Category: Special Events

Two years ago, a feral cat birthed a litter of kittens under the tarp that covered our hibachi grill. In that litter were a white cat and a black cat who may be the parents of the latest patio brood.

We did not tag nor DNA-test the felines, but they definitely roamed around with their offspring as if showing off their babies to Mom.

My childhood pet was a dog. No one in my family had been a cat person. As an adult, I developed an allergic reaction to cats. Yet, we delight in seeing them.

The former science teacher in me wonders what other critters their presence keeps away. Although raccoons tend to be larger and more aggressive, these feral cats have the agility advantage and perhaps the numbers as adults. I’d love to think that our patio cats are keep predators away.

We don’t feed the cats nor do they knock over the trash bin for food. Whatever they do for sustenance, we don’t contribute to, but they lodge on the patio furniture and under Dad’s wheelchair accessible van.

Now that there are no children to enjoy the big backyard, I’m happy that some harmless lifeform makes good use of it.

I convinced my sister to go to an artists’ night with me. From the time we entered, she was the star of the show.

Last year, she was ordained as a deacon. Born with a generous spirit, my sister usually attracts people. Before she’d warmed the throne, another woman gravitated toward her. As many things as my sister’s involved in, I thought she knew her.

Turned out, the woman was one of a handful of artists who’d set up a table for the evening. We came upon her table as we circulated around the small space that was efficiently packed with different artists.

My sister bought from two artists and networked with the others, especially the guy who had had several strokes, along with his wife. That married couple created a rehab box of tools for stroke survivors. My sister took his contact information to connect him to someone else in her growing network.

Although I was only there to check out the weekly event and possibly buy a leather fanny pack, I loved the shrug. One of my nieces had taken up knitting during COVID, a hobby that she’s continued. I’ve seen her blankets, sweaters and scarves. A shrug might be an exciting new knitting avenue for her.

Without my sister there, I would have left the event in under 15 minutes. Not only did she take the time to browse, purchase and network, but she helped me not focus on the very loud music that would have pushed me out the door even sooner.

Years from now, when I finish my illustrated book, that cozy creative venue is a place where I’d like to read and hawk my latest book. I hope they don’t go out of business or civilization doesn’t collapse prior to that.

This year, I overcame the inertia of reclining in the den, binge-watching TV while working on creative projects on a Sunday and actually partook of a beautiful Sunday downtown event.

I met my sister and her son at an African restaurant near the car show, shared a funnel cake, watched some local actors who performed wrestling, followed by some dance performances, two of which included a mini lesson.

By far, the most enjoyable event for me, was witnessing my nephew take these lessons. He’s the guy who looks like a dancing black bear, wearing a cap:

After six months of studying, I FINALLY passed my national exam. I’m officially a Certified Pharmacy Technician. Next time I log into work, I’m adding that “CPhT” to the end of my name. I don’t have my score yet, but it doesn’t matter in the long run since I passed.

I was elated to see that instant confirmation that my six months of hard work, including cramming most of the details of 600 medications had paid off. Honestly, they could’ve had far more math questions since that was my strong suit.

Especially since that exam had the nerve to throw in ANOTHER drug other than the 600 I’d studied. My only saving graces for that question were that I knew what the other three meds did and the mystery drug had the correct suffix for the drug class needed.

Nonetheless, I skipped off, driving to the other side of town to splurge on an early dinner. I’d always wanted to check out a new Korean BBQ place and ended up getting a hot pot since I dined alone. Even though it was a bit pricey, I justified the expenditure by making it part of my celebration itinerary.

For Friday, the celebration was merely not having to study before and after work nor on my breaks. What a luxury! Of course, I had to stop myself from plunging into some other time-consuming activity. Yet, there are at least two projects that I had put on the back burner until I finished my coursework. I may revive one of them on Sunday. After a mani-pedi.

On Saturday, I attended an R&B festival with my sister and a friend. Mother Nature cooperated and we enjoyed five hours of breathing fresh air, talking, people-watching and taking advantage of the food truck libations.

