Wonder

I can't blog at work. Here's a bit more of the nonsense rattling around in my head...when I'm supposed to be working.

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That's not all
MCs...have the gall
To pray & pray for my downfall

You don't know nuthin' 'bout Biggie. I already know.

The thoughts that I most need to express are the ones that I can never reveal. The intense scrutiny and cross-examination that would follow their revelation would surely topple the house of cards that my existence has come to resemble. I dare not even consider what I truly feel lest the chaos ensue. Better to remain in chrysalis until the time for revelation & reflection is proper.

Sucks to be me, huh?

Maybe it’s pheromones. I’ve been in my own world for the last little while. I haven’t been dealing with people other than close family for weeks. Now, that I’m out & about...things are different. EVERY woman that I see flashes before my eyes in positions of passion: head back, face strained in a frozen rictus of pleasure.

It has to be pheromones.

It’s like the TV shows when the psychic sees a vision that no one else can view. “What is it? What do you see?” Except...I don’t freeze up long enough to build the backstory for a one-hour episode with mine. I have missed a step from a couple of them, though.

Her shoes are some hideous Book of Deuteronomy Israelite leather sandals. They’re at least 3” tall at the heel...you’d think that I’d be pleased given my penchant for appreciation of nice shoes on pretty women...but, no! These are ugly. They nearly distracted me from noticing that wagon she’s draggin’.

Then, there’s the blonde brickhouse from yesterday. *pant! pant! pant!*

The libidinous gears of testosterone-lubricated thought turn relentlessly forward as my mind slides appreciatively around the XX curves of homo sapiens phatassica. I should have other concerns, I know. Bills, parenting, my career, home, fitness, diet...these should preoccupy me because I’m an adult...and stuff. But, in all honesty, my life would just be existence if it wasn’t for my cross-cultural appreciation of nicely proportioned female secondary mammalian characteristics...the sheer, juicy goodness of womanity.

Still...

No matter how fine she is, some other guy is sick & tired of her bullshit!

Heh! Believable...but, every woman on this planet has at least a theoretical chance at me. (Whether they want it or not is irrelevant to this particular discussion.)

Bratty

I can't blog @ work. Here is more recorded mental wandering.

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He brings a new phrase (oxymoron) to mind: cluttered precision.

Whodathunk the baby girls would turn out to be the sane ones?

Do what he say! Do what he say!

I can’t wait to share Blazing Saddles with the kids. I just bought a Three Stooges DVD. I’m going to watch that with BamBam just to see his reaction. He got on my nerves with his precociously sage pronouncement regarding the initial Superman movie, “This is so cheesy!”

What goes around comes around. My mother kicked my and my sisters out of her bedroom when she put on the original version of “The Thing” with James Arness. She built up anticipation by telling how scary the movie was. We howled with derision, “THIS scared you?!? *bwah hah ha ha ha ha!* Why didn’t they just run? How are you gonna catch somebody moving that slowly?” We heaped scorn & ridicule on the movie with the sophomoric certainty of teenagers. The point where my mother had enough of us was tangible! *click* “Get out!”

Why we got such pleasure from aggravating her, I still don’t know.

My children play within earshot and querulously debate things mundane & esoteric. Theories normally degenerate from thoughtful debate to outright goofiness. Then, they laugh riotously when I call them “dingbats”, “goofballs” and “idiots”.

My eight- and ten-year-olds include their little brother in all of their discussions, naturally. As a result, his level of conversational sophistication catches me off-guard, sometimes. It shouldn’t. I’m an expert on precociousness. When I was five-years-old, I gave a six-minute reading & speech in front of 200 people. I was so short that I had to stand on a box to reach the lectern. When I finished the speech and got back to my seat, I promptly threw up all over my burgundy crushed velvet suit. (It was The Seventies.)

Breakdown

I can't blog at work...here's the accumulation of minutiae.

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A man only complains about a woman’s wardrobe when she won’t give him any.

