When I was a kid…

...I was a little wild. Now I’m not talking juvenile-detention-center-burnin’-sh*t-up-wild, but mischievous enough that my mother felt that I needed the structure and guidance of a good role model. So, when I was around ten I found myself sitting in some stranger’s dirty @ss basement as he talked about how it was now my Scout Den and these kids who obviously didn’t feel uncomfortable being confined and left unsupervised in some stranger’s dirty @ss basement were now my brothers. But because there had been a promise of building a go-cart at the end of the year I had got suited-up with that smaller than average navy blue cap, sat in the circle “Indian” style, and took the Boy Scout oath. During our first “pow-wow” we had a candid discussion about proper male hygiene followed by a Q&A session that I felt was a little awkward, went on a nature hike where the highlight was finding our Den Master’s dog who had ran away a week earlier and was now infested with ticks, then preformed our good deed for the day by bagging leaves and trash around the neighborhood. When we returned to the den for ginger snaps, we started to discuss the go-cart project. I had come ready with drawings that I had labored over for what I wanted my racer to look like, including a picture flip-book of me going down a hill. Once the Den Master had flipped through the last scene of me winning a trophy he tried to explain why they couldn’t do it my way while pointing to the unfinished go-cart that the troop had been working on the year before. Now, I knew it wasn’t finished yet...but I have this saying, “You start off with crap, you end up with crap.” So I started to try and sell the idea of building my go-cart independently by pointing out my use of real rubber tires, my preliminary sketches for a breaking system, and a couple of kick-@ss color schemes with matching names. Plus, I added it would be nice to have something to race the old unfinished go-cart against since I discovered that a competition hadn’t even been planned. My pitch was met by a little teasing from my peers as I had established myself as someone who wore the bandana around his neck a little differently. And the Den Master's response was just a frustrated “No, Christafah…this is how we’re gonna do it.” (Christafah = my name with a strong Boston accent) So, after only a week I found myself sitting outside of the “Trust Circle” with several eyes looking at me in silence. This revelation ended my career as a Boy Scout. I was tempted to come back for the camping trip, but I decided if the planning for this outing was anywhere near close to that of the go-cart project there would be several “Brothers” who might not make it back and if they did they wouldn’t want to talk about it. Upon hearing the news my mother was pretty upset. At first I thought it was because she had paid for a uniform that was now only good during Halloween. But as I got older I realized she was more concerned than upset. She was afraid that for some reason I didn’t fit in with other people on a social level. I didn’t get into any more trouble that summer as I spent the majority of those long days in the dump and abandoned lots seeking the right parts for my go-cart.

I have more to say…

I walked through the door…

…covered with the frustration of a long day and found her in the living room, holding my son, singing an old Spanish love ballad. My arrival prompted her to blush, so I asked her to continue. And as I put my workboots in the broom closet and listened to her soft serenade I had to admit that I sometimes forget how beautiful Zachary’s mother is.

Salute!

Miscellaneous Woman One: “Do you know Chris?”

Miscellaneous Woman Two: “Chris who?”

Miscellaneous Woman One: “You know Chris. The one with light-skin, green eyes, works out…um, drinks a lot.”

Miscellaneous Woman Two: “Ohhhh, Chris…”

Yup, that’s the exchange I overheard about eight years ago and it was the first time I ever heard someone categorize me as a “drinker”. I guess I was too busy polishing off bottles of “whatever-we-had-da-money-fo” and mixing new cocktail creations within my stomach to listen to what people had to say. Well, I’ve been waiting to say this for a while now, but I wanted to wait, give it some time to simmer. I wanted to let several social gatherings pass by to test my theory. So, having been in and out of many different Beantown bars, a handful of kicked-back cookouts, several sh*t talkin’ X-Box sessions, and the recent De La Hoya bout and I think I’m ready to announce this.

I don’t think I’m a drinker anymore.

Seriously, I can’t even have two light beers without feeling like someone slipped me a mickey. My tolerance has become so low that I’m afraid if I were to have a strong drink I’d fall into a soft coma for a week or so while “my boys” took pictures of me with a banana or some other questionable object close to my lips. Plus, when it’s 9:30 and you’re found at the back lounge taking blatant advantage of the soft pillows, dim lights, and ample leg room I think it’s about time to admit you lost your stripes…and make your way to the exit to catch the 10 o’clock news.

****

Five things I’ll really miss about being blasted.

