Eighth Grade O.G.

Eighth grade was an interesting time in my life. In eighth grade I found Snoop Dog, Warren G, TLC, Dr. Dre, Eazy E, Bone Thugz N Harmony, and many more. In eighth grade I was convinced I had soul. I even changed my friend circle to include a nice mixture of folks that although ashamed to admit, I felt were my gang. Yes, I was a young gangster in a rural southern community. Next to a paper plant and a military base, agriculture was still the main job source. Yet, hip hop found me. I was uncomfortable in my skin, so I adopted a new persona. Never even able to fake being a bad boy I was basically the same old me but with drooping tapered leg jeans. I also added as much athletic clothing to my wardrobe as possible. My homies, as they were, included Fred (Black), Fred (White), Jared, Andre, Juan, and Demetrius. We were a fear invoking crew to be sure.

I don't know how this all came about, and I don't remember it being a real decision. One day I was with the friends I had grown up with and I was sitting with these guys the next. None of us had ever been involved in anything gang related regardless of the claims we made that were not even close to being true. We rarely ever called each other on the blatant errors in our stories. Jared, for example, claimed to have been shot. He had moved here, so it was hard to verify his story other than the fact that he lacked a gun shot wound.

It is painful to even think about. I was such a dork, but it would have took some convincing for me to see it that way back then. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a pretty fly white guy with tapered jeans pulled low (I actually didn't get straight leg jeans until my 9th grade year), a Tarheels jersey (Tshirt underneath as to not show skin), and some Nikes. I think the Nikes were the high top Force. I would also have worn a hat. The hat would have been either a Tarheels hat, or the very popular Miami Hurricanes.

I rapped lyrics about smoking chronic and acting like I could relate, but I never did. I never have. I don't think any of them had, yet, either. I also liked TLC's "Red Light Special" without having had any experience in that department either. I couldn't function well around the ladies. I had several crushes on black girls because they seemed to be somewhat nicer to me, not sure why, although I never had the courage to ask any of them out or make what could be deemed as a "move" on them. Looking back, I think it was pity on their part. Special call out to my old school shorties.

Surprisingly, I don't think any of my family knew that this was even going on. I was able to slip between my respectful country boy accent to the misunderstood gangsta from Compton during the long bus ride to and fro.


My gang life was short lived. I realized that it would lead down a pretty bad road. That precedent was set for me by "Boyz in the Hood" which was my favorite movie at the time. But for a short time at least, I was eighth grade original gangsta.

Anger and Outrage!

What is the one thing that causes you to flip and act like a complete lunatic? I mean mommy dearest, no wire hangers, kind of angry. I often get a little nutty when fast food establishments are mean with an extra side of rude. I consider it personal and fully believe it was intentional. I have driven the ten minute ride back to the restaurant for my missing burger or fries. True story, ask Kirsten.

I have witnessed my father become a screaming, red-faced, madman stomping and throwing his hat when Sam's failed to open the extra line. I have witnessed Kirsten...I have never witnessed Kirsten do anything but show kindness and constraint.

Tell me a time when you lost it and showed your ugly side. You kind of have to respond to this or it looks like I don't have any friends, and that really tees me off.

No Paris in France

"What do you think?" Kathy Hilton asked an inquiring reporter. "This is pathetic and disgusting, a waste of Tax Payer's money with all this nonsense. This is a joke."

Weitzman didn't disagree. "To sentence Paris Hilton to 45 days in jail to me was uncalled for, inappropriate, and bordered on the ludicrous," the attorney said. "It was clear that she's been selectively targeted in my opinion to be prosecuted because of who she is."



It took the accusations being thrown out into public by Miss Hilton's attorney for the media to finally begin looking into the wide spread conspiracy against Paris Hilton, but it is amazing what they have found out since the investigation began.

Investigators have uncovered that the conspiracy actually goes back to the birth of Paris. The trusting Hilton's were first led down the wrong path when a naughty nanny actually placed a silver spoon in the then innocent mouth of Paris. Doctors are still not sure of all the ramifications, but it is clear that being born with a silver spoon in your mouth leads to a sense of entitlement and general unpleasantness. Although it was quickly discovered and the naughty nanny was relieved of her duties, the damage had already been done.

