Hold up! Wait a minute!

You know, I was perfectly prepared to let February come and go, just like the first month of '08.

Making sure the bills were paid. Paying attention to the II and the lovely wife and both grandmas. Breadwinning. That kind of isht.

But certain things stir me from kicking it into coast.

First, there's this Obama thing. Whether he triumphs or trips up on Super Tuesday (get out and vote you lazy good-for-nothings) he and we come out winners somehow. Right. History's made either way? And the struggle resumes?

You follow me?

To quote, as best as I can, Damian "Jr. Gong" Marley, 'We built like roach-killin' boot...We just can't done.'

So I've got to find some way meaningfully celebrate Black History Month. If only for one day.

I highly doubt it'll be required teaching at the II's pre-Pre-K school. He's "the only spot in the class" as my Dad would so callously say. Two sisters (and a part-time brother) do some good looking out for him; and they always have WLCK-FM (the Jazz of the City) wafting around the room. But things won't get so detailed as the sympolics of the black-gloved salute on the medalists podium at the '68 Olympics.

Black Power, my ass.

What I'd like to do, since the spirit hits me, is pick up this new "African American National Biography" that the black egg heads at Harvard just compiled by narrowing some 12,000 characters down to 4,000 enttries written 1,500 words or less.

That's something me and the II could bond with; decipering chapter by chapter.

But the list price for the boxed-set sucker is $995.

Maybe if I get a decent tax return, or one of those nice panic/tax refund checks. Or hit a fat scratch-off lick.

This all to beg the question: how would/could/should you honor our history, ideally? Who would you urge your son(s) to read up on and/or emulate?

For me, personally, it's Marcus Garvey personna and oratory. Maybe, for you, it's Sherman Helmsley. 

Regardless. Please respond in 28 words. 

Or less.

Tears: Four fears

1: My son's about to turn 4 and he cries. Not because he's fragile, mind you. He's single-handedly ruining our heart pine and slate floor with his assorted antics and prat-falls. He cries when he's pissed, denied privileges and/or tired. 

My problem as a daddy, is not knowing how to teach him _ from this day forward _ that no one's sympathetic to your cries.

2: When he cries _ and it's not that often, since he prides himself on big boy antics _ is he saying something I can't grasp?

3: Am I just a moron who thinks little boys can merely told not to cry so much when they don't get their way and expect them to respond accordingly?

4: This kid's top notch: So is it write or wrong to harden him for the hard knock ahead?

("Step out of it baby, people are jealous of you. They smile in your face but behind our back they his. What's a sweetheart like you doing in a place like this. BOB DYLAN, "SWEETHEART LIKE YOU, C. 1998)

Just wondering...

Obama, Yo Mama and how not to shop for home furnishings with your wife...

I hope the Boss Lady finds her way onto this blog some day and reads this entry because I mean it as a heartfelt apology.

I was, as you would put it mildly, a dickhead today because I hate shopping at Ikea.

Don't get me wrong. It's a fine store and you're sometimes fun to shop with. But that place overwhelms me and I'm already too jaded for whiz-bang experiences like that. I didn't wake up thinking it was time to buy the Big'un a bigger bed. I thought I'd earn my "good guy" points for the day by getting my mom out of the house for the pedicure she wanted so badly. After that I was gonna hit the couch and waste the day watching Tiger blow away the Buick Invitational field. As usual, after that, I'd cook us a great meal.

But no. My quick mission with mommy dear turned into a hunt for new dining room furniture as well as the bed. All that threw me off. In hindsight: if we have to get a new table, (huff, puff) the cheaper, rectangular one is the only logical way to go (we can worry about the chairs later, or just buy really nice table cloths and go with what's working for us already); and if it was up to me we'd by that minimalist box frame they had on sale for $30, paint it to fit the color scheme I'm sure we'll have to redo next and reward ourselves later for the thrift and ingenuity.

Moving on...

