Ik ben niet bijgelovig, maar vandaag is het vrijdag de dertiende…
Sommige mensen zeggen dat het juist een geluksdag is. Voor Marianne en Dokter Smeekens blijkbaar wel, want ze gaan trouwen!! Alleen staat de datum nog niet vast. Straks zijn zij nog eerder getrouwd dan Tom en Bianca. Als die nog trouwen ….
En Kris en Mo zijn naar Marokko vertrokken. ‘k Ben benieuwd hoe het Kris daar bevalt.

Intussen heb ik opnieuw bezoek gekregen van m’n overbuurvrouw Yvette. Deze keer hoefde ik haar niet uit te nodigen, ze stond spontaan aan m’n deur. Ik dacht: ze heeft zin in een stukje taart. Maar na het gesprek besefte ik waarom ze gekomen was ….

Ik ben nog altijd niet goed bekomen van Yvettes laatste opmerking. Zou ze roddels gehoord hebben over mij en H. misschien? Terwijl ik niets meer van hem heb gehoord …. stop met aan hem te denken, Ellie! Luister naar je blogvrienden!
Om m’n gedachten te verzetten, ben ik nog even langs Taxi Ter Smissen gelopen. En kijk wie daar op bezoek was …

a very big happy birthday to rosa and yvette- our november babies!  (^_^)  i hope you both have a wonderful birthday filled with lots of love and CAKE!!!

love you both!

Belofte maakt schuld. Ik heb Yvette bij mij uitgenodigd op de koffie. En nu weet ik meer!

Jullie hadden het dus bij het rechte eind, Kbhunl en Catherine!

Ik ben dan nog even langs Taxi Ter Smissen gelopen, en daar betrapte ik Frank en Simonne in een lieve omhelzing.

Ze zien elkaar nog altijd graag, na al die jaren. Ik denk dat Yvette zich danig vergist!

Twins.

Kaia & Layla, Gaia & Evelyn, Elizabeth & Samantha, Beth & Amy, Edie & Beth.

Names with hyphens (boys in brackets)

Lola-Jean, Arden-Grace, Mia-Moana, Nola-Mae, Chlea-Jade, Janesta-Rose, Matilda-Rose, Abigail-Maree, (Dar-rel), (Cee-Jay), Marlee-Rose, Sophie-Lee, Danny-Jo, Tracey-Lee, Kobyn-Rayne, Indiana-Rose, Marie-Louise, Poppie-May, Bella-Tiarne, Miabella-Rose, Destiny-Pearl, Tiana-Jade, Danika-Leigh, Safahri-Jade, Taitum-Jaymz, Liliana-Jade, (De-yon) Summer’Jayne, Alexis-Grace, Payton’Lea, Shana-Lee, Tiana-Jae, Matildah-Rose, Ka’tia, Torrie-lee.

Girls

Belinda, Victoria, Adelaide, Amy, Bethany, Lauren, Eva, Kendall, Bridie, Gisele, Melanie, Erin, Yasmin, Clare, Natalie, Michelle, Faith, Rhianne, Ruby, Carissa, Jacinta, Keeley, Laura, Samara, Elle, Nina, Lola, Louise, Violet, Callista, Anastasia, Zoe, Carmen, Helen, Felicity, Melissa, Elena, Valentina, Freya, Delilah, Amelia, Isla, Julia, Cassandra, Imogen, April, Morgan, Lucia, Poppy, Tess, Winter, Angela, Molly, Jacqueline, Bonnie, Jade, Alice, Ebony, Rebecca, Aurora, Celine, Monique, Lisa, Madeline, Bronwyn, Lucinda, Willow, Carly, Daisy, Camille, Raffaella, Piper, Lara, Nadia, Angela, Lucy, Libby, Nikita, Thea, Chelsea, Cleo, Reese, Arianne, Catherine, Francesca, Toni, Ingrid, Katherine, Paula, Sabrina, Roxy, Bronte, Mariah, Sandy, Sasha, Dakota, Cara, Tiffany, Tyra, Holly, Miranda, Julie.