The next person in the conspiracy, one who is deeply interwoven into this story and the same person already fingered by Kathy Hilton, Tax Payer. Tax Payer has been a silent business partner with the Hilton family for a number of years by being a regular customer of the various Hilton businesses and by supporting the career of the younger Hilton with viewership of her reality show. The once hidden trail of Tax Payer has now been picked up by creative journalists and the truth brought to light. It is actually Tax Payer, not the well meaning Hilton parents, that raised Paris to be the poor child now sentenced to a heart breaking 45 days in prison. Yes, Tax Payer has been the one to destroy this young soul by not teaching her manners, the difference between right and wrong, a sense of accountability, respect for others, or enough respect for herself that would have allowed her to refrain from being a skank. Now Tax Payer, according to Kathy Hilton, has wasted money on the prosecution of the same Paris Hilton that Tax Payer helped to create.

Finally, the legal system is to blame. It can be proven by Someone that many years ago, laws were put into place to punish crime breakers regardless of wealth, or race. Now the legal system is trying to enforce those laws on Paris Hilton, and that is just not fair.

I am asking whoever reads this to stand up and voice your disgust about what is happening to Paris Hilton. You need to ask yourself what will happen if we start to treat the rich and famous like regular citizens. Are you prepared for the consequences? Can you live with Paris Hilton being in jail for 45 days?

In memory of my car lighter and porcealin goat

As a kid, there was no such thing as an unusual toy. It was just a toy. This is how I don't think it at all odd that at one time, I had both a car lighter with outer casing and a porcelain goat as toys. I also don't find it odd that they were my prize toys at the same time.

I often carried my favorite toys to school in my pocket, and whipped them out at the first hint of free time. That was a practice that I kept until fourth grade, when Mr. Davis caught me with two G.I. Joes and said I was too old to still be playing with toys. I was ashamed and devastated. I knew I had to give up my toys. The toys that I let my imagination run wild with, and had never made any formal plans of giving up. I played with my toys one last time and then donated them all to homeless children.

Three grades prior in first grade, before the Mr. Davis' toy holocaust, I suffered my first real embarrassment concerning toys. I have already said that I could make a toy out of anything, but I could see that my toys didn't always match up with the conventional toys of my peers. Let's start with the car lighter. I probably came across it in the auto junk yard owned by one of my uncle's friends. It was a prize possession for sure. It had lost all ability to cause a spark, but my imagination found other uses for it. It was my defense against the booger lady. The booger lady was a black girl with pony tails who was given the title for no particular reason, but seemed to embrace it anyway. At recess she would chase us with booger on extended finger, reaching to us like a marathon runner handing the baton. Being touched by the booger finger was a fate too horrible to imagine in the first grade. I would push my car lighter into its casing in the same manner which a smoker would to warm up for a light. By pushing my lighter into the casing, it became a grenade waiting for my release. I would then chuck it at the booger lady, never really aiming and never hitting her. I would then scramble back to where ever it landed and pick it back up. It was often at times a magical button, and sometimes it was just a lighter for my candy cigarettes. It wielded great power in my imagination, and rose high in the ranks of my toy kingdom.

The porcelain goat was probably retrieved from a dumpster. My family had money, at least enough to not dig in dumpsters, but my crazy uncle had a passion for the dumpster diving. I think he was too young for the depression, but it must of had an effect on him. I don't remember ever taking anything to the dump without bringing something back. You might be thinking of a few dumpsters in a row. Sure, we went there most often, but we also hit the big landfills. Now it seems strange and unsanitary to me. It also helps to know that I am completely aware of how nutso my family is, but back then it was a treat. I mean, we are talking hidden treasure. Toys buried. Toys waiting for me. Cars with three wheels (obviously blown off in a high speed car chase), decapitated action figures, rain worn transformers, and, yes, porcelain goats.

Nap time was an everyday event. Even as a kid I would zonk out. I would sleep so deep that it scared me. I was always afraid that I would wake up naked and strapped to the wall with the whole class laughing at me. I don't know where I got the idea that this was a logical threat faced by all first grade deep sleepers, but I had it. I would wake up in a panic, and check my surroundings.

Clothes? Check!

Toys? ….

Toys? …

When I went to sleep my toys were secure, but where were they? I was frantic. Had someone stolen my prize lighter and goat? Who would do such a thing? Who would…my teacher was looking at me. Double check clothes…Check! My toys? My heart stopped. She had my toys!

She thought my lighter was an inappropriate toy for school, and the porcelain goat…What can you say about a porcelain goat? It might not be the toy of choice, but it can't be described as inappropriate. Odd maybe, but not inappropriate. The class laughed at me. I promised not to bring them back to school, if I could just please have them back. It wasn't fair to steal my toys while I was sleeping.

Maybe she felt sorry for the poor kid who has to use a car lighter and a figurine as toys. Maybe she didn't want to upset the odd kid. All I know is I got the toys back at the end of the day, and they came home to stay.

