After twenty minutes of ridicule about my royal blue suit I found a perch in the darkest of corners and began to count the grooves in the wood panels that lined the basement walls. '432 grooves, 4-3-2' I thought; and '221 knots 2-2-1'. '4-3-2 2-2-1. 4-3-2 2-2-1', I thought repeatedly; this distracted me from the roar of laughs. As my mind wandered I thought, 'my mom said I looked handsome!'

Before leaving the house that night, my mom ensured me that I'd be the finest young man there, even warning me to not be kissing many girls "He he heeeee," she laughed. She couldn't help but to giggle, telling me that my dad was wearing a similar outfit on the day they met; a comment I now notice as the kiss of death in contemporary fashion. But in 1985, it filled me with excitement and assurance. So when Mrs. Francis arrived to drive me and my buddies deep into the fast, scary city, I plowed in her minivan with confidence. For this night was significant, I thought, a first for me and my friends. We were about to embark on a party unlike any party we'd attended before. No cake or ice cream, no chaperones, and no games. Music, dancing, and women! Not 10, 11, or 12 year old girls? 15, 16, 17 year old women! Aaron promised there'd be women!

Aaron and I were buddies throughout elementary school. Our parents were neighbors and co-workers. Aaron and I terrorized the neighborhood of Fort Dupont for years. The hum of our matching Green Machines sealed the fate of many unsuspecting pedestrians. We were pretty tight. We actually cried when my family moved away in '83; although our moms kept in close contact in the passing years. "Aaron's playing football!" "Aaron got all As!" would often echo through the walls. It was our parents who orchestrated this reunion, which would become a defining moment in my existence.

I found out that Aaron took a different path than me after my family's move. I was enamored with comic books and video games when he gravitated towards social events and sports. His ascent in the social pecking order was huge; this New Years Eve shindig was party paramount at his school; even gaining acclaim in the older socialite order of my old neighborhood. I had the opportunity to mingle with cool kids. Older kids that understood the lyrics in Indian Girl, smoked cigarettes, and cursed! And must I include?this was my opportunity to meet women! I donned my Sunday's best and was off. 'Yes, this was to be a supreme evening indeed', so I thought.


I could only scan the room, when my eyes would lock with another's, I'd sheepishly bury my head in my chest. The laughter had died to a murmur after Aaron came to my rescue "He's from Hillcrest" he confessed "he don't know how WE do it." Phrases I little understood then; and still don't for that matter. 'So I'm some retard suburbanite, light-years behind the hip, teen, urban crowd' I realized. Twenty-five minutes in and this party blew. The buddies I came with had abandoned me for a Nintendo game system in the upper bedroom not five minutes after we entered. I didn't leave. I couldn't leave. I may have been a retard. I may have been from the suburbs. But to leave?to cower would have sealed what they thought. And possibly, if I sat there unaffected by the snickers and condescending looks, I would somehow, someway appear cool. So there I sat. 4-3-2 2-2-1. 4-3-2 2-2-1, hoping the time would pass and I'd find myself back in the soothing little enclave of Hillcrest.


Then she appeared.

To be honest, I don't remember if it was four hundred thirty-two grooves or two hundred thirty-four -or any number for that matter- in those wood panels. I don't remember if it was Super Mario Bros. or even NES that I was abandoned for. Maybe it was Zaxxon on Saga or Pitfall on Colecovision; it was 20 years ago. I really don't remember. Although, I remember her smile. I remember the electric sensation that coursed through my body when she asked to dance. I remember the scent of vanilla that escaped from her hair when she turned. And I remember 19 freckles on her left cheek to only 4 on her right. I remember she was beautiful and cool and a geek and she liked me.

So after I stood, she removed my jacket and tie, rolled up my sleeves and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. She unloosened my belt and tugged a little more material from my waist. She led me to the dance floor and began to dance. I stood in awe fixating my eyes on her while listening to the giggles from the crowd. She grabbed me and pulled me close. With my head on her shoulder she'd lead; spinning and laughing until I joined. The crowd disappeared as I found solace.

