Again, that is. Apparently, for the second time in the last eight years, Hostess is going bankrupt. Not that I eat them with any regularity, but such news makes me want to run out to Publix during lunch and pick up some Ho-Hos and some Twinkies while I still can, if the company really does go under.
But really, the point of posting this at all, is so I could make the very obvious, but always relevant Zombieland reference.
Now I’ve been assumed to be many different races in my life; Hispanic, French, black (yes, seriously), but this morning was a new one. Chinese or Japanese I can sort of get, but why black people don’t ever assume Korean as one of the first three options is completely beyond me. Stereotypically, Koreans are the ones who do all the grunt work of modern commerce – dry cleaning, manning the liquor stores, convenience stores, gas stations, delis; where they happen to serve black people on a regular basis! Chinese people seemingly solely work at Chinese restaurants or their respective areas’ Chinese regions. Japanese people are fewer and further but are a lot like the Chinese, except there are lot more doing pretty high-tech, high-importance stuff, because the rest of the world seems to think the Japanese can do no wrong and blows their culture like its shit don’t stink.
But I’m getting off the point. This morning, on a sunny beautiful Saturday afternoon, there’s a ring at the doorbell. Since I now assume all doorbell rings as a sign of casing the joint, I answer immediately. It’s two pleasant black women who are trying to spread the good word of Jesus Christ. I listen to their spiel for a few minutes, but then respectfully decline their literature, because I’m a soulless human being who doesn’t particularly care for organized religion. But before they leave, they ask me “where I’m from.” Since I know this is a pointless question, I tell them the truth – Virginia.
“Oh, well you look like my son in law. He’s half Laotian.“
So now, I look like a cross between Dikembe Mutombo and Kahn Souphanousinphone. Wonderful.
Secondly, I’m ashamed of these religious zealous. The ninth commandment states thou shalt not lie, but it seems like every single black person I meet who wishes to relate to me seems to have an Asian in-law, or they know an Asian closely, that they feel the need to tell me, as if I’ll suddenly allow them into my home or accept them more for disclosing this tidbit of information, which is as useful to me as an asshole on my elbow. I don’t go around bragging about the black friends I have in my life, why others feel the need to share their stories of the Asians they know is completely beyond me. Fuck that.
I was driving around one day, and I stumbled upon this black Santa Claus statue. I know there’s a defiant, black power kind of mentality that leads to creations like this, but typically, racial chips on the shoulder aside, Santa Claus has always typically been portrayed as a whitey.
I mean, lookit – Santa Claus, Jesus Christ, the Easter Bunny: all whiteys. Black people worship the same Jesus as all the other cultures and religions that worship Jesus, but they don’t see fit to alter his image. Why does Santa Claus get denegrated in the style of Blacula in this instance?
I don’t really get it, but whatever, it’s not my house. ‘Tis the season to spread racial agenda. Seeing as how I hadn’t seen this in any prior years, I wonder if some of the country folk living outside of the region will be offended by this statue. I wonder if it will actually make it out of December intact?
When I was little, and growing up in the dairy farmlands of Harrisonburg, nobody in that hicksville had any idea what a Korean person was. All through elementary school, people always gave me the “are you Chinese or Japanese?” schtick, like a real-life King of the Hill. When I said no to both, most people were absolutely baffled, and had no idea of what possible alternatives there could be to Chinese or Japanese people.
A long while ago, I wrote about a how a kid in my neighborhood apparently thought I was Spanish, and said “hola” to me. Throughout the last few months, this kid has seen me a few times during my morning jogs, and has said “hola” to me on all those instances. Because I’m not Spanish, I do not respond ever.
