Picture a room full of kids with shitty attention spans. They’ve done their class work, had lunch, and took a nap. What do you have them do now? I know!
“Everybody, sit at the table. Here’s some paper, crayons, scissors, glue and a few sheets from old magazines. Draw a picture, make a collage, have fun…” Which means “I have nothing better for you to do, so keep yourself busy.”
And so the kids do, entertain themselves. They grow socially and express themselves creatively. A positive side effect, often unintentional. In the long run, it’s great and a very important moment for children to learn and experiment with art and being social.
So now there’s Mixel. If your an adult or just have access to an iPad and have nothing better to do with your time, sit at the table. Grab some scissors, glue, crayons, paper and a some scraps from a magazine. Play nice, kill time.
The meat not fit for middle class consumption, the fruit easiest to harvested and the vegetables too lacking in quality to reach the tables of the rich, is what generations had been forced to consume for survival.
This same food made edible with copious amounts of grease and salt, hunger and heat, desperation and hard labor has become a mainstay in the diets of these people’s ancestors.
Generations continue to poison themselves for the familiar taste that is called; cuisine by the poorly informed, peddled as cost efficient grocery by cooperate America and embraced as a celebrated staple of a community in decline.
My 3 year old recently started Gymnastics. Her excitement aside it was visibly difficult for her. The Gym, which has trained 3 Olympic gymnasts is full of the typical perfectionist, annoying, stage moms you’d expect. So my expectations were low from the start. Her teachers are two young girls who seem to chat amongst themselves more than giving patient direction to the kids.
2 weeks in, my 3 year old daughter says she wants to quit because “It’s hard”. Quitting isn’t acceptable at any age, but then again, her teachers are bitches. So I’m thinking about letting her slide. She later tells her mother “Mom, my thighs are fat.”
Ok. Now I’m pissed.
But, we send her back. On a different day with a different teacher. This time a 72 year old Russian man. He quickly gives her a nick name “Mishka”. My daughter jumps, bounces, balances, tumbles and smiles. She comes home and tells me how much she likes gymnastics, and that yes “it’s fun.”
My take away. Fuck quitting, and as Mo’Nique says “Skinny bitches are evil.”
For what it’s worth, I’d argue there was reasonable doubt. That said, promise me I won’t get prosecuted and I’ll kill her myself.
Personally the story shouldn’t have been national news, we’ve got our priorities messed up. That said, a national story it is and thus my Facebook and Twitter feeds are being sprinkled with “OMG’s” and the like.
It’s a legal issue people, not a personal one. What you feel, think, or even know to be true means nothing without proof. Don’t hate the system, hate the people that are charged with fucking it.
My son is preparing to graduate Kindergarten next week. Where he will have to perform “Si Tú Estás Feliz” as well as the Pledge of Allegiance. Last night he practiced… Personally I think it’s awesome. But make sure you listen to the end… because I’m epically – hilariously – offensive. As always.
I’d argue that life is little more than a string of random experiences tied together by a loose sense of cause and effect. Ultimately, we’re falling through space and time. The memories we collect and the life we live is a result of who we’re lucky or unlucky enough to collide with before we hit the ground.
What stays with us though, the memories that stand the test of time are the rituals. Not just ones we knowingly cling to but the ones we often forget about. The ones that when experienced again remind you of years or decades of similar experiences.
Today is my birthday, and if it wasn’t for Facebook most of my friends and colleagues would have forgotten as easily as I almost did myself. Though my wife and mother wouldn’t let me. And so goes the day. Replying to birthday well wishes, working and forgetting I was on a diet.
Then suddenly I see I have a message. It’s my grandmother. Singing Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday”. A call I get every year. Without fail. Ever since I can remember. Hearing the song, brings back memories of birthday parties at the roller rink and bowling alley, sleep overs in middle school, chugging Mickey’s when I turned 18, hitting the strip club when I turned 21, my first birthday at home with my wife and my first birthday gifts from the kids.