I got so stressed that I snapped back at my mother when she told me to smile. No matter what, she wants me to grin and bear it. But I don't have a fake bone in my body. I didn't want to be there. Forgive me.

Fast forward...

How great are these hours in the afterglow of Barack's primary win in South Carolina? Doesn't it feel great raising a child in an age when he could drift in and out of attendance to the victory speech as if he takes it for granted that a black man could become President in his lifetime? 

Aren't you proud that our boy refers as casually to Obama now as he has for the longest to Tiger?

Squatting barefoot on the comforter in the den with you three, and the puppy nipping unnervingly at our heels, while the Crescent State shouted "Yes we can!" To me, that's joy. 

 

They spinnin', n***a, they spinnin'!

So what's the scenario?

Say you're a cat like me who went (twice) through the sub-prime mortgage wringer.

You dug your way our of that bad-debt avalanche.

You're "fixed", so to speak. But the houses around your piece aren't exactly selling like hotcakes. And your current job ain't exactly foisting the collards on you like Granny on New Year's Day either.

Given all that, should someone like you be thrilled about some sorta tax rebate that's gonna kick you back $600-plus (if you're lucky and the politicians' stop-gap plan holds together) in one lump some?

Weak and/or welcome as that infusion of cash may be, what's your strategy for applying it?

As a dad living in what's long (and, perhaps, undeservedly) been considered a "questionable" public school district, I'm tempted to apply all of that back-handed handout into some kinda 529 fund that'll help us pay for college in case his grades, scores or athletic prowess don't gain him a free ride.

(Make your boys repeat this ten times nightly: "Free ride, free ride, free ride....")

If he has trouble grasping the concept, tell him it means a brand new car if Daddy doesn't have to pay a single cent for you to college. And, as a parting gift if you don't get a free ride, here's a lovely set of steak knives. Take your pick, buddy.

Everybody's got a theory. I'd like to know who else thinks tucking the dough away is the best tact. But just out of jealous curiosity, it'd be cool to know what I'd be missing by not splurging on 'found' money.

COMING SOON...*

"Make MY funk the P-Funk!"

*thestinkytruthexperiment

Did "stoopid" go on clearance?

I'm just asking?

I mean, once upon a time I couldn't wait for January '08 to get here.

I figured, somehow, a new year would issue in a renewed sense of clarity. Not just for me, but for all the bro's who soaked in all the idiotic acts our folks (can't deny 'em) committed in '07.

I won't list them here. Pick your  Vick, Bonds, Busta, Snipes, or T.I. as a reference point.

My point is: the insanity never ceases.

Within a 24-hour block: I'm reading about the bombastic young mayor of the city I cut my journalistic teeth in getting put on full blast for exchanging lewd, juvenile texts  to his chief female (married, also) aide; and trying to grasp how the father of the local football franchise's backup QB figured he could get away asking web-savvy student to fix the county-issued laptop where he stored lewd photos of mistress, who WAS  the assistant high school principal where he coached.

When, as a dad, do you start thinking a long-term dalliance is worth a calculated risk of it all? 

And by all, I mean access to and approval from you kids.

You think anyone's asking to be tucked in or bankrolled by the aforementioned idiots any time soon?

I think not. Not that I'm perfect.

I'm just no where near that ig'nant.

How could  anyone be so silly and sloppy when there's so much at stake?

You get what you need...

Without really meaning to, I got myself a tutorial in surviving what passes for a "weather emergency" here in the panic-prone ATL. 

Let me back up; I've got to mention the only things I felt "missing" in my life when Tan and my sister got around to asking what I wanted for Christmas. Talk about a stumper. 

The things I want _ like the boom-boom room of life and all its accoutrements _ I can't list or afford. Not right now. So what's the use of asking for anything else?

(This they should know and be guided by by now: I only play one make of golf club; I only wear one brand of sportswear; I only wear a certain denim; I only like neutrals; I'm old school; and I only root for Notre Dame.)

Got that Santa?

