Po-lil-RichBoi

The Severance of Ties- Mid-Life Crisis Part IV

2007-09-29T13:38:00.000-07:00

I love the word euphemism because it's so close to euthanasia in both spelling and sound. Frankly, I don't think the comparison ends there. Euthanasia is defined as, "the act or practice of allowing a hopelessly sick or injured patient to die by taking less than complete medical measures to prolong life called also mercy killing".

A euphemism is defined as "the substitution of a mild, indirect, or vague expression for one thought to be offensive, harsh, or blunt". So both involve an element of "mercy" or "benevolence". Perhaps a euphemism could be considered a sort of merciful use of words. This brings us to part IV of my mid-life crisis.

The evil firm has notified us employees that there will be a RIF or REDUCTION IN FORCE. This of course is code for, "you'll be standing in the unemployment line shortly because the shareholders need new $3000 chairs". As an HR professional this is particularly painful and awkward. You are expected to as our great leader told us on a recent conference call "(not act a fool) behave as the HR professionals we know you are, while assisting other (disposable worker bees) administrative staff as (we can their @sses)they TRANSITION out of the firm-- all the while (smiling as you twist the knife of hypocrisy in their back) illustrating the core values of the firm and treating the (poor saps we just fired) OUTGOING staff with (fake kindness)dignity and respect. Then and only then will we address the need to (fire your @sses as well) STREAMLINE the functionality of the human resources department....

Uh sure. Okay. To make matters worse, although the powers that be know who is leaving they will not tell us. It is apparently, much better to let this drag out. Frantically, my co-workers try to piece together the inner working of this CIA level covert operation. Employee X just had a title change the week the RIF was announced. He must be staying. A job just got posted on our careers page which basically encompasses 70% of my job. I must be going. They didn't have employee B working on any major projects this quarter...she is so going. You know employee A is staying because she is always in the great leader's office bobbing for apples... blah blah blah....

Po_Lil_Richboi could really give a good damn when it comes right down to it. Truth be told, I would be more depressed if they kept me around to stand guard at the border after the fall of ROME. I don't really want to care for their wounded after having to bury the dead. I am ready for a severance (package) of ties.

The Clarity of Urine- Mid-Life Crisis Part III

2007-09-28T20:30:00.000-07:00

Some have accused me of being a hypochondriac. Personally, I like to think of myself as "significantly in tune with my body". During a doctor's visit years ago, a nurse once scoffed, "Well, there certainly seems to be a psychological component to your illness!" Nobody asked you heifer! Shouldn't you be taking by blood pressure, or handing me an ugly buttless nightgown?

The time has come for me to be "significantly in tune again". Recently, I have not felt quite right. I will spare all of you the details, but the end result is that doctor had me peeing in to a bag for 24 hours. Lovely. "Drink lots of water", he said. "You want to pee clear". He repeated the last part loudly and emphatically, "Peeee CLEAR!" Apparently, whatever is wrong is effecting my urine and my hearing.

When you have to spend the weekend close to home, engaged in this fun filled activity, you have some time to think or... surf the net and get freaked out about every little thing related to your kidneys. My doctor had informed me that I had high levels of protein in my urine and wanted to check things out. He said he wanted to determine how to stop whatever was happening and prevent it from getting worse, IF POSSIBLE!... Couldn't he have left the "...IF POSSIBLE" out of it? It's not exactly comforting.

Your kidneys do everything from regulate your blood pressure to filter toxins in the body. They are slightly more important than say, your appendix. Every site I visited for information basically ended with "having extremely high levels of protein in urine often signifies renal failure". Then they proceed to tell you how many people die each year from renal failure. Lovely. But, I'm drinking 3 qts of water a day, I'm peeeeing CLEAR now, doesn't that account for something?

According to a co-worker of mine, it could account for me throwing off my electrolytes, going temporarily insane, and drowning myself internally! Great, so if I don't die of renal failure, I might drown myself, but be too whacked to know it's happening. Grrrreat!

Bringing some much needed reason to the situation was a specialist in the nephrology department. After reviewing my charts, he did what all specialist do-- he ordered a battery of more test. However, he also gave me some perspective...

The levels of protein along with all my other stats being normal suggests a possible infection or virus that has more than likely come and gone. Only the tests will tell. 3 quarts of water for someone my size, is not going to throw off my electrolytes and drown me. Someone my size? Is he saying I'm getting fat?!

Next time I will write about the severance of ties!

Kids, My Daddy Clock Is On Fire but its broken!!!- Mid-Life Crisis Part II

2007-09-26T11:06:00.000-07:00

So as I often eventually do, I have slacked off on my blog entries. And as usual I have a pretty good excuse. It seems my mid-life crisis has arrived and is in full throttle! Yay, how fun for me!

My 35th birthday came and went with very little fanfare, for which I was extremely grateful. MPP and I jotted on down to our favorite neighborhood restaurant, BayWolf. Yummy goodness in the way of a mind blowing Shiraz, an excellent dinner and dessert. No, I can't remember the particulars of the dinner (didn't I mention mind blowing Shiraz). I can tell you chicken and potatoes were involved somehow.

