Granny

Before I returned from Florida, I took this picture of my grandmother the week after Thanksgiving. I guess I wasn’t checking what I was doing since the shot was really over exposed. After using this program or that, I was able to get this with its horrible color and unnatural hues. I’m not sure why I took the picture, since she didn’t want to do it, other than she’s 92 and everyday you hear people younger than her dropping off. Plus 2 or 3 days before, I was watching TV and looked over at her, only to see her spooning out of a Vaseline jar.

 

“What are you eating?" I asked not really looking for an answer.

“Jean told me to use this,” I think she replied.

I’m not quite sure because all I was doing was looking at the white tasteless gooey stuff stick to her tongue and the edge of her dentures and thinking of how I’d have to find something to scrape that off with and if I should call 911 or poison control.

It’s funny, was this the same woman that I would terrorize each time she came back to my parents home after living with uncle So and So,  and uncle This and That? It wasn’t until I was 17 or 18 that I realized that perhaps those men weren’t uncles of mine since my mother was an only child.

I remembered then that she had been complaining about having dry skin and I decided to wait and see what would happen. 

Nothing really did happen. She had the runs of course a few hours later but by that time my mother was back from wherever she had gone and was able to take care of that. And I was left to think, was this what I have to look forward to if I follow my mother’s gene pool instead of my father’s?

Yes, a New Year's Resolution

I have always hated making New Year’s Resolutions. Resolutions become failed resolutions and failed resolutions become another excuse for becoming disappointed with myself. So of course I have sworn never to make a New Years’ Resolution again, which means of course it’s time. Life is crazy isn’t it?

One day you’re making $1.50 above minimum wage cleaning somebody’s office, the next day you’ve become the focus of world attention when someone else decides to fly a plane into the building where you work. One day you are considered as scum of the earth and not fit to be in decent society for the rest of your life, the next day the government decides that the costs of incarceration and medical care are a bit much and that perhaps time served and probation might not be such a bad idea after all. I guess all I’m trying to say is that nothing is permanent nothing is written in stone. In fact the only really prominent thing that was ever written in stone was the Ten Commandments and even that was destroyed in a fit of rage by some crazy old Jew, or should I say Israelite?

Last year I didn’t allow myself to really go out in public, I was feeling a little Rubenesque shall we say. It wasn’t that I was covered in rolls of fat, or at least none that I will openly admit to. But there was, there is, a way that my body moves that makes me feel uncomfortable. The rhythm is off. I plod rather than stride. I grasp rather than stretch. My center of balance no longer makes me feel balanced and I am put off by it. It makes me feel old.

A few years ago I remember seeing Danté, a massage therapist on the beach at Fire Island. He was naked and moving about and stretching himself into all sorts of poses like a gazelle in heat, that is if a gazelle in heat is an elegant sight because Danté certainly was. This year I want to do that. I am going to take up yoga and I’m going to learn to stretch and breathe and move in a way that will keep me safe.

I say safe because after 7 or maybe 10 years of being accident free, the week before Christmas I’m walking a block away from my house crossing the street when I feel that old familiar feeling of my legs giving way from under me. But instead of finding my balance and adjusting myself quickly, I suddenly saw both my ankles at level with my head as I left the ground and waited for that inevitable thud to my lower back as my backside hit the street. I can still feel the sweat of embarrassment that I felt as I hoped no one that I knew had seen me and scurried away knowing that if I was better shape I might have been able to have avoided the mishap.

So there it is, it may be a little late so sue me. My first resolution in years is to take up yoga and if you should see me on the beach stretching like a mutha and you enjoy it, then feel free to come over and tap me on the ass and say, “Good job.” I know it will make me happy.

One Verse One Chorus

Oh my God, get the room ready at the Home because I think I’m ready for it. Why? Because I think I am getting too old and I’m doing things that I used to laugh at when other people did it.

It was Saturday night, which meant that it was fun times at my house if you are into being alone staring at the TV and wondering why is life passing you by, when between channels I noticed Tony Orlando from Tony Orlando and Dawn pitching 70’s songs for Time-Life. Now I’m not going to say I hadn’t seen these types of paid 30 minute commercials before, but I had never been able to relate to most 60’s songs let alone early rock and roll and or Glen Miller. Did they ever find him? But 10 minutes into this Romancing the 70’s, the remote must have gotten stuck, I started to notice that not only did I recognize most of the songs but I had started to sing along with them.