We talked about video games and movies and school. I called her beautiful and her brown face flushed red. When older guys would ask her to dance, she'd decline. And when Mrs. Francis returned to cart us home she wrote You're cool on my arm and her number. We'd talk for hours a night.

In June of '85 I graduated from elementary school and insisted on transferring to Sousa Junior High to be closer to her. She graduated from Sousa that same spring, but I hoped that someone there would notice me and say "That's Charlene's boyfriend, he's cool." It never happened; but Charlene would come down after school and we'd hang out before going home. We'd play basketball, sit in the playground, or go to the mall. She'd pick out clothes for me and coach me on girls. She called me her boyfriend, but I knew she only saw me as a friend. I followed her like a puppy dog. I transferred to her high school in '87. She was a senior and I was a sophomore. She introduced me to the cliques and taught me to drive. She'd give me her old homework and would sit with me on trips. We were in the band together. And I think she was my first love.

We shared a kiss in '89; at Aaron's party. She was home from college and wanted to hang out. We were beginning to go apart at the time; she had become busy with school and I understood. I think we both felt the passing of our relationship at that moment. We were joking and laughing like old times; then silence struck and we kissed. When she dropped me off that night she said farewell and smiled. And I don't remember what happened after that.

His left cross merely grazed my temple. Thanks to some quick footwork, I strattle-stepped and delivered to him a crushing blow. As he whimpered on the ground shouting in Spanish, I replied in-kind and walked away...


The first book I can remember purchasing is The Untold Secrets of Time Travel. It was more a comic than an instruction manual. Advertised in the back of the Amazing Spiderman comics, I saved for months to raise the $14.99 purchase price. Carefully ingesting every syllable of that 20 page pamphlet, I found that the secret of time travel laid in flight speed, solar worm holes, and other celestial glitches in our solar system's matrix. Disappointed, being that high-speed super jets and space travel are pretty far out of reach to a 9 year-old, I shelved the USoTT.

But if I couldn't travel time, maybe I could travel distance? My next purchase was Modern Flight Principles and Jet Propulsion Systems. This 4 inch thick juggernaut set me back 6 weekends of cutting grass and cleaning garages. And after 4 months of intense reading, the "kid jet" project was shelved for monetary reasons.

I say this only to illustrate a cycle, The Icarus Cycle. Curiosity begets research begets purchase begets learning begets lost interest. This is my cycle. Hundreds of books line my apartment walls and my parent's attic. I can speak for 4 minutes on almost anything from Aikido to Goldsmithing to Palmistry. I sometimes spout out statistical facts on subjects I don't even remember studying. I am a wealth of 'How-to' knowledge with no practical application...

..until last Tuesday.

On Monday Javier, the parking lot attendant at my super-cheap $6 per day lot, sliced my driver's side window after he locked my keys in the car. I found this out that evening (after Javier left) when picking up my keys from the night drop attendant. So naturally, I return to the lot Tuesday afternoon for an explanation. I approach Javier cordially, explaining to him the story the night drop attendant gave me when he just flicks out.

"We not responsible!" he said. "It's your fault!" he said. "He's lying!" he said. I shouted over him to explain my points and he raised his voice again to trump me. "Don't bring your car back here!" he said. "Now leave!" he said. "THAT'S IT!" I yelled. Going into my pocket, I pulled out my newest gadget, a CyberTool 34 by Swiss Army. Corkscrew, pliers, scissors, 5 mm hex-socket adapter with mini screwdriver set, 3 in. blade, toothpick, tweezers, and ballpoint pen all in a translucent onyx casing. Maybe it was the sudden movement to my pocket? Maybe my gadget brought about terrible memories from his past? But Javier took a swing; and in an instant all of my kinetic knowledge turned to action.

History of Pi (St. Martin's Press, 1979) states that the direction of f is the orientation in which the directional derivative has the largest value. If f /= 0, then the gradient is perpendicular to the level curve and perpendicular to the level surface. Bruce Lee's Fighting Method: Basic Training (Ohara Publications Inc., 1980) teaches to remove an opponents power by moving inside of his arm's reach and striking when your opponent is off-balance. And Wicked Spanish for the Traveler (Workman Publishing Company, Inc., 1991) states No, usted me posee para mi ventana. Puto!