Anyway, I was on the wine so confessions were somehow involved as well. You know my sorted past, which is ever present. I have been thinking a lot lately about how those experiences have shaped who I am now and have had a role in the direction my life has gone. For better or for worse we are married to ourselves in this way.

Now that I am half way to Forty, yes 4-0, I have become conscious of the tick tock of a clock I never purchased. No offense ladies, but I thought only women had to be concerned with the biological clock. If this is true, I don't understand why my gaze lingers longer than it should on a father and son. I was on the train yesterday standing along side a man and his baby girl. She sat there asleep in her stroller as he stared contently upon her. I smiled enviously at them only to be jarred out of my reverie by a very different parent/child moment.

Apparently, there was a three year old boy on board who had learned the art of saying "no". While his mother had not been paying attention, he had pulled something sparkly from his mother's tote bag. As she attempted to retrieve it, the young child held the item closer with one hand and extended the other hand to smack his mother square in the face. Her glasses tilted in a lopsided fashion. "No!", he exclaimed, "No, no, no, nooooo!" His shrieking turned the attention of many passengers to them, as the mother grew small in her seat!

I looked away embarrassed for her. My overly empathetic mind had thrown me in to the woman's shoes. Who wants to go through that power struggle everyday? How is it worth it? Would I cower in my seat? Run from the train screaming; abandoning my child? I would like to think I would be as sturdy and forthright as my own parents. But how can I be sure? Is it fair to use another human life as some experiment on whether or not you could grow it in to its adult form without installing a barrage of neurosis, psychosis and/or other maladaptive behaviors? My face became warm and flushed. As the train came to the Rockridge stop, I leapt from it as if I had been in captivity. I took in the fresh air and ran down the escalator without a glance backwards.

As I waited for MPP, I noticed a couple walking towards me with two children. One of the children was on the father's shoulders and playfully covering the father's eyes. They were all laughing. All except for the infant, who was passed out like a drunkard in the stroller. I smiled to myself again. What the !$@## is wrong with me? I'll tell you what's wrong kids, my Daddy Clock is on Fire, but it's broken! Who do you call to fix that? Next time I'll inappropriately disclose about my potentially malfunctioning organ. Get your minds outta there. This isn't that kind of blog!

What Would Oprah Do? Mid-Life Crisis Part I

2007-06-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

So my co-worker is on vacation again and I am left tending to the salt mines alone. Double duty, single pay. I have found myself staring in to the abyss of paperwork and asking myself, "What is it all for?"

I should have been working I know, but instead I was web surfing. It was the best way to remain in denial about the 86 unread emails in my outbox. I really should get to them, I thought...click click click s-c-r-o-l-l. Politics, Middle East, CODE RED, Iraqi violence still rising. Poor Paris Hilton, what's a girl to do-- 45 days without Aveda and Shisedo?

Like Paris, this po-lil-richboi is in a prison of his own. I may have not been picked up for a DUI,and some starving New York Artist may not have sculpted a replica of me dead with my innards showing, but I have some sh!t going on.

As I approach the other side of my 30s (eeek!)this year I have to stop and wonder. Am I making a difference? Does anyone know I am here? If I got hit by a missile or killed by a cylon before BattleStar Galactica gets canceled, would anyone notice?

I am the grandson of a Baptist minister, a missionary of sorts. I was raised with a strong sense of myself and my place in the community. My early work days were spent in homeless shelters and youth homes. Where am I now? A law firm- schucking and jiving for the man- or rather processing his benefits in the HR dept. What's the dif? As I stand here at the crossroad of what can only be my upcoming mid-life crisis, I have to ask myself, "What would Oprah do?"

I remember seeing an interview with her once, where she stated that she always knew she was destine to do great things. Well I felt the same way growing up Oprie girl. Where's my talk show? Where's my book club? So all the little pamphlets and brochures are coming to the house now. Colleges promising me bright bold new futures. Yes, mid-life crisis indeed. But then again what if it isn't? What if it is the old cliche? You know: The first day of the beginning of the rest of my life...

Click click s-c-r-o-l-l. Urgent work e-mail. Yes, of course. No problem. I can stay late...

Next time instead of the click, I'll talk about the Tick... tick tock of the male biological clock.

That Which Does Not Kill

2007-05-29T21:50:00.000-07:00

It seems that nowadays news stories only succeed in pissing me off. Remember in the early to mid 90's there was all this talk of prostate cancer? I can't remember which celebrity got it, but one of them did and suddenly it was a National Health Crisis-- all because Johnny Hollywood had it.

We ignored the fact that The American Cancer Society estimated that there would be about 218,890 new cases of prostate cancer in the United States in 2007. Or that About 27,050 men would die of this disease. It was Johnny Hollywood that got our attention.

At that time, we were told that Vitamin E could help and that this particular cancer might be the result of a vitamin D deficiency. Silently frightened men (that's the only way we are allowed to be scared)tip toed in hoardes to the nearest pharmacies. Especially those over forty.

Articles spouting the miracles of Saw Palmetto and cranberry pills were in every newspaper. Oprah had a Mens Health Guru on her show, "Vitamins!, Vitamins!"