You know I was one of those people who said that Rap would never last, but 30 years ago if you had told me I would have been singing “You Needed Me” with Anne Murray at 12 midnight I would have said that you and whoever brought you into the world were crazy. But there I was belting out tunes at the top of my voice searching for the right note to go with the Captain and Tennille and Melissa Manchester and people and groups whose names I had forgotten so long ago.

Speaking of forgetting, I had forgotten how bald Elton John was before he got his knighthood and how close he was to getting totally blind every other week according to the magazines. However Tony and crew didn’t show Sir Elton doing b’b’b’ ”Benny and the Jets”, which would have sent me screaming off the wall and dialing that toll free number. I would have been so loud they would have called the cops on me. They do that in this neighborhood you know. I know because I’ve done it at least twice myself.

So there I was last night being nostalgic and remembering how I used to sing some of these songs on my bike at the crack of dawn delivering newspapers when I realized that I could write something and relate it to this old video I found. Well I didn’t really find it and it’s not that old since it was finished today, but I was feeling almost sorry for myself this week and this was one of the ”woe is me” songs that I sometimes cling to.

So here is one verse and one chorus of it.

Rambling Relays

I think I’m trying to avoid writing about something. There are a couple of things that are on my mind, but I don’t know how to go about writing them. I tell myself I just need to season the idea little, turn a phrase here or there and relate it to this or that so that I can be comfortable with it, but I never do. I have a few unfinished pieces on Word with one or two paragraphs and that’s it. Truth be told, even if I were to go back to them, they’d be so old that I probably couldn’t figure out what it was that I was trying to say originally. So I will just ramble on a bit.

It’s Penn Relay weekend and I have nothing that I want to do. There are of course the games. But I think that I have gotten to an age where I am just interested in the athletic performances and not the ancillary performances of the spectators looking for dates or whatever both in and out of the stadium that often accompanies the Relays.

If I were to go with friends, I would be the one seen as putting a downer on the whole thing because I would be the one looking to see who was winning a race, whereas they would be the ones looking to see who had the most to jiggle up front, or behind, or see who was built like a brick shit house and what they’d like to do with them. Not that there’s anything wrong that, but what the hell does it mean to be built like brick shit house anyway? I can see the brick house part, but where and how does shit make it even more of a compliment?

Anyway, since it is Relay Weekend that means that it’s the official or unofficial Black Gay Pride weekend in Philadelphia. It also means that there will be plenty of parties that I will not be invited to and I few where I wouldn’t show up even if I were invited because I never have been a real party person unless of course the liquor was flowing the way that it should be and or I was comfortable with the people that were there. It also means that there will be the clubs or bars dedicated to getting that black gay dollar this weekend from people of questionable ages that I will also avoid like the plague, just because I know how the kids get when they are trying to act all grownup and Miss Thing. God, was I ever like that? Also could I make these sentences any longer? Changing gears.

Today I was out in the sun for a few hours doing a few things and decided that I would go to my gym for quick shit and a shower because I was feeling sweaty and stinky. Actually I’m joking about a quick shit because I have something about public toilets that one or two therapy sessions still wouldn’t be able to help me with and why I thought showering and putting back on the same stinking clothes would make a difference is beyond me. But there I was drying off and I noticed I had a tan line on my upper arms from wearing a tee-shirt.

And?

Well for me, that’s a big thing. I am dark and I can get even darker. One time I went to Guadeloupe and I turned so dark there were highlights that I saw on my chest that were actually purple when the sun hit it just right. That was interesting. It was also fun. Nice work if you can get it and it’s time to start working on that again and getting back to my Maasai roots. "But the Maasai are from East Africa” you say, “and slaves were taken from West Africa.” To which I would reply that my family has always travelled and who is to say that they weren’t vacationing in sunny Ghana or Nigeria at the time?

I was going to downshift even further and talk about another “Golden Girl” leaving us but I think that I’ve gone on too long as it is and may leave it for another day. Nevertheless I truly believe that Betty White is going to survive everybody and keep working although at this point that’s not going to be much of a bet, but I’m still taking wagers right now if you’re interested.