I avoided all the barbecue since my sister had already made preparations to barbecue ribs and sausage. She makes the best in town, coupled with Mom’s potato salad.

Instead, I got an order of pork shoulder with yellow rice and beans, but what really set the whole meal off were the tostones (fried savory plantains). Instead of being a half-dollar sized, the biggest one stood up at one end of the to-go boat like a tombstone. Originally, I had wondered why they didn’t cover the food, but as I walked back to my seat, I became a walking advertisement for that Puerto Rican vendor, which boasted being the 2023 best food truck of the year.

At the start of my coursework, I’d stated that a new phone and earbuds would be my reward for successfully passing the national exam. With all the tariff bullshit, I think it’s going to cost me even more than before, but I’m determined to have something better than what I have now since I want to take spectacular pictures for my upcoming trip to Ghana.

That has to be the motto during this administration: keep moving forward with bouts of relaxation.

Just like that…Bragg is back. But not the old Bragg. The new Bragg. Reminds me of when Coca-Cola changed its formula. But Coke fans liked the old taste better; so, they had to re-introduce the old formula, replacing the “new” formula, but, chronologically speaking, the newest, even though it was the oldest formula, ie, “classic.”

If that seemed convoluted, then I’ve done my job as a writer. After all, this is what politics has become in the States. From one administration to the next, the tearing down or reversing of the previous administration’s doings. In the end, one has to wonder what does it matter.

In the beginning, Ft. Bragg, the largest, fiercest Army base in the U.S., dare I say “the world,” had been officially named after a confederate, slave-owning general. Then, for a hot second, it became Ft. Liberty, naming the base after one of United States’ so-called values.

Now, renamed “Ft. Bragg,” after a soldier who earned medals, actually fighting for freedom, not slavery, which may, down the road, be just the compromise our country deserves. Other bases can follow suit. Just find someone with the same surname who fought/served for the U.S. and rededicate the military base for them instead.

Somehow, I don’t think the trend will catch on. At this point, I’m not even sure if our legacy of democracy will continue. Much less, naming ceremonies.

Nonetheless, many who proudly trained at Ft. Bragg were very happy to have the name restored since it’s a famous military base.

Years ago, I sat in a local movie theatre, watching a new action-movie release with that up-and-coming action star, Bruce Willis, in “Die Hard.” At one point in the movie, Willis’ character famously said that they’d need half of Ft. Bragg. The theatre erupted in cheers. It wasn’t merely the GIs doing all the cheering. Proud to get a shout out in the latest hit movie.

Hopefully, this settles everything. Every time there’s a name change, millions of dollars is spent for the change over of signage alone. The U.S. will need that money in the long run to pay for all the damages D.O.G.E. has wrongfully inflicted upon the American people.

For the second time this winter, we got a dusting of snow, mixed with a lot of ice. Just enough weather-related mayhem to shut down the place where I exercise. I was so over it, I didn’t even bother to take pictures of the snow this time around, but I liked the look of Mom’s frozen *rubber snake in the breezeway.

[*Side bar: Birds used to love flying through the breezeway and shitting. So, Mom put a rubber snake on either pillar to ward them off. Believe it or not, that has been enough to keep the birds away.]

I’d planned to stay home on Wednesday. I wore a comfy pair of winter pajamas the entire day, only changing out of them once I took a shower after logging out of work.

Since I fully expected to go to dance class the next day, I spent part of my hourlong lunch break scraping off my car. Definitely a much better task to do while the sun shined.

To help the process along, I poured the rest of a nearly empty bottle of cheap vodka onto the driver’s side of the windshield. I’d used that trick before while living in Austin since alcohol melts ice.

I should have scraped that vodka-drenched ice immediately. Instead, I let it set and scraped the other windows. That was enough time for the ice to melt, then refreeze more compacted.