Now here we are actually in 2007 and what do I find? Article after article concerning a study just out of the gate on prostate cancer. What does it say you ask? Oh, my bretheren let me drop it upon your eyes: Taking too many vitamins may increase men's risk of dying from prostate cancer.

Wha-huh? Whut happened? I encourage you to to click and read!.

To make the results of the recent study even more confusing, they found no link between multivitamin use and the early stages of prostate cancer.

Wha-huh? WHUT HAPPENED?!

I don't know. I do know that I am hard pressed to find anything these days that will not kill you under the right circumstances. Cigarettes, alcohol, crystal meth, unsafe sex? No, let's not be too obvious. Centrum One A Day or Ginkgo that's the real risky stuff, apparently. So stop main-lining that Vitamin B complex. That stuff is brutal!

By the way, make sure you wash those supermarket greens thoroughly. And if you're trying out a new dog food for your beloved pup, better feed it to the neighbor's cat (you know the one that keeps crapping in your yard, not the cute one) first to see if it takes!

Let me be lucid in my rantings for a moment. I am not promoting hysteria. I simply mean to suggest that we take these studies with a grain of salt, because next year they will discover something else or reinterpret already existng data differently.

So I guess we have to muddle through the information, weigh our options and find a damn good doctor we trust. The rest is up to the Universe, because that which does not kill you only serves to do so... eventually....maybe, but possibly not.

Gettin' Jiggly With It!

2007-05-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

I was running upstairs at work yesterday, and I became conscious of something incredibly disturbing. A bean pole from way back, I am used to my body being packed in to itself pretty tightly. I have always been able to eat what I want, when I want and damn the consequences (basically because there were none).

Apparently, as I flew up the stairs in my "Jack Be Nimble" fashion, gravity was having a bit of a time keeping up with me. I felt my chest not only bounce, but jiggle! I know, I know TMI-- But I think it only fair to share for some of you guys and dolls are a tad younger than me. I simply want to prepare you for when everything starts to wander South.

It all started a couple years back, when I bought myself a cute shirt from a vintage store. Foolish child bought not a small... but XS! Can you believe that sh!t. A poor delusional lil rich boi was just asking to get his feelings hurt. Hurt they were too, as I sucked and contorted to get in to the shirt. Oh, I got in to that biotch, kids. All of me, including my friends-- "The Rolls" if you catch my drift. Mr. Roll was on my right and Mrs. Roll was on the left, next to her love.

So now, I am left contemplating how comfortable I want to make my self with all of this. I mean The Rolls are one thing, but I'm just not down with getting jiggly with it!

I, Bitch!

2007-05-07T17:26:00.000-07:00

At the request of a friend I am included an old vignette from a previou site. It is entitled, "I, Bitch!"

It's 7:25 a.m. Riding up the escalator at the train station, I am blurry eyed and dazed. In my pre-chai latte psychosis I see what the others do not-- that we worker bees look very much like candy on a conveyor belt.

We are dark chocolate. We are white. I think I see a couple of caramels. A few of us seem a little too damned nutty for my taste. Some of us are sweet or semi-sweet, while others are just plain unadulterated bitter. As we ascend this "conveyor belt like" escalator it hits me. The same fate awaits us as the proverbial Hershey bar. Once we enter the world, we will be inevitably eaten.

I contemplate these thoughts as I am stuck on the left side of the escalator in grid locked people traffic. Doesn't the man reading his New York Times a few steps ahead of me recognize that several people behind him have far more important destinations than his own?

He has failed to learn escalator etiquette: stand to the right/walk on the left.

I, Bitch educate him by singing in my most melodic of tones, "Right side for standing, Left side for moving. Come one people, let's go!"

During the course of my day with in my designated cubicle, I smile cheerfully and accommodate the tin can headed executives with less education and general common sense than my self.

I, Bitch understand that my station in life is my own doing. You see, I have not networked enough and simply do not know the right people.

When yet another copy machine catastrophe strikes my boss before his 11:00 a.m. presentation-- I, Bitch resist the urge to co-dependently rush in and save him. Instead, I preserve my own sanity by taking an early lunch.

Once the atrocities of my work day are done, I make it through the public transportation stench of stale air and uncaring people.

I, Bitch arrive to the sanctity of my dwelling just in time for my gourmet cooking show and the discovery that dishware does not clean itself.

Carefully, yes with quite careful precision I place the filthy plates (still host to week old lasagna remnants) in to a simple brown bag and leave said bag on my roommates' bed. This is altruism at work, as I am concerned that she has forgotten the dishes belong to her. Surely she will appreciate my attempts to bring her to the waters of mutual respect (hoping she will drink).

Upon her arrival home, she discovers the dishes and proceeds to screech that I am not fit to inhabit a living space with another human being. I agree with this in part, and assert that it is she I can not live with, not other human beings.

I, Bitch try my hand at being helpful by leaving packing boxes, duct tape and bubble wrap just outside her door. I am even thoughtful enough to include a change of address form.