I hate flip-flops. Any shoe that makes that sound when she walks is a flip-flop. Mules with a 4+-inch heel are, of course, excepted. Any male that wears flip-flops, who isn’t still wet from swimming, lacks a fully functional set of cojones.

BamBam doesn’t talk trash. He talks CA$H shit. I think you have to be from Detroit to fully understand that phrase. His older brother & sister are already easing upon him to keep it competitive. He does possess a bit of skill in some videogames, though. So, if they take it too easy, he’ll come out on top. If he does, he crows. All I know is: if he was my little brother, I’d take the whipping and punch him any way.

I just made the worst cup of coffee in history. Italian Roast with French vanilla creamer.

X^(

Sleepy! It’s keeping me awake, though.

I’ve never been colorstruck. Fine is fine regardless of her skin tone. Sometimes, though, you have to drop in an ethnic reference to aid in the descriptive process. The Asian girl that just left is fine as hell! Li’l hot ass! My stoic mien allows thoughts like these to scamper across my synaptic plain without a hint of their ludicrous nature betrayed outwardly.

You never smile!

I always thought you were so mean!

You were looking?!? I couldn’t tell.

So, I get to sit & look without it being a leer. I can observe without causing tension. Of course, just my presence causes tension in some. I hat working around women who stare at the floor or look at the wall rather than speak. I don’t want every woman I see. Appreciation does not always equal desire. After all: I like flounder, but I don’t always want to eat it.

Playing with her hair…checking out my “package”…then, she invites me to church?!? What the…?

Flounder…

Update: The Asian chick has a stank attitude. I never said a word to her or approached her. I just observed her interact with someone doing some work that she requested. What is it with some people?

I HATE being cold…and I’m working around a bunch of Brits.

So, like, what are your names? Neil & Bob? Or is that what you do? – Andrew “Dice” Clay

Don’t you hate people that only speak when they need something?

SLEEPY!

They just changed the rules. Business casual…jeans are acceptable now. Brotha just jandered by in some FUBU & Timbs. Neater than some of the old Levi’s & running shoes that I’ve seen around here, but I know somebody’s going to pester him about his gear, though.

My brother’s on his third cell phone this year. When a phone drops off your belt & you’re 6’8”, well…gravity works.

White girls are always apologetic and embarrassed when they have a big butt. That’s too funny! There’s nothing at all wrong with a big (shapely) ass. If your ass looks like a grocery sack full of gravel [square & flat], that’s one thing. But, bubbles? Don’t hide bubbles. Those are genetic gifts of rotund magnificence.

Church! I still can’t get over that!

For whatever reason, my mind is giving randomly graphic scenes. I know why. I know how to fix it. But, that behavior is unacceptable, apparently.

Listen to Prince’s “Temptation” on the “Around the World in a Day” CD/album/tape.

Oh, silly man! That’s not how it works! You have to want her for the right reasons!
I do!
You don’t! Now, die!

Noooo! Nooooooooooo!

*psy*

FUBU, Timbs, and a celly? Yeah, they’re gonna get him. He doesn’t even see it coming either.

Ever see the episode of Dexter’s Laboratory with the bully? “Hey! Yew tawk phunnee!” That’s me, here! I’m a minority, not because I’m black, but because I’m an American! Strange happening for Jawja, don’t you think?

*Headknodz*

Frey's Day

I helped out with Field Day at the kids' school. A field full of stinky li'l 8-year-olds...chunky latin kids, hardheaded black kids, uncoordinated white kids, stiff asian kids...and every variation on those themes. Junior divas, micro-Amazons, little warriors and future leaders swarmed the playground. It's always amusing to watch children interact. You can see the precursors of their adult selves in their juvenile behavior.

85% of the prepubescent female population are some bossy li'l heffaz.

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There's something ironic about a little Latin-born guy in a big, American-made truck with a Spanish slogan on his back window in Olde English font.