Heh-Heh

It’s Valentine’s Day so in order for me to enjoy the rest of the day’s festivities, let me get something off of my chest. No, don’t get funny, that’s not my chest that you’re looking at but it is more interesting than mine at the moment. I seem to sag in all the wrong places right now and I’m not sure if it’s because of age or because I drink about 4 or 5 cans of coke a day and I inhale baked goods without end. I don’t seem to be able to stop. Addiction, it’s a terrible thing to have and makes you do terrible things like drift the way that I’m drifting away from my point now. What I really want to say is I don’t like Heh- Heh. In fact I can’t stand Heh-Heh. If there is one thing in this world that I won’t be able tolerate any more for the rest of the year, it’s Heh-Heh. What is Heh-Heh you ask?

Heh-Heh is thing you hear when you are standing in the express line at the supermarket with your 10 items or less and the person in front of you turns and faces you and you realize they have about 6 months worth of groceries in their basket. Then they will say “Heh-Heh” and turn back around trying not to look guilty.

Heh-Heh is when in a club or bar some big fat drunken bastard has stepped on your foot and crushed a couple of bones that you never took notice of before or has spilled cheap alcohol on your expensive shirt and all he can say is “‘scuse me! Heh-Heh.”

Heh-Heh is the excuse you hear when you’ve just come off the gym floor and all you want to do is rip off your sweaty stinky jock strap off in peace. Meanwhile there is some bozo that has decided to ignore the rows upon rows of free and open lockers against the wall and decided to change his clothes at the locker next to yours. “It’s funny how these things seem to turn out this way. It’s like Murphy’s Law, Heh-Heh,” he will say. I will just grunt and grimace as we both try to do some sort of awkward semi-naked tango over the same spot of smelly rug.

Speaking of being naked, I had just taken a shower at the gym about 3 months ago and I was putting on lotion in front of one of the mirrors. I had dropped the towel and doing legs and behind when the senior senator for Pennsylvania decided to introduce himself to me. Now I’ve been going to that gym for at least 12 maybe 14 years and he’s never introduced himself to me before. I’ve seen the governor naked a couple times and a few other notables including the senator undressed so I know being nude in and of itself doesn’t really cast aspersions. And I don’t mean to do that here. But as the senator is talking to me, he’s staring at the nipple ring, my dick is swinging in the open breeze and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.

Suddenly I see a break in the conversation where I think I can take over and guide it to where I want it to go, which was to an end. I really wanted to tell him was that he was creeping me out and that I had no interest in becoming one of his lackey troll boys who hang around him looking for crumbs and a leg up in politics and or power like I’ve seen others do. But instead I said, “I live in New Jersey, so I can’t vote for you senator, Heh-Heh.”

Oh, and happy St. Valentine’s Day.

I Yearn

Please excuse the personal post but I yearn to do something different, and I don’t know what. I’m bored and I long for a change and I don’t know why.

I suppose I could volunteer somewhere doing something worthwhile for someone, people, the community, but I don’t really have the social skills to do stuff like that well. I like structure and I like to take responsibility (that’s a euphemism for take charge) for what I do. But since it wouldn’t be my organization, I would have to take orders from somebody else and take them for free. I don’t do orders that well, so that wouldn’t really be a good fit for me, a legacy from my father I think.

I have sort of mentioned this before, but right now I could have been somewhere over the Atlantic, still trying to get some sleep. However, I traded in my tickets for Paris yesterday for tickets to Rome next year, although I'm not sure what I will do there. I came to the conclusion that the even though I had originally thought that I would have been travelling to meet with someone for fun and adventure, a chance to relive old times, it would be a bad idea. I thought to myself that it was probably going to turn out to be more misery and inconvenience, Paris in the winter, and I have already done too many of those types of trips so why do it again. Best to find an excuse, pretend I’ve been hurt and not go.

I could have been bumped up against some big hefty guy who was looking to get even more space from my small piece of coach, or I could have been sitting next to some middle-aged woman twittering away about how her children are doing this or that for her and that except for the quiet lonely one, they were her pride and joy and if I ever met them I would find her or even him so fascinating.

