H&H

Having been raised in a suburb of New York City, and attended high school in New York City, I am acutely aware of the doughy delicacy that is an H&H Bagel.  Originated in New York City in 1972, these starch bombs are as delicious as they are sleep inducing.  Fresh out of the oven, they are crisp on the outside and soft and full of warm goodness on the inside.  This has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but those bagels are really, really good.

mmm...

Over the few months, my good friend Brosquire J* and I, have been debating over the merits of one Tyler Perry.  I personally don’t like Tyler Perry, as I feel he stirs up stereotypes that I feel should be eschewed by the black community.  Broqsuire J sees a further meaning in his works.  We can both agree upon his ability to employ countless young media-hungry individual who, otherwise, may not have gotten a foot in the door behind or in front of the camera.  At current time, he is the #2 money-making man in Hollywood, behind only James Cameron, so someone is buying up the tickets.  With the cinematic arrival of his adaptation of the 1970 Ntozake Shange play, ‘For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Not Enough’, he was again cast into the forefront of my mental Rolodex.

Can this marriage work?

Both my sister and Brosquire J advised me to check out the interview that Tyler Perry did on the Oprah Winfrey show.  I was skeptical, because while I certainly couldn’t help but respect the man for his success, I felt my opinion of his shows wouldn’t change.  Well, I was certainly correct about the latter; my opinions of his shows never changed – my opinion of myself did however.  My mom had conveniently TIVO’d the interview for me to view when I visited her.  So I sat on the edge of the bed like an obedient child and stubbornly watched the interview.  I was stuck by the candid nature and pain with which he spoke.  I was surprised at how I was more transfixed and uncomfortable with each successive word that he spoke. He opened up about his abhorrent experiences with emotional, sexual, and physical abuse.  His childhood read like a nightmarish thriller where the antagonist used psychological warfare to control his prey.  It was a jaw-droppingly revealing interview, and it managed to be touching and certainly cast Tyler Perry in a different light.  I took away 3 things from that piece of television:

• Tyler Perry’s talent to produce ANYTHING at all in spite the fiery hell from which he rose
• His product may or may not be technically sound, but I can no longer judge it; I now recognize that his products aren’t made for me, at all.
• After listening to his abhorrent tale, and those of others, I am in firm belief that “all” people can be divided into 2 categories.  Those who are Hurt and those who serve as Healers.  Folks can move between those two buckets, but in some aspect everyone shares the burden to alleviate the pain of the hurt – hence the role of a healer.

This role of “healer” encompasses all forms of healing, not just spiritual and medical. I have been blessed to never seek permanent residence in the “Hurt” category.  If we aren’t hurting we have an obligation to help the next one, to “be our brother’s keeper”.  Whether a letter, a phone call, a kind word, a shoulder to cry one, or eyes to look into, the methods at a “healer’s” dispense are as innumerable as the ways “hurt” can befall a victim.

We live in a good world.

It is truly a blessing to have the ability to stand up for someone; to listen to a friend when they’ve been hurt and extend a hand to a fallen brethren (or sistren).  To be a healer, is not to be completely empathetic and altruistic all the time.  To be a healer is to be human, have needs, impatience, frustrations, but to occasionally rise above them.  To be a healer is the ability to put personal disappointment, fiscal struggle, and self-doubt in the background from time to time.  To be a healer is to be a flawed regular human being with shortcoming and fallacies, but persevere for someone else’s benefit.
I rebuke the idea that anyone was put on this earth to be hurt, so we must all heal at some time and place.  Whether or not we take time to reside in the “hurt” category, everyone has actions, words and experiences that can ameliorate the sufferings of someone else.

Remember when he was in Star Trek? Yeah, that was weird.

*Belated congrats to Brosquire J on getting confirmed as a practicing NYS attorney.  Get after it good sir.

20 Rounds…

Back when I was about 5 I attended my first summer camp at Hudson Montessori School.  Despite being my first summer away from my parents, I was at a camp in the same building as my preschool and I felt fairly comfortable.   Having my parents a mere 15 minutes and 10 exits away didn’t hurt either.

One night, having already been put to sleep, I shot out of my bed and ran into my parents room with a faceful of snotty tears and described to them the unconscionable horror of my day – horror that manifested itself as an insidious nightmare.*   An older counselor that seemed to be 34, but was likely 15, had unleashed a LeBron James-esque dunk on our little playground basketball hoop.  I think he actually broke the entire thing.  (By these standards I would pee on myself at any NBA game).  I was terrified of this counselor’s Herculean strength, the rim, the game of basketball, and who knows what else.  I was a child, and needed protection, even from the most ridiculous things.  Having lived through childhood, adolescence and most of my young adulthood, I can understand the fear and posturing that envelopes a person through their life journey.**

It was something like this...

