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.

I’d been looking forward to this event for weeks. So, when the Meetup host cancelled the event the day before, I didn’t miss a beat. I called the venue. Turns out, I didn’t need a reservation and the price was the same, regardless of whether I was part of a group or solo.

I showed up at the same time I was planning to meet the group. The GM had just opened the place and I was the only one there, which suited me just fine.

After welcoming me and showing me the Rage Room, full of broken things, he asked me to scan a QR code and fill out the waiver. After selling me a Gatorade (he said the “flavors” were “red, orange and blue”), he then escorted me to the A section.

Although he stated that I could throw with one or two hands, I found both hands to be the most comfortable while taking a step with my non dominant foot. I could have also stood behind the red line and thrown an axe without walking into it, a type of granny shot. That felt unnatural.

After a few misses, he coached me to throw a bit harder and the very next throw landed on the target.

For some odd reason, he asked me if I wanted to keep track of my points. I laughed and told him no. Some people compete against themselves for the highest score. Perhaps one day, that’ll be a goal of mine if I take to the game.

I threw at the other target whenever the main one I was using became littered with fallen axes.

Despite becoming more comfortable with the throwing motion, including the grip, I was inconsistent. I could land three axes in a row and bounce the next four. One axe would land close to the bullseye, then nowhere near the painted target.

One thing I knew for sure, I wasn’t leaving until I’d hit the bullseye. Or until he tapped me on the shoulder, telling me that my time was up. I never quite figured out how to aim, but I felt when the axe flew out of my hands incorrectly.

I surprised myself when the axe finally landed on the bullseye. I rang the bell near my lane, strutted to the check-in counter/bar and told him I was done. He told me that I had 13 minutes remaining. Again, I laughed, telling him that I had gotten my money’s worth.

Before I left, I took a picture of the GM’s jeep and my car. Only one of them looked like it was meant to be in the parking lot of such an establishment.

Here’s a clip of the GM coaching me how to throw an axe: