I Rebuke Your Stupid Blackface Costumes… And It’s Still Not Your Flag Kanye

Two days ago I wrote a post that featured four pictures of various white people in Black face. One was Julianne Hough, an actress that I’ve never heard of, dressed as Crazy Eyes. She’s a character from a Orange is the New Black, a show that I’ve never seen.

Hough apologized. And it wasn’t one of those conditional apologies. “I apologize if…” or, “I’m sorry that you felt…” It was genuine, grown up apology. The other black facers, however, were less contrite.

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The above pictures are of Uzo Aduba, the woman who plays Crazy Eyes. She’s pretty.

Not surprisingly, a couple of white kids have jumped into the fray. Donning what appeared to be a spray tan, platinum blond hair and a silver shirt, one proudly proclaimed that she was dressed as a nigger. Good thing, because without that I would have thought that they were just two white girls with too much spray tan. Anyway, you got a problem with that? If you do she thinks that you should go find out who your father is… because, well… Um…

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Girl puts on too much spray tan. Says she’s going out for Halloween as a nigger. This is what she looks like without the tan.

Yeah, whatever. From here on out, racists are going to have to try a lot harder to get space on this here blog. Its not that I mind writing about misguided racist assholes, but these are just racists asshole copycats. It’s a mad dash to see who can be the most offensive. It won’t end well, but in the meantime, I couldn’t be bothered.

I hereby rebuke them. I suggest you all do the same. Poof, begone from my Facebook feed, assholes. I don’t have time for your foolishness. See if you can find a way to fuck up Groundhog’s day. Halloween is too easy. It’s making you guys lazy.

That goes for Kanye West, too. Last week pictures appeared of his line of rebel flag T-shirts. I won’t post a picture of them. His reason for doing it is offensive enough. Here’s why, straight from his mouth.

“React how you want. Any energy you got is good energy. You know the confederate flag represented slavery in a way — that’s my abstract take on what I know about it. So I made the song ‘New Slaves.’ So I took the Confederate flag and made it my flag. It’s my flag now. Now what are you going to do?”

Silly Kanye. I could write about the flag, and why him selling the shirts with the confederate flag on it is as counter intuitive as Jerry Seinfeld changing his name so that it begins with two SS’s (SSeinfeld) because of anti-semiticism. But I’m not going to do that. The place in my brain that comes up with rational responses to stupid shit is closed for retraining. I’m in my happy place.

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See that picture? That’s what I think of Kanye West, and his feud with the President, and his stupid shirts and the way Jimmy Kimmel was so mean to him that he just wanted to lay down on the floor and kick his feet because of his leather sweat pants. He’s in time out until he calms down a little bit. Then we can talk to him. But if we give him what he wants he’ll just throw another tantrum… and try to steal Kwanzaa or copyright the the color red, or something equally stupid.

Of course, Kanye’s right. All of my energy is good energy. So I will no longer be sending it in the direction of racist dirtbags or misguided man-children like Kanye West. I suggest you do the same.

Click here to find out why I say don’t nigger (unless I am quoting a spray tanned racist white girl, that is.) Although I don’t say it, there are two former administrators from the Coatesville school district in Pennsylvania who absolutely loved to say it. You can read about them here.

I Retire from Explaining Racism to Well Intentioned White People.

I felt good about yesterday. I woke up with a sense of purpose. I had a list of things to accomplish, and all of them fit neatly in my grand scheme. I was going to seize the day, get it into an arm bar and then make it scream “Uncle!” Then this happened.

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Not the picture. It takes more than some shoe polish and the willingness to display the fact that you are a bunch of miserable racist dicks, to put a dark cloud over my head. It was disgusting, but in a totally unimaginative, “seen that a bunch of times,” way. I mean, I guess last weekend was when most of the racists decided to host their halloween parties, because this week there has been a whole bunch of black face, in my face. I’ve listed some below in no particular order.

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I didn’t post names. Let’s just call them generic racists. There are more, I’m sure, but I’m tired of pointing and clicking. One of them is famous. She was portraying Crazy Eyes from Orange is the New Black. And she apologized. Is that worth noting? One picture is from a jungle themed birthday party in Australia (I think). One picture takes place in Italy, and I hear is full of fashion designers. So, yeah. Black face is getting Huuuuuge. It’s fucking international. And it isn’t even Halloween yet! By the way, since when were there KKK in the jungle?!

Yeah, the people in the picture at the top raised the ante a little bit, by depicting Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman, but they really didn’t show me anything new. I mean, Trayvoning is so last year. The lessons for this week – that sometimes white people are racist dicks – is something that I learned as a kid, when the white boys said that I was the color of shit, on the bus to kindergarten. You can read that here.

It didn’t make me hate white people. I don’t even hate the above white people. My attitude towards them is steely apathy, forged by 42 unbroken years of Blackness. Fuck them. I won’t give them the satisfaction of shaking my fist at them.

But some of my Facebook friends were commenting on the photos. And I couldn’t resist the urge to peek. And then I jumped down the rabbit hole and commented. It was a mistake.

After that things were deliberately derailed. Highjacked by a white guy that demanded to have about three semesters of Black History class distilled into a few posts on Facebook, so that he would get what the fuss was about. If we didn’t, didn’t that make us just as racists as the assholes in the picture? Sabotaged by a white woman who was so upset by the fact that she might be associated with the people in the picture that she then spent the entire day and a handful of posts explaining her perspective as a white woman growing up a largely Black Indiana town. There was a lot of comforting going on…”I don’t think you’re racist… You seem like a nice person…” Not a whole lot of discussion of race. Just a whole lot of cyber-hugs. Two people had managed to steer the dialogue so much that it went from being a commentary on the photos to a support group for white guilt.

Afterwards, one of the high-jackers suggested that this is simply how he learns; by stirring the pot and then enjoying the intercourse. He suggested that, because nobody wanted to answer his litany of stubborn, churlish questions about white privilege, he would simply steer the discourse to answer them. Which, to me, is the ballsiest display of white privilege I’ve ever seen. I had been staring down pictures of three racists nearly all day but the one person that I wanted to punch in the face turned out to be a dude who said that he was married to a woman of color, and is the polar opposite of what racists are supposed to look and act like.

I am not an academic. I can only talk about what I’ve been through, and what I don’t want my children to go through. So by the end I felt as if I were on emotional display. A model of the contemporary, hand-wringing negro. Liberal enough to talk to, but still angry enough for the reader to get the whole, “negro” experience. Not Wayne Brady Black. But not Samuel L. Jackson Black either. More like Wyatt Cenac Black… just Black enough.

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So today I am officially retiring from being that guy.

I’ve flirted it, ever since another Facebook conversation when I was admonished by a Facebook friend and college professor for not recognizing Zimmerman’s colored half. Which half pulled the trigger?

I should have quit then. I wanted to. But I also wanted to believe that there was still some white people out there that would be down with some straight dialogue, without hands being held, or prefaces being issued. What I found is that there is always someone waiting just off stage left, that is just dying for an opportunity to make things about them. So, how do you feel about black face, Lincoln? Mary, it must be terrible knowing that someone may think that you are like those people. Tell me more, please?

That was sarcasm. I don’t give a fuck. I quit. If you want to know how feel, google it. You might even find this post, right here.

Illuminati Free Playlist – Betty Davis: If I’m Lucky I Might get Picked Up

A long time ago I started something called the Illuminati Free Playlist.
Whether or not you believe in conspiracies, you have to admit that most music tastes like corporate group-think. This play list was going to contain nothing but the best non mainstream programming, to get that corporate aftertaste out of your mouth.
She’s Betty Davis, and she was so bad that she had Miles Davis singing the blues. (They were married. She may or may not have cheated with Jimi Hendrix.) I’m posting this because it’s dope.
You’re welcome.

Why Do Have to Call For Boycotts? Isn’t Common Sense and Outrage Enough?

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Yesterday I took to my podium as a Blogger and citizen of Facebook and called for Black people to boycott Barney’s New York. This came after two cases surfaced of young Black people buying expensive items, and then finding themselves in jail for it. Read more about them here. Below are the bullet points.

  • Two young Black people saved a lot of money to spend on bullshit with prestigious names on it. They have nothing more in common than a hunger for labels and the money to satisfy it.
  • The clerk took their money. Got a commission?
  • The clerk then waited until they had turned to walk away and called the cops on both of them.
  • Undercover Police apprehend them. Bring them to the pokey, cooler, clink or whatever the hell else you want to call that place downtown where nobody wants to end up.
  • Embarrassment, stress and humiliation ensue, as two citizens of our country are forced to prove their worth, because they couldn’t have possibly simply earned that money. Right?
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Kayla Phillips bought a $2500 bag from Barney’s New York. Barney’s called the cops on her.

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Kareem Vessup dropped $350 on a belt from Barney’s New York. They called NYPD!

Expensive shit has been returned. Lawsuits filed. The NYPD is trying to explain why Barney’s has them on speed dial, and how they became the personal gestapo of high end shop girls. Even Jay Z has dirt on his hands after this one. After all, J has a holiday collection in the works with Barney’s. Because nothing says Christmas more than collaboration between a mega-millionaire rapper and a super high end retailer. It’s called synergy, and if it isn’t in the Bible, it should be.

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Nothing says Christmas like a shirt with a quote from the most famous satan worshiper ever, Anton Lavey. Can I get it with a reindeer on it?

Full disclosure, I’m not a fan of J. I wrote about him in the early days of Chadvs. You can read it here, and here.

So, I took to FB and wrote this.

My beautiful Black people… Although I’m not a label kind of guy, I understand that some of you are. And that’s cool.
If you want to drop $350 on a belt, or $2,500 on a handbag, then by all means do so. But, if you take your money to Barney’s after reading this, then you deserve every second that you spend in a holding cell while NYPD runs your credit and gets all up in your financial business. Barney’s does not like you.
Please don’t be one of those people who stalks your exes from the bushes, or tells yourself that you’re different from the rest. Take it like a man, (or woman) and stop supporting this store.
They don’t think that you are worthy. It is not your job to prove otherwise, by shoveling more of your money into their greedy hands. Move on.
Trust me. It’s not you, it’s them.

To be clear, this is the easiest boycott I have ever taken part in. I live in Atlanta, about 900 miles away from Barney’s New York. I also don’t currently have $3,500 laying around for a pair of cuff-links or $900 for some socks, or something like that. But if I did live in New York, and had a stack of cash burning a hole in the palm of my hand, I can think of about 1,000 things I would do with that money before I gave it to Ferragamo, or Celine, Versace or…I can’t think of any other labels. Which should tell you something about me. I don’t care about labels.

Before I go on, let’s recap. Yesterday I leveraged my 123 followers – 550 if you want to include all of my Facebook friends – against a company that is hundreds of miles away and carries inventory in which I have absolutely no interest. That post reached 49 people.

As of this writing, Barney’s stock fell about 1 percent. Such is the power of the written word. One man with a Mac Mini and the will to grapple with big business, just made a difference. One man, 49 views… one percent decline in stock.

When the analysts try to find out why, they will shake their fists and shout, “Chadvs!” (The above stock quotes were from Smith Barney, whose stock devaluation was an untended consequence of my post. I have no regrets. They were collateral damage. Barney’s New York is private.)

Here’s the thing. Should anyone even have to call for a boycott? I mean, this is common sense. Once this news went public, anyone with an ounce of good intentions should have been naturally inclined to stay away.

This shouldn’t require a movement. It should come from within. The same thing that makes you throw away food that smells bad; the same thing that makes you brush your teeth after you throw up, should keep you from buying at Barney’s, no matter how much money you have and how badly you want to rock Versace.

No matter how old you are or what color you are, if you know about how Barney’s treats some of its customers and still want to spend your money there you’re kind of an asshole. And their apology? So what. There are public relations professionals who do nothing but issue professional apologies. Haven’t you seen Scandal?

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Anyway, it’s been about two days since the second story broke. Do you truly believe that they’ve changed their policies in the past 48 hours? Unlikely. Have a spine. Don’t be an asshole.

Are Colored Boys with Nerf Guns the Newest Threat? Some Cops Think So!

Stepson gets great grades.
The other day his math skills officially surpassed mine. He came to me with a worksheet full of fractions that he was adding together. I sent him to his mother.
When Uma cries, he falls down like Chevy Chase, but without the pain killers. Like, “doo de doo de doo…whoooooaaah?!!!” Boom. He’s on the living room floor. All of the art on our walls, shake. Water glasses inch closer to the edges of the table. Then he stands up and says, “Look Uma!” And does it again.
And it is every bit as annoying as it sounds, but it works. For my three year old, this stuff is funnier and more sophisticated than a paint can full of Kevin Harts. She stops crying and her face crinkles and she begins laughing out loud.
What I’m saying is, despite his questionable taste in snacks and a hearing condition that causes him to never hear what you say the first time you say it… ever… stepson is a great kid.
So, a few weeks ago my father-inlaw visited. And he asked stepson what he wanted in exchange for being such a good kid. And stepson wanted a nerf gun.
This nerf gun… And 75 rounds of styrophome ammo.

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Before he went on Amazon and made it happen, James pulled me aside to give me a heads up. He asked, “is this okay with you?” And I said, “If that’s what he wants…” I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
Okay, well there’s this. A woman called the police on this child because he was using an airsoft gun on his own front lawn before school. She knew the gun was fake, but nonetheless felt uneasy, as a mother, seeing the child shooting plastic balls at a picture of a zombie. By the way, her own son was out there with him. She didn’t know that, though. The kid was suspended. He may be expelled.  That’s pretty bad.

But was it the gun, or the horrible neighbor?

I don’t think that kids who play with guns always grow up to become adults who shoot people. If that were the case, then I would take away all of his matchbox cars, because he is obviously going to be a menace on the highway, given how he likes to jump them from his dresser to the floor. For that matter, I need to confiscate his action figures. One of them has no head, but he plays with it anyway. Others are missing arms and legs. This child may to grow up to be a necrophiliac serial killer… but he probably won’t.

Following that line of reasoning, I need to get everything in his room, put it in a box, take it outside and then burn it. He can play with sponges and pieces of burlap and linen. That way he’ll grow up to be a safe, law abiding citizen.

Or, I can go through his room and find all of the toys that might one day give him the idea that a child playing in his own yard is his business. And those other toys that send the message that rather than talking to your neighbor about things that concern you, you should go straight to the police department, multiple times. Maybe there is a “Molly In Yo Bidness Doll” somewhere under his bed.

If there is any relationship between kids who play with guns and adults who kill with guns, please send those studies to me. On there other hand, there has lately been a very strong correlation between folk who see something that they believe is suspicious, and people of color who end up dead because of it. Remember Trayvon Martin?

How about Jendei Cherry. He worked the late shift, got drunk, went swimming and had his clothes stolen. This should have been one of those stories that he tells people for the rest of his life. I mean, it had all of the makings of good comedy, until a guy confronted him as he ran home naked (clothes stolen, remember?), and shot him in the stomach with a .22 pistol.

Jonathan Ferrell crashed his car in North Carolina. Then he did what rational people do when they need help. He went to the first house that he saw and he knocked on the door. The homeowner didn’t go outside, or open the door. Which is a very rational response to a stranger knocking on your door late at night. Instead she called the police and told them that she was being burglarized. This is where things start to go bad. By the end of the night, Ferrell had been shot to death by police responding to the burglary that never took place.

And today, this came up in my morning reading. Yesterday, Sonoma County Sheriff Deputies killed 13 year old Andy Lopez in Santa Rosa California. He was walking home from school, carrying a toy gun. The Sheriffs showed up, and then they called for backup… Then they ordered him to turn around, and shot him dead because they thought he was taking aim. Then they handcuffed him… you know, just in case.

Toy guns don’t kill people. Neither do people knocking on your door… and people running down the street naked tend not to kill people either; particularly not people who are driving by, minding their own business. But snap judgements have been ruining a lot of lives lately.

Is it racism? I don’t know. But around the same time that child was suspended for shooting an airsoft gun in his own yard, a crowd of largely white gun owners was invading Starbucks coffees and showing off how cool it is to be caffeinated, white and heavily armed. Nobody was killed. In fact, while people saw it as obnoxious, nobody really suggested that they felt threatened. Then there was the guy in Oregon who liked to walk around schools carrying a rifle; you know, to prove a point. He’s done it a few times, as is his legal right. Those schools went into lockdown. The students and teachers were terrified, and he feels kind of bad about it. But he’s still alive.

This is not a comprehensive survey of 911 calls and police responses. White people get killed by the police too. And, there are a whole lot of Black and Latino people who survived their interactions with the police unscathed. But it seems to me that if you are a person of color in this country, nerf guns are the last things you should be worried about. The truth is, once Sol reaches adulthood, if things are the way they are now, the most dangerous thing that he can do is be perceived as a threat by the wrong people. Guns do kill people. But so do snap judgements.

 

Stop Uploading Pictures of Yourselves Whipping Your Kids!!!

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Kid gets on facebook.

Girl poses like she’s Kim K. Hips out, head back… or maybe she’s twerking. And she’s just a girl, not a young looking grownup with daddy issues, but a girl.

Or, little dude posts pictures of himself throwing up gang signs and holding up a six inch thick stack of wrinkled one dollar bills. In other words, this young man in a hundred-aire and he don’t care who knows it.

Or he takes a swing at his mom. Or she dry humps some kid out by the bleachers. Or they all get together and do all of the above in one gloriously horrible kid on youtube trifecta. But there’s going to be repercussions.

We’ve all shaken our heads at those photos and videos. Some of you might have shared them. They are unequivocal proof that our country is sliding towards Babylon.

But what about their parents? What do they do?

If you are old enough to know how to write an If-Then statement in Basic, then you might go into technological lockdown. Ditch the wifi, put that cell phone into a lockbox and take an icepick to the webcam. After all, we know what it’s like to live in the pre-wifi wilderness.

Or you say, “Go get the belt…”

Some parents, however, are fighting fire with fire. Girl wants to shake her ass on youtube? Here is that same girl getting her ass whupped on Youtube. Boy is an Instagram bad-ass? Here’s boy getting beat down by his daddy on Instragram. That will learn him, right?

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Okay. I can’t even joke about this one. It’s pure abuse.

Somewhere, on someone’s feed, there is a picture of a kid who looks like he fought Mike Tyson. I mistook it for a photo of police brutality, until I read the caption. He disrespected his mother. His father did what Bill Cosby only joked about, and damn near took that kid out… and then he posted a picture of it.

There’s also a video of two girls being whipped by their father for twerking. They are skinny little things who have no business moving their little bony behinds on any kind of camera, much less posting it on Facebook. And they are screamers. They sound like little pigs being branded with coat hangers. The dad, on the other hand, is the picture of ideal whipping form. His wiry frame cocks back like the little figure on every pair of Jordans. Yes, he’s the MVP of ass-whuppings.

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I don’t know what I would have done if I found out my little girls were twerking on facebook. Or if I found stepson had posted a picture of himself holding six rolls of quarters and throwing up gang signs. I know that I would have felt hopeless. Disillusioned and desperate. And I know I would have wanted to go get the belt. I wouldn’t have, but I’d be lying if I said that it would never cross my mind.

Either way, I don’t judge him for the whipping. I do, however, question the wisdom of posting it. I mean, before there was only a video of his little angels shaking their bony hips to 2 Chainzs or who-the-fuck ever. That is still out there. Those things never really disappear. But now there is also a picture of them both dancing at the end of an extension chord while daddy does his best Indiana Jones on their asses. Will they think twice before they get the twerking itch? You bet. He whipped them so fiercely that their hips might not even be about to do those things anymore.
But just because they aren’t posting on facebook, doesn’t mean that they aren’t finding other ways to exercise questionable judgement. Anyone who has ever watched Maury Povitch knows that a tweenaged girl who wants to fuck up, will find a way. And just because there is no video evidence of them running their lives into the figurative ditch, doesn’t mean that its not happening.
Those girls need more than a belt of an extension cord. I don’t know what… but they’ve probably needed it for a very long time. This isn’t their first ass whupping. It’s not the first time their father has exploded on them. I’m not saying he is a bad father – he clearly cares – but the beatings aren’t working. Time to dig another tool out of that disciplinary tool box.

It should come as no surprise that the police came and picked him up. Comedians talk about that too. “Let them come… I’ll give them the address…” said one comedian whose name, gender and distinguishing features I totally forget. That’s all good until the police are at your door with enough evidence for you to go to jail for a year or two. Evidence that you gave them, the moment you uploaded. It’s rule number two why you don’t upload pictures of yourself, dishing out corporal justice. Cops.

But why would you want to? What’s in it for you? Is it really just the idea that the public shame of a beating gone viral will keep your child on the straight and narrow? Or, maybe you want your piece of fame, too.

When I was young you could outgrow your mistakes. Move away from them… and one day people would forget. Now they stay around forever and ever. Waiting for the next google search to jump out and pounce.

Best case scenario, the girl passes through that butt poking out trying to look like she sexy, phase. She is accepted at a respectable liberal arts college and then goes for an interview at an IT company in Silicon Valley. Which, by the way, is her dream job. And when she gets there, the human resources guy is looking at her 13 year old self twerking on a playground that was paved over years ago and replaced with high-end condominiums. And her 13 1/2 year old self trying to crawl up behind a speaker because daddy is beating the hell out of her.

