Why don't I think ...

... up little nuggets of dialogue like this every day (I do, I just don't write them down all the time):
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"What do you want from me," he asked?

"The world," she replied knowing full well what that entailed and what it would take to really get it.

"I gave that to you," he said with a smirk, "and you gave it back ... several times."

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"Me coming to your wedding and watching you marry someone else would be akin to me murdering you, getting away with it and then showing up at the funeral like nothing happened. It doesn't make any sense."

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Friday's Random Thoughts

I know I haven’t been good with my Random Thoughts, but here they are for this week.

1. A 50-something white woman asked me on Thursday if I had fingerwaves. FINGERWAVES!

2. Most of you know I have a statcounter, and can see where someone reads the blog from. I’m not paranoid, I just think it’s interesting. But what I do want to know is who do I know in Japan? Seriously? Do I know anybody who lives in Japan?

3. I'm happy that the Company Bitch has returned the blogworld. Blogworld was slightly empty without her.

4. Kobe is still the shit. The Suns better watch out because they might get ousted.

5. I know most of you don't care about this but A-Rod is going to hit 70-plus home runs this year.

6. Anybody who doesn't tell the police or some federal agency that they have a terrorist or serial killer living next door to them is an absolute idiot (Cam'Ron).

7. My department moved offices at work on Wednesday. I didn't have much to move because, well, I haven't built up that much stuff in two months.

8. I failed to mention this on Tuesday when I wrote about diving all over the place on the softball field, but I have insurance!

9. Name this person's race: Jamal. Keisha. Rebecca. .... We Americans, we stereotype with the best of them.

10. I wish the Royals were in town, last Friday night was too much fun. The sun is out and its warm. I just wish I could hang outside for awhile (I'm sure I will).

Over and out. vickdamonejr.

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Someone please dial 911 ...

I've made several phone calls today at work.

Nothing out of the norm, just business. But I started thinking about something each time I dialed: I wonder what would happen if I hit the number 1 one more time?

Let's investigate.

When you dial out from most businesses, you must dial a 9 or some other arbitrary number to get out of your work's phone system. If you're making a long distance call, 1 will be the next digit you will dial.

Now, if you hit 1 again, do you go directly to 911, the emergency service or do you have to dial 9-911 for that to work?

I'm sure you can dial 911 directly, but I wonder how many people have accidentally dialed 911 by accident because they hit the 1 twice or how many people tried dialing 911 but were rejected because they dialed 9-911.

This is a wonderful example of me overthinking. Ah, oh well. Back to Usher and his Confessions.

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Do What You Do, At Your Own Risk

All of you know how much I absolutely hate text messaging. I think its “negro” technology as described on the Boondocks.

Well, I found something else I hate about cell telecommunication. It’s a confession that I’ve been longing to share with my friends for quite some time: I don’t listen to voicemail messages.

It’s true. I’ll only listen to a voicemail if I see a number I don’t recognize and the new message symbol pops up on my phone. But if I know who you are and you call me, don’t leave a message. It will be deleted without me hearing it because chances are I’m going to call you before I listen to the message.

I don’t care if it’s funny, important or obsolete to my life. I won’t hear it.

I’m not sure when I made this decision. I just know somewhere along the line while covering high school sports, I’d get 10 to 15 messages a day between my work and cell phone. I’d spend an hour a day on average just listening to messages. I can't tell you how many daytime minutes I wasted listening to unnecessary voicemail.

I started listening to the first few words and then deleting. At some point, something snapped, and I just started deleting messages while listening to the number knowing that I’d call whoever it was back.

Five minutes ago, I deleted 10 messages that had been left over the last few days. It took me 30 seconds compared to the six minutes it would have taken me to listen to them all.


If I were a complete asshole my voicemail greeting would say the following:

“Hi, you’ve reached Damon Smith, you can leave a message if you want, but chances are, if you know me well, I’m not going to listen to this message. Just know that I’m going to call you back if you leave me a message. Do what you do at your own risk. I’m just warning you. Have a blessed day.”

Good thing I'm a great guy and I like people, huh?

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I Hate the Outfield

ed's note: this is random, but it's what I felt like sharing today.

The softball team I joined played its third game last night. It was my second game.

In the first game, I played second base, the position I grew accustomed to playing growing up. I made a few putouts and had a few assists, no errors and even drove in a run on an error. I did pretty well.

Last night, well let’s just say last night turned into a bit of circus.

I ended up playing left field. If you don’t know about my dislike for all things outfield here’s the short version: I told my dad when I was five or six that I wanted to play in the outfield (because I was scared of the ball at the time). He subsequently took me to the backyard (we had an acre or more) and ch1allenged me to catch flyballs. He hit about three or four. I caught a few, and dropped some others. Then came the fifth one. I chased it down, but somehow lost my footing and ended up falling into a pit of mud. Everything I had on was ruined, and I’ve hated the outfield ever since.

Well, not really. I played outfield during high school as a freshman and sophomore because that was the only place I could play to make varsity. I got really good at tracking the ball off of the bat and making diving catches. I preferred the spectacular catch.

Well, yesterday, I found myself in that position – one where I had to make a few spectacular catches – chiefly because I couldn’t grasp how far or how short the ball was being hit.

There were three opportunities in all. The first ball was short and I ran in after it, dove and narrowly missed the catch. It really upset me because I knew I could have caught it, and I was inflicting undue stress on my body and exerting a lot of effort not to catch the damn ball.

The second one was almost exactly like the first one, only this time I so was determined to make the diving grab that I hit my chin on the ground as I dove for the ball – and MADE THE CATCH.

Everyone yield “Great play.” I turned and tipped my glove to acknowledge their cheers (it made me feel really good). Everyone including my teammates, the other team and the guy who hit the ball all screamed their kudos. The only entity that loathed what I had done was my chin.

The next inning, I had a ball that looked like it was going over my head that I had to track down. I misread it, and some how ended up having to leap/dive backwards and across my body for it. I caught it, and got more kudos. But I also screwed up my back and arm.

I came into the dugout as our game ended (we got our butts kicked) and they told me that I would be playing the outfield for the duration of the season, to which I replied “I hate the outfield.”

My teammates then told me that I would have to get used to it. I think I should quit before I really hurt myself (I'm joking).

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Amass a grave

A mass grave for 33
Dug by a man whose soul couldn’t be saved
By a conclave of priests
Besieged about by 27,000 angels.
From a distance we try finding
A new angle and reasoning from these news providers
Who often do little but divide us,
But on this issue they can’t.
You see, death preceded ignorance
Equals mass murder and that’s
Something we shouldn’t accept
So we tune in to our tubes like vegetation receiving nourishment from the ground,
And all we see is chaos surround a more chaotic mess
And still no reason.
No rationale for why a man would want to take so many lives and then his own,
A genuine situation where hindsight is really 20/400.
So we type in a few more dotcoms,
And still no understanding as to why except a Psalm,
That says: lean not.
So, instead we pray
And hope that our prayers our felt
Hundreds of miles away
Where the hysteria first began
And will reside for countless days.
No, we can’t touch you
But we grieve with you just the same.
We, too, turn our heads toward the sky.
Repeatedly asking why?
“Why, did this have to go this way?”
Why can’t we just amass a grave
for all of the hatred in this world
and bury it with the ignorance from which it is dispensed?
Of when that day will come,
I'm surely not convinced.

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A couple of brief requests

Pick up the phone and tell five or six people that you love that you love them today. Thirty-two people are dead in Blacksburg, Va. because of someone's hatred of life. Most of them are likely young, close to our age.

It hit me pretty hard this morning/afternoon. It's that ever simple reminder that life is short and can't be taken for granted. My prayers go out to the families of everyone who lost someone, to everyone who was injured, the Virginia Tech community and to the family of the gunman.

Love
is
patient

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Cohabitation? Good or Bad ... Don Imus? Bad

Three of my best friends females friends and I have been caught in this discussion about whether living with your significant other is a good or a bad thing.

All three were opposed, two of them until they at least had a ring on that fourth finger on the left hand. I understood all of their arguments:

I have the rest of my life after I’m married to live with the same person.

What if we break up? I’ve had friends in that situation and I want no part of that.

It’s just against what I believe.

All respectable arguments. But is it really that bad? I’m of the accord that if you love someone and you spend that much time with them anyway, living together isn’t that bad of an idea.

One of the three friends just had her boyfriend move into an apartment that is literally a walk down the stairs from her apartment. Would it be so bad if they shared living space and saved on rent and utilities? I don’t think so.

I’ve also seen this situation go south – a few times. But I believe it can work, and save a couple the trouble of avoiding a marriage if they’re not ready.

I’m curious as to what you think. Thoughts, criticisms and praises?

Forgive me, I need a moment.

(Silence)

I wonder what the public response would have been had Don Imus called the accuser in the Duke Lacrosse Rape scandal, which turned out to be completely unproven yesterday, a nappy-headed ho. I think most of America would have agreed with him.

My thoughts on Don Imus: He is an idiot. If his show isn’t cancelled, boycotting his show and sponsors pulling their advertising is paramount so his show becomes irrelevant (they’re doing this). The term Nappy-headed hoes is so 1992. Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson are not the moral/racial gatekeepers. Most of today’s rap music is the devil’s third cousin. Rap music doesn’t give people who make racist comments (the devil’s second cousins)

I don’t want to waste anymore time on him.

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Howard K. Stern ...

... YOU ARE NOT THE FATHER.

Sorry, I don't mean to be ignorant. But as I've said in previous posts, Maury Povich should have bought the rights to the results determining who Anna Nicole Smith's baby's daddy is. Now, look at this picture of Larry Birkhead after he learned that he beat out several other men, and is Dannielynn's daddy. The fist pump is classic paternity test Maury.

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Popped, Locked and Shot it

No, you will never see me pop, lock and drop it. But I think I have a new addiction. Pop-a-shot.

About three times in the last two weeks, I've venture down to the Plaza (pronounced PLAH-zah) to hang out with my cousins Alexandra the Great and Big Will. There's a new bar call the 810 Zone there, and they have a game room that features a golf simulator, a punching bag, pool tables and what not.

But the highlight, by far, is the Pop-a-shot, the one-minute shoot-at-will basketball game popularized in Fun Factories around the country. Growning up, it would be one of the only thing I really cared to do when going to the arcade.

And now, if I walk into the 810 zone, I must take a crack at it. I've gotten my score up into the mid-50s, but I must say, I have work to do.

Alex has a high of 82. Her boyfriend is shooting in the 70s consistently. I wonder if they're cheating somehow when I'm not looking (there are four different Pop-A-Shot games). All I know is that I want one in my house when I move/grow up.

I don't think it will fly in an apartament, but at the same time it would provided tons of entertainment and free throw practice. We'll see what happens.

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Ne-Yo now a prophyte.

Alright. This week, let's peep a little bit of that new Ne-Yo the prophyte. It's on point.

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YRUN2DP's Random Thoughts, Vol. 4

1. So Hoodie dared me to put on a newspaper hat she made and walk around a portion of the office swirling a woo-woo stick making crazy amounts of noise in the halls of the office. She offered me $2. I did it.

2. As I walked through the halls I told people I was being paid good money to do the crazy ish I was doing.

3. If you offer me the right amount of money I'll do just about anything that doesn't go against my morals.

4. If you haven't heard, Kobe is still the shit. But Jemele Hill of ESPN.com of lost her mind last week when she said that Kobe Bryant is a better player than Michael Jordan was. If Kobe is the shit. Michael was two-truckloads full of the shit.

5. Halle Berry, who looks better than about 99.74 percent of the general female population, is supposedly shaving her head for some new movie she's about to shoot this summer. With a shaved head she'll still look better than 99.24 percent of the general female population.