Later that evening I, Bitch propel my upstairs neighbor to enlightenment by phoning him at 3:19 a.m. to suggest that the creaking/banging of his bed at this hateful hour that even God will not govern, could be the very reason why he has in his possession (as he likes to call them) those three little shits to tend to. I personally prefer to call them children but, respect one's personal choice of phrase.

He in turn suggests that it is the lack of creaking/banging of my own bed that has me so uptight. He invites me to join he and his playmate. I send Officer Gilman from the 3rd precinct instead.

And I, Bitch drift peaceably in to a most wondrous slumber.

Flying Jet Drunk

2007-01-15T16:44:00.000-08:00

I am currently in Canada. I flew in last week to visit my close friend Amy. You know Canada. It's where we Americans tell Europeans we're from when traveling abroad to Paris, Milan and London. Come on now. Y'all know we do. That little war over in the middle east still has folks hating on us. I know I am not the only one who has considered sewing a damned maple leaf to my backpack.

Anyway, in normal Po Lil RichBoi fashion, I arrived at San Francisco Int'l Airport without itinerary, knowledge of the Airline I was flying, or if this was considered a Domestic or International Flight.

While the latter would appear to be obvious (since there are still those of you who insist Canada isn't the 51 st state); this is not true. As we drove to the airport, MPP asked me if it were a Domestic or International flight. "One would assume International", I quipped. Not one to embrace A Bitch for a Bitch philosophy, MPP remained calm. "You know there are Domestic flights to Canada".

So they are the 51st state? Honestly. I just wish they would make up there minds! Eventually, I arrived at the United Airlines International Ticket counter only to be told they did not have any flights to Canada. "So it's a domestic flight then?", I ask.

"I have no idea", the ticket agent responds. She is intent on not making my problem her problem. Why should she? I am the one who showed up unprepared. Her posture and expression say everything to me that she is prohibited from saying verbally.

I leave the counter and phone Amy. Amy is willing to make my problem her problem. She reads me the itinerary. I hurriedly try to download the incoming data in to my memory banks. As you will recall, I am unprepared. This means no pen.

At some point, I actually board the plane. I am ecstatic to discover there is no one sitting directly next to me. This moment of ecstasy will soon end. While I am settling in to my seat, I take notice of a man charging down the aisle. He is a bowling ball. Big, and round. Knocking and crashing in to the other passengers. "Strike!" I mumble to myself.

The bowling ball is sitting in the aisle across from me in the window seat. In theory, I should have been safe. However, we must remember that the objective of the bowling ball is to hit every pin. He rises from his seat and walks in to the aisle. The bowling ball towers above me and opens my empty overhead bin. His pungent odor stings my eyes and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

My luggage had been a carry on but, it was confiscated. As he placed his carry on in to my bin, I could feel his eyes upon me. He was searching for something to say to me. An ice breaker. "You look like Barry Bonds...", he remarks. "..a skinny Barry Bonds". One would think that by way of being "skinny" I would automatically be disqualified from the "Bondseque" category all together. But you know what they say about us black folk. I mean come on- two eyes, a mouth, brown skin, shaved head. It's all there except maybe the 150 extra LBS OF MUSCLES.

I nod an ambiguous nod that says, "Maybe I agree, or maybe this isn't original or maybe it is. Maybe you should kiss my @ss!"

The bowling ball is on his cell phone now, chatting boisterously in a foreign tongue. I can not understand what he is saying, but it is clear he is laughing at his own jokes. There is not enough time in the millisecond pauses for another party to respond.

At last, we are in flight. From out of the corner of my Nancy Drews, I spy the bowling ball having a frantic conversation with the flight attendant. She scampers off. I turn the pages of my novel aimlessly. I am the allusion of indifference. The flight attendant returns moments later with three small liquor bottles in tow.

I know now that the sand will descend grain by grain in the hour glass. I am the wise sage on this flight. The Merlin and his crystal ball. I seem to be the only one anticipating that soon we will all be flying Jet Drunk.

It isn't long before more little bottles make there way to the bowling ball. With each empty bottle he is louder. He snatches a neighboring passenger's IPod from him. He demands to know how much it costs and exactly what it does. "Sell it to me!", he yells. "Make me want to buy it".

In a pathetic attempt to pretend I am somewhere else, I don my headphones. I pull up a video podcast on my computer. Suddenly, a bottle cap shoots across my face, ricocheting off of the empty seat next to me, and ultimately landing on my computer. I do not react. At least, not until the next object comes at me. It is the bowling ball's baseball cap.

I turn to him, featuring raised eyebrow as an accessory to my irritation. "What is your problem?" I snap. To this he answers that he is simply trying to get my attention. "I know. I am ignoring you", I respond. He asks me what I am watching. I tell him it's Comedy Central, and he asks if he can watch it with me.

I unbuckle my seat belt, and pick up his abandoned hat from the ground. "No you really can't", I snarl. Handing him the hat, I continue, "If anything else sails across this aisle you and me are going to have a problem. You have some how got it in your head that I am a nice person, friendly or tolerant or something. I am none of these things where you are concerned, so knock it off!"

