My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Brothers, Lovers, and Other Family Matters

by on ·Brothers and Sisters, Family, Siblings

In my private journal, I am free to rant and rave and take a giant step to hang dirty laundry out to dry on the vent line, while in my public journal, I usually keep posts impersonal. However, this one is taking a baby step over the line.

My younger brother, who I refer to as Little Bro, is a grown man, retired from the workforce a few years ago. He recently learned that the hearing problem he has had in one ear for some time has compounded. I wouldn’t mention this personal matter online except that Little Bro already revealed it yesterday on social media. So I take that to mean—and Judy Judy will likely agree with me—that since he initially made his condition public knowledge, I am not violating his privacy.

After reading on Facebook that my brother now has significant hearing loss in his other ear, I posted a link on my page to one of several articles I’ve read, suggesting that – smoking and drinking – the combination of alcohol and tobacco can be a volatile cocktail. When Little Bro rebuked, I reminded him that our dad, a smoker, and drinker, had died of a stroke.

Flashback to June 2006. My Little Bro is planning a cookout on Saturday, June 24. I spoke with him on the phone the day before, and we briefly discussed getting a birthday cake for dad whose birthday would be the day after, and surprising him with the cake at the cookout. It’s just as well that we scratched that plan because dad, who always looked forward to attending family cookouts, wasn’t feeling well that Saturday morning and decided that he would not participate this time. Nevertheless, our family enjoyed the cookout, minus dad. Unfortunately, the next afternoon dad suffered a debilitating stroke. It left him temporarily paralyzed and ultimately led to his death two months later, on August 30. Dad was an alcoholic. According to what mother often told me, he had been smoking cigarettes and drinking since she met him in his early teens.

Dad’s birthday is coming up in two weeks. Had he lived, he’d be turning 95 years old. I miss him a lot.

Little Bro and I had a brief and cordial exchange online about the smoking and alcohol subject, and he said, “I’m going to keep smoking and drinking. I don’t believe that study.” Discouraged but not surprised, I replied to him, “Do you. Love you.” End of discussion.

I know that if my mother were alive, she too would have concerns about my brother’s health-harmful habits; simultaneously, she would continue admonishing me about living in sin. I recall that those were two of her favorite subjects relative to family matters. However, like most adults, my brother and I have stubbornly maintained the mindset that – I’m a grown a** adult, and I’m going to do what I want. No matter how we choose to live, everybody has the same final destination. Don’t we?

The exchange between Little Bro and me reminds me of one of my favorite Billie Holliday songs.

There ain’t nothin’ I can do or nothin’ I can say
That folks don’t criticise me but I’m going to do
Just as I want to anyway
And don’t care just what people say . . .

Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.

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Clearing Headspace of Rambling Thoughts

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Humor

I am a contented introvert and don’t mind admitting it. I can socialize without awkwardness, but I’d rather have my privacy than interact with a crowd. Unlike extroverts who draw energy from social gatherings, I’ve never felt the need to surround myself with people. I prefer to enjoy my solitude and be alone with my thoughts at this stage in my life. I found it interesting to learn that, according to Business2Community.com, some celebrities have been identified as popular introverts, including Harrison Ford, Warren Buffet, and Anthony Hopkins. I chuckled when I read that Hopkins said, “We are dying from overthinking. We are slowly killing ourselves by thinking about everything. Think. Think. Think.”

I admit I do, do, do spend much time in my head, and if it’s true that overthinking leads to procrastination – well, bingo! That explains a lot.

I don’t just think about contemporary things; sometimes, I contemplate the past. Take the declaration made by historical figures like the alleged promoter of personal freedoms, Patrick Henry, who said, “Give me liberty or give me death.” But, of course, that has me thinking, “Wasn’t Henry a slave-owner?” Go figure.