5. How dang funny I am.

4. The fact that I can passionately argue with absolute strangers over absolutely nothing.

3. Climbing scaffolding, light poles, billboards or any other high urban structure.

2. How one Black Russian can turn a boring Wine and Cheese’r into at night at Club Chris.

1. Not being held fully accountable for my poor sexual performance.

****

Five things I really won’t miss about being blasted.

5. Losing my wallet, house keys, ride home, cookies, and date with a dime all in the same night.

4. Trying to figure out exactly how my tooth got chipped while doing the electric slide.

3. Remembering the next morning that I was passionately arguing with absolute idiots over something absolutely idiotic.

2. Knowing that one night out on the town that could have bought a month’s worth of groceries….or at least that prescription medicine I’ve been meaning to get.

1. Coming up with innovative bedroom ideas only to be hindered by my poor drunken performance.

****

So, as I step into the role of the “automatic designated-driver/maybe-you-shouldn’t-do-that-guy” I’d like to assure you that this is not the beginning of posts about a man living in ultra-strict sobriety where everyone else is a dirty liquor-bathed sinner. In all honesty, I’ll still have a drink or two when I’m out. I just can’t see myself getting all hardcore with it and challenging Slick Talk to shots of the HellFire just to shut his mouth up. And just like I’ll still have these few drinks, I’m quite sure that I’ll still have a few stories to share about my own or someone else’s general stupidity.

So this weekend, take a second to think about an old soldier, who happens to hold a few more medals than scars and….throw one back for me.

I’d have it no other way.

I am soooo tired right now.

For the past week and a half I've been walkin' around work like Super-Pop because I've been staying up with Hellboy at night, getting about 3-4 hours sleep, then trooping through my day without missing a beat. Well, the fatigue just hit me in the mouth like blind-side sucker punch.

I'm so tired that...

...there were brownies in the kitchen and I didn't care.

...I called and inquired about the penalties for putting my gym membership on hold.

...I started to feel strangely feverish.

...I seriously thought about going into the bathroom stall to close my eyes for a while.

...I saw that I was the slowest moving thing in the office next to the clock.

...I realized that I would have got more work done today if I had up and gone to Six Flags.

I walked out of the office…

...on Friday feeling all righteous, like a brother of the new corporate renaissance. Then Hellboy’s mom, who had taken my car for an oil change, told me the engine was running funny. I lifted the hood to find that the air filter compartment was unattached and rattling around on top of the engine, screws everywhere, minus the air filter. My ignorance in automotive mechanics and my concern for driving a vehicle not knowing if there was anything else awry led me to get on the phone with “Dave the Owner”, who suspiciously knew what car I was talking about before I said anything. I ended the call with telling Dave I will see him and his dismissive “just-bring-it-back-down-here” attitude first thing in the morning.

Holding my morning coffee, I respectfully walked into the station and presented Dave with my argument: “You did not perform the requested service in a satisfactory manner. Then you accepted a thirty dollar payment knowing that the car had a semi-assembled engine without a word of warning. I want my car fixed, money refunded, and to be reimbursed for my time spent to come back here and resolve this problem.”

Dave, who stood at the counter like a middle-aged white over-weight walrus, presented his non-apologetic excuse: “We didn’t have an air-filter to fit your car and my mechanic forgot to put the parts back together. It was his mistake. Being Friday and everything he just spaced it.” Followed by his counter offer: “I won't refund your money, but I’ll give you the new air filter, a $29.00 value (really $4.00 at AutoZone), for free.” Taking his attitude, lack of honesty, and my general disgust for dude’s "early-morning-just-came-from-the-bar" personal hygiene I told him his offer was unacceptable, which led Dave to try and engage me in a debate.

Bad move.

He obviously didn’t realize that I’m the type of guy who feels confident enough to walk into a wake and argue with the family of the recently deceased to whether or not their loved one was just sleeping. In fact, it's something that I kinda enjoy. So, after a few of Dave’s poorly structured scenarios and what-if’s he got a little frustrated at hearing me shoot holes in his flawed reasoning and attempted to attack my character. He said some sh*t like my name was Petey Punk Brownfield. And at that point, when he decided to get personal, I decided to show more resolve than certain occupying military forces in desert lands. I wasn’t goin’ anyplace, no matter how many confused customers came in, or how many mechanics he had stand around me, or how heated it got. He just ordered the MisterChris extra beef combo and I was willing to super-size it for free.