The rest of the passengers pretend not to see this exchange. My face feels hot and metallic., like a clothes iron heating up. I worry what will happen to the bowling ball if he speaks to me again. I'm not always reasonable. Sometimes I sort of forget myself. It's very unsettling.

Luckily the bowling ball did not speak again until after we had landed. Again on the phone loudly in a foreign tongue. Again at my overhead bin with his tangy odor. Only this time, this time with the bowling ball's cocktail goggles on-- I look like a skinny Jerry Rice.

All That Heaven Allows

2006-03-01T16:09:00.000-08:00

March 17th is coming, and while you might assume the significance for me is that I will unleash my unbridled passion for Guinness on this day-- you are wrong.

This 17th would have been my grandmother's 88th birthday. Grandma Melisse died when I was only 9, and yet she remains to this day a very special and significant person to me.

She was the one person who I really feel believed I was perfect, and that I could do or become anything. She was undaunted by this skinny awkward boy child with doe eyes who liked to play with dolls. Grandma 'Lisse would sit in her chair for hours as I brushed her hair and she told me stories.

It's painful now, how I can't remember some of the stories. Moments flickered past the camera lens of my mind, some caught... some lost (perhaps not forever). I remember baking tea cakes in the kitchen and peppermints before Bible study. These memories woven together form a quilt to cover me on those rainy days when I feel imperfect and incapable of being anything but less than.

And say what you will, I felt her there on the most unhappy day of my life as I walked home alone back in Spring 1999. My reality forever altered by a chain of events from which I am only now just healing--- 7 years later.

Now as Spring approaches once again, I feel her presence once more. But this time she has not come to comfort me. She is here with a message in her pocket. When she hands it to me in my dreams, I know the page is blank. A tabula rosa. And yet I can read what it has to say. It's time to let go.

In this moment I know the past and who I am in it is an anchor. I must let go of this anchor in order to become who I need to be in the future. So that includes the 9 year old boy at Grandma 'Lisse's chair and the boy who laid at his father's feet pleading to be accepted.

Sometimes people say things to you and it's as if you've heard it for the first time. You have been what I call "slapped alive". MPP said to me last week that I needed to stop concerning myself with the perception of others...defining myself by the acceptance or disapproval of others. I admit this might all sound cliche and obvious but for some reason it hit me at the right moment and I have been "slapped alive".

I was angry at first, but it was the kind of anger that comes from hearing the truth from someone you know would never lie to you and is always in your corner. After the sting wore off, I got the message tucked away in Grandma Lisse's pocket. For the Universe to do its magic you have to have faith in yourself, the higher power and be open to all that heaven allows.

I-Crap, therefore I sue

2005-11-07T11:37:00.000-08:00

So there is a perfectly good reason why po-lil-rich boi has not been updating the blog. As many of you know, I have been for a number of years a huge Apple fan. Every time Steven has come before us with some new sleek white pretty bauble, I practically orgasm on cue.

When I bought my I-Book(a pre-MPP purchase)I referred to it as my boyfriend. I even named it Nick (in keeping with my weird thing about guys names that start with "N": Nick, Nikkas, Nathan, Neil etc). I treated it like a porcelain prince: staring at it as it went in to sleep mode, keeping it snuggly encased when I wasn't using it. A bit Glenn Close blinking lamp shade I know, but I was in love.

The bitter line between love and hate was crossed when my logic board crashed setting off a chain of events that I will hereafter refer to as Apple_Gate.

I was betrayed. The data that Nick was suppossed to protect as I had protected him- was lost on more than one occassion at the hands of the Genius Bar. A name that to me seems wildly inaccurate for whom you most often meet. Maybe the @ss bar?, the Superiority bar? On a good day the Beauty Bar? Doubtful!

After they lost my data, I was told it was my fault for letting them move it in the first place.

Flash forward to a couple months later and the hard drive died altogether.

Apple's answer? Not their problem. They suppossedly had no record of my AppleCare extended warranty being activated. Despite my having the disk, the box etc. and my knowing exactly when I did it on line. They would not honor it.

It was only upon being served with papers that Apple suddenly wanted to talk "resolution". Funny that.

We complain about how sue happy California is and maybe its true. However in instances such as these, what is the alternative? I had to sue for cash money, but all I really wanted was a working computer. It looks like I will finally have that again, but not before my having to act like a jerk.

It's unfortunate Apple could not just be decent and stand by their product.

Angels aren't suppossed to die

2005-10-17T22:20:00.000-07:00

It would seem that I am back from my hiatus and with much to tell.

I continue to settle in here, or attempt to any how. But whatever petty crisis or miniscule matter of the hour has been preempted by the death of a friend.

I was checking up on Drewcifer by reading his on line diary. He mentioned that a former co-worker of his had passed away. I phoned with the intention of consoling him only to discover I too would need comfort. It turned out to be someone we both worked with, Moira.

I search now for all the clever witty banter I pride myself on when writing, but I am truly at a loss. I have nothing prolific or cute to say. Anything I write seems like a dull cliche.

Moira was truly lit from with in and her joy of living was truly infectious (see "cliche"). Yet it is true. She was such an intriguing contradiction, this blonde bombshell who could see the world with child like wonderment one second and the next would quote and explain the works of our greatest philosophers.