6. Britney Spears with hair is about in the 75th percentile. Without she clearly drops to about the 23rd.

7. Somebody spotted my baby's momma in LA, she's been MIA (that doesn't mean she was in Miami) for about six months. I miss you Jill/boo!

8. Working off of last week's grammatical tip, I really, really loathe it when people use exlamation points for any reason aside from what they're supposed to be used for. Last I checked, periods and question marks work just fine.

9. Two fingers to the wind for Jesus. He chucked the world the duece today, and we're forever indebted to him for that.

10. Happy Easter and Holla back.

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The Bad Weave

New York has one. LaKisha and Paula have had them on the same day. Beyonce has had her share and caused women all over the globe to have some sort of weird attachment to, you guessed it, bad weaves.

This is a phenomena I don’t think I will ever understand how a woman can pay for or walk out of the beauty salon with a bad hair weave. Having a bad weave is like having breast implants, except one breast is three cup sizes larger than the other. Something is obviously wrong.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with hair weaves. I came to accept, not necessarily like, a woman with a weave while in high school along with the idea that women wore fake or acrylic nails. (On a sidenote, remember Lee Press-ons?)

Girls in my high school used more glue in their heads then they did Elmer's in their classrooms from kindergarten to fifth grade back when you would get laughed at for having one.

But here was the catch, if you had a good weave, no one said anything to you because it look like you could have actually grown it from your roots. But if you had a bad one, well you got clowned as though your first name were Bozo or Homey.

This brings me to my main point, why are there so many people who are on television with bad weaves acting with the supreme confidence as though they just know they are the shiznit? This makes no sense. You have the money or the wherewithal to make sure that you aren't on television looking a fool. Why do you do it?

If you have a bad weave, why do you even walk out of the beauty salon? It's like a black man walking out of the barbershop with a two or three obvious nicks in his fade. He going to put on a cap and then shave his head as soon as he gets home.

Why don't women with bad weaves understand this? Make me understand.

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Coming Soon ...

sometime today (really Wednesday) I will post my musings on bad weave and weave in general. I've seen entirely too many bad weaves on television the past few weeks and they have upset me, thus I will blog about them and why any woman who is on television or makes decent money should not have a bad weave.

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The Mourning After

It was a cool fall Sunday afternoon at the softball park. As I remember it, I could bare the temperature because I was all of six or seven. Pops manned the barbeque grill and my brothers and I ran around with all the other kids pretending to be our fathers on the diamond.

After a few hours of horseplay, I needed to quench my thirst. I asked my dad for something to drink. He looked around all of the different coolers for a pop (middle finger you if you call it soda) or water, but to no avail. All that remained was beer.

Being in the drunken stupor that he was in, he picked one up and stretched a cold one out in my direction.

"Son, if you're thirsty this is what you're going to have to drink," he said.

Growning up and even still today, if someone says something to me that's ignorant, I look at them crazy. But it was rare that I did this with my father. Yet, this was that special/rare occassion. I cocked my head sideways like a confused cockerspanial.

"Alright, be thirsty," he said.

I rushed toward him and took the beer. I knew I wasn't supposed to drink beer, and if my mom found out all hell would break loose. But what would be so wrong with getting a taste of what made my father such a happy man. (Seriously, my brothers and I all loved when he was drunk because that's when he became less of an asshole and would take us to McDonald's without us asking.)

I opened the can and took my first sip of what I now call the truth syrum. I took it down with the ugliest look on my face because of how disgusting it tasted. I took a few more sips before giving it back to my father, and going back to the field. The beer did quench my parched throat.

Today, as I look back on my first gulp of beer, I wonder why it no longer does that. Why after every drunken or not so drunken bout with alcohol I have, do I always wake up in such a dehydrated state that it feels like I spent the night in the Sahara?

I do not understand this. In college, I probably had 50 drunken bouts and two blackouts, and probably had a total of three hangovers. Now, if I get tipsy, there's a 50 percent chance I won't leave the bed until noon the next day (or else I'm just feeling shitty as hell at work).

This, my friends, is why I feel old.

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