Speaking of death and briefly putting sarcasm aside, I must vent about something. (That’s one advantage to having your own platform.) I can’t stop thinking about the most recent tragic shootings in Buffalo, New York, and Uvalde, Texas. What kind of deranged person shoots down people shopping for groceries and little elementary school kids like he’s playing a violent video game? Some folks say that the perpetrators are (or were, in the case of the Uvalde shooter) mentally ill. Do we know that? DO WE KNOW THAT, or is it just a lame excuse alleged because the act was so unconscionable? I think such evildoers are mad with the world, and because they are dissatisfied with their life, they can’t stand to see anyone else happy. Undeniably, misery loves company. I don’t care what the killer’s race or ethnicity is. I don’t care what political or social mandate they endorse; there is no justification for the cold-blooded, ruthless killing of anyone, especially children. Killing people is not a black or brown thing. It’s not a white thing. Maliciously killing someone is an evil act, regardless of who the moral degenerate is behind it.

God – if S/He is still alive – must certainly be disappointed in humankind. As if the original sins are not enough, centuries of people have added a multitude of unnatural transgressions, keeping the hellfire burning. I imagine that contemporary Moses will have at least 2000 Commandments saved on a computer tablet instead of ten inscribed on two stones whenever there is a world reboot.

Every time I scratch my head, I think about hair. Hair is a sensitive subject for Black women. It’s one of those topics that we aren’t supposed to talk about in public, like politics, religion, and sex. But Black women aren’t the only ones who wear the fake stuff. According to the Ultimate Looks blog, “Hollywood hairstylist Priscilla Valles, whose clients include Kylie Jenner, Chrissy Teigen, and Christina Aguilera, estimates that 97 percent of all female stars wear hair extensions — both onscreen and off.”

I wonder how some folks would cope if the fake hair industry suddenly went bust? Can you imagine how many celebrities and wanna-be celebs would lose their minds if they could no longer buy those long tresses? Never say never, readers. It could happen. Anytime there can be a shortage of toilet paper, paper towels, and even baby formula – baby formula, for God’s sake! So then, what’s to prevent fake hair from suddenly becoming unavailable? I imagine that some of you readers are saying, “don’t even think about it.”

After seven straight years of going to the gym three days a week, my routine got canceled by the pandemic, and I haven’t been back. My wallet appreciates the rest, but my body is punishing me by puffing up. Although I exercise at home, I am not as driven to stay on a sixty-minute, tri-weekly schedule as I used to do. When Coronavirus shut down everything, I had two months of credit remaining on my membership, but I suspect my credit has expired since I have yet to return.

Tamper-proof packaging has gone too far. I understand that the Chicago Tylenol murders in ’82 prompted the wrap rage, but now it takes a village to open a factory-sealed package, like that bottle of eye drops I recently brought. I struggled for several minutes to get the clear plastic shrink band off the cap before I could finally grip and tear its perforated edge. And then, as if removing the shrink band wasn’t tricky enough, the cap presented another challenge. I was twisting it and snarling like a pit bull mangling a chihuahua. The lid wouldn’t bug until I grabbed a pair of pliers off the shelf. Even with the pliers, it took several teeth-gritting, forceful turns before the cap loosened. I know that tamper-proof packing is to prevent wrongdoers from tinkering with products and protect young children from ingesting detergent pods and other poisonous substances. But what’s the point of safety sealed packaging if consumers can’t open the products? I wonder if the CDC Injury Center keeps track of how many people wind up cut and bloodied while struggling to open blister packs, clam-shell hard-plastic, and heat-sealed items. And OMG, the irony of the situation is that there is a prize created for products with the hardest-to-open packaging – the Oyster Award. Don’t take my word for it; ask Google.

And while it’s on my mind – I’m not a big fan of the idiot box. But, except for a couple of all-news channels, I have one favorite TV program, The View. I am so happy that the show is nominated for nine Emmy Awards. I can hardly wait until September to see how many of the golden statues they’ll win. The cohosts are intelligent and entertaining, and their hot topics always give me something else to think about (besides a preposition at the end of a sentence).

(Artwork for this post created by Khalil Brown-Royal.)

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Reminiscing About My Mom and Mother’s Day

by on ·Nostalgia

I always thought my mother was a beautiful black woman. Need I say that I use black relevant to her racial group, not her complexion, which was the color of coffee with cream.

Mother had beautiful teeth. Until the day she died, she had all of her natural pearly whites, minus one molar, and it was hardly noticeable in the back of her mouth. Still, she felt self-conscious and often told me she wished she had not told the dentist to pull that tooth years earlier. I don’t know why he didn’t fill it or do a root canal. From our conversations, I know that mother was strongly opposed to root canals, so if her dentist had told her that having one was the only option for saving her tooth, she likely would have refused.

Mother’s hair was her crowning glory, and she always took pride in it. Before age began to thin it, she had a beautiful thick, ebony-colored mane.

As much as I longed for hair like hers, I mostly envied her long, natural fingernails. She didn’t wear nail hardener or polish, yet she managed to grow lengthy attractive nails. When I’d ask her how she managed to have nails like that when mine rarely extended beyond my fingertips, she’d say, “I don’t know. They’ve always grown like that.”

Even beyond her middle-aged years, after birthing four children and being blessed with six grandchildren and some great grands, mother’s slender frame, high cheekbones, and piercing brown eyes still turned heads.

Decades ago, before her faith became the focus of her life and curtailed our occasional outings, mother and I would go places together, like shopping or to a movie, and we’d often be mistaken for sisters. One humid summer day, after an outing, seeking refuge from the heat, we grabbed a taxi back to her house and were glad to get one with air-conditioning. After we settled in, the driver looking admiringly at mom in the rear-view mirror, said, “Is the AC too cool for you and your sister?” Mother and I looked at each other and smiled before she replied, “It feels fine, and she’s my daughter, not my sister.” That led the gray-haired gentleman, who looked about 75, to display a wide gap-tooth grin and then start the black don’t crack conversation.

Unlike some of her sisters who went to college, my mother had only high school education, yet she was an intelligent, resourceful woman, a doting mother, and a good wife to my dad. She was also very generous, especially for her children, but otherwise shrewd with money. She could pinch a penny until it turned white.

Mom also had a green thumb. I think my siblings and I inherited our love for houseplants from my mom. When I was a youngster mother had plenty of potted plants lining the windowsill in the living room. My favorite was the beautiful purple passion. She also had a tall, resilient snake plant that sat in a large pot on the floor beside the armchair.

If mom ever had a mission, it was maintaining a clean house, and she insisted that her other three rambunctious children and I help keep it tidy.

Although she was a full-time homemaker when we children grew old enough to be somewhat responsible, mom started doing part-time what was called days’ work. And at one point, she worked as a cashier at Drug Fair on upper Connecticut Avenue.

I remember mom telling me many times about leaving that drugstore one evening during a fierce snowstorm. There were already inches of the white stuff on the ground when she walked outside. She said she waited at the bus stop forever for the DC Transit bus (renamed Metro in the 1970s) to arrive and bring her back across town. Never in her life, she said, had she ever been as cold. She thought she would freeze to death before the bus finally arrived. Dad was at home babysitting us four children. Our family didn’t have a car at the time, and even if dad had tried to drive through the storm with us kids, it would have been a dangerous undertaking.

As good mothers tend to do, our mother made sacrifices for her children; some were small, some were large, and occasionally she tried to do the impossible, like one Easter Sunday when I was around 8 or 9 years old. Mom was hot-combing my hair and getting us kids ready to go to Sunday School. After straightening my hair, as she was preparing to give me some curls, I began pleading with her, “Mom, make me Shirley Temple curls? Pleeease!”

My mother knew – but I refused to believe – that it would take an Easter miracle for her to transform my short, thin, kinky naps into golden coils like Shirley Temples.

Before she began curling, mother explained that my hair was too short for curls like that. It was only about three inches in length; it was not long enough, but it also wasn’t thick enough, and of course, the texture, well, you know. But in my naïve mind, my mother could do anything. Since I refused to hear what she was saying and kept whining that I wanted Shirley Temple curls, mother made an effort.

Slathering on Royal Crown Hair Dressing and using a stovetop burner to heat the curling iron, mother began parting my hair and creating skinny curls about the thickness and half the length of small link sausages. When she finished, I rushed to look in the bathroom mirror and then dropped my smile.