In layman's speak, I dodged his punch, hit him in the kidneys, and told him he owed me for my window, bitch

...as I walked off into the sunset.

I was butchered by a guy in a blue leisure suit in my pool match last week. Complete with comb-over, brown stripped shirt, tie, and cufflinks; his menacing, yellow grin thwarted my every effort to stay civil and lose gracefully.

He taunted me with benign gestures, coaching tips, and reassurance; hammering home his belief that he was a superior class of player?sending me into a rage that can only be described as uncanny.


After two consecutive losing weeks, Wednesday, I returned to Super Bowl Pub with fear and determination riding shotgun. Fear of another loss, determined to not play casualty to fear, and things began very optimistically. Beat a couple tough competitors in exhibition games, made amazing shots that I practiced all week, and went on a six ball run to beat my team captain! With my nerves calmed, fear squelched, and confidence riding high, I was ready to face Mickey Blue Pants in a first-to-two bout.

Winning the coin flip I was first to break. And after pocketing five balls, virtually soaring to an opening game victory, I scratched on an easy 14-ball shot. Mickey BP simply grinned going on his own seven ball assault, eventually pocketing the 8 along with my new found confidence.

In game Two, he started to goad me, "friendly tips" to help me "play better" he called them. "Your legs are too far apart!" "Look it in!" "Watch out for the scratch!" he instructed. I ignored him for the most part, although visions of his cackling yellow grin was beginning to inhibit my concentration. It wasn't a humanitarian cause he was after, but simply to have me question myself, and I fell for it like a Hatfield for Cousin Abby Mae.



I squeaked out a win in game Two by causing him to miss with a well-placed "gorilla" sneeze. And, in game Three, sportsmanship ran thin. I kindly requested he "shut his fucking mouth" while I was shooting. And all congenial report was abolished; battle lay ahead.

The final game was like Chess, we strategically went back 'n forth. No love lost, and certainly little to be gained, a stick poke to his solar plexes put his team in an uproar. "That's dirty!" they argued. "He was tailgating!" my -mates defended. While trying to regain his wind, he played a defensive shot on the 6 leaving me with no view on my 8 shot. I was forced to try an amazing shot. But with the hours of practice, confident I could pull it off.

With tension running as thick as corporate bullshit, I gazed over to Mickey BP (still trying to refill his lungs), threw a wink his direction, and let fly what promised to be the game winning shot. With bated breath, we watched the cue ball ricochet from one rail to another setting its sights on the 8. Its approach seemed perfect, and elation washed my -mates faces as the cue's connection with the 8 sent it unwillingly soaring to the corner pocket.

Seconds seeming like days, and victory eminently in my grasp, I gasped a breath and began to raise my arms for a triumphant chant of I'm better than you are!!! When I see the cue ball moving back into the picture. 'What the fuck is that ball doing!!' I think. On a collision course with disaster, the cue intercepted the 8 mere inches from the pocket. Knocking the 8 to the rail, the cue ended its ruinous ramp by descending into the corner pocket; losing the game for me.

For the third week I walk to my car winless, but this defeat stung. A polyester-clad, 62 year-old derelict with the dental ethic of a Scotsman put the screws to me. If this is my superior, what am I?

I have an affliction. An obsession really. And Mej, in her infinite wisdom, knows my secret. And as it pains me to say, I am obsessed with crumbs. Although I think I keep it securely secret, hidden deep in the trenches where few visit and none dwell, a keen eye has exposed my cross in all its wretchedness. And that eye has brought me relief!

A crumb-snatcher!

Christmas gift #1 of the season. I no longer have toil with cupped palm sweeping crumb after crumb. My mania can end?I have a crumb-snatcher.

Thanks Mej!!!!!!!!!!!

--oatey

"If you can endure bad management, you can survive 10 years at this company."


--Paul Tourbauf, on his decade-long tenure
company staff meeting 11/15/02

The job of a knight-errant is not all it's cracked up to be. You have to help the sick and oppressed, slay the occasional dragon, and save the distressing damsel. You're pretty much a public servant. You life is not yours. I'm always called into battle to right a wrong. I spent the better part of my evening in the Town Hall of the City of Riverdale Park, Md. My girlfriend's family is being oppressed, and the laws of chivalry do not allow me to stand ignorant while any man lay victim to tyranny.

The atmosphere in the hall was more like an 8th grade school bus than a meeting of civil-minded adults. Expletives and insults prevailed over points and rebuttals. The Riverdalians were in the grips of a heated loggerhead over a proposed Eckerd drugstore at the corner of East-West highway & Route 1. The petitioners' leader was a portly gentleman that stood around six-foot four; his verbal onslaught put the town committee on the defensive. Accusations of bribery and corruption slapped everyone up to the mayor. I watched in silence as this generously-proportioned libertine flailed about like a ten year-old girl with a hula-hoop.

Temperatures rose, and the people for Eckerd Drug were close to fisticuffs with a scraggly, young red-headed petitioner that kept chanting "We need reform! We need reform!" The town police chief separated the skirmish, and the committee decided to take a five minute break to cool off. I'd never been amongst such a melee, so I retreated outside for a smoke.

Sitting on a bench, I lit up a smoke and was immediately approached by a white-haired lady propped on a cane. I helped her take a seat while she went to her purse and pulled out what looked like a Capri 3 or 400 (?).

"What do you think?" she asked. Stumbling for my lighter, I told her that I was only there to voice a complaint. "I'm not for or against Eckerd's" I explained, "is it always like this?"

She explained that the portly fellow was John Herbert, he ran for office last term and lost in a landslide to the current mayor. He's been against anything the town is for ever since. "He's trouble!" she plainly stated. The red-head was Robert Herbert, Bobby she called him. He's the brother; not very mannered, not smart, just loyal to his family. "He gets the other one all excited" she said.

After returning to the hall, things had died a bit. The petition was about to be rejected, and the mayor was making a speech about how offended he was at the accusations made against him and his colleagues. "I take great umbrage." he kept repeating, when Bobby Herbert charged the desk and spit in his face! "REFORM!" he was yelling as the chief of police pinned him to the floor, cuffed, and carted him out.

The mayor wiped his face and began to weep, voicing his "umbrage" underneath his breath. John Herbert started to chuckle, then laugh, then howl. The Ward 4 rep tried to compose the meeting. She put the petition up to vote, and with a vote of 8-0-1, the uprising was over. Chuckles and howls could be heard in the halls as the petitioners exited the room.

The committee went on to less stressing matters. Halloween hours, potholes, and the Centennial celebration plans, but the howl of John Herbert still echoed throughout the building. The mayor had turned his chair away from the public, and an eerie silence blanketed the remaining attendees.

It was time for general public comments, and I was up. I was to place my complaint about the street officers constantly ticketing the family's cars. I approached the mic, cleared my throat, and?

"Good evening, I'm speaking on behalf of the Silve family, and would like to pose a complaint. It seems that the actions taken against them are either unlawful or discriminate. For a period of over a year they have been ticketed when parking their cars in the rear of their house on the lawn; and, when they question the officer about it, are told that it is simply against the law to park on their own grass. No other cars in the neighborhood are ticketed when parking in their yards. So the ticketing is either unlawful or discriminate."

The meeting was adjourned shortly after. They promised to look into the ticketing and refund any money that was paid out to the family. While sitting outside trying to decompress from the event, the Ward 4 rep approached me. I lit her cigarette and slid over for her to sit. "What do you think?" she asked.

"I think you need that drugstore!"

I can't focus through contempt! Can't write. Can't talk. Can't hold an even face through contempt. I presently find myself in a state of contempt. I'd say 40% of the people I interact with daily are in a blissful state of ignorance, and it drives me mad. I ride the train from Potomac Avenue to McPherson Square every morning. And 40% of the faces that stare back at me have no idea about what they're talking about, what they're doing, and even their own lives and feelings.