Just the other night, while I was out on my evening jog, I ran by two little batarians, to which one of them said “hola” to me. Seeing as how I was now right next to the kid, I finally said, “I’m not Spanish. You don’t have to say ‘hola’ to me.“
Being in numbers often times creates a false sense of courage in kids, so the other kid laughed, and began motoring his mouth as I proceeded to leave them behind. In the midst of my pulling away I heard “So what are you? French? Italian? You speak Japanese?“
Wow. Aside from being Spanish, I’m mistaken for a French person, or an Italian person, before even hitting the continent of Asia? Man, these little black kids live in a sheltered world. I’m actually surprised at how dumb these kids are going to grow up to be.
Tradition is important to this jaded brogger. So without much fail, it’s kind of an institution down in Zombieland that we get a whole bunch of fireworks from South Carolina, and blow them up on the weekend of July 4th, since July 4th this year is on a fucking Monday. That being said, like for the last few years, we get a bunch of people down at our place, and shoot of fireworks with good food, drinks, snacks, and company, and it’s only a matter of time before it devolves into writing out goofy words with sparklers. But we were ready this time – there was a tripod for my camera.
After four months, give or take, of opting to do a cardio routine in the morning instead of running, I feel like I have regressed. Sure, I’m getting my heart rate up in the mornings, and physically, I feel like I’m exerting myself more, than when all I did was run 1.5 miles. Considering I’m doing roughly 33 minutes of cardio, plyo, yoga, and core as opposed to the typical 15 minute pace in which I circle Zombieland, I thought I was making a good choice in opting to stay indoors to workout than going out into the bitter cold of winter mornings.
Long story short, I simply feel like I’m regressing, with going the route of superman-bananaing, as opposed to running. So until further consideration, I’m going to limit the cardio routine to Wednesdays only, and return to running most mornings, since it’s no longer ball-shriveling cold anymore. That being said, I started with this morning. And throughout the last few years, I’m starting earlier than I’ve ever started, due to the time it takes me to get my shit together in the morning, and attempt to get in by 8:30 a.m., so typically I’m out the door and beginning to run by around 6:40 a.m.
Needless to say, it’s like a different world out there at that time. I’d like to think of those ass o’clock early hours to be quiet, and leisurely outdoors, but at the time in which I began running was anything but. Legions of worker ants all departing their homes for whatever early shift and/or long commutes they’re gearing up for. Me, having to dodge cars zipping out of their driveways in the dark, their drivers not expecting any studious morning runners. Black people driving way too fast in the 25 mph residential neighborhood, with me, praying that they don’t run me over. Trucks I’m suspecting are full of stolen goods as I jog by, sitting on the curb, idling, while spouting clouds of exhaust, me holding my breath while passing by.
Nobody has ever interrupted me while jogging before; color me surprised when a FedEx van stops me before 7:00 a.m., asking for directions to a street that doesn’t exist, with me telling them such intel. And then at least ten more cars fly past me, driving too fast before I make it back to the house.
I’ve jogged around Zombieland at various times of the day; and once this past weekend when it was the nicest weather in the world. But never, have I seen this place so busy, bustling, and active, than during a time of day, in which I simply imagine everyone in the world in some state of sleep still.
Oh no, I haven’t forgotten about Black History Month. I’ve just had several other things occupying my time and writing fulfillments recently, and to be honest, I haven’t been agitated recently to where I’d want to verbally retaliate. Until yesterday. It’s bad enough that yesterday was my last day at my previous assignment, that I had to turn down work because it was going to cockblock my chances to get in with a company I really want to get with, but on my way home from work, there were about three emergency vehicles that necessitated pulling off to the side of the road and yield to them. Each time I courteously moved aside for an ambulance or fire truck, I would have to wait a little bit longer than necessary to get back on track, because each time, there were at least four vehicles, driven by you-know-whats, that were essentially tailgating emergency vehicles, thus preventing me from getting back onto the road without waiting for their aggressive, me-first driving behavior to pass first.
So, now that I’m all agitated and shit again, I have to ask:
Why do black people always have to walk in the middle of the street?
Continue reading “BHM query: Why the insistence on walking in the middle of the street?”