Mother had laid down some neat and pretty black curls sideways on my head, but it looked nothing like Shirley Temples. Despite shaking my head hard enough to rattle my brain and give myself a concussion, I was even more disturbed that my short, stiff curls remained immobile. They would not shake or bounce like little miss curly top’s golden, voluminous tresses.

Over the years, mother and I often laughed about my Shirley Temple Easter wish.

That was decades before TV programs featured any little black girls. (Even Buckwheat, on The Little Rascals, was a boy playing a girl.) There were undoubtedly no girls like Lyric Ross (who plays Deja on This is Us) who debuted on the program proudly and boldly wearing a short afro and inspiring black girls in their formative years to embrace their natural hair.

Over the years, Scrabble became my mother and my favorite pastime. Both of us were, and I remain, fiercely competitive. Sometimes on the weekend, we would stay up past midnight battling it out on the Scrabble board. How I miss those times. How I miss my mom. So many memories. Not enough pages or time to write about all of them.

To my readers whose mother, like mine, has passed on, treasure your memories with her.

And to all of you who are moms yourself, Happy Mother’s Day!

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My Circle of Friends is Shrinking

by on ·Aging, Friends and Lovers, Friendships

A friend is one who overlooks your broken fence and admires the flowers in your garden. – Anonymous

 

My circle of friends is shrinking. I know I’m not alone. The same thing is happening to other folks in my age group. Nevertheless, I miss my friends.

Despite being extremely shy and introverted when I was a child, I was fortunate enough to acquire a few lifelong friends. My bond with former playmates and teenage pals persisted throughout our school years, after graduation, in early adulthood, into middle age, and in some instances, continues in our senior years. In those early days, we played together, partied together, and occasionally some of us worshiped together at the same church. Of course, sometimes it isn’t easy to maintain a friendship without frequent contact or interaction, but true friendships stand the test of time.

As we mature and our lifestyles and priorities change, we become more selective about who we consider our friends. Two decades ago, sites like Facebook, Friendster, and Twitter, came on the scene and expanded the word’s meaning; now, nearly anyone who lands on our social media page is called a friend. Despite the superficiality, I have formed some genuine friendships on social media.

I read where researchers say that we make nearly 400 friendships in a lifetime, but only about half a dozen will last. However, another study states that if a friendship lasts longer than seven years, it will likely last a lifetime. While I still feel blessed to have some lifelong friends, I’ve lost some of them through one circumstance or another.

Sometimes when I am relaxing in my recliner, I think about some of my longtime friends.

There was that warm Saturday afternoon in the summer of ’77 when Marcie and I were sitting on my living room sofa sipping beer (yes, I dabbled a bit back then). Forty-fives were spinning on the stereo, and I was consoling my despondent friend over the pending breakup of her marriage. (My own marriage had gone kaput five years earlier.) When Melba Moore began singing her hit Lean on Me, we pumped up the volume, oblivious to the neighbors. Near the end of that song, just before Melba belts out, “I’m gonna … make it, make it, make it, make it if you lean on me,” Marcie jumps up from her seat, throws her head and arms back, and mimicking Melba hits and holds that unforgettable high note that lasts for over 20 seconds. Marcie could sing as well as any professional songstress. It has been over ten years since my contact with Marcie, but that day when she and Melba brought down my house, so to speak, remains embedded in my memory.

In recent years, I’ve become more discerning in my choice of friends. I weed out drama queens and kings, egotists, arrogant jerks, and users – folks who only get in touch when they want something. Furthermore, as for making new friends, my attitude is iffy. At this stage of my life – if I do, I do, and if I don’t, I won’t fret over it. It’s not that I am not open to making friends; I just don’t go out of my way to do it.

Everybody knows that friendships sometimes turn into loving relationships, whether or not that was the intent. That’s what happened with me and LB back in the sixties. Soon after our accidental meeting, we bonded and established our favorite hangout places and songs, including The Marvelettes’ “When You’re Young and In Love” and The Blackbyrds, “Rock Creek Park.”