Funny that, I used to think once you hit 35 you were middle aged. Now that that number has long been passed for me, middle aged is now somewhere around 50 or even 60. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.

Another thing that’s funny is that I always seem to make decisions and then I look around for reasons to justify those decisions. I always seem to follow the old axiom “he who hesitates is lost,” especially when it turns out to be the wrong decision. Of course there is the other axiom of looking before you leap, which I will often do as I watch opportunity slip away right in front of me.

So that’s it, my life has somehow turned out to be a series of mishaps and mistakes and for some reason I keep repeating them. And so I yearn to do something different.

I just don’t know what.

"Please Sir, can I have some more?"

So last night I was able to get my drink on. I had about five or six drinks but I only paid for one. It was like the old days when I could walk into some place and people would think that because I must have looked like new meat, I could have been had for the price of a beer or some cheap watered down mixed drink. It was too bad that many of them would just walk away a little lighter in their wallets with just memories of some insignificant polite conversation. That was my specialty. Like Marlene used to sing,

“Men cluster to me like moths around a flame.
And if their wings burn, I know I’m not to blame.”

Of course nowadays it's no longer as simple as it used to be. Like women my age who have to paint their faces and wear that wonder bra that will show their best assets, I will sometimes go for the tight leather jeans, no underwear and a strap cock ring for extra emphasis. There is nothing that says "hold your interest" more than a man with a nice print, and that's regardless of what or who you are into. Plus that was the look I was going for until the shit started to hurt and I had to pull off the ring in the bathroom. Why do I bring this up? I'm not sure really other than to say I needed a little attention and so I played the part. I played it to as far as I was comfortable with.

The CEO's from Detroit's Big 3 needed a little attention when they went to DC, cap in hand like Oliver Twist asking for a cup of gruel. (What is gruel?) They needed a few more billion to tide them over for the next two years because the economy had destroyed, or was about to detroy their business unlike what it must have done to Toyota and BMW.

However as everyone knows, they didn't get what they asked for but instead got the message of come back again later but with plan that states how they will become profitable. And next time try a little humilty by maybe not using the corporate jet which cost $20,000 for the day on average and trying slumming it in 1st Class instead when asking the tax payer to cover them. I've heard since that GM has already sold off 2 of it's 5 corporate jets in order to start saving money.

All I'm saying is that if I were advising the CEO's, I would tell them that they should pick the best and most fuel efficient car that they make and drive down to DC in order to make their point. Of course they would run the risk of breaking down in Pittsburg and perhaps alienting those that thought the Big 3 were salvagable. But they may also get the sympathy vote and get even more than they wanted. Who knows?

All I'm saying is that sometimes you just have to strap on whatever you need to strap on in order to show off your best attributes if you want to get what you want.

Finding Me

It has been said that Descartes said maybe in Latin,”cogito ergo sum,” or “I think therefore I am.” I wish I could think of some great line that people will prattle off for years to come either knowing or not knowing what the true or original meaning of the quote was about. But I am no great philosopher. I am not even a mediocre conjurer who can pull shit out of a hat, so for now you are going to be stuck with me saying, “Life is a series of learning events.” Over the weekend I learned something that I would not have been open to about 10 years ago. But let’s go back a bit even further.

The only time that I have been to Las Vegas was in the mid-90’s when Mike Tyson was fighting Britain’s Bruno, forgot his 1st name. But it was one of those fights where the lead in to the ring by the opponents was actually longer than the fight itself. In fact the only thing I do remember about the fight was Tyson at the sound of the bell for the opening round, rushing towards the Brit, flailing away like some kind of mechanical harvester of death and knocking him down and out in less than 30 seconds.

The fight was held in what seemed to be the basement MGM Grand Hotel & Casino in Vegas and there was this long gangway or maybe I should say runway that the ticket holders took to get into the arena. On either side of this were people looking on waving, cheering and screaming at the celebrities as they walked forward. I turned to the filmmaker and asked why were people screaming at us and he said that it wasn’t us but Halle Berry and her ball player husband about a yard in front of us. Who? He went on to say that she was in a Spike Lee movie and Different Strokes, or Different Life or Different something, I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. All I did care about was the trickle down fame and celebrity from the 2 in front of us would trickle back our way. So as people gaped, oohed and aahhed, I didn’t wave back but instead I gave them the jaw. You know, the up thrusted chin that gives you just a slight air of authority, power and may I say a little bit of glamour. I was famous by proxy, and I was loving it.