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I checked out Star Wars yesterday. Nerds are already crawling all over the movie picking at it like maggots on a wound. It was a good movie. People who like to nitpick at things have moved past the wonderment of childhood. Watch the movie through the eyes of a child, which is what most of us were when we were introduced to this "galaxy far, far away", and it's an outstanding movie. Regardless, as a body of work, Star Wars outshines any other franchise and any other movie project. I don't think you'll see anything else ever develop from the mind of a college film nerd to a six-movie franchise like this did.

Good job, Mr. Lucas.

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I saw Unleashed last week. I was amused that most of the best martial arts movies of the last few years have all been French. Brotherhood of the Wolf, Kiss of the Dragon and Unleashed are all French films. The fight scene in the bathroom...CLASSIC stuff!

I'm feeling antsy...REALLY antsy.

Daddy

BamBam impressed me again with his sheer speed and athleticism last night. He didn't successfully escape my attack, but then: he's five. But, almost...

I don't think my father was ever as impressed with me as I am with my cubs. My firstborn is not as athletic as I'd want him to be, but he's been taking my football and my basketball outside a lot lately. That's a good thing. I don't think that I was all that athletic a child, but I stayed outside. I grew into my athleticism...and my body.

I spent 4 1/2 months in kindergarten and 4 1/2 in the first grade. Consequently, I was the youngest person in all of my classes except for the eighth grade. I was always picked last. It wasn't until I grew up and looked back that I realized that I was simply too young for some of the things that I was trying to do. After the clumsy period of my freshman year of high school, when I grew six inches in three months, I kind of grew into my body and my athletic efforts started showing results.

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Alexi, my oldest son, sometimes asks me how to do things physically. I try to take time and show him the ways that I've found to effectively handle situations. He normally learns quickly, too. Little Bear relates, but she rarely asks "how". BamBam, on the other hand, already wears the assured confidence and swagger of an accomplished athlete. Every day, I wonder what kind of teen and man he'll become because he can already do things that I couldn't or didn't do until I was a teenager. He wears my smirk as if I was only keeping it warm for him.

This isn't to say that I don't have a sense of wonder about my firstborn. It's just that he reacts to things so often as I expect that I kind of know him. Li'l Bear surprises me sometimes with her acerbic remarks and makes me laugh out loud. BamBam swings for the fences with every response. I rarely know what's going to come out of his mouth next.

Sometimes, they're in a room discussing the world as they know it. There's no animosity or ridicule. They're just talking. I shamelessly eavesdrop. 10, 8 & 5...and the five-year-old is giving as much input as the 10-year-old. Or, they're all talking about somebody that gets on all their nerves...like the little boys next door. Whoo! Hilarious!

Can you tell that I love being a daddy? As I've said before, people have it all wrong. "Father" is a social term describing a biological relationship. "Daddy" is a term of endearment. I'm not just the sperm donor. I'm the backstop for them. They think that I know everything and that I can do anything. I just hope our relationship survives the coming realization that I'm just a man. A big, strong, fast & capable man...but, only a man.

Shoot, my own ego almost shattered when I realized that about myself.

Anyway, time for City of Heroes.

A New Chapter...

I'd love to be a skydiving jumpmaster. I'd make the new guy wait until last. I'd have every one jump one-at-a-time on the count of three. When it's the new guy's turn, I'd have him stand at the door, begin my countdown and push his ass in the middle of his back on "2". He'd fly out of the plane wearing this look of sheer terror. He'd also pee all over himself...

Hah! Priceless!

Would we know as much about the world and how it works if Black folks were the dominant culture? I don't see many brothas stickin' their faces in stuff just to see what would happen. Ever see a brotha wearing a deep-sea diving suit? Ever see a brotha take a picture in front of an active volcano? Have ever, ever, ever in your long-legged life seen a brotha stick his head in a lion's mouth? Would black folks ever have invented skiing on their own?

Hmm...

Most kids have that "I wonder what will happen if i do this" syndrome, but it wasn't kids who made the show "Jackass". Still, white boys are hilarious to me.

Oh, my sense of humor is warped like untreated wood on a homemade deck. You've been warned.

I guess I'll have to get a life now so that I'll have stuff to write about again. This slump has extended well beyond it's allotted time period.