What Obama's change really means to a 4 year-old

Think we haven't been Obamanized?

This is my granddaughter's rendition ofThe Pledge of Allegiance.

Just to make sure I heard it correctly, I had her do it a few times.

Obama of a nighted State of America

And to the replug it

Which it stands

One nation

Under God

Indivis-a-gull

with liverty

and justice for all.

Is this the change Obama was talking about?

True story; I Found My Crown in The Crapper

Contrary to what you may think, the title was not chosen to attract attention. I found my crown in the toilet is the whole story.

It began June 7th of this year. While eating a delicious pulled-pork sandwich, I swallowed my crown. Once I realized what I had done, I quickly drank two Miller Lites to wash it down.

At my wife's urging, nice word for bitching, I went to the hospital to get an x-ray. By the way, you can't just walk into the hospital and tell them you need an x-ray. Tried that. They looked at me as if I had walked into Burger King and ordered a McFeast.

After the obligatory family history questionnaire and insurance verification, the tech took pictures of my chest. There it was, turned sideways just under my left nipple. I saw the metal post looking like a small penis, so I said, "Aw look, I am having a boy. "The tech didn't find that comment funny, either.

The doctor on call told me to just go home and it would pass in five-seven days. He also gave me a shit kit. That is a plastic sombrero looking thing that goes over the toilet for me to collect my deposit. It also included a dozen or so throat compressors. No instructions provided or necessary.

I searched daily at 6:00 am, as thoroughly as an archeologist looking through centuries-old shit for a prized artifact. After 30 days or stirring and gagging and mistaking undigested, bloated corn kernals for my tooth, I gave up.

Well, November 18 arrived. After doing my bodily business, I flushed. I flushed again. Still, one of those cling-ons wouldn't go down. I flushed a third time. Bingo.

A few minutes later, my wife screams, "Oh shit." It was one of those, "Damn, I dropped my eyeliner down the drain." type screams, so I paid little attention. Then she said, " You're not going to believe this. I found your crown."

Sure enough, there it was in the toilet. She reached in, pulled it out, and handed it to me. She's a great wife. It was intact. Beautiful. I put it in a baggie for safekeeping.

Then we laughed because just the day before, we had been haggling with our dentist about who was responsible for the cost of replacing it.

Now, I have to call him back and tell him where I found it. Five months, 11 days later.

Moral of this story, don't ever take shit for granted.

Led Zeppelin Must Die

My grandson is almost seven years old and has been performing with his dad as Michael Jackson impersonators since he was three. Whenever he is not the "Gloved One," he also performs live as a rock-n-roll star.

His favorite song to sing and play guitar to is Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin. Performing the song with his Gigi's (short for grandmother in denial) band backing him for three years, he thinks of the song as his.

It started out innocently, as Whole Lotta Yuv. Working the stage and handling the mic like a seasoned pro, he delights a crowd. Big friends (his words for adult fans) love him. Although he can't really play the guitar, he knows all the words and moves. From a distance, you would actually think he is playing it.

For the small price of a bag of Skittles, he gives a true performance, jumping up and down to the beat, putting every little grunt he can muster into the "unh, unh, unh, unh, whole lotta yuv, whole lotta yuv." Even when he makes up his own words like "I wanna bring you back around, and give you everything of my love" it is a pleasant surprise to not hear him say, " I wanna be your back door man and give you every inch of my love."

As I said, he is almost seven and is paying more attention to detail. One night before a recent performance, I found some vintage 1973 Led Zeppelin on Youtube.

He watched it intently as I tried to explain that those were the real guys who wrote and still own the song. After it finished, I couldn't wait for his impression.

Quite proud of myself, I asked, "So, what did you think? Did you see how they really rocked the guitar?"

"Those guys made that song?" he seemed somewhat puzzled.

Sensing his loss of ownership, I said,"Yes, they made that one and a whole lot more. But you can still sing it when you want to."

" Well, those guys are really old. So, if they die, then it can be only my song." sounding so matter of fact.

" That is not how it works. If they die, then their kids get to keep the song. "

Pondering for a bit, out came, " Then they just gonna have to die, cuz that is my song. And you can give his kids my Skittles."

That interaction was back in August. Since then, he has written two of his very own songs:" Cool Jam" and " Help Me." They are, in his own words, the best songs he has ever heard.

