My Playlist

Ramblings Post #123
I love music. There are songs that I haven't heard in 15 years that if the music started I could sing like I'd heard it yesterday. Every so often, at a personal crossroad, I would hear a song that perfectly captured the moment. Like God was sending me a message. Sporty once sent me a song that...well, set my dreams on fire. Music is a powerful thing.

My Playlist. While plucking chickens, I need music that soothes and keeps me from, well, things not suggested by the local constabulary. Plucking chickens is stressful.

As I've indicated before, I love music. Well, it's in here somewhere (oh, yeah, see the intro). At one point I even was deluded enough to believe I could sing, then I turned nine. My tastes are eclectic, from rap to soul, to country and electronic, jazz and classical. I'm flexible.

This playlist isn't new songs, I like familiar sounds, at least when I'm working. Let's me concentrate.

And it's got a theme, which is guess is um...appreciation. In some form.

Promise - Ciara
Ooh Ooh - Cheri Dennis
Brotha - Angie Stone
Stay for a While - Angie Stone
Baby - Ashanti
Slowly - Syleena Johnson
Always Will - Tweet
Cater to You - Destiny's Child
Truth Is - Fantasia
Opera - Floetry
Always be my baby - Mariah Carey
Wanna be with You - Mary J. Blige

Well, I am a romantic at heart. Think about it. A few songs bring certain people to mind, which is always soothing.


Barkeep, turn on some music I can drink too!

Shoulda just cut it all off

Ramblings Post #95
Despite our best efforts, life is about minutiae. No matter the heights we achieve, we must still bathe, and eat, and shave - in some for or another - and clip our nails, and etc and so on. These things can't be avoided. And since "little things mean a lot", when I came to the realization I'd been neglecting something important, and then it turned on me, I knew it was time to get right with myself...and the guy who cuts my hair.

I'm not a barber snob.

For the past few years, more and more guys I know are forgoing the barbershop and cutting their own hair. Those are to some degree, barber snobs. I, on the other hand, had stuck to the tried and true system however, not because I was too lazy, but rather because I'd tried cutting my own hair before and truly screwed it up so I'd rather trust a professional.

That said, usually any professional (who can take instruction) will do.

Typical barbershop - Black America.

As a kid, a trip to the barber meant our mother dropped us off at, I think it was at least, Professional Barbershop #3. It was in what would now be called a little strip mall, with a dirt parking lot. It was the original "men's hut". They were professional professionals, even now I remember that they were older than college students, who cut hair all day. The shop was big, had old magazines and smelled like what I imagined at the time Africa smelled like. And they had two huge mirrors facing one another, which gave this infinity effect which at the time I thought was sooo cool.

In college, I let my hair get cut just about anywhere. The barber's, a friend's house, my house, by this chick who swore she knew how to cut. On internship in Chicago I drove to the Southside to get my haircut, and on internship in New Jersey going in the barbershop and waiting let them know I wasn't from there. I probably wasn't as self conscious as I should have been, appearance-wise, so it was probably wild and woolly then. Looking back, a little grooming and discipline might have made a world of difference.

Now I've proscribed to the comment plight of the black male (who still has hair), finding a barber who I like. A good barber for a black man is sacred. I've changed barbershops because "my" barber moved, put off cut because he wasn't available and waited when he said he was running late. A good barber, who knows his customers, almost doesn't have to be told, only reminded how you like your hair. And he doesn't cut it so it looks good just for today, he cuts it so your hair grows into the shape you want.

I would have picked one a while ago I think, but at the place to close to my job they never have a lot of customers so I'm wary of riding by one day and finding them gone. But I think it's time to pick one of them - and a suitable back up.

Because yesterday, when I walked into my latest usual spot, where I ended up after my last barber disappeared (long story) and because its close to the job, I let them pick out the guy who would cut my hair. I gave him explicit instructions. How did he do?

- I don't like them to give me a "line" in the front. The hair is headed back fast enough, no need to encourage it. He touched up my line.

- For my head, I need the sides cut closer than the top, it grows faster. Otherwise my head looks like a wedge, like Grady from Sanford and son. He didn't understand "close".

- And because the sides grow faster than the top, I like the sides cut high, closer to a buzz cut than a fade. He started fading it out around the ears.

I paid him...even tipped him, headed home and broke out the clippers.

You shouldn't have to cut your hair after you gotten your hair cut. That and he sprayed some gook on my hair without asking, then told me it was black company and we need to support. Not really digging his flavor. So it looks like it's gonna be the bald guy in the back from now on, or the sister who cut it once and it wasn't too bad.

Barkeep...tell me the baldy is coming back!

A Quick Restaurant Review - Maxim Prime

The table we ate at is the one in the background.

It's a short week with mother's day preperations and all, so Sporty and I went out on a Tuesday to see what the buzz was with the spot on the other corner across from the lackluster Thrive, the men's magazine inspired Maxim Prime. It's in the Glenn Hotel, a place I've never stayed, and takes the space that was formerly occupied by the short lived Bed restaurant. Sporty and I went there ages ago and found the idea of eating while lying down...at least in those surroundings...a less than joyous affair. No matter, Maxim is supposed to be something new.