I am not sure when I eventually parted ways with my lighter and goat. They might have went up in the same blaze that burned my house down (not started by my car lighter). I like to think that they found their way back to their respective junk yard and landfill only to be found by some new, strange boy that sees them for the wonderful toys they are.

Follow the herd to the Golden Corral

I want to clarify right at the beginning that I don't consider myself better than the people I am going to tell you about. I guess I am making a bit of fun, but I am also keenly aware of how close I come to joining their ranks.

I, totally honest and trustworthy, had never eaten at a Golden Corral until September of last year. I have saddled up to quite a few buffets in my food driven life, but never the GC. I liked it. As my debit card receipts will bear out, I often have a hankerin' for it. It is not a fancy spot with menus. This is the kind of place that toothpicks are offered after the meal. It is a place of value for the buck.

I usually only eat here at lunch times. I join the ranks of other hungry workers who want to share a dollop of mashed potatoes, fight for the last piece of chicken, and enjoy some ice cream out of the machine. These are my people. We communicate without words to form single file lines and obtain our selected meals without harm or danger to others. We fill our plates high like mountains that need to be conquered. We might get mighty portions, but, perhaps due to time constraints more than will, we usually only get two helpings.

Tonight, I went for dinner. These are not my people. These folks are professionals. They are the reason that it costs more to eat buffets at night versus lunch. I watched as three heavy hitters all sat on one side of a table so they could fill the other side with piles of plates. It looked like their imaginary equals were filling the chairs opposite them and devouring plates while they were eating only a normal portion. They sat in silence, staring ahead, and just ate. It didn't even look like they enjoyed it. They just ate.

One row up was a similar group. I don't know how many plates they knocked out before I got there because they were on dessert by the time I arrived. Picture yourself going to a local bakery and pointing to the entire showcase of desserts and saying, "I will take that, please." To make it worse, I could almost testify that I heard them talk about diabetes. These are true warriors. Not even the threat of amputation slows them down.

Looking around the "corral", I couldn't help but to notice more of the night crowd. They were easy to pick out due to their uniforms (sweatpants and loose shirts). It reminded me of the Friends episode where Joey wears maternity pants.

I sat there looking at all of these night people when it all started to connect in my head. Just as Bruce Willis realized he had been dead the whole time in Sixth Sense, I realized that the night crowd must be my people also. I am here with them. I am a threat to the buffet's existence.

I will pick up my uniform at Wal-mart tomorrow.

As honest as I can be.

I have been a worker for as long as I can remember. I have worked hard and always accepted the extra responsibilities and opportunities that have come from that hard work. I am so very thankful for all of the blessings and rewards that have come to me, but my heart, I think it is my heart, is uneasy.

Quite a few changes happened within a year's span. Media Play closed. I know from a Wall Street perspective it came as no shock, but from the perspective of someone who spent a major portion of time...I guess "sucked" is the only word that comes to mind. Closing was the outcome we worked so hard to prevent, and then it just happened. Powerless. That is how I felt. Without direction? That too. I started to think about the point of it all. It seemed to me that I spent a lot of time working. I had often said that work was my hobby. It dawned on me that I don't like the way that sounds. In fact, I hate it. Being honest with myself, it is not like I was saving lives, but I did enjoy the community of it. It was quite the experience and I grew, I hope, quite a bit while I was there. It still ended.

What came from the closing was a realization of reality. I realized that I spent way too much time at work. I realized that I do have more to me. Most importantly, I realized that I had been, simply, a bad husband. I regret saying the last line, but I know that it is true. By being always at work, I wasn't present. As Dylan says, "You got to serve somebody." It can be this, or it can be that. It can't be both. My abundance of time spent at work was a dashboard indicator of priorities and one that I regret. Our actions really are how we say things best.

The combination of the company's closing and some untimely passings laid a solid foundation for the overwhelming sensation of the grandness of life.

Being "on the road" has allowed much time for thought. I have mostly thought about being present, or living life. I don't mean for living life to be defined as doing the extreme, or even travelling to the unknown. I mean being present for my life. I want to stop and take inventory on a daily, even hourly, basis. I want to truly be present in my life and not let it slip past camouflaged in the everyday of it all.

I confess I made a mistake in thinking I was made for the kind of travel I am currently doing. At least, I know I am not made for it without Kirsten. Perhaps I would be better suited for it with my best friend along with me. I pray something, somehow brings me home soon.

To the point, I am on a quest to go forward. I am trying to be honest with myself. Honest enough to say what I really want, and I pray that I will have courage enough to go for it. I pray I will be smart enough to lay out sound plans to get there, and flexible enough to scrap those plans to make new ones when necessary. I hope to be a better...just better will do for now.