She was so dedicated to and involved with the community. She was tirelessly dedicated to the plight of the homeless, and children in need. From her days with us at Hamilton Family Center to now with Ignatian Solidarity Network, she did so much.

I am thrown back to mornings spent in her office as she would tell me of her latest dating foible and I would in my infinite wisdom (or lack thereof) would attempt to unravel the mystery of the man behind the current flowers and box of candy.

Afternoon coffee breaks when I would try to explain the social mores of the gay community as I understood them.

These moments are barely a thread in the tapestry that made her life and by me they were taken for granted. I am left feeling like I wanted to know her so much better than I did.

So now, I sit and ponder how many more moments have I, have we all taken for granted? It's easy to do when you have(presumably)over half of the rest of your life to live.

Tomorrow is not promised to you- as my mom always says.... So what are you going to do right now?

I don't have the answer myself.

I just know that this part of the universe has had something vital and amazing stolen from it. When I was younger my parents used to tell me that when God took someone, it was because heaven needed them more than we did. Heaven just got one of it's boldest most beautiful angels. But I'm confused....

Angels aren't supposed to die.

Much Ado About Jasper

2005-08-30T17:37:00.000-07:00

So apparently being furry, friendly and precocious does not get you off DOGGY DEATHROW. This is what I discovered early last week. Word on the street is that I am continuing to loose my battle against falling in to DOMESTIC BLISS. I had been in contact with an impressive 15 yr old volunteer at the animal control center in UKIAH. We had been discussing the imminent arrival of a tail wagging, drooling addition to mine and MPP's East Bay Gay Stepford campaign.

The dog in question was a terrier mix. MPP and I are certain there is some boxer? and definitely Basenji ( a gorgeous but stubborn willed dog hailing from the country my ancestors were ripped from- the mother Africa).

Some might wonder why MPP and I would endeavor to trek up to "Yippy You-Kye-Aye" and not simply pop over to the Oak-Town or SF SPCA. I have an actual answer for those jellybeans. It seems there is a shortage of doggies and kitties here. In fact, the Ukiah shelter often ships our abandoned/lost pals to us out here as they have a surplus of animals.

The dog in question, who would later become known as "Jasper" was only 8 months old with no special needs or problems i.e. he wasn't blind, 3 legged or emotionally wrecked. I was told that because of this Jasper's "time was running out". More "troubled or needy" pets would get transferred, placed whatever and well Jasper-- he'd be lucky to see Christmas.

So I discussed this with MPP, while he was GARDENING out on the front lawn of our charming split level home(fully equipped with the manicured lawn and only missing a white picket fence).

So as you all can see, taking a scenic two hour drive up through the hills of our gorgeous state with the one I adore, to rescue a dog from "the chair" wasn't exactly putting me out.

We were greeted by an incredibly friendly and knowledgeable staff, then lead through a long narrow corridor where the not too subtle fragrances of urine,feces and wet dog hair collided. My head was light, but my heart was sinking. Consequently, I suppose I evened myself out some how.

When the main door opened, we were met with the frantic yelping and barking of at least 100 dogs. I wasn't frightened because the cacophony was distinctively non-threatening. I dare say it was the precise opposite. Dogs wagged their tails and pleaded for attention. They all knew what was at stake and it made me feel sick.

Jasper was led out in to the open and the beckoning ceased. It was a quiet that causes hairs on arms and nape of necks to stand on ceremony. Jasper's counterparts knew they had not been chosen.

The car trip home was relatively uneventful. Jasper was initially sketchy about getting in the car, but what moderately intelligent animal wouldn't be. His last car trip had ended him up on DOGGY DEATHROW.

The Move, The Underminer & Everything

2005-08-15T17:15:00.000-07:00

So I am recovering from Friday's big move at my new favorite neighborhood haunt. Gentle music and mellow friendly peeps tending to the coffee bar greeting me as I dragged myself in this afternoon. August 12th was quite possibly the longest day of mine and MPP's collective lives.

The day began by the movers arriving promptly at 9:30 a.m. to begin the beguine with MPP. Oh sure, the scheduler quoted MPP a price for the move. However, according to the mover's records MPP had forgotten three large chairs. We would now incur an additional charge. I suppose it's possible he actually over looked them as he walked through his apartment naming off each piece of furniture. After all, they only take up the whole damned living room. Easy to miss. I resisted the urge to slip in to Mommie Dearest mode: Don't FUCK with us fellas...we've ridden this rodeo before!

The piece de resistance was the fact that the movers could not fit all of MPP's furniture on to the truck. Additionally, they still had to go to 805 Leavenworth for my things. I discovered Friday just how intolerant I am of dumb. They arrived to move two households with what MPP's father would later refer to as "little more than a bread truck", and seemed genuinely surprised when they had to make multiple trips.

Once we finally did arrive at 805 Leavenworth, the leader of the moving trio thought he might lecture me on the virtues of intelligent packing i.e. "You are suppossed to put books in small boxes". I simply raised my eyebrow as an accessory to my irritation, and in that down home southern way of mine- became so cordial I was hostile. When he got that I was channeling winds from Antartica, he let me know "it was all good". I was almost certain it would be. What is it with that phrase anyway? I've always despised it. IT'S ALLLL GUUUD. It's usually uttered when a situation is undoubtedly NOT all good. Is it meant to be ironic? Well moving on...

At last we were finally on our way to Glen Eden Ave at nearly 7pm, yes kids 7pm. Ken and Eiko's minivan (which had previously been packed in the meticulous manner befitting only a good virgo and/or someone with OCD) now resembled a sidewalk sale in San Francisco's Mission district as MPP and I hurled random items of dual ownership in to the back, trying valiantly to just get the hell out of dodge.

As we approached the freeway a car from a non-existent lane ran along side the ant farm procession of cars trying to get on the freeway. This dumb@ss attempted to dart in aggressively at an angle between us and the car ahead. MPP was having none of it, and apparently neither were any of the drivers. No one was letting this guy in, and so he tried a different tact. He tried being "cute". His front and backseat bimbettes were rolling down their prospective windows and pleading. MPP refused to allow them in, citing that they "knew what they were doing" and that it was rude to pretend. I capped it off by leaning in beside him literally shaking my finger and moving my neck saying, "Shame on you... shame on YOU". I've turned in to my mother.

And speaking of shame on you. Many are probably wondering (assuming many are reading this) what the heck my poem JUDAS was about. Well jellybeans, everyone at one time or another has their own personal Judas. You see, my exodus from San Francisco or as people who should be shot call it Frisco, was not with out event.

It seems MPP and I were pretty much right about my own personal Underminer. We were not initially invited to his spouse's (the Real Martha Stewart) birthday dinner last month. Oprah only knows what other social events never made it to our calendar. Against my better judgement and tarot cards that would have said "don't even think about it" had I read them, we went to Russian River. MPP and I stayed at Fife's which The Underminer had already informed us was inferior to his own lodgings, Highland's... you know where the popular kids were staying for Prom night.

He couldn't help but come over to our place with The Real Martha Stewart and his entorage in tow. We suspect it was simply for the pleasure of ensuring our digs were not as nice as his. To his surprise and discomfort, our dining area was quite charming and so he had insisted on seeing our cabin. He made some big to do's about how cute it was(cuter than his infact), which later proved to be insincere (and for the benefit of the entourage) when we arrived to his clearly far more charming cabin. This of course was not before one of his minions let it slip about the impending trip to the happiest place on Earth. A trip from which MPP and I were to be excluded.

So I have seen enough to know I have seen enough. None of this should come as a surprise seeing as how I have willfully ended my stint as the Underminer's whipping boy. No longer looking to him for validation of my life choices or even asking his opinion, I have cut the thread. It's sad when some dies, even if it was sickly and unhealthy. That's what our over a decade friendship had become- Toxic. And nature has a funny way of breaking that which will not bend. So I surrender it to the higher power, the Universe and EVERYTHING!

Desperately Seeking Stepford

2005-08-11T22:58:00.000-07:00

There are times in our lives that often seem to be the stuff of which B-Movies are made. MPP and I currently find ourselves experiencing this and while he in his normal fashion is embracing the universe and all it has to offer; I am doing what Po Lil Rich Boi does best: FREAKING OUT!!!

The trailer would start something like this: Po Lil Rich Boi had finally found the perfect man and together they found the perfect home or did they? (Close up on MPP smiling and me looking off in to the distance as suspicious as ever) Welcome to charming Gleneden, where the trees are prunned, and a kind neighbor meets you at every turn. (MPP and me being met at the door by a neighbor holding Welcome Basket- Think Bree Van De Kamp). But something is wrong. Frame forward(Me pleading with MPP:"I'm telling you something isn't right. Everyone's too nice. Too perfect). You all no the rest. MPP laughs it off until he figures out later that I've been replaced by a robot, a cylon or maybe an alien. Take your pick.

From the real estate agent to the neighbor who met us at the door with a basket of tomatoes in hand, things have seemed picture perfect on our tree lined street. We have not even moved in but have been lugging boxes across the bridge to our new "suburban home" as the Underminer has refered to it. More about the Underminer and the severing of ties later....

So here it is the eve before the move. MPP and I have independantly had our own special versions of a meltdown. It is very difficult when your fate lies in the hands of people who do not entirely have a stake in whether your sanity takes flight. A few missed faxes and phone calls here and there nearly ended it all. That was the beginning of MPP's meltdown. God can only say when mine began, how long it lasted or even if it's still going on. I can tell you that my Green Tea Frappucino from StarBuck's just about solved the problem, but as my mama would say, "Baby there isn't that much Green Tea Frappucino in the Wooorrrlllddd!

More to come about The Underminer, moving day and Po Lil RichBoi's impending search for employment. UGH.