So skip to yesterday, before going to the Arts Bank for the movie Finding Me, I went to a reception by the Philadelphia Gay & Lesbian Film Festival and the filmmakers at Ms Tootsies. It started at 5pm, so I showed up at 6 with my little entourage because it’s always best to have people see you come rather than you see them. I walked into middle of the floor of the restaurant and looked around and I realized that I knew absolutely no one there. But more than that, more than that, this was a Philly crowd and no one there knew me and no one cared. I was surrounded by young and good looking men and women and I wasn't part of it. My time was over and I was fine with it.

It’s not that I was ever famous or well known or even really given a damn about, but I was always the youngest in the room with the most potential. When that failed, I was always someone’s lover or someone’s friend. Knowing me meant that you were in the in-crowd, you had that chance of using me as a stepping stone to get to what you really wanted, your holy grail. Or at least that was the impression given since I probably gave and did nothing for anyone, but like the man said in the song, ”I never promised you a rose garden.”


This weekend, what I what I really realized was that all of that living vicariously through others was never important to begin with. That feeling of self produced importance was fleeting and really irrelevant when it came to just enjoying yourself. And if it was, well then it was time for people younger than I was with clearer skin and less receding hairlines to grab a little spot light for themselves. I had become the photographer and was no longer the photographed. And it was all good.

So to sum it all up, life is a just a series of learning....Alright, as a line it's corny, but one day I will find and build that quote that will define the age and explore new meanings of life and then we'll see who is more important, me or the pretty boys. You'll see, they'll be finding me.

Benefits and Shit

One of the benefits of having a membership at the The Sporting Club at the Bellevue, is that it is considered to be the premier gym/spa in the City of Philadelphia. Of course that's not really taking into consideration the Philadelphia Tennis & Racquet Club two blocks away, which I think may very well be so much better, but I have never been there. You have to be invited by a member, or be to the manor born. But at my gym, apart from the people like me who struggle from paycheck to paycheck, you are surrounded by local politicians, a US Senator and a governor. There are also high priced lawyers, judges, doctors, a few celebrity athletes who have passed their prime and others who are wheeling and dealing in some sort of scheme to get even richer than they are now.

Occasionally at the gym you will see some level of media celebrity, ranging from Butch who works one the access free TV cable shows and throws the underwear party at a leather bar and Heidi from the first season of Donald Trump's The Apprentice. Who?...Moving on. There have even been reports of Oprah showing up at the gym whenever she is in Philly and there was of course the time that I saw a celebrity and was kind of rude to him.

I had noticed some black guy running around the track and I had thought to myself, at last some new color on the premises and I continued doing bench presses. But, I must have paused in the middle a little to long because all of a sudden some female lackey whom I had seen with the black guy came up to me and asked just how long I would be on the bench. Naturally, this meant that I would have to inform her that I would have at least 2 more sets to do out if spite, which I did. She then walked up to the black guy and I suppose told him what I had said. They nodded at each other in agreement and they both left. It was then that it hit me. I had been rude to Denzel Washington who was in town making a movie without even trying. I had blown my chance to get to know someone famous. I had thrown away the opportunity to become tight with a Hollywood star, and believe me we would have become tighter than my nuts on a cold day in January if I had known what was what. Oh well, life goes on.

So needless to say, but I will, there is a large number of gym members who have reached shall we a say a certain age. Muscles don't build as easily as they once did for many people there. That gut that many of us endeavor to get rid of seems to hang around like the hookers used to do at the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel on the Manhattan side. Something familiar but something you know you should get rid of. The smell of Ben Gay will sometimes permeate the locker rooms as old men try to relive their glory days while relieving themselves of the pain of strained ligaments, joints and unfulfilled dreams. I have even seen once when I was in the showers an elderly gentleman became so weak and disoriented that while he was pulling down his powder blue swim shorts, I saw the stain of fecal matter run down from between his legs and into the floor drains.