They should be available at a store near you in 2020.

The Obama White House in blackspeak

"Yo, yo, yo, Ron. We in da house, my man." the jubilant brother said, as he put up his fist, awaiting my return dap. " Barack did it. You said it wasn't gonna happen."

"Actually, Rico(not his real name), I said I hoped it wouldn't happen because I don't want another JFK story." I corrected him.

"Aight(pronounced ah-ite), aight. But you know what it means, though."

"It means we have a new president and another positive, much needed footnote to our history." the diplomat in me responded.

"Yo, Ron. Stop being all political and stuff. Save that for your column. Times gon' change, man. I'm telling you, they already changed. Now, when I walk into any place, they gotta recognize me as a black man." he proclaimed.

Slipping into "hood- mode," I said, " Yo, Rico. On a national and hopefully international level, I hope Obama generates a lot of change. But down here with you and me, the only change we'll see is the change we make. Just because a black man is president, that doesn't change your credit score or anything on your resume. And it won't make you be on time for work, help you pass a pre-employment drug screen, or guarantee you free cable."

"I see what you on, Ron. I'm out." sounding dejected as he walked away.

Then there was my girl, Suz. One of the most wonderful creatures God put on this earth. She's close to my age, and has more common sense, compassion, and giving spirit than anyone other than my stepdad I have ever met.

"Good morning, America," she shouts everytime she sees me, regardless of the time of day.

"Sup Suz." is always my brief greeting because I know what's to come.

"I'll tell you what's up, my nigga. Michelle Obama in the White House. She's measuring drapes, changing the dinnerware to styrofoam, and putting plastic all over the furniture. It's a new day baby. Ok, Ron. I'm just kidding.

"Look, Suz. If she just learns how to dress, I will be happy. She can't be wearing bright fire-engine red everyday. She has to accentuate those hips. You know I'm a butt man. And a lips, boobs, and ankles man, too. So, she's only batting 25 percent with me."

"Naw, seriously, though." she went on. "Michelle gonna be a classy bitch. She gon' bring up da hoodwinks and heffas to a new level, baby."

Interrupting her, " You know what Suz? You talk just like Michelle Obama."

"The hell I do. That woman is educated. I heard her talking on television. She speaks very well." Suz added, with an uppity tone to her voice.

"Exactly. And that is what I hopes she takes to da White House.

White Folks Say Darndest Things To Me, by popular demand

Actually, only one person suggested I share this, but I have always wanted to say something of mine was requested" by popular demand."

While going to college supported by the G I Bill, I worked for a L.A. Times newspaper distributor to supplement my lifestyle. Okay, I delivered papers seven days a week from 2am-6 am in North San Diego County. One of my additional duties was to train new drivers.

One morning while driving around a newbie, we passed a snow ski equipment and instruction business. It had a mechanical training slope outside the front door.

Breaking the silence, my white trainee spoke out. " Now that's my sport. I love the slopes. Only thing I don't like is seeing blacks on the white stuff. They belong on the courts, not the mountains."

"Never desired to ski, although it looks like fun," I mumbled, just to see where the chat was going, but never letting on that I wasn't the Hispanic, Greek, Iranian, or whatever he assumed I was.

The conversation returned to the task at hand for the next couple of hours. I worked with him for two more days, and he was on his own.

Then one morning sometime later as all the drivers were tying up their papers and loading their vehicles while engaging in idle chatter, someone made a reference to my ethnicity. Speaking as the authority on all things black, I noticed the former trainee look up at me with an "Oh, shit!" look on his face. This was the moment I had been waiting for.

After his route, he aproached me. "Ron, dude, I'm sorry. I didn't.. I didn't know you were black."

"No problem. Lots of folks don't know that. It doesn't matter anyway." I tried to convince him, but he continued.

"It's just that you don't look black. I thought you were Mexican or something, and you don't talk black. You talk liberal."

I cut him off." And I show up for work on time, too. And I go to college, huh?"

We talked for a few minutes. I did my best to assure him that no harm was done. I cut the conversation short as I had to get home to shower before class.

"I'll see you in the morning at two," I said.

He stuck out his arm to offer a handshake, " Ron, you're pretty cool, dude."

"Duh. I 'm black." I smiled.