JUDAS

2005-08-06T19:58:00.000-07:00

Sometimes only a poem can speak it:

Judas

I beckoned you to forgotten rooms
We shared our secrets
Bared cherished dreams
Some were still born
Or had you stolen them
In the clandestine night
Beneath Diana's orb
And its watchful gaze

I called him brother
Gave him shelter
Even when the only danger
Was the reflection of
Narcissus

Years flicker passed
The camera lens
But only some boys
Will morph in to
Men

Universes melt away
What perhaps was never
Truly there

It wasn't Mercury

When I awake to this damnable reality
It has come to pass just what was meant to be
The looking glass
The betrayal of thee
The discovery of Judas
A return to me

--Po Lil RichBoi

Humidity,Grapes & Vines Oh My!

2005-08-03T22:46:00.000-07:00

So I went out to my future mother-in-law's yesterday (don't look at us look at Congress) for a day of canning preserves in the lovely city of Lafayette. Yes Lafayette. For those of you kids not familiar with the burbs, it gets up to about 215 degrees or something out there and August 2, 2005 was apparently no exception. I wore a straw hat and flax colored linen pants from Banana Republic. You see Po Lil Rich Boi is all about dressing for the occassion. I even donned my tank top and favorite sheer silken vintage short sleeved shirt circa 1940 blah blah blah.

Miss Eiko came to fetch MPP and I from the BART station and it was off to the local supermarket to fetch vittles for lunchy lunch. No one apparently told the patrons that Sidney Poitier's forgotten son was coming to play Guess Who's Coming to Shop. I was like a raisin in the proverbial bowl of cornflakes. After watching several blue haired ladies and men wearing plaid run their carts in to each other, we had gathered what we needed and were on our way with our booty. Read: Plunder taken from an enemy in time of war. NOT: Slang for the buttocks i.e. African American Vernacular English.

We feasted on rotisserie chicken, ribs and a fabulous salad of Miss Eiko's creation: tomatoes (from her garden thank you) walnuts, cranberries, and blueberries etc. It was the kind of salad only a mother could create. It seems simple, but you know if you try to recreate it yourself it will simply suck!

You need sustenance when you're canning all that jelly in Hell's Kitchen (as in Satan not the trendy NY area). Even with the windows and glass sliding door open, there I was again melting like some Chocolate covered Jesus. It was after all 215 degrees. Miss Eiko was reflecting upon how back in the day women would spend all day in the kitchen doing this, and under tight time constraints. See they didn't have the benefit of refridgerators and all of our other modern conveniences we so readily take for granted. As a result they were on nature's schedule.

This wasn't what intrigued the most though. What intrigued me was the reverence and nostalgia with which Miss Eiko seemed to hold these days. Days she and my mother would undoubtedly refer to as "simpler times". Simpler times? No air conditioning, No readily chilled beverage or I-Pod. Simpler times my breathable linen covered @ss! That's when it donned on me. In our day of www.sitonmyfatass.com, our MOTHERS are made of stronger stock then we are. I want to see a survivor reality show where kids go up against their parents on some island that God forgot. I'd be willing to stake my I-Pod it's all of us "young folk" who'd end up knee deep in some swamp or eating some berry that causes us to grow a third who knows what or causes our tonugue to simply fall out of our head. And just who do you supposse we'd run home crying to?

Just a thought to keep on retainer for those days you're standing in the Starbucks line whining cause you can't get your mocha frappe chino what the fuck latte in time to catch the shuttle that takes you to the door of your cushy cube. You know- the one you think is too small....

xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Po-Lil_RichBoi's Recent Escape

2005-08-02T18:30:00.000-07:00

So I recently was left no choice but to vacate the premises of my current employer. Yes, I left the MadShack with no future employment opportunities in sight. Sometimes you've just gotta take a stand black man, and so I did. I came, I sat, I shit in the pot and then I left.

It seems Mon Petit Prince is of the opinion that the inability to sleep and random projectile vomiting, might be an indication of my being in an unhealthy work situation. He had suggested that our imminent move to Oakland's charming Piedmont Ave district might be the perfect opportunity to make a crisp and clean break.

The ever faithful (or mildly insane) employee that I am, I spoke briefly to everyone's favorite CheckOut Girl (and I don't mean WholeFoods)in hopes she would check back in long enough to stand up for me and come to my rescue, but to no avail. She left me melting in the sun like some Chocolate covered Jesus. I got raked over the coals in some lynchin' meeting by Ursula. You know the type of meeting that is called so "we can all get on the same page about Subject A", but Jack@ss 1 takes this as an opportunity to bring up Subject B... blah blah blah.

Annnyyyhoooo.... I had seen enough to know I had seen enough. I gave my notice with every intention of fulfilling the obligatory 2 weeks but COG wouldn't hear of it. She suggested I only spend one week surfing the net, eating my 10 lbs bag of Oreos and deleting inappropriate e-mails from my MS OutLook. This was all well and dandy until the March of Penguins began. Not the movie (which I hear is amazing) but my co-workers dropping by my cube- All wanting to know why I was leaving. I couldn't take it. For the most part I ADORED most of them. So I couldn't take the sad good byes and in the immortal words of MPP, simply said "I'm outta here bitches". I worry that I may have offended or hurt some, but pray the average jellybean understands why I ditched out of my own funeral.

More tomorrow on the Grapes Of Wrath (not the book, the ones in Miss Eiko's backyard), humidity and Piedmont Ave!

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo