Race is a touchy subject.
But I'm gonna touch it. For Part 1, we're just going to establish some self-evident truths, so we can start from a common ground in the "meatier" part 2:
Whites Like: earth tones, down payments, credit cards, the Frey, trashcans under the sink, football, suburbs, volvos, being on time, slacks, goulash, the country, pretending like they don't have money, condoms, Fox News, holding down a steady job, PBR, pacifism, cocaine, and nachos
Blacks Like: dark-blue crown vics, cash, zoot suits, Newports, basketball, the neighborhood, Barrack Obama, barbecues, Earth, Wind & Fire, fresh ink, Sunday services, grandmama, toothpicks, shape ups, community organizations, jobs in transit or parcel delivery, being outside, slang, pulling out, double extra large everything, and glass coffee tables
Latinos Like: fresh haircuts, being short, nails, guac, pesos, Our Lady of Guadalupe, getting up at 5 am, tiny pickups, big families, well-organized dances, hot weather, sangria, soccer, rollin' deep, long jorts, skinny chains, facial hair, the day of the dead, cooking, landscaping, Spanish, and dominoes
Asians Like: Efficiency, two-parent homes, math, rice, the violin, over-populating countries, being nice, assimilation, Buddha, clotheslines, slow morning stretch routines in the park, origami, fireworks, glasses, pottery, that regular-ass Asian haircut, anime, blending in, and fish
Alright, everyone got that handled? This evening I'm going to use some of these truths to craft a little tale about race in America and how we need to look at it, so that we all don't sound like idiots to the people that read about us in the history books in 200 years, like they sound to us.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Fear of Mutiny
Loyalty is a big deal.
But most of the time it's totally unnecessary. We cling to ideas because they're what we always believed, when in reality - we should change our minds as new information becomes available. If I go to a bar that starts to suck, I stop going to that bar. 2+2 = 4, until it equals 5. Until something tells me it equals 5. But I'm open to that proposition, it's obvious that things can change and that's OK.
That leads directly to my next point - Lebron ain't Jordan. As hard as we push, and as much as we're in need for a new basketball Jesus, he's just not there. Greatness is spontanious. I don't know if anyone ever said that, but they should have. Jordan was an organic creature, he came out of relative obscurity in high school and over-acheived in college. Although he was college player of the year, apparently he wasn't as good as Sam Bowie. And this must have made him go insane. And that insanity lead to greatness. The drive to constantly be better, to constantly push himself, to constantly over-acheive. Jordan was his own worst enemy - he set the bar so hi, that sometimes we expected too much from him. He's the only person to win six titles that we say "probably should have won 8, or 9, or 10". It's insane. Most people can't win one. And that's what seperates him from everyone else. And that's what always will.
When I saw Lebron hit that shot on Friday I thought maybe I could be willing to let it go. To let the torch pass to the next generation. But I can't. I'm too stuborn and too loyal. Greatness isn't scripted, it doesn't show up on the front page of Sports Illustrated a thousand times before it's realized. Instead, it taps you on the shoulder and whispers in your ear, and by the time you turn around, it's gone.
But most of the time it's totally unnecessary. We cling to ideas because they're what we always believed, when in reality - we should change our minds as new information becomes available. If I go to a bar that starts to suck, I stop going to that bar. 2+2 = 4, until it equals 5. Until something tells me it equals 5. But I'm open to that proposition, it's obvious that things can change and that's OK.
That leads directly to my next point - Lebron ain't Jordan. As hard as we push, and as much as we're in need for a new basketball Jesus, he's just not there. Greatness is spontanious. I don't know if anyone ever said that, but they should have. Jordan was an organic creature, he came out of relative obscurity in high school and over-acheived in college. Although he was college player of the year, apparently he wasn't as good as Sam Bowie. And this must have made him go insane. And that insanity lead to greatness. The drive to constantly be better, to constantly push himself, to constantly over-acheive. Jordan was his own worst enemy - he set the bar so hi, that sometimes we expected too much from him. He's the only person to win six titles that we say "probably should have won 8, or 9, or 10". It's insane. Most people can't win one. And that's what seperates him from everyone else. And that's what always will.
When I saw Lebron hit that shot on Friday I thought maybe I could be willing to let it go. To let the torch pass to the next generation. But I can't. I'm too stuborn and too loyal. Greatness isn't scripted, it doesn't show up on the front page of Sports Illustrated a thousand times before it's realized. Instead, it taps you on the shoulder and whispers in your ear, and by the time you turn around, it's gone.
Rise of the Phoenix
I guess you could say I'm back for the first time.
For those of you who have actually met, talked to, and pontificated with the Birdman, this little mess comes as no surprise. I've got a couple of words for you folks: Number one, congrats on not being pregnant - and that's men included. I've got some pretty potent gunk in my trousers, so good luck dodging those little lasers. Number two, although I will cover an array of topics that include my traditional banter, the online nature of this forum will allow me to go above and beyond my typical topics, which include but are not limited to: different versions of the "Can't Belive It" remix, whether or not Andrew Bynum is actually Tracy Morgan's long lost son, and if the definition of the word douchebag should be expanded beyond the traditional usage (see any 27 year-old male who's closet is littered with penny loafers, partially used extra medium condoms, and Brooks Brother's button-ups with the initials stitched into the forearm) or should be expanded to include anyone or anything that one does not like. Do not distress, those topics will all be addressed, but suffice it to say that there will be more.