Shirley, Luella, Annie, Shirley, Marnie, Bessie, Amity, Lucille, Rosa, Lulu, Mimi, Reba, Elsie, Pearl, Iris, Rosetta, Olive, Tilly, Babette, Heidi, Yvette, Tabitha, Eloise, Hermione, Diana, Clementine, June, Beth, Josephine, Mina, Chrysanthe,Hazel,  Daphne, Mabel, Amaryllis, Georgie, Lillian, Dahlia, Teodora, Ivy, Esther, Arabella, Ida, Meg, Olive, Aubrey, Jane, Cynthia, Alison, Juliette, Mary, Allegra, Eleanor, Mariette, Evangeline, Klara/Clara, Kit ,Dina, Lolita, Olympia, Sally, Edith.

Coco, Quincy, Angel, Caprice, Jewel, Majenta, River, Jazz, Avalon, Cherish, Cairo, Rain, Winter, Shiloh, Harmony, Elodie, Saige, Lucky, Vienna, Paisley, Tigerlily, Maple, Indigo, Pyrate, Trinity, Tulip, Nevaeh, Porsha, Serenity, Hope, Kitty, Arden, Anakie, Pixie, Alaska, Demi, Ocean, Chardonnay, Patience, Melody,Nevada, Dusty, Harper, Modesty, Chevy.

Monieka, Nikkisha, Alyvia, Khloie, Sascha, Talieya, Illiana, Havania, Neva, Ashlan, Adahlia, Somma, Lyla, Cloe, Alecia, Eliesha, Addicyn, Cheyanne, Alexxa, Avah, Wynta, Aaleah, Aleksa, Marleya, Tessah, Chaylee, Jayde, Shae, Chelce, Natalee, Armahni, Scarlotte, Summah, Alaliela, Izabella, Serynnia, Shaela,  Nieve, Azaiyah, Ellenore, Shilah, Mychaela, Avaril, Sylvannah, Innika, Ayva, Rosemari,Jimima, Trelyse,

Ellia, Cianna, Jylea, Quaylah, Imara,Temika,Araya,Inara, Allyra, Aleka, Ashadiah, Arkie,  Zahni, Paea, Ecren, Ejren, Kokoda, Risha, Damara, Taniesse, Aashaylee, Daija, Delana, Folosade, Zoni, Oceah, Chimme, Zari, Irem, Ayansa, Janaiah, Alara, Shallyn, Tithi, Sharell, Shylynn, Tekeia, Tiese, Daisharn, Saybra, Sena, Nour, Mataya, Mohala,

Dempsey, Logan, Kirby, Blake, Emlyn, Kameron, Espen, Chandler, Eliette, Isaiah, Harvey, Shelby, Zia, Gabriel, Sidney, Jayden, Tully, Elliot,  Blaire, Darby, Finnlay,

Keali, Kiana, Kiahla, Kiyarah, Kaylia, Kalara, Khyaura, Kaitara, Kiyarah, Kirrali, Kyndra, Kadelle, Kiesha, Kyndral, Kymani, Keiley, Keana, Kiralee, Kasia.

Asta, Amika, Talya, Kaya, Shanti, Tahnee, Sakura, Aroha, Sachi, Priya, Sabra, Lia, Alessia, Aniela, Sora, Ximena, Donatella, Natalya, Halina, Athalia, Maja, Amani, Natassja, Aomi, Amal, Isha, Luciana, Quiana, Myfanwy, Zaira, Leda, Layal, Manaia, Mahina, Soleil, Solange, Jaya, Mahalia, Zavia, Azura, Seren,

So ever since the store has gotten rid of (fired and demoted) the old managers, the store has literally fallen and crumbled apart! These new so-called “managers” are beyond BEYOND fucking STUPID!!! Stupid is such a lesser clean word for them. Idiots is another good one.

So who shall we start with.

Yvette: A compete IDIOTIC MORON!!!! She thinks she “knows” everything. When really, that bitch has BARELY been with HEB for a year. Also, she’s ’slow’ (not in the physical way… Mentally) and LAZY. All you ever see her do is stand around poking at the fucking dashboard and “pretend” like she’s doing something on returns. You’ll NEVER actually see her do any literal work; help bag, etc. NO MANNERS!