On Monday this week, the men's whirpool was shut down by the time I had entered the men's locker room and wet area. It was out of order and I looked down at the pool and wondered why instead of just draining the water and filling it up once a week with a quick wipe around the edges, why didn't they ever clean it properly and scrub the walls and the floor and pick up what looked like grit that had sank to the bottom. I was told that they had just refilled the pool and poured a bucket of some white fluid. I assumed that it must have been some sort of disinfectant, because when they use chlorine it's usually in a powdered form.

On Tuesday, I dipped my right hand into the whirlpool to see how warm it was. It had been months since I had gotten in and I thought this might be the day when I got in it again. Curtis told me as I was about to drop my towel, get naked and feel the rejuvenative powers of the water jets that the reason the whirlpool was shut down on Monday was because someone had taken a shit in the pool.

I decided not to get in. You would have to have a particularly piquant set of sensibilities to overcome something like that, and I'm not sure I would qualify. I don't like to worry unecessarily.

By the way, it may be just my imagination, but my right hand has been tingling ever since.

Stream of Thought

Is it just me, or has national politics all of a sudden become boring?

We all know that Obama will be the presidential nominee for the Democratic Party and the McCain his counterpart for the Republicans, but it seems that all the intrigue, back stabbing and nail biting has disappeared since my girl Hillary, “oh what a world,” Clinton was so soundly washed out of the race like the Wicked Witch in the Land of Oz. Of course she may be back as a contender for VP, but I actually think my town’s local dog catcher would stand a better chance of getting it. I’m not joking; I haven’t seen a stray dog in this town for years. Plus I think it would be a bad idea anyway. Meanwhile, we are left with 2 guys taking petty snipes at each other. The war hero who looks like he may have served under Roosevelt, Teddy not Franklin and the wunderkind who is (hck)… my age. Where did I go wrong in life? Yes it looks like it’s going to be one of those woe is me posts. I’m feeling it.

Anyway, politics really wasn’t what was on my mind. It was to be an introduction for something else. I had actually intended to write about tomatoes and salmonella and the spinach from last year and the beef that was sold from cows that just seemed to drop dead as opposed to ones that were slaughtered. I was going to go into my thoughts that people should be more concerned about buying food stuff grown locally. That way the consumer could establish, develop or maintain a closer relationship with the seller/grower. As a buyer you would have a greater input in the produce that is grown and sold because both buyers and sellers would be more aware of the others needs. Transportation costs would be reduced as some foods would no longer need to be shipped across country to markets far away from they are grown. Think globally buy locally as they say when they are pitching for money on PBS.

Having lived most of my life in New Jersey, the Garden State, I am fully aware of the produce that is grown locally and the Chicanos who migrate every summer from where ever to help with the growing and the harvesting. It’s a big industry here and yet I buy strawberries that are grown in California and frozen peas and other stuff that travel from who knows where because of the convenience of the supermarket and maybe the price. Although, I don’t really take much notice of the price, I figure I have to eat regardless of the cost.


Plus if where you live is like where I live, much of the farmland is disappearing. 20 years ago you take a short drive out in South Jersey, hit somebody’s farm and pick some apples or something else and pay an almost nominal fee for what you got. At least that’s what my father used to do on his way home from where he used to work at the Salem nuclear plant. He was a strange man. I think I hated him at the time, now I think I miss him. Hmmh. Anyway, now this part of the state is being overrun by corporate parks, strip malls and over-priced residential developments that nobody can buy any more. But now I don’t even want to write about that. I just want to wallow about getting old and being a wage slave and not really accomplishing shit.

I remember when I went for a doctor’s appointment, I may have written this before but I’m still traumatized by it so here it is again. The doctor, who was female, and about 10 or 15 years younger than me started rolling my testicles in her hand even though I had told her that I already knew how to check for tumors. I remember thinking at the time, “little girl, just cause you know I’ve seen a few men before, don’t think I can’t rise to the occasion.” But I didn’t. Instead she made me feel real old and sexless. And that’s what I feel today, old and sexless while others my age are out there changing the world.

There is a great line that Lily Tomlin said in one of her shows, “I always wanted to be somebody, but now I realize I should have been more specific.”