Deep down, though, I think she knew I was  desperate to replace my old Lab, Coffee, who dropped dead on our deck last Easter while, thankfully, Tan and Scottie were at the hippie church and I was either recovering from a hangover or getting ready for work.

Long story short: I  told Tan that "more of those button-down shirts (same style and size as last year) would do it. And I specifically ask my little sister, Traci, for "The Dangerous Book for Boys."

I got both. Perfecto. Throw in a better-than-expected  double-date on New Year's Eve and this bro' couldn't ask for more from the holiday season.  (Less drama? Yes, Please. But let it end there.)

Fast forward to the "blizzard". We knew it was coming. The local news played it 48 hours in advance like the coming closure of every grocery/gas/medication/water source within broadcast range. And we bought in. We ate and (I, mainly) drank like royalty. Both grandmas here; content as could be. Scottie indulged to the nth degree. Tan's "a place for everything..." outlook confirmed amid the thwarted chaos.

Me? All I cared about was following through on the promise of taking the boss man sledding if it indeed snowed enough. I'd learned enough weeks back from a futile search for age-appropriate hockey gear he craved (because his buddy, Miles, brought a stick to daycare) to know that sled-shopping in Atlanta would be ridiculous.

My solution was paying $15 for a sheet of quarter-inch-thick plastic long and wide enough bor us both to lie back and glide on. The snow fell as expected. Thick, slick and soft. After about six runs, down short 45 degree slopes at our neighborhood  park, our sheet-sled snapped into

jagged pieces.

No worries We live in the right 'hood. We'd been trying to get our picturesque sled on near another dad with his two boys. Turns out he was a contractor who happened to keep sheets of stiff, inch-thick insulating foam in his garage. He had an extra; offered it to us. Scottie obliged. Had a blast. Didn't crack his skull. Happy ending.

The puppy, to my surprise, has been embraced from the get-go. I sense someone knows how great her guard-dog potential is and commends me by pampering her.

And, it goes without saying, I look good in button-downs.

As for that "Dangerous Book"... the raging best-seller that has spawned a girlish spin-off that's now out-selling it? It still sits at the foot of our bed, unopened since Christmas Day. I can't wait to read and see what's in it. But I'm still compelled to just improvise with the time and energy and ideas at hand. 

Before I GO on forever (and I could) do you have a better tale of making do?

As DJ Kool would say...

Let me clear my throat.

I may fumble through this first message to you. But you'll get the point, eventually.

Many moons ago I started fretting over how well, or how bad, I was doing at helping to raise my son.  At the same time it occurred to me that my closest confidantes all led lives that mirrored mine. They're all married black guys around my age and stage of career accomplishment with at least one young son at home.

But I never really turn to them for anything but tee times or rare nights out for a few drinks.

From the outside-in look of things, everyone's house is in order. Still, I figured, there's got to someone else among us (besides me) who's anxious as hell about how his boy(s) will fare in this world. 

Trying to set the right example's a mo'fo. Right?

For now, I won't burden you with the frights troubling me now, as I listen for signs that my namesake is finally down for the night; and Mommy's about to fall asleep Googling whatever it is she Googles every night before crashing (laptop in lap). For now I'll just say that you're invited into the conversation if you've got insights.

I, for one, need support and guidance and, for goodness sake, comic relief , where doing the right thing towards your young son's concerned.

I live in a city barely stirred today by the news that teenagers (presumably) had gunned down two uniformed, off-duty cops who were patrolling a slum a scant few miles from my house.

I live in a city where both the former mayor and the former NFL franchise quarterback were sent to federal prison within a span of two years.

I live in a city where a disproportionate number of celebrities come to floss, build McMansions, "make it rain" at strip clubs, and scuffle with the law.

I live in a city that embodies a national tragedy: fewer than two out of every ten young black boys born in America have a father at home to kiss goodnight.

That trend's got to be stopped. Or else, black father figures go the way of the buffalo and/or syndicated TV.

The goal is to start a dialogue that helps black fathers be more fully engaged. So, without further adieu, let the Ask Your Daddy blog commence.