I’m not much for birthdays. I tend to keep them simple these days. Outside of my public pledges of zodiac superiority… Go Gemini’s! It’s a day I’d be happy forgetting exists. But then again, I wouldn’t get that call from my Grandmother. And maybe if it wasn’t such a ritual that’d be OK, but that’s not the case and far from acceptable.
Last night I walked into a CVS in Olney, Maryland. A tiny little town that recently adorns a much more diverse racial make up that it has in previous years. Today, almost 11% of Olney’s population is black, like your truly.
I marched into this store swiftly as I hate to dawdle while shopping, grabbed my blank thank you cards and marched just as swiftly to the self checkout. When a woman, maybe in her late 40′s turns to me and asks “oh, can you help me.” I reply “yes”, and walk her way. Assuming the bags are either too heavy or she’s having trouble with the machine. But no, she wanted me to fix her transaction. She forgot to swipe her bonus card. So I told her ‘Oh, sorry. I don’t work here.” with a smile of course. I take a few steps back and continue to wait in line, when a younger woman injects completely unsolicited “It’s the shirt.”
I thought, “really?” I looked around, and then noticed what I had failed to see upon entering into the store. Every patron at least in my plane of view was white, including these two women. Every employee at the front of the store… was black (and female if you want the specifics). I then noticed something else, all employees where wearing dark blue shirts. While I was a wearing a rather vibrant red shirt. So, how was it the shirt?
I thought it was weird, but went ahead and paid for my cards and walked out of the store before I digested what I had observed. Upon reaching the car I wondered…
Was that racist?
… and if so, what was more racist? The older woman assuming I was an employee or the younger woman feeling the need to explain away the elder woman’s assumption?
I spent Easter Sunday, playing with JavaScript and watching movies. When the family returned from church we headed to my mother in law’s to have Easter dinner and a few drinks. No more than 5 minutes into the drive my 5 year old asks “Dad, why don’t you like Church?”.
Obviously when asked, the misses bombed. So I fixed his understanding. I replied simply “Daddy went to church A LOT as a kid, and I mean A LOT. Now, daddy just needs a break. I’ll go back… when I’m ready to.”
My son, in his infinite wisdom continues “Oh ok. It’s like us, we used to go to McDonalds and now we’re taking a break. At school, I played Transformers a lot but took a break and now we play Power Rangers!”
So last night while an annoying slew of workout infomercials invaded by brain I dreamt that Forrest Whitaker and Mike Tyson were ex Delta Force and had trained under Shaun T of Insanity fame. As a result they obtained super human agility and strength. That coupled with their elite military training made them a force to be reckoned with when it came time to rob a bank. Did i mention I just watched the 1st and last season of The Kill Point?
Well, during the bank robbery, Tyson escaped leaving the higher trained Whitaker behind to fight off SWAT. When Whitaker made a run for it, Donnie Wahlberg showed up to chase him down. Whitaker took shelter in a warehouse where he even more hostages. SWAT lost patience and stormed the building early on. I was a hostage… or was I. Whitaker made a break for it. He jumped through trees and over hills until Donnie took a lucky shot and hit Whitaker in the back of the head. And Scene…
Tyson ended up at my house. He hid out in my basement as the kids and my wife slept. Suddenly I heard odd noises. I went down and he was in the backyard. Leaning against a fence rocking back and forth and snarling. I asked if he was ok, and he said in a demonic voice, to “Go Inside!” At this point little demon creatures began popping out of the ground and headed his way.
I ran up stairs and loaded the shotgun only to notice an SUV pull in front of the house. Inside was my barber, Ron. He and another group Delta Force had come to “fix” the Tyson situation. Ron apologized and told me “I messed up.” From behind him came a priest with a flack jacket on. They were here to perform a exorcism. Apparently Tyson had died in battle once before, but Ron brought him back to life and now the Devil had taken hold.
At this point I woke up and laughed initially at how random my dreams can be, but still I tried to not fall back asleep as I knew the dream would only get worse. Alas, I only slept for another 30 minutes or so before the kids entered our room. No more crazy random, incoherent dreams. Until tonight.