Twenty-minutes after I initially walked in, I walked out with what I wanted. Although, it didn’t come from a mutual agreement, admission of accountability, or even an apology. It came from me pulling Dave aside saying the equivalent of, “If you don’t give me the f*ckin’ money you stole from her...plus what I want...I am going to be that ‘angry Black man who’s quick to serve your slick mouth up in the parking lot’.”

Now here I am back at the office where I walked out last Friday feeling like a corporate champion. And I realize it only takes someone like Dave to drag you back down into sh*t. And unfortunately the landscape of my life is littered with "Daves".

Instead of the steak I was going to eat on Friday I ended up eating a hamburger. Which I also enjoy, but in all honestly, I'd rather eat steak. Possibly next time.

Nothin' feels better...

than staying calm when someone does you wrong, being patient, carefully preparing, then attacking.

I just walked out of a three hour meeting where I professionally stomped the f*ck out of Mister Sneaky Sidewinder's stutterin' @ss. Even his people ducked behind they stenopads as I directed the flame at whoever dared to let their lips move. In the end I was satisfied with the results...but not before he apologized to me AND my mamma.

The highlight was when he said, "You know Chris, I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to raise these issues with me."

And I thought, "Yeah, ok buddy. The days of the angry Black man who's quick to serve your slick mouth up in the parking lot are dead."

I’m eatin’ steak tonight.

I talked with B the Agent the other day…

...for the first time since the delivery room. After a lengthy conversation about our recent affairs, newly discovered music, and improvised life scenarios that seem to have us cracking up for hours he said, “Man, look at you Skill-killah…all grown and what not. You got a good job, a house, a son, and to boot…a woman who mysteriously loves the hell outta ya punk @ss. You got it, dog.” I gave a small laugh followed by a brief silence which led The Agent to call me by a name that he only does when the mood is serious. “You O.K., Chris?”, he asked. “Yes”, I replied. Then I took a moment and said, “B, in reality what I have is several big pieces of the puzzle. What I don’t have is a clear vision of how they should fit together or even what the finished picture should look like.” B didn’t say anything after that, but I knew he understood.

My life can be categorized into several very different worlds. Each one with pressures and demands that seem to want to take priority over the next. Although, these worlds are filled with people, some close, others not, in my travels within and inbetween them I find myself alone quite a bit. Sometimes walking out of HomeDepot wondering why a piece of plywood costs as much as half a day's pay, or sitting at my desk telling myself to watch my tongue, remember my goals, and stay focused, or trying to hold in the frustration of attempting to live a law-abiding life around people who don’t and never will. While each world is different the one thing they have in common is me, as I’m the element that keeps them together and in existence.

During these times, when I’m alone, music is the one element that helps me keep it together. It provides an outlet, that is readily accessible and at times it’s how I decompress and release myself of burden. Certain songs speak strongly to me through the artists’ struggles, fears, views towards themselves and their lives. If I were ever to make a compilation of music that would illustrate the various stages of my life I’d include several of these songs that I listen to when I’m alone. So, as The Agent and I sat in a car on a small Dorchester side street, we cracked the nearly fogged-up windows and I shared the latest addition to my life’s soundtrack that best documents these times when I'm alone. And we just sat with our eyes closed until the baseline slowly faded away like the lines of my son's tears.

Here is the song and here are the lyrics, which are somewhat incorrect. I guess people hear things differently.

Enjoy.

In a nutshell...

1. I was sitting in on a spades game with a pair of sisters that I had just met. When I told them I was about to become a father one asked if I was married. When I told her I wasn’t she replied, “Oh, you not a father…you just a baby-daddy.”

2. I think I’m a father.

3. This weekend there was an incredible BBQ cook-off and brew festival, in addition to my boy’s all-dude end of the year cookout on Sunday. Well, at least that’s what Slick Talk told me as I was running back and forth to the hospital every three hours learning about Jaundice.

4. Don’t ever throw around the terms “elevated levels” and “brain damage” without a full explanation and not expect me to make your next twenty-four hours a living hell.

5. Hellboy’s ok. Jaundice is a common occurrence among newborns. However, the next time the nurse at the front desk sees me I expect her to subtly reach under the table and press the code red button. Looks like all that emergency disaster training will be utilized after all.

6. In my lifetime I’ve tasted buffalo, shark, ostrich, rabbit, squirrel, and now….breast milk! When I die I will have absolutely NO regrets.

