). He suggested 5 things that he feels would be effective: hiking up pants, finishing school, restraint from N-word usage, taking better care of own communities, and not having so many babies out of wedlock. Lemon caught a considerable amount of flack (i.e. people lost their minds) for expressing these opinions. I should add that he prefaced his suggestions by agreeing with criticism of African Americans that came from the obnoxious mouth of Bill O’Reilly. Not only did he agree with it, but he said Bill didn’t go far enough. Not that Bill is the first white person or Don Lemon the first black person to propose racial self criticism rather than only directing critique outward towards “the oppressor”. I should also add that the genesis of this topic was the killing of Trayvon Martin and the subsequent acquittal after belated arrest of George Zimmerman. At this particular moment in history as we cry #JusticeForTrayvon and aim to counter the unfair verdict with decisive action, self criticism is the last thing many black people want to hear. When connecting such (well meaning?) (condescending?) advice to the killing of Trayvon Martin, it sounds like one is agreeing with the prosecutor’s POV (which the jury went along with) that Trayvon brought about his own death, rather than seeing the fault as lying primarily/exclusively with his killer. Don Lemon wasn’t actually talking about Zimmerman’s acquittal when giving his self-help proposals. I also suspect Bill O’Reilly (whom I dislike and won’t be coy about it) was not talking specifically about the disintegration of Trayvon Martin’s family as the cause of his death. Nevertheless, Bill’s judgment and Don’s suggestions and mass furor over Zimmerman’s acquittal have become intertwined. This led to Don Lemon (no point in yelling at O’Reilly, he’d just revel in it) getting an earful of pissed off responses. “How dare you give the African American community advice? To hell with you for insinuating that we need help, that we have problems in need of fixing? If you must criticize, can’t you at least be original rather than repeating Bill Cosby’s material? And shame on you for suggesting that Bill O’Reilly has ever been right about anything?
My own response to Mr. Lemon is considerably less heated, which isn’t to say that I’m in full agreement with him. I certainly don’t think it was smart of him to co-sign as divisive a figure as O’Reilly or any of his conservative ilk that pollute the airwaves (primarily on Fox). And Don should have known his timing was very poor. Perhaps he knew and doesn’t care. He seems like an intelligent man so he probably anticipated backlash. To get discussion started it is often necessary to ruffle feathers and Don Lemon certainly accomplished that. Pointing out white privilege will get you nods and high fives of agreement every time. Pointing out black responsibility for projecting a negative image (have you listened to the lyrics of those rap songs; have you seen those gold teeth; why is gang culture exalted rather than condemned?) usually results in jeers and sarcastic hashtags on Twitter. Why should we follow Lemon's non-militant advice? After all, if his suggestions were followed to the letter there would still be racism against black people across America. There’s just no getting around that. If every black person walked around in tuxedos and evening gowns, showing off their PhD credentials, never saying a single word beginning with the letter N, carrying brooms at all times to keep their neighborhoods litter free, and pulled off having every child born into a nuclear family – there would still be a bunch of bigots who hate and/or disrespect black people. Disdain of white privilege would remain the go to response. In other words, if Don Lemon was Emperor of the Universe and could make his suggestions reality with a wave of his magic wand, post racial America would be about the same distance away as it is now. Black people don’t need to prove to whites that they’re worthy to be treated as equals in every regard. This just needs to happen beginning yesterday.
On the other hand, if you were one of the squeaky wheels demanding oil after Don Lemon’s proclamations, what exactly did he suggest that you find problematic? This is what I think:
1) Pants sagging below one’s ass is an idiotic look, there’s just no getting around it. If homeless people look at you and shake their heads at your fashion style, you’ve made a wrong turn. Yet a fairly significant number of black people for reasons that escape me are walking around like this, and it’s been going on for quite a few years now. I don’t care if the look was inspired by prison culture or an episode of Gilligan’s Island or whatever. I just know that it isn’t worth defending and we might want to move on to something ever so slightly less ludicrous, such as the bolo tie. Purchasing belts/suspenders won’t create wealth (unless it gets you the job you applied for) or eradicate racism, but it will restore a measure of dignity to those who elected to abandon it.
2) Take school seriously, not that there aren't other alternatives to success but they have a lower percentage. Pursue higher education for it has been proven to lead to higher income which leads to overall better quality of life. There is nothing wrong with supporting this idea or with finding an anti-education/anti-grammar/anti-upward mobility mindset to be self destructive.
3) Changing “er” at the end of an insult to “a” does not make it poetry. It just keeps a hateful word alive and promotes hypocrisy. “I can say it but you can’t because I say so” is a weak argument that should not need to be made over and over and over again. It's like Italians claiming they're the only ones who have permission to say "spaghetti". Hell no.
4) Cleanliness is next to Godliness and makes a much better impression than filth. This was probably Lemon’s weakest point. Wealthy neighborhoods are in better condition than poor ones because of money. The haves have, the have-nots don’t so suffer as result. But it goes without saying that people should take care of their communities as much as they are able.
5) There are many heads of single parent households doing a bang up job. But would we be better off if fewer teen girls were getting pregnant and if the guys responsible were holding up their end when pregnancies happen? Of course. A child born without a proper support network in place will be less likely to excel in school, so addressing Lemon's fifth suggestion should take care of suggestion #2. Would there also be less people littering while walking around with sagging pants and calling themselves niggas? Probably.
Don Lemon did not say anything new. There are some who agree that following up on his suggestions would improve things, others who simply find them insulting. If you’re one of those who does not believe the advice will do any good, tell me, what harm would it do? The truth is, I’ve heard far worse recommendations and suspect you have too.
But I don’t believe black people should be singled out by Lemon, O’Reilly or anyone else for their perceived faults. So to even things out here are 5 unrequested suggestions to all white people. I’ll provide the same disclaimer that Lemon did. “If this doesn’t apply to you, I’m not talking to you.”
1) Enough with the white flight. If the demographics of your neighborhood are changing, faces getting browner, embrace the diversity rather than fleeing from it. We can all learn from one another, enjoy each other’s company, and yes, we can all get along.
2) No more token friends of color to bring up when you’re accused of racism in order to prove you aren’t racist. They need to be your actual friends that you spend non-required (workplace doesn’t count) time with, have over to your house repeatedly for social interaction, vacation with, consider as godparents for your kids, stuff like that. If you had authentic friendships with black people you probably wouldn’t have made the comment that somebody found offensive.
3) Hypocritical or not, don’t pretend you don’t realize that your use of the N-word will be deemed an insult. This is true even if you said it to a guy who just referred to you, himself and his grandmother as N-words. Yes, I realize how illogical this seems but just roll with me anyway and delete the word from your vocabulary no matter how anybody chooses to spell it.
4) Stop pretending that welfare, food stamps, public assistance of any kind is taking money away from all white people to give to all black people. There are black ghettoes and there are white ghettoes. Okay, maybe the white ones call themselves trailer parks rather than ghettoes. You still get my point that poverty doesn’t have a color, it sucks all around, and everyone mired in it will have a tougher time acquiring bootstraps to pull up than those who never had to wonder where their next meal was coming from.
5) If you insist on being a conservative republican, figure out how to do so employing language that does not insult black people. This should not be all that difficult as there’s nothing especially bigoted about being Pro Life, or a member of the NRA, or in favor of smaller, less intrusive government. If you professed those things and managed to piss a black person off in the process, double check how you chose to express it because you may have said a bit more than that. For example, if based on your preference for less governmental interference in day to day affairs you concluded that President Obama was born in Kenya and has a master plan to convert America 100% to socialism, you went too far.
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Enter to winJuly 17, 2013
#Trayvon Martin and George #Zimmerman - The Aftermath
I knew how I felt when the names "Trayvon Martin" and "George Zimmerman" first came to my attention. Incensed. Betrayed. Determined. I did not know the details of that night with certainty, not with one of the participants dead and the other untrustworthy. What I knew for sure was that far too much leniency had been shown to George Zimmerman. How could he not be arrested after admitting he shot and killed an unarmed teen whose path he crossed because he chose to get out of his car and follow Trayvon rather than minding his own damn business? Being on Neighborhood Watch does not give one the right to harass passersby. And to do so while carrying a loaded weapon is unconscionable. It is provoking a fight that you have no chance of losing and the other person has no hope of surviving if you lose your cool. Lose his cool is precisely what George Zimmerman did. The legal term for this that ended up getting him acquitted is Self Defense. Another term brought to our attention over the months following that brutal night was Stand Your Ground. Why was it George's ground more than it was Trayvon's to protect? George may have lived in the complex but Trayvon was visiting a resident so belonged there as well. According to Zimmerman, Trayvon was acting suspiciously. That's a pretty vague description of one's behavior. If you suspect someone of being up to no good by a glance at their skin color, grooming, age, fashion sense, they automatically become suspicious by the mere act of existing in your presence. It isn't a crime to consider somebody a suspect. But when you act as judge, jury and executioner all in one, that certainly is a crime in my book. I was under the impression that this constituted a crime in the opinion of our justice system as well.
Like countless others I demanded justice for Trayvon, and by this I specifically meant an arrest of George Zimmerman and a trial where he would be presumed innocent until proven otherwise. I got what I wanted. It took considerably more than should have been necessary but George Zimmerman eventually had his day in court. As for the verdict, that was out of the hands of everyone but six carefully if not wisely selected people. We got to hear the evidence along with them but only they were permitted to decide on it, to weigh in on George Zimmerman's fate. They declared him to be Not Guilty. This isn't the same as Innocent but serves flawlessly as a Get Out of Jail Free card. Many people, I among them, are greatly dissatisfied with the result. But I know that the verdict isn't necessarily the final result of this matter. I'm not referring to the possibility of a civil trial. I mean that the nation paid far too much attention to this case for it not to have far reaching repercussions. Change should be brought about. Good may come out of it in the long run. Our disappointment, anger and pain was not in vain - or so I hope to be true.
We've learned substantial lessons as result of Trayvon Martin's untimely death. Brought to mainstream attention was the fact that Stand Your Ground laws are sprinkled about this country, and in general are a bad idea. Knowing this, we can now get to work on eliminating them. The folly of our gun regulations and lack thereof was once again highlighted. A spotlight was shed on racial profiling, even if the phrase did not make it into the courtroom. People vented about being singled out, communicated in innumerable ways how insulting, demoralizing, and potentially dangerous it can be. Even if ignored, their voices were heard. Stop and Frisk is a policy that should end up with considerably less public support/acceptance as result of the killing of Trayvon Martin. We learned that when seeking justice it is ideal for a jury to be peers of the victim as well as the accused, rather than only one or the other. When George Zimmerman was not arrested right off the bat, we signed petitions and took to blogs and to Twitter and Facebook and every public venue we could find to express our dismay. We learned that when we speak as one on a cause that truly matters to us, to the core of our being, we will be heard. We also learned we have a President that could have stayed neutral and out of it, but instead jumped in and made us proud that he did not step aside from his blackness.
Coverage of the story from a wide variety of perspectives was exhaustive and omnipresent, but does that mean its effects will linger? Will the killing and subsequent trial and resulting uproar over the verdict be like the Alamo, an event never to be forgotten so the chances of history repeating itself will be minimized? Or will this all quickly fade when the next Big Thing arrives and snatches our attention spans? Newtown shooting to Boston Bombing to Snowden the Snitch to Zimmerman trial to catastrophe to be named and hashtagged later.
I'd like to think that if nothing else, the death of Trayvon Martin at the acquitted blood stained hands of George Zimmerman will result in greatly increased incidents of non-instant judgment. Fewer irreversible opinions formed at a glance would be a wonderful legacy for Trayvon's unfortunate death to stand for. In a closer to perfect world we will not decide who a person is and what he/she is about based on skin color. Or race of significant other. Or accent. Or attire. Or hairstyle. Or zip code. Or political party. Or level of education. Or the name they call God. Or their particular path taken in pursuit of happiness.
If the following is a cliche, that is only because it is true. We should judge our fellow man strictly on the content of his character. This quality is impossible to measure from the presence of a packet of candy, a sugary beverage, or a hoodie worn to keep the rain off but incapable of slowing the deadly path of a bullet.
WE ARE NOT TRAYVON MARTIN
July 13, 2013
Paper is Awesome
This blog post is just a friendly reminder as we wade through the digital revolution that paper did, does and always will ROCK!!! So artists of all kinds, please continue to spill ink upon it. Readers, as always, do what is most pleasing to you. Remember that all good books, from brain candy to high brow-award winning-literary canon material, are pleasure reads. And as you fuss with your increasingly small gadgets to navigate increasingly high tech social media, don't forget that no form of communication can beat face to face interaction - the human touch.
May 5, 2013
THE PICK-UP: A tale for #ShortStorySunday
Does every jukebox in America have this song on it? I know Elvis is the king and all, but at 2:30 in the morning after driving for practically ten hours straight, the last thing a guy wants to hear is "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You". Sure you can, Elvis. It's a lot easier than you think."Budweiser."
Did I make a mistake going into this line of work? I suppose there's something to be said for a regular nine to five type gig. A small house in some suburb, the little woman lying in my arms, Junior dreaming away in the room down the hall.
Who am I kidding? Why do I always get these delusional fantasies at 2:30 in the morning in some generic bar off Route 66? It must be the damn song that does it to me. Time for a reality check. That stuff is best left for Norman Rockwell paintings. Two mortgages on one house, Junior needs braces, the lawn needs mowing, and I just can't get it up for the little woman anymore. Who needs it? I'll stick with my 18-wheeler, the open road, and a cold beer on a hot night.
Well what have we here? The other advantage to the life of a truck driver. A new, anonymous, one time only, warm body on any given night. I've always been partial to blondes. It's probably a dye job, but if a woman can make her follicular wishes come true, who am I to judge? She's got nice wide hips, just the way I like 'em. Five pounds more would be too much. Five pounds less and there wouldn't be enough to grab on to. The breasts aren't bad either. Always been a breast man, ever since my mama was nursing me. A few years down the road they'll be sagging down to her waist. But for now they're standing firm and proud, and now is all I'm interested in.
"Mind if I buy you a drink?"
"It's your money," she says.
A woman with attitude. I like that. But even if I didn't, it makes no difference. The game plan is the same either way. An hour or so of small talk and alcohol, followed by a night of pleasure and then breakfast in bed tomorrow morning. There's nothing like a home cooked meal before hitting the road.
"The name's Jack."~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~"Hello, Jack. I'm Lonette."