I got there early and hit the bar.. and it was smoking hot. Dark and intimate, the glass topped bar and the diamond motif ceiling are sweet, and when Sporty bounced in a red thigh high dress looking all scrumptious, I think that for a second we even considered sitting down there to eat. I was that nice. But we came to see the whole place, get the Maxim vibe, so we headed up stairs.

I want to note there are supposed to be these thoughts, phrases... "maxims" if you will, in the stairwell, but the whole effect suffers because all the fonts are the same, so you can't tell where one stops and the next starts. I tried for a few minutes and could only make out one. It's a bad effect that different fonts (a simple change) could have fixed.

The room is just as I remember it, long and with a feeling that lacks softness. We get seated next to a large loud party, but we make the best of it. Table service is quick, actual wait service is so-so. Sporty is a little upset because she was thought it would be more..festive, instead it's upscale. I'm upset because I think our waitress might be a man. I expect more from Maxim, jeez, I actually used to read this magazine. Where are the uber hot bimbos? Whatever, we get the Kobe sliders to start, which are yummy, and she gets the short ribs and me the 6 oz. filet.

Did I tell you she looked absolutely beautiful in this dress. She doesn't wear dresses that often, she's still got some tomboy in her, but when she does .....whew!

So we get the food and well, my steak and the sauce were okay, the truffled fries were okay even. Her short ribs were fatty. Maxim shouldn't feel bad, as South City Kitchen's short ribs were fatty as well, but I doubt this fatty. They gave her three ribs...she ate one, picked over one, left one.

Her words: "I guess this one is a strike."

I read up on Maxim after I got back and there is a quote from one of the people pushing it who said "This restaurant will not be another Hooters!" Well I've been to both, and they might want to reconsider. Say what you want, but Hooters been in business more than a minute. The downstairs bar was great, the rest of the restaurant...so-so. Not to mention expensive.

Barkeep...no more of the sparkling water. Seriously.

Back at it, Still Throwing Blows: Workout update

After my few months in the Park last summer, I'll guess at least four months maybe longer (I didn't keep track I just did it) I've waddled my big ass back into the gym.

Okay, it's not that big an ass, and I'm not waddling, but you've got to motivate yourself somehow.

I joined LA Fitness, because I told Sporty I would, and have been getting up at 6am to go and do an hour. The thing about it is, just like at the park, my 6-ish a.m. arrival makes me a latecomer. By the time I arrive the place is jumping. The treadmills are full, the bikes are in major use and the cycling class (which is overfull) is just reving into high gear. People are sweating, some folks already look ragged and I'm wandering in to do light work. I feel....light weight. In the bad way.

Now I remember why I don't like gyms. They make you competetive. Or rather, they make me competitive.

I get on the bike same time as you, I'm not getting off 'til you get off. I get on the treadmill same time as you, I'm in it until you pull up stakes.

Even if you're in obviously better shape than I am. Which is bad. I'm contemplating going to two-a-days to catch up. That would be working out at 6am and working out again after work. I know this because I had to take day after my first day, because I was too stubborn to admit that the smaller guy with the bodybuilder build could lift more than me, so I didn't change the weights on the pec machine. I cannot describe to you the sore.

I know I have obessive tendiencies. I'm trying to work through them.

Well, here we go again. Tom, my former walking partner and fast master, has chosen another spot to get his winter workout on, so I'm on my own.

Currently the workout is Bike for 20 minutes, Ellptical or whatever that machine is for 10 -15, then burnouts on the pec machine and lat machine. Add in my stretching on the front and you get almost an hour.

Just getting started.

Barkeep...let me a get a apple mango smoothie with a shot of beeswax. I'm getting in shape.

A proper hello

Her breath shuddered, from anticipation or excitement she wasn't sure.

His palm on her thigh made it's way up to cup her chin slowly, the pressure of his palm and fingertips thrilling her. His hand never left her body as it made the trip, the heat of hand left her thigh and moved up to her hip, pausing for a moment on her the full ripe apple of cheek. It circled her waist in a detour, the small of her back, then slid glacially up her side, touching the spots most other men would pass over, fingertips dancing.

At her bra strap he paused for a moment, and for a instant she wondered why she'd even wore one. That roving hand traced the line around to her breast, the flat of his palm against the fabric causing a deep gasp. It lingered only for a second, just long enough for her to imagine his hand there without the fabric, just long enough to kick up the heat just another tick. Fingers now guiding, his reach fanned out across her upper chest, and taking care not get lost in her collar, reached her neck.

From the front, his hand slid along the nape, just above her shoulder, that lone hand circling her to the back, the moist heat of it now clearly felt where before the clothes had denied her that last sensation. A finger touched her spine, then even more slowly the hand started forward again, the fingernail of the thumb on her lobe sliding, the light touch of just the tips on the supple flesh of her neck. His finger kept forward until with just the curl of his finger held her chin.

His eyes had never broken contact with hers, his hand hand traveled into view almost on instinct, the pathway of desire on her body clearly marked.

"Hey you" he breathed. His breath was minty mixed with touch of lemon.

"Hey you," she smiled back, trying to gather herself after his nearly intimate hello.