Lisa: Almost just as worse as Yvette, but in a much lesser way. At least she doesn’t act like she knows everything, but she does have her days when she does. Lisa, unlike Yvette, knows her “please” and “thank you.” She’s also a bit lazy and sluggish and spends most her time on high-side to avoid work; or at least it seems like it.

Kim: OH EM GEE!!! BIGGEST DYKE BITCH EVERRRRRR!!! Words can’t even describe her cuntness! Absolutely NO MANNERS whatsoever! NEVER does work!! All she ever does, and this is NOT exaggerating, sit at the podium with her fat ass sticking out poking at the dashboard. NEVER will you see her HELP her “partners” bag or do any other work. She walks around like she fucking owns the place. A complete cunt!

This would conclude the IDIOTS part of the new managers.

As for the others; Mario, Chris, and the newly added Eric, are actually not complete idiots. I guess it’s just the girls. However, Chris is completely oblivious as to what to do in the front end, or anywhere else for that matter. Hah!

It’s 8 am on a clear and bright summer  morning, and Mothers Arms awaits.

Yvette and I drive to the edge of the man-made peninsula called Marina Island near the heart of the historic downtown of the old riverboat landing of Sanford. Here, I coast the SUV  down a new concrete ramp on the northeastern edge just outside the harbor, and park a few feet from the water. No one’s around, except for a large black woman who is sitting under a pavilion nearby, reading.  We quickly unload the kayaks from the rooftop racks, and I drive back up the ramp and park the SUV. The waters are calm, flat as glass almost, and the tiniest notion of a breeze is lifting up from somewhere far away.

Yvette’s at once vivacious and cool, ready for most anything. She owns one of the neatest independent book stores in the region;  instead of trying to make it sound pretentious, she has named it Maya, for one of her cats.

Steamship on Lake Monroe 1906

We wedge ourselves down into the cockpits of our individual boats, and push away with our paddles. Within a couple minutes we’re a hundred yards from shore, out on the vast blackwater lake.  The map shows a peninsula charted as “Mother’s Arms” jutting out from the eastern edge of the lake. I’m figuring the “arms” are the bayous of water that surround it on both sides. Whatever the origins of the name, I’m excited to be paddling towards it, happy as always to be able to have a chance for discovery in a place I’ve never been.

Yvette’s every bit as thrilled as I, perhaps even more so. The last time she paddled was on the Russian River in California almost 15 years ago. Despite the fact she’s lived in Ormond over on the coast and here in Sanford, she’s never paddled locally. We’ve brought along bottles of water and a few granola bars.

We move easily across the lake surface, feeling the slurping of gentle swells at the edges of the experience.  Although this is a broad dilation in the St. Johns  and not really a self-enclosed lake, it’s as big as one—nearly 15 square miles. There’s close to six miles worth of big water behind us, a sleeping liquid god with enough potential fetch  to bat us around like one of Yvette’s cats would bat a tiny anole, if it wanted. I had been closely watching the forecast, waiting for a day when the winds were expected to lay down, barely a knot or two an hour. But this is Florida, of course, and anything can change within a couple of hours, the cotton-white cumulus behind us turning black with vapor and coastal breezes sweeping inland, just because they can.

We’re paddling directly into the  morning sun, bright now and halfway up in the sky, high enough so that a jet trail passes between it and the horizon. As it goes, it underlines the sun with its white thread of smoke, almost as if the sky wants us to remember something. I figure we can reach the tip of the peninsula, mapped as “Grassy Point” within l5 or 20 minutes as it’s barely a mile, and we do. Since the river flows north, we’re actually paddling upstream, but the current today is slight, particularly so where it broadens out and is absorbed by the giant expanse that is Lake Monroe.

Monroe Shore, 1835

As we approach Grassy Point, I see it is less grass and more of the tall exotic water weed, Phragmites. The reed-like grass has consumed this tip of land, and it continues to do so as we paddle around its northerly shore. I have seen the tops of hardwood trees from the kayak, so I know there is likely dry land deeper inside the peninsula somewhere, and I look forward to what it will reveal. Now that we’re squarely inside the aquatic embrace of Mother’s Arms, we slow our paddling to allow more time to examine the shore. We push in and out of stands of reeds, spooking some fish that jump and a little blue heron. We are headed towards the northernmost “arm”, a splotch of blue mapped as “Big Smokehouse Cove”.  From the cove are two upstream outlets, and we will take the closer one, planning to follow it eastward as it encircles the peninsula.

Soon, the shore turns into hard packed sand, like a little beach, and I see wading birds have left behind the empty shells of Viviparous, the small snails expertly plucked from their homes by the sharp beak tips of wading birds. The shells are russet colored, lightly striped and shiny from the varnish of moisture. Not long after the first beach of shells, I see two very old cypress side by side just a few yards out from the peninsula. One is a dead gray snag; the other is very much alive, its crown of soft green needles sitting atop the old trunk, at once haphazard and neat, as only a cypress can be. The live tree is a dwarf, like those I have seen up in Lake Norris and down in Blue Cypress Lake, no more than seven or so feet high, but with a trunk base that is a couple yards in diameter.  I guess it is also hollow, like other bonsai-style cypress I have seen, and when I paddle next to it, I gently thump it with my paddle blade. The sound resonates as it would if I hit a drum made of heavy wood.

I turn to see Yvette paddling just ahead, close to shore. She has exclaimed several times at the wildness and singularity of the place. We are both astounded this old peninsula is so close to where we live. Yet, like those too-familiar parts of our lives, we have never bothered to examine it because we figured it would always be here. Nearby, great blooms of the wetland flower known as the marsh mallow shine in the early sun, crimson throats giving way to lighter pink petals, not as red as the scarlet hibiscus but every bit as grandiose.

To the north shore is Stone Island, where the Bartrams camped when they journeyed through here in 1763. Later, archaeologist Jefferies Wyman scouted the same waters in 1860, reporting one of the largest shell middens on the entire St. Johns on the shore there at Old Enterprise. Native Americas lived and camped here for 6,000 years, tribes of the Mayaca and Jororo fishing and hunting around the lake when the Europeans first arrived. We know that Monroe was named Valdez by the Spanish and later Wepolokse (round lake) by the Seminoles; but the  pre-Columbians were dispatched before we could learn what they called it.

Midden on N. Shore, 1860

The deeper we get into the cove, the more hardwoods we see on the peninsula, some sweetgum, some nut trees of some kind, and of course, the occasional sabal palm. The deep grunts of gators, scarce at first, become more frequent. I sound the bottom with my paddle and learn it is hard here, not muddy as it can be in the downstream reaches of the lake. To the north, we see a lone fisherman several hundred yards away, fishing in the bulrush there. Out of the cove now, we nose up the narrow stream, and pass another lone fishing boat.

Pot shards found in Monroe midden, 1867

 A creek that will allow us to round the peninsula opens up just ahead, and I realize this is not a peninsula at all but an island. Ashore, I see a patch of midden shells, about the size of a large cottage, rising several feet high, and I imagine hunters or fishers from a Mayacan tribe camping here for several generations.

Nearby, spats of apple snail eggs begin to appear regularly on the stems of plants; the presence of the eggs are a good sign ecologically, for the large snail that lays them insists on healthy water. I wonder if this eastern portion of the “lake” simply isn’t cleaner since its upstream from the stormwater drains that regularly drain street and lawn toxins into the waters—down where the concrete bulkheads of Sanford also rob the waters of its historic wetlands. Whatever the reason,  both Yvette and I take great pleasure in knowing that at least this portion of the lake—native and wild— still carries with it a legacy that others have known there for thousands of years.

The creek is narrow, deep, and as we enter it, I hear a motor boat coming up behind us. I slow as I hear him throttle down to idle speed. It is a FWC patrol boat, and for the fun of it, the officer has clocked our speed with a radar gun. He shouts to me over the motor: “You’re clocking 6.5 miles an hour”. Happy with this information, I give him the thumbs up, and he waves and speeds off.  It is nearly twice as fast as I thought I was paddling.

As we round the eastern shore of Mothers Arms, the land becomes higher, more trees and even some old pasture land. Another creek, Woodruff, nearly splices this pasture in two; when we round the corner to the wide old canal that will take us back to our launch, I see a few cows. Ahead, higher trees rise from the shore, and I’m elated to see they are cypress, relative giants at 100 or more feet, and at least one crowned with a nest of both an osprey and a great blue.

Hotel Forrest Lake, 1931

We paddle strong now, headed out beyond the natural shore to where the bulkhead begins, passing the old Hotel Forrest Lake as we go, a gilded time-stuck vision from the tourist boom of the 1920’s, back when a few paddlewheelers still steamed here to this “Gateway to South Florida”.  As we get closer to the launch, the large Rivership Romance churns its way out of the harbor there, exhaling its deep bass honk as it goes, a boatful of visitors learning about how things used to be on a lake that is really a river.  Yvette paddles ahead, and I wonder if the image of our plastic dugouts carries any symmetry with it, tiny boats of voyagers juxtaposed against so many poignant images of a rich river past, moving with careful stealth now towards our inevitable  return to the present. I glance once over my shoulder at Mothers Arms, and just for now, I let it go.

My bow, Yvette, Rivership Romance

When it comes to public spending, Tory voices will emerge calling Ed Balls a liar, and George Osbourne a hero. I set out in an entry on Liberal Conspiracy today to show that Balls’ comments were far more cautious than the caustic Tory bloggers/journalists make out, and detail why critics should not attempt to paint Balls as trying to fraud the voter.

When it comes to personal finances, even the Tories will have to admit that the shoes are on the other feet today.

In Andrew Sparrow’s commentary on the official release of MP’s expenses, we see that;

“Ed Balls, the children’s secretary, and his wife, Yvette Cooper, the work and pensions secretary, were cleared by the parliamentary commissioner for standards last year after being accused of wrongly nominating their London home as their second home.”

whilst on Sam Jones’ report, we see;

“• George Osborne [claimed for] £47 for two DVDs of his own speech on Value for Taxpayers’ Money”

Value for money indeed, and at only £23.50 each.

Laissez moi vous introduire,  une chroniqueuse qui va venir apporter sa touche musicale et sa patte sur ce blog: YVETTE

Yvette est parisienne et croque la vie à pleine dent. Chaque matin Yvette se lève, se prépare, enfile sa tenue du jour, claque sa porte, branche son iPod, “Up the volume” et s’envole en musique… ça bulle, ça fuse; mille infos à la minute, les affiches publicitaires défilent  à cent à l’heure, plus  de mille  individus, à qui elle tente de sourire… mais que se passe-t-il dans la tête d’Yvette?

Sur un morceau qu’elle aura choisi de nous faire partager, Yvette nous donnera sa vision d’un Paris bien à elle, qu’elle vit  au rythme de quelques notes de musique. Ah j’oubliais, Yvette est un cœur à prendre!  N’hésitez pas à lui poster vos commentaires, pour l’encourager à ne pas lâcher sa chronique.

Rendez-vous dès lundi matin, pour buller en musique avec Yvette!

]]> http://appellationmountain.net/2009/06/03/hurricane-names/ Wed, 03 Jun 2009 20:27:38 +0000 appellationmountain http://appellationmountain.net/2009/06/03/hurricane-names/

It’s not really baby naming news – it’s meteorological, potentially catastrophic even.

And yet I can’t resist posting the 2009 list of Hurricane Names.

There are multiple lists.  (If I’ve covered it as a Name of the Day, click the link to read that post.)

First up, Atlantic storms:

1. Ana
2. Bill
3. Claudette
4. Danny
5. Erika
6. Fred
7. Grace
8. Henri
9. Ida
10. Joaquin
11. Kate
12. Larry
13. Mindy
14. Nicholas
15. Odette
16. Peter
17. Rose
18. Sam
19. Teresa
20. Victor
21. Wanda

Then there’s the slightly more exotic Eastern North Pacific group:

1. Andres
2. Blanca
3. Carlos
4. Dolores
5. Enrique
6. Felicia
7. Guillermo
8. Hilda
9. Ignacio
10. Jimena
11. Kevin
12. Linda
13. Marty
14. Nora
15. Olaf
16. Patricia
17. Rick
18. Sandra
19. Terry
20. Vivian
21. Waldo
22. Xina
23. York
24. Zelda

Hurricanes aren’t named for my amusement.  Instead, over the years, meteorologists decided it was easier to use short, easily remembered names rather than a numeric designation.

Originally, storms (like many children) were often named after saints’ days.  Up until the 1970s, all hurricanes were female.  Now their names alternate.

The Australian region works a bit differently, but their names are no less interesting:

A: Anika, Anthony, Alessia, Alfred, Ann

B: Billy, Bianca, Bruce, Blanche, Blake

C: Charlotte, Carlos, Cathy, Caleb, Claudia

D: Dominic, Dianne, Dylan, Debbie, Damien

E: Ellie, Errol, Edna, Ernie, Esther

F: Freddy, Fina, Fletcher, Frances, Ferdinand

G: Gabrielle, Grant, Gillian, Greg, Gretel

H: Hamish, Heidi, Hadi, Hilda, Harold

I:  Ilsa, Iggy, Ita, Ira, Imogen

J: Jasper, Jasmine, Jack, Joyce, Joshua

K: Kirrily, Koji, Kate, Kelvin, Kimi

L: Laurence, Lua, Lam, Linda, Lucas

M: Magda, Mitchell, Marcia, Marcus, Marian

N: Neville, Narelle, Nathan, Nora, Noah

O: Olga, Oswald, Olwyn, Owen, Odette

P/Q: Paul, Peta, Quang, Penny, Paddy

R: Robyn, Rusty, Raquel, Riley, Ruby

S: Sean, Sandra, Stan, Savannah, Seth

T: Tasha, Tim, Tatjana, Trevor, Tiffany

U/V: Vince, Victoria, Uriah, Veronica, Verdun

WXY&Z: Zelia, Zane, Yvette, Wallace

Technically, these are tropical cyclone names.  The best part?  There’s a process to request that your name be used for a Tropical Cyclone.  However, the service notices that after filing a written request, it will probably take about fifty years before a storm is named in your honor.

And you thought it took me a long time to respond to Name of the Day requests! 

EyeCon Make up Shoot -

Photographer: Nathaniel Kam 
Make up artist: Yvette Rector
Models: Grace Chen, Cathy Jang 
Assistant: Jen Ong 
Location: Northpark, San Diego CA

Highlights -

  EyeCon Make Up - 
Licensed MUA
(202) 579 – 0736 (DC area)
yrector@aol.com

Whole Shoot on Pictage: 
http://www.pictage.com/client/event.do?event=642133 

Till then highlights at:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=244524&id=108451470572

or

http://www.flickr.com/photos/14557924@N03/sets/72157616701284169/ 

Look for future blog post for: 
  Dean’s Symposium
  Promotional Shoot
  Luminance @ The Loft
  2 Portrait Sessions 

MJ VOTED INTO HALL OF FAME ON FIRST BALLOT, BODES WELL FOR THOSE BETTING THE SUN WILL RISE TOMORROW

On Nov. 7th, 1991, Magic announced he had “attained” HIV.  If you had told me that 17 years later Magic would still be alive I wouldn’t have believed you.  If you had told me that 17 years later Magic would be happier, wealthier, and more pimpin’ than MJ I would have called you a fucking idiot.  Yet here I am in sunny Los Angeles, 2009, and Magic is all smiles all the time with an empire of Starbucks, gyms, movie theaters and worth $700 million.  Michael, on the other hand, seems truly unhappy.  A B-student in any community college psychology class could tell you that from watching one interview. 

MJ got punked by Abe Polin (the Washington Wizards owner who fired Mike from the front office after he quit playing the third time).  He’s divorced, works in North Carolina, makes questionable draft choices (Okay, so he didn’t exactly make a play for Greg Oden, but Adam Morrison?  Really?), and he’s pissed off about being the most inevitable first ballot Hall of Famer in the history of sport (Pele doesn’t count, he was actually officially made a “National Treasure” by the boys in Brazil).  Here he his, at guard, from North Carolina, in his own words (excerpted from the LA Times):

 “Look,” Jordan somberly said, “this is not fun for me. I don’t like being up here for the Hall of Fame, because at that time your career is completely over, is the way I look at it. I was hoping this day is 20 more years, or actually when I’m dead and gone. . . . Now, when you get in the Hall of Fame, what else is there for you to do?”