Here we go again. I'm sure he's out looking for a quickie. They always are. Then once they're done using your body and unloading your refrigerator, you never hear from them again. Haven't I had my fill of empty promises? I had happiness once. Fifteen years of it. I'm not going to find another man like Bill in some roadside bar. Men like him are too few and far between. I was lucky to find Bill, and luck like that only comes along once in a lifetime. So why am I here?
For the same reason I show up every weekend. Hoping luck might decide to be kind and strike twice.~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
"Two more of the same, bartender. That's a real shame, Lonette. I bet you two had something special."She's a widow. I probably won't even need a full hour. Widows are God's gift to the truck driver. They're lonely, and horny, and desperate for someone to love. They'd prefer a lifetime but will take whatever they can get. I just have to appear sympathetic, which should be no problem, cause I suppose I am. It must be pretty hard to lose someone you've been with for so long. You base your motivation to wake up each morning on the idea of that person being there. Then one day they're gone, and suddenly you have no life. That's one pitfall I plan to avoid. I live for no one but myself.
"Don't you get lonely driving around all the time?" she asks. "Don't you ever think about settling down?"
"I guess it has to do with temperament. You're the type who couldn't stand always being on the move. I hate sitting in one place."
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~"I think meeting the right woman might ground you."
"Anything's possible," he says.
He has nice eyes. They're honest and direct, like Bill's were. When I looked into them I saw that I had nothing to fear. I recognized that before me stood a man who wanted the same thing as myself, to do right by someone.
Bill was just passing through as well, but as soon as we caught sight of one another, somehow we both knew what was meant to be. When two people connect like that, it's such a rare thing they'd be fools to ignore it.
I sense something about this truck driver. Maybe it's the beer, or the music, or my imaginative loneliness. Or maybe it's what I've been waiting for. The second strike.~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~"Fifteen years is a long time to be with someone. And five years alone must seem a whole lot longer. Another round, bartender."
I feel kind of guilty, almost. But that's silly. I'm not doing anything wrong. The worst anyone could say is that I'm using her. Or I will be soon, anyway. But she'll be using me too. The way I see it, it's an even trade.
"Some days are longer than others," she says. "So where are you headed to on this trip?"
"San Diego."
"Ever since I was a little girl I've wanted to travel. First see America, then Europe. Bill and I just never had the time or the money. I read a lot, so I have a head full of places I'd love to go. But I'll probably never get to most of them. I envy you that. You must have seen a great deal."
"I've seen a lot of highways. They all pretty much look the same."~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~It's ridiculous pinning my hopes on some smooth talking vagabond, but hope is a mighty powerful force to contend with. If I leave now, I can spare myself the disappointment. But I might be missing out on something special. It's all a crap shoot, life and love. You have no chance of winning if you don't put your money down and toss the dice.
"Which is your favorite of the places you've been?"
"I'd have to say Texas," he answers. "I've gone through four or five times, and I always seem to have a good time one way or another. Maybe when I get tired of the road I'll settle down there."
"I suppose it's the only place big enough for you not to feel crowded in."~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~"You might be right." It's almost time for us to get off these hard bar stools and between some soft sheets. Chivalry aside, I prefer when they make the suggestion. I guess it's an ego thing. But if she isn't so inclined, I'm certainly not opposed to bringing up the notion. I can't wait to have her legs wrapped around me. There's no better feeling in the world.
Her eyes are starting to glaze over. The beer must be taking effect. Come to think of it, I'm getting sort of buzzed myself. Wild, drunken sex with a beautiful woman I've never seen before and never will again. I don't know why God makes nights like these, but I'm sure glad HE does.
"Fill them up, bartender. Keep the change."~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~"Don't you just love this song, Jack?"
"Sure do," he replies.
I like his hands. They're strong, but gentle. He's probably a good lover. If he knows what to say, he must know what to do. I'm feeling dizzy from these beers he's been plying me with. It feels good the way he's rubbing my arm. It feels just right.
Maybe he's not my Prince Charming. Chances are he won't stick around for tomorrow. So what? At least I'll have tonight, and I owe myself that simple pleasure. Perhaps the man I am fated to be with will come around some other day. Or maybe waiting in vain for his arrival is my destiny. If so, might as well have some fun while I'm at it. Let me put self pity and hopeless daydreams aside for a few hours and just enjoy. I deserve it.~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~"Love me tender, love me true," croons Mr. Presley. "All my dreams fulfilled. For my darling, I love you. And I always will." Maybe Elvis does have the right idea. To feel that way about somebody, to find the person who fulfills your dreams. How can that be a bad thing? I've been running from commitment for a long time now. Ever since Charlene left. That was over three years ago, but the wound has somehow managed to remain fresh. My head is spinning. Guess I went a little over my limit with the brews. Lonette really is beautiful. I can't wait to be in her embrace. It hasn't felt right in any woman's arms since Charlene. There's something about this pretty small town widow. It's like she understands me somehow, even though she hardly knows me. Maybe this time will be different. Perhaps this one will last. I can't keep driving past life forever. Sooner or later, I'm bound to hit a stop sign. Could this be it? Could this be what I've been looking for?
"You truly are a remarkable woman, Lonette. I didn't think I was ready to lay my heart on the line, but I guess it's not up to us to determine when the time is right. How about we go over to your place to talk in private? To talk about changing my travel plans, perhaps."
I know it sounds like a line, but I couldn't have been more sincere. I can only hope she realizes this, or that I will eventually be able to convince her of my noble intentions.
"Whatever," she says in response, as if speaking her final word of resignation to the head of a firing squad.~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~There they go. I've met some interesting folks since I started bartending, but those two definitely take the prize. Last night they were an English professor and his star pupil. The night before, he was a congressman and she was an intern. Before that, he was a personal trainer and she was one of his clients. My favorite was when Bill pretended to be a rock star and Charlene gave an Oscar caliber performance as a groupie. I made good tip money that time, a lot more than tonight. They try to be as realistic as possible, and it makes sense that a rock star would tip considerably more than a truck driver.
Every night is Halloween in their world. Must be kind of nice. For sure it takes a good deal of imagination and energy to do what they do. But the alternative is going through the motions of a humdrum existence day after day. I applaud any attempt to escape the mundane. I suppose I'm doing the same thing through my job.
Oh, I don't mean bartending. I'm really a writer. I just do this to pay the bills and put myself in a perfect vantage point to observe people in their most open state, perhaps steal a story or two.
I guess everybody role plays to some extent. We divvy up our psyches in order to present ourselves in different lights to different people, to accommodate their specific needs and expectations. We're one person for our lovers, another for our friends, another for our co-workers, another for our parents, another yet for our children. Most of us are just dabbling in the game as we deem it necessary. Bill and Charlene raise the enterprise to the level of art.
My creative juices are beginning to flow, thanks in large part to the performance of my favorite couple. Within the hour I'll have the old writer's cap on. My imagination is most fertile just before dawn. But there's an important piece of business I must take care of first.
"Last call!"
May 3, 2013
Reviews...of books of course
Below you will find reviews of varying lengths and degrees of analysis for the novels I've read most recently. Well, technically one of them was not read since I did not make it all the way to the end. Not even close. I only got about 70 pages in. The remaining 10,000 pages (perhaps I exaggerate a bit) were left unexplored for reasons you'll see noted below. Some of these reviews are raves, other books were panned. I call them as I see them, and my opinions may differ considerably from your own. If you've read any of these novels, please share your thoughts with me in the Comments section. If my recommendations steer you towards or away from any of them, let me know. As always - Happy Reading!