On September 18^th of this year, a wild Western shootout took place in New Haven, Connecticut.   Between the 3-4 perpetrators and the police, approximately 20 rounds of bullets were fired.

By way of charter and magnet schools, as well as increased parental accountability, New Haven has been constantly moving forward in the area of education reform.  Innovative scheduling, relentless construction and varied monies have pushed New Haven’s efforts to the top desk in the land.  Despite not getting some of the “Race to the Top” funds from his inaugural education reform package, President Obama and his administration have commended New Haven’s Tier System of ranking school and allocating proper funds.  Each of these things is to be bragged about and displayed proudly, but none of them can disguise a horrendously reckless decision.

Putting a high school in the infamous “downtown club district” was shortsighted and arrogant.  I spent more than a few weekends in that cesspool of drunken filth and danger.  Whether cops were subduing a suspect, derelicts were throwing bottles from atop a parking garage, or men were acting like lecherous heathens, this district is an utter embarrassment to the entire city.  Despite the cities impotent attempts to curtail this behavior, a high school was built here.  This clash was bound to happen

Like Whodini said, the “Freaks Come Out At Night” and the kids have to go to school during the day.  All this seems to have been forgotten when they cut the ribbon and christened this school a shimmering beacon of hope, both functionally and architecturally.  Children should not have to step over beer bottles and pools of urine to get to class, at least not until college.  Bullet holes should not be a part of the everyday lives of anyone, but unfortunately they are.  Many neighborhoods of New Haven lie in the grip of crime and poverty.  School must be a sanctuary away from these daily demons.  When 20 semi-automatic rounds are fired, and bullet holes lodge themselves in the walls of your school, you city has failed you – miserably.

These aren't books...

At 5, I was terrified of a camp counselor breaking a basketball hoop, how is a high school student supposed to learn when there are bullets flying around his/her school at night?  Since they can’t move the school to the more sensible location of across the street and down the block, it is due time to take the nightclub owners to task, or just move them, all of them.  An educational facility has no business in the nightclub district.

*I don’t know how parents translate the choked, sob filled rants of their children, I may have a lot to learn…

**Braggadocio even! (for youngsinglelovetomingle)

…and the winner is?

In ancient Greece, a sagacious man once said: “There will be no justice in Athens until those that are not oppressed are as outraged as those who are”*

In modern Queens, another sagacious man, @Lord_B told me: “I keep telling folks that while America might not medal in the racist Olympics, it would make a good showing”

I immediately disagreed, and threw out examples of: the 2005 race riots in Australia, the 2007 race riots in France, any and everything that has transpired in many parts of central, western and southern Africa in the last 50 years, Serbia/Kosovo, Israel/Palestine, Iraq/Kurds. My list dragged on and I felt a false sense of calm that I had won that argument.  Although there is robust amount racism in the United States, we really can’t hold a candle to the rest of the world…or so I thought.**

Some weeks back, my girl over at the Sooner or Later alerted me to jump on the “holy hell they’re building a mosque at Ground Zero!” bandwagon.  The mere thought, seemed a little strange and inflammatory, but once the truth of an “Islamic Center a few blocks from the World Trade Center site” emerged, I was calmed and poised to move on.  No harm no foul right?  This is America, land of religious freedoms and tolerance.  A land that….oh yeah does this:

Really?

In a quaint little church nestled in the swampy confines of Gainesville, Florida, Pastor Terry Jones vowed to celebrate the 9^th anniversary of the 9/22 terror attacks by burning a large amount of Korans. While unconscionably offensive, and extremely myopic, it seems Terry Jones is the biggest hype man this side of Flava Flav.  He never planned on burning those Korans in front of his church, if for no other reason, we know Florida is hot enough, without an inferno of holy books.  Somewhere, I still find faith in our flawed human nature; from the racism, to endangerment of our troops overseas, to the mere wastefulness of it all, I did not – for one second – believe this man would burn these books.  He spun it into a confusing deal with a few holy men and called it a day.***

My personal feelings on the situation lie somewhere between “how can we be” and “so abhorrently racist?”  I have had many boisterous conversations with like minded folks, but I also sullenly shook my head at those who would deny an entire religion the right to build a community center:  a vapid argument with racist undertones and no factual justifications.  I figured you can not reason with emotion, so it was not to be dealt with.

Despite all of this overwhelming evidence, I was still certain that we, America, a free “democratic” society still couldn’t come within sniffing distance of competing in the racist Olympics.  But then I see how we did in the prelims.

Stomping on religious freedoms check

Draining of cultural tolerance check

Blatant disregard of global sensitivity check

Now while we are not breaking the tape and claiming our place atop the podium, America is certainly represented in the opening ceremonies;  I am not surprised, but I am certainly dismayed.

This slope is slippery, and off we go….

*I thought this man was Demosthenes, oh well.

**Those dates are approximate.

***The NY Shah had spoken to Pastor Terry Jones as much as I had, yet somehow was a part of this brokered deal to not build an Islamic Center?  Bah…..

Excuse me for being a hater but…..

Really Diddy?

Shouldn’t they be drinking out of something better than plastic cups?  Where is the V.I.P section?  Is Drake not ballin’ like that anymore, or ever?  Damn, I bet Jay-Z drinks out of a chalice.

Brad Pitt, Denzel and Will Smith don’t ride the bus now do they?  That is all.*

*I used to ride the bus, I can say that

S.O.S

A Spaniard might say “Necesito ayuda” while a Frenchman might say “J’ai besoin d’aide.”  If one found themselves in a precarious position in Italy, it would be wise to utter “Ho bisogno di aiuto!” Somehow, I don’t know this phrase, as anyone close to me would confirm that these words are the last to leave my mouth.  I do have some sterling qualities, but this is not in my current repertoire.  I wish I were taking journalistic hyperbole when stating that this is a crippling character flaw within me, but I’m not.

I am a humble person, but I enjoy my current station in life.  I feel I am at a slight plateau before the huge mountain climb that will take me to the point I have been trained and well groomed for.   All the tools are there, the path is out in front of me, but that crippling mentality is a cast iron anchor around my ankle.  Eventually I will reach the summit with or without it, but I can’t consciously keep making my climb longer and harder…can I?

A successful "HELP" request

“I need help” might possibly be the 3 hardest word phrase for me to string together.  In any language, at anytime, in any place, they are the kryptonite to my super strengths*.  When I run into a problem, my inner modus operandi goes a little like this:

1. “This sucks, how shall I get through/around this”
2. Ask for help from an expert?  Nope, I’m all set
3. “Since asking for help would reveal vulnerabilities or past failures, I must figure this out myself”
4. “It’s been (___) hours, lets revert to Step 1 and see what went wrong.

I wholeheartedly admit that, by all accounts, may be (as Bill Cosby once said to his flunking son, Theo)  “…the DUMBEST thing I have ever heard…”

The preposterous situations I’ve found myself in are numerous, but usually all borne from holding to the same obstinate philosophy.

The chicken or the egg?  What came first, my stubborn reluctance to ask for help, or my obstinate unwillingness to open myself up?   These two exist is some sick symbiotic relationship that only exists to hinder my own progress.  Chains be broken. I have to open up, I must ask for help, I am imploring myself to be better.

*Super is a relative term.

Time is NOT on my side

Today, I waited for him, old guy that he is I figured he might be late and at least hang around for a while, at least a minute.  As I waited, I was brainstorming a work problem.  ow, despite all of our previous encounters, I really figured he would wait if I got distracted, and I certainly got distracted.   But when I emerged from this quagmire I looked up and it was 6:03 PM.  Father time had not waited for me, not at all.  As I have a life beyond the office, I needed to leave at 5:00, but he came and left without the slightest peep.  I found this so inconsiderate, yet who was I to think that he would wait for me, of all the deserving, over-worked citizens of the planet.

I recently read an article that supported the hypothesis of temporal relativity; as we age our concept of time shortens noticeably.  While this is common knowledge, it, like most lessons of adulthood, does not show its face until it has to.  When you’re wondering where the summer went, or how it is already September since you can still taste the champagne from New Year’s, you’ve run into it’s sinister face.

I often allow myself the freedom to imagine what I would do with another 2-3 hours in the day, how would one fill up that time?  Would I work more, blog more, exercise more, donate more, or just waste it away.   The sheer impossibility of it all doesn’t require a rational answer, so for now, I’ll work with what I was given; 24/7/365.

On the grind.

Again? Yeah, again…

Almost 2 years ago, one of the first things I wrote when I got on my new laptop was the following rant on Brett Favre. I was so utterly disgusted at his annual NFL off-season cocktease that these words flowed like hot lava.  I wish they didn’t prove to be prophetic, or a clear “plug n’ play” where I could switch the words “Jets” for “Vikings”.  And now “Vikings” for “Vikings”   Since Mr Favre can’t be bothered by “training camp” and “common decency” to take his head out of his diva ass, I won’t even change the following column.  At the beginning of the season I predicted that Favre would crush the hopes and dreams of the fans in purple.  I was almost proven wrong, almost.  But as the Vikings Super Bowl ticket was being punched, Mr Favre made an unconscionable  throw into double coverage, and well, we know the rest.  Here’s to you Mr Favre, I don’t know how you so cleverly obscure the facts, but at least I know where to spew my hate this season!