 “This is kind of a love-hate thing for me,” Jordan said ” . . . but for me, I’ll always want to be able to have you thinking that I can always go back and play the game of basketball. Put my shorts on. . . . Am I? No. But I’d like for you to think that way.”

 “Hall of Fame?” Jordan said. “To me it’s like, OK, it’s over and done with. It’s pretty much done — you can’t ever put a uniform back on. It’s totally the end of your basketball career.

 ”It’s a great accomplishment, I don’t walk away from it. But I’ve never envisioned myself really wanting to be up here so quickly. I wanted it to be when I was 70 years old, or something, 80 years old, but I’m [46] and I still think I can play.”

 LA Times – Michael Jordan can’t escape basketball Hall of Fame

MJ is my boyhood hero and I don’t want to kick the man while he’s “down”.  But this isn’t the first time something wasn’t quite right with Mike.  That’s obvious.  Even Slam’s Scoop Jackson would probably agree.  And his tongue is usually so far up Jordan’s ass it looks like his Airness is sitting on Gene Simmons’ face.  Leave aside conspiracy theories (MJ’s marriage was a cover/sham, James Jordan Sr. was wacked over his son’s unpaid gambling debts or the baseball retirement was a “secret suspension” from David Stern) and you’re still left with some weirdness.  Stephon Marbury’s arguably done more to combat sneaker street violence (Starbury).  Honestly, I’m glad Air Jordans stayed unaffordable and full of mystique, but the fact remains that one of the guys currently doing life in the hooskow (as Mars Blackman’s alter ego would put it) for killing Michael’s pops was actually rocking an Air Jordan T-shirt at the time of his arrest.   MJ’s kid charity (the Michael Jordan Foundation) was investigated and shut down over misappropriation of charitable funds. The Wizards comeback was welcome, but baseball?  Really?

 At least his Heels are on top and his girlfriend is hot, but come on, he’s Michael Jordan.  In the words of another degenerate gambler, anything less would be uncivilized.

 - G Plimp

So I spent this weekend in VA to attend a girlfriend’s baby shower.  Yvette and I have been friends since the ninth grade and I missed her wedding so there was no way I was missing her baby shower.  We had a grand time at the shower, reminiscing on how we met Yvette and playing ice breaker games to get to know all of the attendees.  At the end of the night while I was reflecting on the day and the friendship Yvette and I have shared I thought to myself, “Wow, I have known Yvette since the ninth grade.” 

It took a minute for it to settle in.

If I have known Tamiko since the ninth grade that means I’ve known her for … let’s see I was about fifteen in the ninth grade, plus ten is 25 plus ten, minus one … DAMN – I’ve know Yvette for nineteen years!!  When in the hell did I start having friends for that long?  The only other people that I can recall having friends for that were much older than I was … right?

So I blew it off and went on about my weekend.  Yvette and her friend Michelle and I went out to breakfast and ran some errands one day and while in the car I happened to pop Yvette’s cassette player.  Aw, hell nah! - not Guy.  Not Guy!  “Groove Me” and “We Can Spend the Night” use to blast in my Walkman nonstop back in the day.   I mean this tape brought back memories – 13, summers in Mississippi, biking shorts. 

And as we commenced to rocking to the Guy tape, I had an ephiphany of sorts.  We were listening to a cassette  – a cassette.  My car doesn’t even have a cassette player in it.  And the cassette was so old that it was the white one with the black lettering.   And for a moment I felt as if I was outside of the car watching all of us singing to the top of our lungs, watching me doing the Reebok and the Cabbage Patch and then, it hit me … I am officially old. 

I mean seriously, I am old.  I’m the mother who doesn’t know any of the words to the songs on the radio but still tries to sing along.  I always thought that when my daughters told me that I wasn’t doing the Walk It Out right that they were hating, but um, they were serious - I really can’t do the Walk It Out.  When the R&B station plays the oldies on Saturday night I spend the entire evening hollering “that’s my jam!”   

When did this happen?  When did the fliest chick in the room (if I must say so myself turn into the woman who looks good for having three kids?  When did my red Acura Integra turn into a black minivan?  When did all night parties at Lowry Air Force base turn into me being asleep on the couch by nine o’clock on Friday night? 