The Girl on the Green Bicycle (Monique Roffey) - Monique Roffey is a fine writer and her vivid descriptions of Trinidad make readers feel its tropical heat and lush ripeness. Trinidadis as much a character as the setting. In "The White Woman on the Green Bicycle" readers are transported to this island (not too far from my birth place of St. Thomas) and observe its shifting political climate over the course of turbulent decades. The struggle for independence from the authority of Europeans is backdrop to the story of a rocky marriage that is up front and center. In the first section the title character does a great deal of complaining and bemoaning her situation. I found it difficult to like or relate to this miserable woman. Even though her husband is no saint, at first he is the more tolerable of the two. Yes he's an alcoholic and a serial adulterer, one who in his older years does not bother to have mistresses but settles for prostitutes. But we also see decency in his dealings with people and root for his efforts to atone and win back his wife's affections. I don't want to divulge any spoilers so will simply say that after the dramatic conclusion of the first section, we are brought back in time to when the couple first arrives in Trinidad. They are much younger, more vibrant, seemingly deeply in love with each other, more open to giving things a chance. But while the husband is happy to be in Trinidad where he knows he can be far more successful than he would have been in England, his wife sees island life as a temporary necessity to experience, and then to endure. The cause of her unhappiness is the same from beginning to end, and she is honest about it all along. Her husband selfishly and dishonestly leads her to believe throughout the years that he has an exit strategy, that they will eventually be returning home. But in truth he feels that they already are home, and believes/hopes that his wife will come around in time. If she does not, so be it. Rum and women and professional achievement and growing wealth help him deal with the aggravation of having a wife who hates where she is yet won't/can't leave. Time marches on and revolution is in the air. If the Trinidadians achieve the freedom they long for, perhaps the woman on the green bicycle will get what she desires as well. But she is waiting for this outcome to happen, not making it occur by taking action. She does not attempt to change her circumstances but instead suffers them noisily, as well as quietly in letters she writes but does not send to a politician. The book draws to a close as the day of her personal emancipation seemingly draws near, but we know it must be a mirage because we have already learned that Trinidad will not let loose of its grip on her fate. Not everybody can enjoy a book that is about someone who holds a little less hope and a little more bitterness with each passing day. By the end, which is the book's beginning, she is relentlessly resigned to her fate. But that doesn't mean her bicycle doesn't have one last ride left in it. I'm happy to have read this sad book.
The Marriage Plot (Jeffrey Eugenides) - Girl likes boy. Girl likes other boy as well. Both boys like her. Which one will she choose? Which one shouldshe choose? If she chooses wrong does she get a re-do? That's my simple synopsis of an uncomplicated story (nothing at all complicated about love no matter how much trouble it somehow manages to cause) that is interesting and compelling and wonderfully written.
Tinkers (Paul Harding) - Basically a beautifully written poem about the slow art of dying. I don't recommend it if you're looking for plot driven fiction. If you enjoy a canopy of words eloquently interlocked, check it out. I could say more, but I've probably said enough.
The Cutting Season(Attica Locke) - I love a good mystery. I was intrigued by the mystery within a mystery concept of this book. I may have liked it even more if the narrative went back and forth following the two connected storylines, alternating between the present and slave days, only not via time travel the way Octavia Butler wonderfully did it in Kindred. The fact that Attica Locke sticks to a single setting is by no means a flaw, and like Octavia, Atticais also an excellent writer. That said, I can't say that I was blown away by this novel. I was thoroughly sucked in to the story, but emerged from it wishing there had been a little more. A little more of what I'm not quite sure. Plausibility perhaps. Things wrapped themselves up a bit too neatly and swiftly for my liking. My favorite type of mystery is the kind that's solved due to brilliant deductive reasoning rather than things (like drunken confessions) falling into one's lap. I especially like when I'm given the same clues and information as the character(s) trying to solve the crime, so I have at least a fighting chance at figuring it out on my own. Deciphering between misleading and critical details is my favorite part of reading a mystery if the author plays fair. I found The Cutting Season to be no better than average in my personal scale of judging a whodunnit, but the quality of writing and depth of characterization was excellent, so I'll certainly give other books by Attica Locke a shot and I would not hesitate to recommend this one.
The Taste of Salt(Martha Southgate) - The Taste of Salt chronicles the effects of alcoholism on an African American family. Liquor destroys a marriage that begins with much promise, its grip not loosening on the father until he has been sent off to make a new life for himself. Their son Tick becomes an alcoholic as well, remaining sober for long enough stretches to set up an enviable situation working on the training staff for a NBA team, but repeatedly losing his battle to take things "one day at a time" and having to start all over again. His sister, like their mother, is not cursed with alcoholism but with having alcoholics as her closest blood ties. Josie copes with the pain and embarrassment by being away from her family. She has a dream fulfilled job as a scientist who studies her beloved ocean far removed from Ohio where her parents and brother reside, and she is married to a good man who treats her with respect and tenderness. In this setting it seems she has escaped the hurt that her parents and brother must endure. But Josie has self destructive tendencies also. She may not need a drink to make it through the day, but her inability to reach true intimacy with the man who has opened his heart completely to her wreaks its own brand of havoc. To survive their separate yet connected hurts, Josie and her brother and parents need to forgive each other and themselves. In clean and easy to read prose, Martha Southgate shows us that not everybody in this often sad world is strong enough to do that.
Infinite Jest (David Foster Wallace) – DID NOT FINISH. I gave up about 70 pages in. This highly acclaimed book did nothing for me other than agitate and repeatedly put me to sleep midway through a sentence. Serpentine run on sentences in a tiny font filled with 6-syllable words may be attractive to some readers. They may even be attractive to me if used to establish a plot, a setting, a central cast of characters that I come to care about. Perhaps the author was paid by the word or character count, in which case a great deal of money must have been earned. I don't give up on books easily. I fought mightily to get through the pages that I read. The battle was lost. I didn't want to fight in the first place but simply wanted to enjoy a good book. Perhaps the next one will accommodate me.
The Lost Symbol(Dan Brown) - Dan Brown delivers again. I've enjoyed each of his Robert Langdon thrillers and hope he keeps them coming. He's a master at pacing, never a dull moment even as he bombards the reader with easy to digest information about symbols, religion, science, architecture, etc. Is it formulaic fiction? Certainly. Writing of the highest literary caliber? Certainly not. But as any baby will tell you, when formula is created just right it will be lapped up eagerly. One emerges from a Dan Brown caper feeling that a few new things have been learned in the process of being thoroughly entertained. Works for me. When I'm in the mood for a genre read I feel confident that Dan Brown won't steer me wrong. The Lost Symbol is the latest piece of evidence that he does what he does particularly well.