7. About a month ago I informed people I was supposed to start my vacation this week, but due to an overflow in work I needed to spend a couple more weeks at my desk. Most people didn’t know this, and it that was made evident by Mr. Sneaky Sidewinder who thinking I was gone, e-mailed my boss on some bullsh*t emergency issues that he knew only I could answer. To his surprise I gave him a call and then called him on his b*tch move. Sneaky Sidewinder steadily stuttered.

8. He obviously didn’t know The Chocolate Thunder Boy Wonder’s theme song. I have it on constant rotation.

9. I am so sick and tired of certain women who feel they have the right to cut me in line. I’ve had this attempted on me so many times I start to wonder if I’m invisible. They just kinda lean up on me slowly…while I’m thinkin’ in the back of my mind “Ok, what the hell does she think she’s doing?” And I don’t think this ever happens with other women, because they know there’s a very good chance they’ll get hemmed up…especially if the other woman is a Sister. But with me, my only option is to re-establish the rules of civility which normally leads to “Well…I just need this twenty changed”, then bickering. And in my mind that’s a just an energy draining lose-lose situation….and the funny thing is I think they know this.

10. My boys and I, for lack of better things to do, have had this long-running game of giving ourselves names that we could use in the porno industry. As of this moment if you and your significant other happen to rent a skin-flick starring someone by the name of Woody Goodpecker you can assume that I’ve run into some kind of financial hardship.

There I sat…

...much like I’m sitting now, without knowing how or what I should be feeling. Sometimes people encounter situations that encompass a wide range of emotions, from absolute joy to soul-shaking fear. And I’ve found that when writing about such experiences it’s difficult not to have the end result sound like a tale that is told from a kaleidoscope of different perspectives. I realize that some things just can’t be nicely packaged in a couple of neat and tidy well-crafted sentences. So if you were to ask me how I feel at this moment, I would simply say this: I sat there holding a tiny new life and all of his potential in my arms and for the first time in my life there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that God really liked me.

With that said I’d like to introduce my newborn son,
Zachary William. Now don’t let the light complexion fool ya. This kid is a hefty serving of fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and collards, seasoned with Adobo y Sazón Goya, and surprisingly served with a Tiramisu` drenched in aged Brugal Dominican Rum. The doctor said the melanin will come once he’s had a little time to let the flavor soak in. Although I feel he’s ready to be put on a platter and served to the world as is. And much to his mother’s chagrin, I’ve been presenting him as “Zach the Black Mack”, “Lil’ Hellboy”, or “Big Poppa’s Really Big Tax Exemption”. But no matter what I choose to call him he’s still my funny little guy and quite possibly the very reason I am and was meant to be.

So here we are...you and I. Back in this virtual meeting place we created. I say we because, while I choose to write my stories of the past, hopes for the future, and gripes of the present…you listen. I simply provide the hors d'oeuvres for this party. You walk in and provide the life. Without you, I’m just that kid whose parents had horribly planned his birthday party on December 25th at 10am. Sitting there all dressed up only to be told even the clown canceled. So at the end of our get-togethers, when all is said and done, I happily clean up and start to think about the next one because I truly appreciate every guest that has walked through this door…silent or verbose. And I mean that.

So that still leaves me sitting here, 3:24am, with Hellboy lying on my chest as I’m contorting my body so not to wake him while writing this. Now, In addition to not knowing how to feel, I don’t know what to expect…for myself or my life. I’ll still love BBQ…and Hip Hop…and my people…and will always believe that no matter how much bullsh*t we go through in this life in the end it will all be worth it. This I know won’t change. But some things will….they already have. No more sleeping around with super-models…or riding choppers buck-naked through the Mexican badlands…or negotiating with bank hostage takers on a drunken dare. Yeah, I’m afraid that Chris just might have gradually turned into the “Old Guy at the Club”…and as always he was the last person to find out…while doin’ his trademark two-step. Oh, well. I’ve had a good run. And all of that is really insignificant anyway. The major change I do see is in my time. Honestly, this will affect our get-togethers. As I stated above I truly enjoy them, but they might not happen as much. I’ll still post/b*tch from time to time, because sharing my thoughts is something I’ll always enjoy doing, but at this moment what I enjoy doing isn’t really important. I’ve spent the majority of my days here writing my life story, but I now need to teach Zachary how to write his own.

Well, Hellboy’s finally asleep. I’m going to see if I can catch a couple hours with him.