Yeah, these kids need to think twice about what they are uploading. And so do these dads.

Homecoming, First Dates, and Other Perfect Opportunities to Embarrass Teenagers

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That’s Song and Uma, and another child who is obviously posing for our picture. She’s kind of fierce, though.

On Saturday night we dropped off our daughter at her very first homecoming. It was kind of a big deal.

Just three months after transferring into the school system, she had been nominated for homecoming queen. And she had a date named after a city in Texas. And she was wearing a beautifully edgy blue and black stripe dress and a denim jacket, both from Delias, natch! (Do people really say natch? I mean, am I using it right? Is that how you spell it?) And she wore lipstick. Lipstick.

If we were sentimental types, I don’t think there would have been a single dry eye in that  Ford Escape.

Then this happened. We pulled up; her mom and I, her little brother and very little sister packed tight in that tiny faux SUV. I hadn’t intended to stop the car. I wasn’t sure which entrance they were using. Then Song pointed and said, “Oooh, that’s…”

A moment later, before I could pull up to the actual entrance of the dance, she leapt out of the car and virtually sprinted towards her friends… Or away from us.

That young lady moved quick. So quick that I never did see who she was pointing at. If she said a name, Song was already yards away from us before it left her lips. There were no good-byes. Just a swirl of wind in the passenger’s seat.

Never did see this date of hers, either. By the way, they’re not going out. I write this only because I made the mistake of using those two words, “going out…” and was quickly and decisively corrected. “We’re going to a dance,” she said. “In the school cafeteria. That’s not out.

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Maybe this is a generational thing. We had used the same nouns and verbs, the same inflection in the same language, but there was apparently a profound difference in meaning. I think… She would have me believe that this dude, that is named after the trendiest city in the lone star state, is a guy that she merely tolerates. He’s yucky, and presumably smelly, and the furthest thing possible from a date. Only, three young men asked her to go with them to homecoming. So this guy was at least third from the smelliest, yuckiest young man in her school. My eyebrow raises.

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No, she doesn’t like him. Her date. Who, by the way, was nominated to be the homecoming king of the 8th grade class. Which elevates him even further from the worst case scenarios in her class, in terms of smelly yuckiness. Hmm…

I know better than to ask her anything specific about the Homecoming Dance. She didn’t win homecoming queen, by the way. Someone else did. I suspect bribery. Maybe lucrative political donors were at play.

And by the time we picked her up, the boy named after that city in Texas – home of the coolest city names of any State – had already gone. Or perhaps he was in hiding. But they’re not dating anyway. Right? Just in case, I’m practicing this. Hear that kid with the name of a city? Got my eye on you.

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In other linguistic, inter-generational news, my step son came home wearing his blue hoodie. The hoodie that he always wears, every autumn, until it becomes so numbingly cold that he is forced to find his winter jacket.

In the pocket of his hoodie was a Nintendo 3DS. It’s his third. But DS’s to him as gerbils are to other children. He is fascinated by them, but its days are numbered.

I point at the DS and say, “Did you bring that to school?” Six words.

He says, “No.”

“Then why is it in your pocket?”

“I forgot to take it out.”

“So you brought it?”

“The jacket was in my bag.”

“So you didn’t wear it?” It was about 45 degrees this morning.

Anyone who follows politics is familiar with what is taking place. The runaround.

This is also what greyhounds experience every time they chase rabbits. Feints and fakes, small admissions followed by all out diversions. Notice, not a single lie was said. At least, not a big lie. I could possibly convince myself that he walked to the bus stop with something the size of a six decks of cards fastened to each other with duct tape, in his pocket. I could, if it would get him to say, “I brought it with me…” so that I could say, “Don’t do that again.”

But he was determined. “I wore it,” he said.

“So you brought it with you.”

“It was in my bag.” Which is the opposite of wearing it. The rabbit doubles back and crosses its own path. The greyhound stumbles.

My wife walked calmly over, said, “Give it to me!” and then went back to the business of putting groceries away. She told me that she would put it where he wouldn’t find it. Which is all so simple that it borders on brilliance. Much better than what I was trying to do; coming to a consensus and teaching a lesson and stuff…

I wish I had thought of that.