Marriage is like baseball..Pre Prop 8 prediction

California'a Prop 8 hate ban caused me to return to my achives.

I have long been an advocate of marriage. From Brittany Spears's 55-hour union or marriages of death row inmantes, marriage is marriage is marriage.

This is from July 2003.

Marriage as we know it is a great institution. Even with its fifty-plus percent failure rate, it’s still a revered part of our society. Marriage is a like another great American pastime, baseball, where the best hitters fail two out of three times.

Marriage is commonly defined as a legal union between two people of the opposite gender that is sanctioned by God and/or the government. That means any legal age male and female may marry.

To demonstrate how wonderful marriage is, two drug addicts, two alcoholics, two people with AIDS, or two obese people may get married as long as one of them is a male and the other is a female. A young twenty-something woman may marry a very wealthy man in his nineties who has less than a 30-day life expectancy. A free, educated woman may marry a man on death row. A couple in their 90's in a nursing home may marry. Even two really stupid people, as long as they are of the opposite sex, can marry. And I thought the seven ways a batter can safely reach first base without getting a hit was strange.

Imagine the shock and awe felt by marriage traditionalists when the US Supreme Court ruled that homosexuality was no longer a crime. The ruling was actually protecting our right to privacy. The case involved two men in Texas who were arrested for being intimate in their own home. It is now legal for two men or two women to show the same affection as a man and a woman might show each other, as long as it’s done in private. Public passion is still a no-no for everyone.

There is now unfounded mass hysteria that homosexuals will someday be allowed to get married. Efforts are now underway to propose a constitutional amendment to ban homosexual marriage in the United States(was I ahead of my time or what). Gay marriages are legal in Belgium and the Netherlands, with Canada soon to follow. The last time America witnessed such an uproar was when the designated hitter was instituted in the junior division of Major League Baseball.

How dare our highest court override God. How dare the court open the door of possibility for two people of the same gender, who love and cherish and promise to be faithful to each other until death do they part, the right to the same benefits and privileges as normal people. Doesn’t the court know that decriminalizing homosexuality can only lead to gay marriages? What next? Will gays want to get an education, own businesses, teach, preach, vote, pay taxes, run for public office, serve our country in the military, and God forbid, move into our neighborhoods? Wait. They already do those things and the world hasn’t come to an end.

Yep, marriage is a lot like baseball. When the rules were changed to allow other players to bat for pitchers, some purists said God was angry. Many are speaking for God now about the threat to life as we know it. Of course, God only allows heterosexuals to speak for him.

There is some historical precedence for changing long held traditions. According to some, at one time God said slavery was okay. He changed his mind about that, didn’t he?

Or was that another Supreme Court undoing?
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Post Election Ignorance and Fear

It was the day after the world stood still. In other words, it was the 5th of November. Barack Obama had been annointed the president-elect of the United States of America. A day I'll always remember. Okay, I admit, I stole that line from the Temptations.

What does that mean? It means discomfort.

Contrary to the election blowout, there is still an overwhelming number of Americans who are uncomfortable with a "nigger" being president.

In an attempt to guage the attiudes of those in my little rural community just 50 miles south of Obama's hometown of Chicago, my wife and I went to a couple of local hangouts.

We stopped at a bar and grill that is well known for its serious meat pizza. It just happens to be located on the West side of town. Unwritten code word for white/staunch Republican side of town. The bar owners know us as former bar owners and me from my weekly column. Their regulars do not.

We ordered our pizza and watched the headline news that was being shown on about three flat screen TV's. As highlights of Barack Obama's historical election played, one patron voiced his opinion of our future.

"We (meaning whites) will all be picking cotton now," he said to the dismay of his seven other tablemates. "What?, ain't no blacks in here," he said in defense.

He was almost right. Normally this establishment has about two blacks that frequent it on a regular basis and both those men have white spouses or girlfriends. But they were not present. And most whites never suspect that I am black.

I could write a big book of the things whites have volunteered to me about blacks. And a sequel of their back pedaling when they learned I was black. God does have a sense of humor.

This guy's comments caught the ear of my wife, who is Cape Verde and looks Hispanic and is as fiesty as she is beautiful. She shot a stern look of disappointment in his direction. He ended his conversation.

I stuck a big piece of pizza in my mouth and began to pray.

Oh, what are black folks saying? That is a whole 'nother blog.