See Now Then(Jamaica Kincaid) - This book just did not do it for me. I am a fan of Jamaica Kincaid from previous novels so my hopes and expectations were high. Even had they been low, See Now Then still would have fallen short of them. Nothing that I disliked about it is unintentional. It wasn't a case of poor execution. Kincaid wrote this story in the manner that she did with purpose that simply did not appeal to me. The constant repetition of certain words/phrases did little to lull me in. This is a short novel, coming in at under 200 pages. If the repetition was minimized to a more customary amount, the word count of See Now Then probably would not even qualify for novella status. It would have to make due with categorization as a long short story. There is no plot to speak of. Kincaid's goal is not to tell a tale so much as to invoke a mood. The mood is that of hatred. A man hates his wife, his family, his life. We aren't told why specifically, except towards the end when we're informed that the wife was condescending and mean spirited to a waitress. I suppose there is no why. Once you fall out of love with someone and yearn to be with someone else, anyone else, you feel like a prisoner who of course loathes the jailer. But the narrative isn't about the event with the waitress or any other one in particular. It's about a woman being aware that the man she loves does not love her in return, and eventually he does something about it. And it's about the relativity of time, how Now and Then are basically one and the same, a point repeated ad nauseam. We are made aware of the husband’s unhappiness from not much after the first sentence - a very long one, as the vast majority of them are, yet another characteristic that I didn't find endearing. The rest of the book serves only to reinforce this point. Gorgeous language can carry a non plot driven story a long way, but I wasn't so swept away by Kincaid's prose that I didn't notice or care that nothing was really happening. Not externally. Not internally. Not at all. I don't care to what degree this or any other novel may be autobiographical. I only care if I was absorbed by the tale, if I came to care about the characters. I was/did not. This is a subjective opinion, as they all are. You may love this book, and if you do, I promise not to hold it against you. :-)
The LincolnConspiracy(Timothy O’Brien) - Since I'm a sucker for historical fiction, particularly when the setting is one I'm familiar with, especially when a fictional conspiracy is involved regarding events that really happened, I was quick to pick this book up. The Lincoln Conspiracy contains all of these elements, as it takes places in Washington DC shortly after the assassination of President Lincoln. John Wilkes Booth is the killer, but was he a lone zealot or acting on behalf of others? Timothy O'Brien asks these questions and makes up an answer for us. On the chase is a cop named Temple who walks with a limp that he turns to his advantage by making convenient use of his cane as a weapon on multiple occasions. Abe's wife Mary Todd has a cameo, and one of their sons plays a role in the plot as well. Sojourner Truth is also put to use. But celebrity cameos aside, The Lincoln Conspiracy is basically a cop story with horse chases in place of car chases. Templefinds himself thrust into the middle of a grand scale mystery and is determined to follow through to its resolution, no matter how much opposition is thrown at him. Will he get his man? What do you think? Since the official story we all know in 2013 is that Booth acted alone, presumably Temple is not able to prove and expose what he learns. This book makes for breezy reading that you'll zip through from beginning to end. Thanks to the well received movie, Lincoln is currently a hot topic and that has probably helped sales. I've read better in the genre. I've read worse. O'Brien did a pretty good job of visualizing the setting for readers but this book fell well short of wowing me.
Home (Toni Morrison) – The divine Toni Morrison has been giving us shorter novels to enjoy lately. As with A Mercy, Home comes in at an unintimidating page count. But in this novel, in addition to brevity (it can easily be read over the course of a day if you have some spare time) we are also gifted with greater accessibility. Many non-book readers, and non literary fiction readers, steer clear of Toni Morrison because her exquisite use of language does not make for light reading. Her poetic verse can be challenging to those unable/unwilling to sit still and focus. If you have been avoiding her magnificent body of work for these reasons, avoid no more. Home is the book for you. Morrison’s prose, which remains as lush and eloquent as ever, is more straight forward here than in her previous books. Faithful fans will get their fill and I encourage new ones to jump on board. Just don’t expect a leisurely beach read. She hasn’t gone quite that far. A synopsis comes easily, contained in one sentence. A veteran of the Korean War, haunted by blood soaked memories of his time there, returns to his hometown in Georgiato rescue his ailing sister. Along the way, Toni Morrison paints the backdrop of their lives. Cee has spent the majority of hers dependent on the kindness or lack of it displayed by those she encounters via circumstance. Frank comes back to save her life, but in order to claim and do something of worth with it, Cee realizes she must develop her own inner strength. Frank is wrestling too many demons to always reliably be her hero. Much has changed over the course of the years since Frank last set foot in the town where they were raised. Plenty remains more or less the same. Home is there to provide familiar comforts, even though our return to it is inevitably in the form of a different version of ourselves. April 21, 2013
FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS - The End
Getting out of bed was my first fatal error this morning, sending the events leading to my current state of affairs spiraling under way. It wasn't by choice rising when I did. I had been out late the night before and was sound asleep at ten o'clock in the morning. The reason I didn't remain so was the incessant knocking at my door. Too persistent to ignore, though I certainly tried, I stumbled wearily and with much irritation towards the ruckus. The disturber of my slumber had better be Chicken Little informing me that the sky was falling, I thought. As a non-morning person, I do not appreciate awakening any earlier than my body naturally decrees.
On the other side of the peephole stood Yvette. It had been two weeks since I'd last seen her, two months since her game of blackmail begun, six weeks since the day Holden fetched me to Dawn. In those weeks I had satisfied Yvette four times. There would be no fifth. I was done with her games. I considered not letting her in but decided if I was going to break her heart I'd at least have the courtesy of doing it face to face. This chivalry would be the last of my kindnesses towards her.
"It's over, Yvette", I said while opening the door. I saw no point to dragging it out any longer than need be.
"Michael, can't we talk about this?"
"There's nothing more to say. I'm through being your personal whore. No more sympathy fucks and no more fear. You want to tell your husband about us, go ahead. If he chooses to come after me, so be it. I'd rather be killed than sleep with you again."
"This is about that girl you've been spending so much time with, isn't it? What’s her name again? Sunrise? Sunset? Moonglow?"
"How do you know Dawn?"
"I know she's lasted a bit longer than the others. She must be one hell of a lay. But you'll move on. You always do. What does she do for you that I don't? Cause I'll do it and more. I'll do whatever it takes. I can make you happy if you give me the chance."
"Okay. For starters, never come here uninvited again. And I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for an invitation."
"You don't really mean that."
"How do you know what I mean? You hardly know me. I'm just a guy who did you the favor of fucking you right. You mean nothing to me, less than nothing."
"You're scared because you've started to fall in love with me. You were never worried about my husband. And that artist bitch is just another excuse to hide behind. But you can't hide from your own feelings."
"You've been following me, haven't you? How else would know so much about Dawn?"
"There's only one thing I know that matters. You love me, Michael. Just say it. Once the words are out, it won't be so scary to feel it."
The time had come to forgo gentility. She wanted me to get some words out. I had a few choice ones for her, of which she would be spared none.
"You disgust me, Yvette. I have to close my eyes and think of someone else to get it up. I thought you deserved some pity because of what your husband does to you. But now he's the one I feel sorry for. You were right that this isn't about Dawn. But it isn't about me hiding from my feelings either. And it has nothing to do with fearing that you’ll tell your husband about us. There is no us anymore. This is about you. You don't do it for me. You never did. You're just a frumpy waitress I decided to do a favor for, until I realized you were getting exactly what you deserved at home.
I tried to back out of this nicely but you can't accept someone being nice to you. A guy has to be abusive to make you understand. I won't hit you, Yvette. But I will make you understand. I don't love you. I don't even like you. I just want you to go away."
She was all dolled up, her dress perhaps bought just for this occasion, her face smothered with cosmetics. This arsenal of beauty products was to aid in the cause of winning over, if not my heart, at least a more southern region. As for my counter cause, I knew it had been accomplished when rivulets of mascara began marking trails down her cheeks. I had never been so hell bent on hurting someone before. Forceps and a scalpel can be useful instruments to operate on one’s heart, but when delicacy fails, a sledgehammer may be required to get the job done.
I was tempted to apologize, to make a gesture of retribution. I received no pleasure from such cruelty, which had gone far beyond the brutal honesty I am occasionally backed into administering. My natural inclination is to soothe a lady in distress. But some damage it's best not to undo.
"I'm sorry I've made life so miserable for you, Michael. I guess I wanted someone to be as unhappy as I am."
I remained stone. Freedom was moments away.
Yvette removed a compact mirror from her purse and surveyed the wreckage her face had become.
"May I use your bathroom? Then I'll be out of your hair for good." "Go ahead." It was done. Before I could revel in the victory however, my phone rang. Answering it dropped emergency number two into my lap. It was Jamal. He didn't say much, but worried me plenty. Ever since learning of his condition, he had been drifting progressively further into despair. His spirit had been sapped, it seemed to take most of his energy just to breathe. For the most part he didn't bemoan his fate verbally. He simply turned himself off, immersed so deeply in self-pity that both physically and spiritually he was scarcely recognizable from his former life loving self. If he ever did reach the point of having full blown AIDS, it didn't seem the disease would have much to take. I and a few other close friends had done our clumsy best to be of comfort, talking up the medical advances that made his unfortunate condition no longer a death sentence, telling him that he would be just like Magic Johnson, afflicted by little more than some added weight. But nothing registered to Jamal other than the echo of his doctor's words bouncing off the walls of his skull. He was obviously drunk or high or both when he called, his speech slurred beyond much comprehension, following little logic. One thing was clear though. His intention was to bid me farewell. He hung up mid-sentence. "Yvette, I don't mean to rush you but there's something I have to take care of right away." She did not respond, unless one counts the sobs I heard. "Yvette, can you hear me? I need to get out of here." More sobs and tissues being blown to smithereens. I tried to turn the knob of my bathroom door but she had locked herself in. Every second was precious. I had no more to waste on this woman. "I have to go, Yvette. Show yourself out." Ten minutes later I arrived at Jamal's apartment, which was thankfully easier to enter than my bathroom. He sat on his sofa with a bottle of tequila in one hand, half of a lime in the other. Playing loudly on the television was one of those Indian musicals he got such a kick out of. Lying obscenely on his coffee table was a revolver. He had never mentioned owning one before.
"I hooked up last night," Jamal said as I muted the television. Being a good host even in this time of crisis, he offered me a swig of tequila which I accepted, and a bite of lime which I declined. "You should have seen her. She reminded me of that Baywatch chick, but with a bigger ass." "Sounds pretty hot." "She was hot alright. Hot, drunk and horny. Took me all of five minutes to get her to come home with me. It should have been an awesome night. The kind of night legends are made from." "Should have been?" "I was a bit fucked up myself, Mike. But no matter how much I drunk, I couldn't forget. The harder I tried to push it from my mind, the more I kept thinking about it. I've got this big titted blonde pulling my dick out of my pants and all I can think about is, what if there's a hole in the condom, what if it slips off. I could be responsible for killing this woman. My dick was kind enough to settle the dilemma for me by lying there like a wet noodle. It ain't used to so much thinking." "Which leads you to this?", I asked, picking up his gun from the coffee table. I had never held one before. I can think of more pleasant experiences. "I got that a week ago. Thought about it for a couple of weeks before that. This ain't living, Mike. I want to be brave, I want to be strong. But all I can do is be afraid and feel sorry for myself." "That's pretty much what everybody does, Jamal." He put the bottle of tequila on the floor and stretched out on the sofa. "Hold on to that girl of yours, Mike. Don't fuck it up. She's a nice match for you. Love looks good on you." "Are you gonna be okay?" "I'm going to have the mother of all hangovers. But I'll live. I'll think about what could have been last night, jerk off two or three times, then I'll be fine." "If you were as drunk as you say you were, she was probably a real heifer. Tequila can turn just about any woman into Pamela Anderson." "Nah, man. She was a real angel. And so are you." Two seconds later, Jamal was sound asleep. Seeing that the drama was over and my work was done, I tucked the gun into my back pocket for safe keeping and headed home. I had dealt with more stress this morning than in all its predecessors added together. I suppose this was because life had been good to me. I was a lucky man and had grown even more so of late. The best way to show my gratitude was by following Jamal's advice. Like that for which she was named, Dawn was heaven sent. I decided that my sole objective should be to not fuck things up with her. My more immediate plan was to catch up on the sleep I had been deprived of. But when I entered my bedroom, the piece of furniture for which it was named was already occupied. Clad in no more than lacy underwear, Yvette greeted me with a come hither smile. "Was I too subtle?" "No, Michael. You were a little grumpy, but I forgive you." "What is it going to take to get rid of you? Do you want money, is that it?" "Actually, I owe you a quarter. For the use of your phone." Something told me I should ask who she had called, so I did. Yvette was more than happy to answer.
"Your girlfriend." Yvette pointed at the bedside table upon which my address book lay open to the page Dawn's phone number was written on. "You know a lot of people, Michael. Especially women." "What did you say to her?" "Not much. The truth. I told her I was the woman you've been two timing her with, and that since I was first, I didn't plan on going anywhere. I said I was at your place. She didn't believe me, I don't think. So she hung up and dialed your number. Guess who picked up. She definitely believed me after that."
I expected slanderous words to come from my lips. Bitch, cunt, or something of that nature. But all I could do was stare at Yvette incredulously. How else does one look at a psychotic? Someone knocked firmly on my front door. "That would be your soon to be ex-girlfriend. I invited her over. Wasn't sure if she'd come but maybe she's into threesomes." What was I to do now? Answer the door was the only solution I arrived at. Hopefully Dawn would realize that Yvette was a delusional nutcase. So with Yvette on my heels I walked forth with much trepidation, lame words of explanation ready to tumble from my mouth. They remained there, for my visitor was not Dawn after all. It was a man I had never seen before. "Are you Michael ...?" He cut himself off before getting to my last name, staring at Yvette with his mouth hanging open as if never having seen a scantily clad woman before. "Yvette." "Terrence, I ..." I believe she was going to say "I can explain", but how could she? Her screw-up was a bit more severe than putting a dent in the car, and even if Terrence had not been a detective there was no need for him to be Sherlock Holmes with this much evidence in supply. "I'm sorry." I don't believe Terrence accepted his wife's apology, for he shoved past me and decked her. I had been there for Yvette after many a beating, but never so soon after, and never in such a hazardous fashion. My attempt to put Terrence in a headlock was abruptly thwarted by an elbow thrust into my rib cage. A second later I joined Yvette on the floor. From this vantage point I looked up to a most unpleasant sight, that of a gun barrel pointed between my eyes. Terrence's grip was steady and his aim true. "I hope my wife was a good fuck, the best you ever had. Cause if she wasn't, that makes what's about to happen a real shame. Not to mention ironic." Terrence glanced briefly and disgustedly at his bloodied, pseudo-conscious spouse, and then returned his attention to me. "I'm a real big fan of irony, Michael. Take this for instance. I didn't come here on account of Yvette. She was just an unpleasant surprise. I came to put a scare into you as a favor for my niece, June. She says you've been harassing her." June of the sullen glances from the Stairmaster. The lovely coed who I had ushered into womanhood and then abruptly abandoned there to fend for herself. In all of our conversations, her leach-like Aunt June and Uncle Terrence the cop failed to come up. I suppose I shouldn't have brought Dawn to my gym. No malice had been intended. It was supposed to demonstrate evidence that I had moved on, so she should as well. But no matter the motive, flaunting a new lover in front of a former one is never wise. June couldn't have her virginity back so she had to make due with vengeance. "Fucking my wife and trying to fuck my brother's kid. Should I look for my mom while I'm here? Answer me, asshole. Answer me before I blow your fucking head off. No, better yet, beg me to spare your pathetic excuse for a life. Not that it will do you any good." What a day. I had gone from rushing to save Jamal's life to facing the end of my own. Accompanying this thought was remembrance of the object in my back pocket. I wasn't as defenseless as I had supposed myself to be. The more hits one takes, the tougher they get. A person can grow immune to anything. This would explain how Yvette was able to recover so quickly. And as for her actions upon rising to her feet, I can only conclude that they were based on love. Why else would she rush at her pistol packing husband? Terrence noticed her charge before I did, swatting her back to the ground as if it were the most natural act in the world. But Yvette's heroics were not in vain, for they afforded me time to draw the gun held in my back pocket, aim at the heart of my tormentor, and pull the trigger.