I should have been more specific.

And the Beat Goes on

I don't believe that Philadelphia has had this much media coverage since the Republican National Committee Convention in 2000. That was where I saw Sen. Al D'Amato from NY just before he lost his seat to Hillary and I was surprised at how tall he is. It was also where I ran into George Stephanopoulos, and I mean ran into him. He was coming out of a Vietnamese restaurant and just as his feet hit the sidewalk, I bumped into him almost knocking him over. I noticed that he came up to about my chest in height. So I apologized and then we both moved on.

But now the media is back in full force looking for that Rocky like knockout by either Obama or Hillary. Of course none was delivered tonight because none could be delivered. This is a fight to the end. That is what makes it so exciting. This is what Ali versus Frazier must have been like in the early 70's except it taking 18 months to find out that it's going to come down to a decision and not a knockout.

But the media doesn't care. Why should it? Every 2 weeks there is a decisive primary election and every 2 weeks after that the media says that the next race will decide who the Democratic nominee will be. It's turning into a perpetual money making machine for them.

Oh if I had a chance to do it all again, I would have picked political analyst for a career. Every 4 years it's Christmas, New Years Eve and the 4th of July all wrapped up into big self-love fest, where people in love with the sound of their own voices talk about stuff over and over again that they know nothing about.

So I dragged my friend Curtis out tonight when we left the gym to take some pictures for me. Since after turning 40 night-vision was one of the things that I left behind. Come to think of it, some of the day vision was left behind too. Any way, Hillary's campaign headquarters was next door at the Bellevue Hotel and I figured I won't see this kind of excitement in Philly again for a long time.

The news trucks have already left the city.

Foot & Mouth Disease

I don’t know where the putting the foot in the mouth phrase came from, but it’s been one of those phrases that I have been aware of for quite some time. I am sure that I heard it being used before, but the first time I remember hearing it being used effectively was the Democratic convention in ’88. God, how the hell old am I?

Governor Ann Richards of Texas was giving the key note address, or the opening speech or some speech and she mentioned George Bush senior who was running for president and that she was the one with the real Texas twang in her voice and not him. She then went on to comment on the Vice-President’s newly found interest in social issues. "Poor George. He can’t help it. He was born with a silver foot in his mouth," she said with a shrill in her voice that brought the audience to its feet.

I guess she never thought then that George Jr would come by later on take her job for insulting his daddy. I guess she never thought then that politicians would still be putting their feet in the mouths and still keep getting away with it, ala Clinton, McCain, Kilpatrick and countless others.

But politicians are not the only ones who seem to suffer from foot and mouth disease. Like a lot of people, I have been known to say the most inappropriate things at the most inopportune times. Most times it’s because I didn’t think the thing through and there was a lack of judgment on my part. I will often have to take it back and apologize, or rephrase what it was that I should have said. There are other times when I will just take a cavalier attitude, stick my chest out and let the cards fall where they may. Neither position is a comfortable place to be in.

In fact the only time that I like to have a foot in my mouth is when it’s someone else’s. Well actually I haven’t got to that foot fetish stage yet, just toe tickling testicles and nipple squeezing action but who knows what tomorrow brings. I hear music. I’m drifting…

So, in conclusion, for those people for whom which the fate of the nation or state rests on their shoulders; please think about what you are going to say before you open up. My plea is for Hillary, you know you’re my girl, but your black supporters, all 3 of us want you to stop reinventing memories that don’t exist and stop talking about other peoples’ churches. My request is for McCain to get your facts straight and take your medication before you talk us into a 3rd war front in the Middle East. And if I hear one more personal thing coming from Governor Paterson in New York, I swear I’ll… (Open mouth insert foot here.)

New Year's Resolutions

It’s almost the middle of February. Winter seems to be on its way out. The sun is shining and the bitter chills of the last few weeks seem to be just a memory. Consequently, I have decided what my New Year’s Resolutions will be. Alright, so I’m a little late, but I run on CP Time now and again.