I’m not quite sure when all of this happened but I have to say that while I am struggling with the changes that come with being older there isn’t one year that I desire to relive.  Each year comes with more challenges, progress and experience and all jokes aside – I am blessed to have made it this far.

„Mann, was für geile Dinger hast Du denn!“ hatte er noch gesagt. Aber Yvette wollte davon nichts mehr hören. Ihr war schlecht. Sie musste aufs Klo. Nicht, dass sie sich übergeben musste, der Film war einfach nur zu heftig. Das schlug ihr auf den Magen. Als würde sie sich drehen und dabei gleichzeitig fest gehalten werden. Komische Scheiße!

„Runter kommen, runter kommen,“ befahl sie sich. Allein das Weiß der Klobox tat ihr gut. Es war so völlig anders hier als in der dämmrigen Atmosphäre der Bar. Dort saß Zimmy jetzt und wartete auf sie. Vielleicht flirtete er auch mit der Bedienung. „Nicht daran denken!“ Der nächste Schub kam und ließ sie fast neben die Toilettenschüssel sinken. Am liebsten hätte sie sich daran fest geklammert. Aber soweit war sie noch nicht. Vorläufig genügte es, dass sie atmete und Zeit verstreichen ließ. „Das wird schon wieder.“ Sie rückte sich ihren BH zurecht.

Langsam bekam sie Land in Sicht, ein leise Vorahnung, dass sie es schaffen würde, ohne Kollaps, ohne Krankenwagen, ohne Stress. Ihr Herz raste noch vor sich hin. Sie hatten bei Zimmy gekifft. Da war alles noch ganz lustig gewesen. Und dann waren sie ins Crack gefahren. Yvette kam sonst nicht hier rein. Aber mit Zimmy schon. Den kannte die ganze Stadt. Außerdem konnte er sich die Preise in dem Laden locker leisten.

Sie hatten Schnaps getrunken. Blöde Idee! Und irgendwann hatte ihr Zimmy mit einem Kuss eine Tablette in den Mund geschoben. Sie mochte seine Lippen. „…denn zu Küssen sind sie da.“ Zehn Minuten später war ihr klar geworden, dass sie zuviel hatte. Nach weiteren fünf Minuten war sie um Haltung bemüht in Richtung Toiletten gestürzt. Da saß sie nun. Die Todesangst hatte sich gelegt. Trotzdem drückte ihr jemand in regelmäßigen Abständen alle Adern zusammen. Das Gefühl der Unwirklichkeit war erdrückend. In solchen Momenten wusste sie genau, was die Wirklichkeit war, und sie sehnte sich danach. Ein weißes Leinenkleid, eine sommerliche Wiese, das Glück eines kindlichen Herzens, ein Atomkraftwerk. Ihr wurde wieder übel. „Warum muss ich immer so ne destruktive Scheiße denken? Atmen, nur atmen, Komm schon, Baby,“ sagte sie zu ihrem Körper.

Sie schämte sich über ihren Zustand. So zugedröhnt in einem WC zu hocken, war nichts worauf man besonders stolz sein konnte. Sie überlegte, wie vielen anderen auf der Welt es gerade genauso ging: „In Asien ist jetzt Morgen, da wahrscheinlich nicht so vielen. Bei uns eine ganze Menge. In den USA …“ Sie machte sich häufiger solche Gedanken. Es tröstete sie. Sie konnte ihre eigene Situation über Tausende Kilometer hinweg fort projizieren. „Cool. Phantasie ist echt saucool.“

Die Wellen wurden allmählich flacher. Der Geruch der Duftsteine ging ihr auf den Wecker. Wahrscheinlich gab es diese Dinger einzig und allein dafür. Man wollte keine Leichen auf den Toiletten sitzen haben. Das war in etwa so, wie der Einsatz von klassischer Musik auf Bahnhofsvorplätzen.

Probeweise dachte sie daran, eine zu rauchen. Das klappte schon, ohne dass ihr gleich wieder schlecht wurde. Ein gutes Zeichen. Jetzt den Drink. Auch das ging. Nur noch aufstehen. Yvette fühlte sich bereit. Es konnte weiter gehen.