I had never killed a man before. I still haven't. The first chamber was empty. Turns out they all were. Apparently Jamal's suicidal considerations weren't as advanced as I thought. But Terrence had no more means of knowing this than June had of knowing that her uncle would find me with his wife. He reacted as he was trained to, as anyone in his position would have. In self-defense, Terrence fired two bullets into my body. When I saw his shock over what he had done, I realized he had not come to my home with intent to kill, had not even planned to do so after finding Yvette with me. But we don't always do what we intend, or intend what we do. "Let's get out of here," Terrence said in a panic, yanking Yvette up from the floor. I'm not aware if she protested or resisted. I only knew that I was alone and dying. But is there really any other way to go about it? "Oh my God! Michael!"
That was the next sound I heard, the voice of an angel. The woman I loved for no reason more than that she had gotten me to see why love wasn't such a bad idea. She's comforting me, saying she loves me, calling for help I know will arrive too late. I lie here bleeding to death; going over my acceptance speech for the Nobel prize in literature; recalling the life I've led woman by woman.
My final thoughts are of a day not long ago. Dawn and I sitting on a park bench. A squirrel rustles the leaves on the ground behind us. Dawn looks back, makes kissing sounds while gesturing for the creature to come closer. It does, surprising me. I am accustomed to them scurrying from my path. Never did I suspect that they could be so domesticated. I profess my amazement to Dawn, who explains that she is no pied piper. It is just that unlike his cousins in my neighborhood, the squirrels in this park are used to being fed by people. So when called, they assume a treat is forthcoming. The explanation is perfectly logical. The thing I can't get over is that it took me so long to finally learn what is common knowledge to most others. This simple fact had somehow managed to elude me for all these years. I call the little guy over, and sure enough he draws closer still, patiently waiting for a snack that I regrettably don't have on me.
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Life, like love, holds many secrets for us to discover. Some we unearth early on. Others take us most of our days to stumble upon, even though they are hidden in plain sight.
THE END
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Exit music for after I drop the microphone and walk off into the sunset.
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April 18, 2013
FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Sixteen) - VANESSA
What would declining Vanessa's sweet invitation have accomplished or proven? That my flesh was strong, my devotion pure, heart true? Nonsense. Morality is entirely subjective. If you do not consider an act sinful, then it isn't, the conscience therefore clear. If the act is deemed evil, going through with it will cast you into a hell of your own making. It's that simple, as are most issues once the political correctness of others is removed from the equation.
I felt for Dawn like I had felt for no other. But this I saw as separate from my adoration of womankind in general. Though I ceased to actively pursue other women, if the right situation arose, I had no intention of running from it. Running with an erected situation in your pants is never advisable.
Vanessa was a being created for adolescent wet dreams, the type of woman who inspired in men the most drastic of measures - squandered fortunes, wrecked homes, waged wars. Such behavior was unnecessary in my case, for I had the luck of geography. She moved into the apartment next door, so my neighborly hospitable offer to hook up her stereo and VCR was all that it took.
From the very beginning I knew how it would end up. Vanessa oozed sex the way used car salesmen do greed. It seeped from every pore and called out to me. The concept of resisting did not enter my thoughts any more than a dog would contemplate passing over a juicy bone. I simply devoured.
Should I rewind to go over the details? If you insist, though there isn't much to tell. After completing my handiwork, Vanessa and I partook of some very good wine and half of an equally impressive joint. As mellowness overtook us, she confided that she was a kept woman, the mistress of some middle aged hot shot who paid the rent and provided her with shiny baubles. She was an aspiring star whose days were spent in acting and singing classes. I was treated to a sample of her mediocre vocal talents. Then Vanessa lifted her tee shirt and needlessly confessed that the remarkably upright mounds of flesh before me were also funded by her benefactor. I proceeded to remove the remainder of her wardrobe, a skimpy pair of shorts Saran wrapped over the roundest ass I had ever seen. The following hour was spent giving Vanessa what her sugar daddy's money did not enable him to provide, as her ear shattering howls of delight attested.
When we had concluded the christening of her apartment, Vanessa smoked the remainder of her pot while babbling about the actors she admired. She was giving Mr. Big Spender six months to make good on his promise to open the right doors for her. If nothing materialized by then she would head out to La La land, presumably to suck better connected west coast dick. Everything she said seemed something I'd already heard, the experience old halfway through it. She was a fantasy come true, but the truth didn't seem so fantastic anymore. Her voice grew fainter with each word. I was not absorbing the experience, filtering what was most pure. It neither added nor subtracted a thing from me. I had merely gotten laid.
Vanessa didn't poke my underarms to drive me crazy. She didn't tell me about the latest painting she had completed or gallery that expressed interest in her sculptures. Nor did she call her dog to hop on the bed when I went to take a piss, or hit the play button on her boom box so whichever Miles Davis CD was within it could lull us to sleep. If she wanted to know a single thing about me, she certainly hid her interest well. Not a single question passed her lips about my latest destined to be aborted novel, or how my Mom was doing, or anything. I was just there to occupy her time between halves of a joint, a new set of ears to talk about herself into.
I didn't feel guilty, but neither was I replenished, rejuvenated, satisfied in any but the most basic way. Regret does not adequately sum up my emotions, for I made no promise to myself to never do such a thing again. As was so often the case, I had gotten what I wanted. The experience had been everything it promised to be. It simply had not promised enough.
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I looked at Vanessa's naked body, gleaming from sex, as exquisite a form as God and plastic surgery ever combined to create. She caught my stare and mistook the expression for lust, rather than realization of where I would rather be. I made a feeble excuse for leaving. Back in my apartment I immediately made a phone call, knowing the party I dialed would be out, just to hear her voice on the answering machine. After that, I sat down at my computer and re-read what I had written earlier in the day. It was neither the best nor worst thing I'd ever written. I had been more original in the past, and less. I had a vague idea where I wanted to go with it, and about where I'd run into trouble. Scribbled on a piece of paper were two other ideas I had come up with, figuring to get started on them shortly. I folded the paper and placed it in a drawer. Then I typed a couple of words to see how they felt, and decided they were the best ones I'd ever conceived. Chapter Two.