CP Time is a birthright afforded to me by my ethnic inheritance. It’s something that I nourish and cultivate from time to time and hold sacred, especially when I can’t find any other excuse to explain my tardiness. I know that I am not alone in this behavior because when people come in 15 to 20 minutes late to those Barber/Beauty Shop plays, or the He Did Her Wrong shows at the theatre, I realize that I am surrounded by my beautiful brothers and sisters who like me, have no concept of Eastern Standard when it comes to certain things.

The other day I arrived in Philly. I had walked up the Speedline steps and was on my way to wherever I was going and I noticed my breath. I wasn’t huffing and puffing, but I noted the rhythm of how I breathed, deeply and long. I breathed as if I was trying to catch my breath. I felt uncomfortable but I did not need to slow down; people often tell me that I walk fast. There was no need for me to pull over to side, clutch my chest and exclaim “ooh chile,” like I’ve seen elderly ladies do after they have exerted themselves. But this was something that I had become aware of happening to me more and more. I will admit, the days of me waking up in the morning and running 4 or 5 miles a day before work is long behind me, but breath control has never been an issue until now. Of course in those days, I would smoke about 2 or 3 cigarettes a day. Now I do about a pack every 2 or 3 days, or a pack a day if I’m out drinking where they still allow you to smoke. So that is my first resolution.

Since I intend to have more beautiful oxygen filling my lungs repairing cell tissue promoting muscle growth and things, I thought that perhaps this year I could get rid of that jiggle. I’m not complaining about how I look, but I have an ego like a lot of people. Also, I am tired of how listening to people say how good I look for someone of my age. My age, what the hell does that mean anyway? I look ugly and decrepit but since I’m close to collecting social security you’ll give me a pass? No sir. Not interested in hearing that any more. So this year, I’m going for that 6-pack. I’m going for that stomach that people can wash their clothes on. For once in my life I want people look at me and just say “damn” and leave it that. I want to be seen as attractive before I’m old enough to start getting the scope up my behind by a doctor with whom I’m not that close.

I don’t usually do resolutions. First I think it’s kind of silly and childish to pledge to do something that you want to do anyway but only at a certain time and date. And second, for me they have never lasted more than the second week of January. Looks like I’m ahead already.

So there you have it, 2 resolutions. And with that, in case I didn’t do it before, I would like to wish everyone a Happy New Year, better late than never.

Age and the Barber Shop

It’s funny how some things and people change with the passage of time while others don’t.

I went to the barber shop the other day. I have been going to the same shop for the last 14 or 15 years. It may not seem like a long time compared to other people who have seen the same barber since the day after they were born, but it took me a long time to find someone that I was comfortable with touching me and an environment that I could fully relax in. As a result, over the years I have met and seen many of the customers who frequent the place. I may not be close enough for movie and dinner invitations, but I know many of them by face at least.

This time, I was sitting in the shop waiting my turn, staring up at the TV looking at the news when Mario came in. I had seen him there one time before, but had not been sure that it was him. This time I was. In fact he came up to me, recognized me and offered his hand.

He stood over me and I looked at his graying hair, the scar over his left eyebrow and the twinkle in his eyes that I remembered from before. He was slightly heavier than when I last saw him about fifteen years ago, but he still held an attractiveness that was not overwhelming but appealing.

I thought about how he would be the only one to wear a thong in the whirlpool at Bally’s. He would have both the boys and the girls stare and want him as he entered or left. He had such an aura about him that his masculinity would never be questioned and that made him even sexier. He was my rival, but he was also someone that I wanted.

Now as he turned away, I noticed the bald spot in the back of his head and the lines in his face that had deepened with time. I thought to myself how old he had become and the quick youthful step that he carried himself with was just a memory replaced now by that belly that protruded. I compared myself to him and I thought about how I looked and felt good about myself.

Then I remembered the old joke where a man goes to see a dentist and while looking up at her from the chair, he realizes that she was a former high school class mate. He wonders to himself how old she looks and how she could have let herself go like that. The man decides to tell the dentist that he knows her.

“Excuse me, but I think you were in my class in high school,” he says.

“Really,” she said without blinking. “What class did you teach?”

There is a lesson there. Something about age, beauty and humility I think, but until I can figure it out, I will just go on thinking about how some people change with age while I remain as constant as the Northern Star...except for that click in my right knee whenever I walk that is.