Although I considered that experience a “failure,” nothing is truly a failure if a lesson is learned. What I’d proven to myself is that it’s better to scrape as I pour or else the ice will compact upon refreezing.

Also, whenever I want to get rid of alcohol that I don’t plan to drink or cook with, then I’ll just wait for the next ice storm and defrost my windshield.

Decades ago, I started filing my taxes on Super Bowl Sunday. Even though all the tax forms for various employment were in by January 31st, I usually needed a few weeks to wrap my head around hunkering down to file.

In the morning, or after some morning exercise class, I’d sit with a glass of wine and paper copies of all the tax things with the goal of finishing in time for kickoff. Not because of the game itself, but to have a firm deadline.

This year, with the ease of filing electronically, I finished in less than a hour the day before the Super Bowl. The only thing that gave me a moment of pause during the process was whether Elon and Big Balls would see my filing. Even though a judge had temporarily blocked their access to the sensitive information in the US Treasury Department, who can really tell what this presidential shadow government is going to get away with in the end.

Par for the course, the Super Bowl was a boring, one-sided blow out. The commercials were marginally more entertaining, but the halftime show was spectacular. And polarizing.

If all you wanted to do was sing along with music, then this wasn’t the halftime show for you. However, if you were curious of why the NFL choose a Pultizer-prize winning hip-hop artist to perform, then you were captivated.

The opening drone shot of the game-controller markings on the performance space, clued the viewer that another game besides football was about to be played. The metaphor extended from Kendrick Lamar’s personal life to life in the States, or even bigger, the game of life itself.

Zoom in to Samuel L. Jackson introducing himself as “Uncle Sam,” complete with the iconic, patriotic red, white and blue attire. Throughout the musical performance and sleek choreography, which morphed into different, stylishly on-beat, visual configurations, Jackson maintained the narrative thread, reminiscent of an older West African archetype, a griot.

Griots, traditional West African travelling poets/musicians, tell historical stories. Like everything transported from the motherland into a foreign land, the role evolved to fit within the confines of 13-minute halftime show. Nonetheless, its inclusion served as a reminder that our history didn’t begin with slavery. Our ancestors had traditions, culture and all the accoutrements of a civilized society very different from their African American diaspora.

Jackson played counterpoint to Lamar, cautioning the younger Black man to “play the game” conservatively by unfolding a story that aligned with the dominate narrative. Lamar did his own thing, which set up, what my English teachers called a “foil.” Mom calls it “being contrary.”

Whatever it’s called, Jackson’s character contrasted with Lamar’s character, highlighting the positions of two political views: the conservative and the revolutionary. In case anyone missed that point, Lamar even announced that the revolution would be televised.

For many, the pinnacle of the show was when Lamar performed his most controversial song in which he accused another rapper of being both a colonizer and a pedophile. As if that wasn’t controversial enough, there’s an ongoing legal battle over that song.

Another battle continued after the halftime show. The angriest people who “didn’t get it” felt entitled to do so. None of that “getting comfortable in their discomfort” or looking up any lyrics they couldn’t hear/understand. They wanted to sing along with songs they already knew, not learn something new.

During a time when DEI initiatives are ending at the federal level and pressured to end in business settings, the entire show was performed by people of color. That, in and of itself, was not the problem.

In the not-so-distant past, minstrel shows had white actors in black face, depicting racial stereotypes, which white audiences found amusing. Actual Black faces confidently playing the game by their own rules with their own jokes was another thing entirely.

However, not everyone was alienated by that. After 50 years of hip-hop, many of us grew up on the genre. Skin tone alone no longer predicts whether a person enjoys hip-hop among the younger generations.

Therein lies the real battle between those who want to return to some alleged idyllic time in the past and those who weren’t alive back then. No one in the history of the world has ever managed to unring the bell of change. As tightly as some cling to the past, the present slips from their fingers.

In the weeks leading up to the Super Bowl, whenever anyone would ask who I was rooting for or who I predicted would win, my answer was the same: Kendrick Lamar. I was right.