There's this guy on the Orange line, the Poet, from Potomac Avenue to Metro Center he goes on and on about music, sports, politics, or whatever topic that pops in his skull. I see this guy on the train plenty, he's always talking, and his breath can penetrate steel. I'm usually curt and disassociated until he tires and moves on. He works at Kinkos. I know this because occasionally, he wears his Kinkos smock. Also, when he's not "waxing philosophic" about "the state of rap" or "the Chinese connection to the Arab world view" or whatever other ill-thought out view that manifests in his head, the smell of copy toner drowns out the bums, the drunks, the "cologne generals", the "sunrise athletes", the "shitty babies", the couriers, and the "Listerine Vigilantes"; it permeates the scent glands of every hygienic passenger in a two car radius. I've adjusted my commute several times in efforts to avoid this man. But on late days, lazy days, or days where my patience is just thick enough to not crack, I rush onto a car only to have a throaty laugh alert me to my mistake.

So I just make the train on Monday. Dogging the closing doors I take the first seat available next to a sweet young girl who gazed at me almost lovingly when I said hello. "Hey," said the Poet, "how you been, haven't seen you in a while!" his laugh almost ruptured my liver. The girls gaze did not spawn from infatuation but relief. I was a buffer; a barrier in her eyes. The look of dread that dawned my face, I could tell, just doffed her's. She pulled out her magazine and went into her own world, the verbal accosting was over, it was my turn now.

"What you think about the NFL?" he asked. I gave a random quick snip and he quiets, looking over to girl now cowering behind her copy of Essence. "I was just telling this young lady here about these athletes today."

A synopsis of his theory is that athletes today care only about the quick buck, to which I agree, but not trying to ensue more chatter than I can bear, I nod in gruff agreement as he continues. "Niggaz today!"

Ya see?the world has problems. Not one race, one class, or one country, everyone. I take exception when blanket statements are made against anyone. So I interject.

"That's ignorant," I exclaim "people are people. The problems of one class can be viewed in all. It's not the athletes who have a skewed view, it's the world. A time ago people became basketball players for the game. Now it's for the shoe [contract]. And a time ago, doctors were about saving lives, but they now only want the Mercedes. Lawyers don't want to right wrongs anymore. And Preachers don't want to glorify shit. They're all pulling their own little scams to achieve the Fabled Reality they were fed since birth; that wealth creates happiness. And it's ignorant to believe the problems of one can not be seen in others."

I continued, but I won't continue here. I went on until my stop at McPherson, left the train with a sense of accomplishment. I pulled a mind out of ignorance that day. Monday, September 16, 2002.

I'm not confrontational usually, pretty even keel. But I'm in a state of contempt, and ready to bite back at any brave soul that dare stick their head in the Lion's mouth.

On my mid-morning walk today, I saw a delivery van outside of the Post building that read 'Discreet Deliveries Leaders in Adult Home Entertainment.

If it's "discreet", why is it so heavily publicized?

Since leaving Chevy's last night, I've been plagued with the suspicion that Bob White is not who he says he is...

It is my contention that Bob White is in fact the ghost writer Ron Frank for the candid Wilt Chamberlain biography, A View From Above. You probably think I'm way off, being that Bob can't keep his train of thought longer than the career of the Baha Men.



But his seemingly acute "focus deficit disorder", can be explained. If, in fact, Bob White did pen the sexual escapades of former NBA legend, Wilt Chamberlain, using Bob's own experiences...he would be bound by a confidentiality agreement. This agreement would forbid him to reproduce those stories, in whole or in part. So when Bob starts into one of his "So then I got her back to the futon..." tales, he remembers the binds of his contract, and conveniently segues to another story.

I insert a passage from A View From Above.

...So then I get her back to my leather Italian-crafted sofa. "This is where the magic happens baby." I say, as she saunters past, her shapely hips swinging to the tune of Prince's Ecstasy. I take her suede leather jacket off, tossing it to the side, as I guide her to the bed...

Something's amidst!?

--oatey