Source: 25.media.tumblr.com via Roy on PinterestTO BE CONTINUED (on April 21st)
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April 15, 2013
FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Fifteen) - DAWN
I wonder if it was her or merely the circumstances of my life when we met. Was Dawn my soul mate, or did she just happen to come along when someone like her was what I needed? I'll never have a definitive answer, for such matters are beyond definition. What is love? Whoever claims to know is either a liar or fool. People are capable of vastly different levels of emotion and devotion. Those on the high end of the scale love no truer than those at the bottom. They're only more apparent.
Commitment is easier to get a handle on. Concrete ground rules can be set for it. Breaking them does not void the existence of love, but this tends to be difficult to prove in divorce court.
Dawn and I were officially introduced by her Cocker Spaniel, Holden. I was strolling through Washington Square Park when he broke free of his master's grasp to greet me. I stooped to give him a pat and looked down into his big brown eyes, then up into hers.
She was undeniably beautiful. I would have been content had this been all there was to her. But I was to learn that there was considerably more in Dawn's arsenal.
Like myself she had inherited early and substantially enough to make financial matters of small concern. She too had chosen to dedicate her life to the arts, painting and sculpting at her loft in SOHO. Conversing with Dawn came easy. She was cleverly sarcastic, adorably pessimistic, pompous enough to display occasional evidence of her Ivy League education, silly enough to continue eating her ice cream cone after Holden sneaked a lick. I worked hard on making Dawn smile, not solely to enhance my chances of winning her over, but also for the simple pleasure I derived when her lips curved upwards and her dimples took shape. The next day I realized with amazement as I stared at my phone receiver, preparing to make the first call, that I was actually a little nervous.
"So would you like to get together sometime soon?" I asked after several minutes of fumbling small talk which I usually excelled at.
"That depends."
"On what?” She was toying with me. The tables I was a professional on were being turned.
"On where you plan for it to lead. Is your intent to wine me, dine me, and then play me like a fiddle? Or have you already booked the chapel?"
"I figured we would play it by ear."
"That will do. I'd love to go out with you."
She had me. I tried to dismiss the thought as we discussed where to meet and what to do. I tried to act as if the conversation was ordinary, the situation routine, and my voice probably conveyed this. But my heart was beating a rhythm it had never played before, one that made my soul want to dance.
As we spoke in the park on the day we met, I sensed that there was something different about Dawn, or rather, about the way I was being made to feel when I was around her. She possessed a quality that the scores of femme fatales to come before her who had failed to cast a lasting spell were lacking. When Dawn looked at me, it was as if she saw through the surface I presented. Her gaze penetrated straight to the attic where my innermost feelings are stored. This obliterated the need for pretense. There was nothing to hide behind, which somehow meant that there was nothing to hide from.
Perhaps I imagined these things because I wanted them to be so. It is quite possible that Dawn's powers were a figment of my mind, and the reason she got through my guard is because I had willingly lowered it. The order of cause and effect doesn't matter much when the effect is so wonderful. The effect was this. In the days to follow I would go to sleep with a woman in my thoughts, and miraculously awake each following morning with the same one there. This seemed nothing short of a miracle.
Events just prior to Dawn’s entrance into my world had caused me to re-evaluate the life I was leading, and perhaps predisposed me to settling down. Yvette's do me or die proclamation had been unsettling, I must admit. Given no choice I continued to see her, and she acted as lovey-dovey as could be, but each occasion deepened my loathing for her. There had to be a way out, but I was damned if I could decipher what it was.
Hitting more directly was Jamal's recent confession. He had tested HIV positive. This information had yet to fully register. I expected a phone call from him at any moment revealing that it was all a twisted practical joke, April fool's with bad timing. The amount of women I had been with dwarfed Jamal's head count, but this caused me no real fear, for my level of caution was also superior. I did not view monogamy as a haven from sex diseases. Nevertheless, I knew that Jamal's condition was symptomatic of his lifestyle, which made me wonder if the payoffs of that modus operandi were worth the risks. I had had enough scary moments to know that kindness wasn't the only thing strangers could be depended on for.
If I hadn't met as incredible a woman as Dawn, my defenses probably weren't weakened enough for this old dog to seriously consider new tricks. But I did meet her, and now I was suddenly asking myself the age old questions. Is this it? Is she the one?
I gave myself plenty of opportunity to find out. The next several weeks rocketed by with Dawn at my side practically every second. Now as I look back, I'm amazed at not having grown bored or claustrophobic within the confines of what was shaping up to be a long term sentence of monogamy. At the time, I was too dizzy to contemplate enigmas. The fact that I had sharply veered off the road so long traveled caused me no dismay. I took these new sensations in without questioning them. I just went where my heart led, which was always to her.
I held none of my standard doubts, felt none of my typical fear. As I sat across from her at the vegetarian restaurant she selected for our first date, the rest of the world vanished. Only the two of us, in that place, at that time mattered. The past was a memory I had no ability or desire to recall, the future something that may never arrive. Only the here and now was of consequence. I had been baptized by her presence, born anew.
I didn't say these things to Dawn, for it was too early. Now it's too late. At some point the right moment must have come, but it passed by without announcing itself, as moments tend to do.
"Don't you miss other women?" asked a devout bachelor friend I confessed my state of bliss to.
"I haven't really thought about it."
"How could you not? Don't you feel trapped? Don't you remember how incredible it feels to be with a beautiful woman you've never seen before, and will never see again?"
"I remember. But what I find even more incredible is wanting to see Dawn again, and again, and again."
"Unbelievable. I never thought I would see the day. You're whipped, man. You're done. You might as well brand an L on your forehead."
"For love?"
"No, asshole. For loser."
When Marc Jacobs phoned to invite me to his next party, I accepted with unusual zeal. I couldn't wait for the opportunity to show Dawn off. I wanted to publicly revel in my good fortune. And so I did. That day was undoubtedly the happiest of my life. I drank to my limit, danced to my limit, laughed till I was about to burst, and upon returning home made glorious love to Dawn under the watchful eyes of the gods.
How was I fooled to believe it would last? Perfection is fleeting by nature, meant to hold still only in memory. For all their beauty, perfect things are characterized by frailty, simply no match for the march of time. I suppose this is one of the many reasons I end relationships prematurely. I want to preserve the experiences in my thoughts before they inevitably begin to decay.
You'd think I would have retained the lesson taught by my parents. They had once been young, beautiful, above and beyond the usual tribulations of life. My earliest memories are of a world that strongly resembled paradise. Then my father ruined it with infidelity. Being the dramatist she is, my mother boldly confronted him. He denied nothing, apologized blandly, and continued his behavior. My mother engaged him in no further shouting matches. She just kept a glass of gin perpetually in hand, apparently to drown the emotions she no longer wished to have. When my father was killed in a car accident, the drinking ceased. I hoped my mother's joyful demeanor would return as well, but this was not to be. Too many things had taken their toll. She was no longer young, nor so beautiful, and cared far too much about such matters to be truly happy again. My mother wasn't being cheated on anymore, but couldn't help feeling cheated. Everything had started out perfect. She could never figure out how to settle for less.
I held my father to blame for a long time. I believed had he been true to my mother's love, paradise never would have closed its doors on us. I thought happiness would last forever, because it was all I knew. I know a good deal more now. I understand that happiness is not a birthright, but a sporadic flash occurrence. Had my father behaved in a different manner, paradise still would have found a means to end. To become spoiled by happiness just ensures future misery. I learned this lesson early on, yet somehow briefly managed to forget. I would be reminded soon enough.
TO BE CONTINUED (on April 18th)
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