(Eventually, I’ll have to stop writing this column)

I am so sick and tired of Brett Favre and his vacillations between retirement and attempting to relive the glory days of old.  Granted, he did have a phenomenal season during the 2007-08 campaign, no one can deny him that.  Unfortunately it ended at the hands of the Super Bowl Champion New York Football Giants.  A bad pass, a interception, no Super Bowl, no chance at a second ring, no riding off into the sunset.

Wait, he played for the Packers?

There comes a point however, when it is time to let sleeping dogs lie.  This is not the first time Brett toyed with the Green Bay Packer franchise and cheese-head faithful.  He is being a selfish athlete, and that is rather commonplace, but the more damming accusation was that he was holding the franchise that he loved so much, hostage.  After turning down an astronomically absurd offer of $20 million over 10 years to remain in the Packers organization as a PR rep, he threw a tantrum and accused the Packer brass of mis-treating him.  I’m sorry Brett, but the 2008-09 season opener won’t be delayed because you wanted to fish in Mississippi, or hunt in the woods of Wisconson.  Aaron Rogers wont get acclimated to the culture of NFL quarterback, or the respect he deserves when you’re dangling yourself in front of the city like a fine piece of bratwurst before a hungry dog.

Brett Favre you selfish ass.  This ritualistic off-season tomfoolery has hindered (possibly irrevocably) the career of a promising young quarterback, whose only mistake was being drafted in the shadow of a colossus.  Sad thing is, your actions have ensured that this shadow will loom large over Lambeau long after you’ve left, but like a large shadow, you’ve eclipsed all that can be nourished and grown, and left a city with a broken heart and a maladjusted quarterback.

You now bring the final chapter of your career to “Broadway” in the form of the green and white of the New York Jets.  Remember, Brett, New York is a tough town.  More story than substance, more hype than performance, we shall see how bright your star can still shine.

Might have thrown up in my mouth a little…

As he now pollutes the waters of Lake Minnetonka with his 40 year old “rocket arm”, his grizzled beard, his coy smile, and his “4th and touchdown” manner, all I can do is wish the Minnesota Vikings good luck.  And I hope Brad Childress shops around his resume…soon.

Mr Favre, you disgust me

Not quite the face of a champion

Ahhh…

Merriam Webster’s dictionary defines “catharsis” as a “purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear) primarily through art.”  This is distinctly different from a “vice” which is a “moral depravity or corruption*”.   My vices include, but aren’t limited to alcohol, and cigars.  This here, writing to an audience of indiscriminate magnitude, is my catharsis, and I have missed it….

*Yeah, that shocked me too.

Shriveled

Another emergency work post.  So this morning, after my release from a slightly self-induced 60 hour stint in one single room, I came home before work to water my plants.  I was distressed to see their usual green chlorophylled nature escape them.*  I plopped the entire thing in the sink, ran the faucet and let it sit there as I frantically ironed a shirt.  The poor plant needed some sustenance, without water it would slowly wither into a yellow dried out mess of sticks and dirt.

...let me revive my green thumb...

Hot Sauce on Saturdays is also approaching the “dried out yellow mess” stage, less I revive it with the nutrients and minerals of cohesive, sometimes ramblings thoughts.  So, let us raise a proverbial glass to my getting my act together, pulling myself up and jumping on the bandwagon of blogging again.

It’s simply been too long.

*Don’t act like you didn’t at least roll your eyes at the “chlorophyll” joke.

R.I.P Pandora

Let Friday April 16th be known heretofore as the “Day Pandora Died”  No, I’m not talking about that fictional planet from James Cameron’s Avatar, nor am I speaking of the famed “box” that was opened up in early Greek mythology.

Friends, I am here to tell you that my fair-weather allegiance to www.Pandora.com has ended.   Whenever I would need to get my music fix on at work, I would log into YouTube and pick a few fun videos, but I would never get a steady stream of work going, as I kept clicking back to change the video every 3 minutes.

Pandora allowed me to stream music from certain “radio” stations that were chosen based off of complicated algorithms…or what I told them to pick.

Today, however, I caught a glimpse of an “add to queue” feature, nestled in the left of YouTube’s* page, and my internal monologue went something like this…”Wait, what?  A YouTube playlist, that I can pick!”

Game.

Set.

Match.

I’m at work, don’t tell anyone.

*Yup, they’re owned by Google.  It just makes sense.