Enough with the introduction - let me get to the real heart of today's post: grammar and rules. I feel it's important to kick this blog off with a description of the way I talk - or, more accurately, the way I write. It may help you understand a little better the sordid nature of my memory and my past. You see, the thing is this: grammar is mostly bullshit. Shakespeare invented half of it and a dickhead named Webster invented the other half. Therefore, I follow it as I see fit. I punctuate where, I, want, because that's just how it's gonna be. Sentences are like schoolchildren: slap 'em around and make them work for you. If you can, time them. That'll just make them work that much harder. Additionally, I use slang - hellas of it. See, I just did it right there. Most of my lexicon comes from my closest acquaintances - who are now scattered across this great land, but all originate from Iowa City, IA, aka "God's Country" aka "Blackout City" aka "Liquid Courage" aka "Are you 18? Fuck it". I'll ease you into the lingo slowly, but I'm not going to explain it to you, you're going to have to figure that out for yourself. You're not a child. And if you are: Santa doesn't exist, your parents have had tons of sex-including anal, it's easier to get weed than booze, and the chances of you being what you want to be are zero; because then everyone would be Paris Hilton. And you're not Paris Hilton, because she can't read.
Back to the point: rules are meant to be broken. Like right now I'm at work! And what's my manager going to do? Nothing. Because she's in the back gettin' bent over a chair by her boss, or she's knocked in her private office, or she just doesn't give a shit. Even more likely - some twisted combination of all three. It's ok though, Americans can all do this really cool thing where we pretend to care about work ethic and not care at the same time. It allows us to work 40 hours a week, yet hit the club for a tatty whenever we see fit. Pretty convenient if you ask me.
Stream of consciousness side note - I could really use a nap. Naps are God's way of telling you that you're a jackass. For some reason when you're 5 and could run around at full speed with a juicy juice and a box of animal crackers for three hours and your tired-ass mom is chasing you with a clean dishrag and trying to put you to sleep on those sticky blue mats, you want none of it. If we had nap time at my office I'd be the first one out and the last one up. But I can't have one. Shit, I just fell asleep a little.
For those of you who have actually met, talked to, and pontificated with the Birdman, this little mess comes as no surprise. I've got a couple of words for you folks: Number one, congrats on not being pregnant - and that's men included. I've got some pretty potent gunk in my trousers, so good luck dodging those little lasers. Number two, although I will cover an array of topics that include my traditional banter, the online nature of this forum will allow me to go above and beyond my typical topics, which include but are not limited to: different versions of the "Can't Belive It" remix, whether or not Andrew Bynum is actually Tracy Morgan's long lost son, and if the definition of the word douchebag should be expanded beyond the traditional usage (see any 27 year-old male who's closet is littered with penny loafers, partially used extra medium condoms, and Brooks Brother's button-ups with the initials stitched into the forearm) or should be expanded to include anyone or anything that one does not like. Do not distress, those topics will all be addressed, but suffice it to say that there will be more.
Enough with the introduction - let me get to the real heart of today's post: grammar and rules. I feel it's important to kick this blog off with a description of the way I talk - or, more accurately, the way I write. It may help you understand a little better the sordid nature of my memory and my past. You see, the thing is this: grammar is mostly bullshit. Shakespeare invented half of it and a dickhead named Webster invented the other half. Therefore, I follow it as I see fit. I punctuate where, I, want, because that's just how it's gonna be. Sentences are like schoolchildren: slap 'em around and make them work for you. If you can, time them. That'll just make them work that much harder. Additionally, I use slang - hellas of it. See, I just did it right there. Most of my lexicon comes from my closest acquaintances - who are now scattered across this great land, but all originate from Iowa City, IA, aka "God's Country" aka "Blackout City" aka "Liquid Courage" aka "Are you 18? Fuck it". I'll ease you into the lingo slowly, but I'm not going to explain it to you, you're going to have to figure that out for yourself. You're not a child. And if you are: Santa doesn't exist, your parents have had tons of sex-including anal, it's easier to get weed than booze, and the chances of you being what you want to be are zero; because then everyone would be Paris Hilton. And you're not Paris Hilton, because she can't read.
Back to the point: rules are meant to be broken. Like right now I'm at work! And what's my manager going to do? Nothing. Because she's in the back gettin' bent over a chair by her boss, or she's knocked in her private office, or she just doesn't give a shit. Even more likely - some twisted combination of all three. It's ok though, Americans can all do this really cool thing where we pretend to care about work ethic and not care at the same time. It allows us to work 40 hours a week, yet hit the club for a tatty whenever we see fit. Pretty convenient if you ask me.
Stream of consciousness side note - I could really use a nap. Naps are God's way of telling you that you're a jackass. For some reason when you're 5 and could run around at full speed with a juicy juice and a box of animal crackers for three hours and your tired-ass mom is chasing you with a clean dishrag and trying to put you to sleep on those sticky blue mats, you want none of it. If we had nap time at my office I'd be the first one out and the last one up. But I can't have one. Shit, I just fell asleep a little.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)