Sometimes on weekends or in the evenings after work, we would enjoy long rides cruising through the streets in his Ford Mustang while listening to Smooth Jazz or The Quiet Storm on the radio. Occasionally, he would arrive at my job on a warm day during my lunch break. I’d climb on the back of his motorcycle, put on the extra helmet, and hug his waist as he zig-zagged through downtown traffic, heading to our preferred fast-food place where he would buy our favorite gyro sandwiches. Then we’d find someplace to chow down and chat. Afterward, he’d whisk me back to my job and head back to his.

Initially, we were in a monogamous relationship, and then over the years, we each drifted to someone else. Nevertheless, our friendship persisted for 32 years. Those cherished memories of our times together live in my head and heart, like one day in the early days of our union when he took me past his mom’s house. She was preparing a delicious smelling, mouthwatering meal for her and LB’s father, her husband’s dinner. The aroma nearly lifted me off my feet. Our visit was short but as we were preparing to leave, LB went into the kitchen with his mom while I waited by the front door. They came out together and she handed me a dish of paella wrapped in foil. Later that evening when I was eating it alone at home, it was so tasty I wanted to lick the bowl. Whenever she prepared paella after that, she would occasionally send me a plate by LB. “Can’t come in right now,” he’d say, “but mama sent this for you.” He would hand it to me, and off he’d go. If there is such a thing as soulmates, he and I were that.

When LB came to visit me on April 28, 2001, for about 90 minutes, we laughed, talked, and reminisced about our old times together over lemonade. Then, four days later, at 53, my BFF suddenly died. Whenever I replay that last day in my mind, I don’t think it was happenstance. Instead, I believe that it was God’s plan for us to spend that time together because unbeknown to us, when we hugged, kissed, and said goodbye as we always did when parting, it was the last time. His final haunting words to me were, “I’ll call you on Monday.”

My circle of friends took a heartbreaking hit.

 

 

 

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GI Jane Joke was no Knee-Slapper

by on ·Entertainment, Opinion, The Way I See It

Wow! Not since I saw the butt-naked streaker run across the stage during the 1974 Oscars have I seen anything so mouth-dropping as when Will Smith slapped the GI Jane joke out of Chris Rock’s mouth. And as if the smack heard around the world wasn’t enough, Smith went back to his seat and shouted obscenities. “Keep my wife’s name out of your f***ing mouth.”

Since everyone else with two lips and a pulse is opining about the Smith-Rock show, I’m adding my two cents.

Rock’s joke may have been in poor taste, but when is using physical violence against someone who says something you dislike okay? Is it all right for a student to strike a school teacher because he or she was asked to stop cutting up? Heck no. Is it okay for a parent to hit (and God forbid spank) their misbehaving child when a time-out is a waste of time? Well, that depends on who you ask.

The same premise can be applied to the infamous slap. Two wrongs don’t make a right. As I see it, the problem with many of today’s rebellious youths is that they have out-of-control parents as role models. Case in point – Smith’s son Jaden reportedly tweeted, “And that’s how we do it.” Would his response have been the same if Smith had pulled out a gun and shot Rock dead?

Smith lost points with me when he displayed a hair-trigger adverse reaction to what was said in jest. And I wonder, did it occur to him – for a split second – to wait to talk to Rock man-to-man off-stage and tell him that he didn’t appreciate his bad joke? Or was the actor hell-bent on displaying another Oscar-worthy performance?

Judging by what I’ve seen and heard, the public is divided on their feelings about the incident. If ordinary people expect celebrities to be role models, then Smith needs to check his demeanor because his inappropriate behavior took him to a new low. On the other hand, Rock showed restraint and class; he also refused to press charges for the assault.

According to ET the Oscars is broadcast in over 200 countries. Being the recipient of the bitch-slap heard around the world is the ultimate humiliation. I don’t even want to think about the outcry that would have resulted if Rock had socked him back and the two wound up grappling on the stage. That surely would have gotten more gasps than the naked man streaking across the stage over forty years ago.

I’ve heard some folks say that they wonder if Smith was under the influence of too much alcohol or some other judgment clouding, courage-boasting substance or if he was having a breakdown. Many folks are also saying that they believe there is something deeper eating at Smith than Rock’s GI Jane joke.

Since we were not privileged to hear the conversation between Denzel, Tyler Perry, and others who appeared to be trying to comfort Smith backstage, we don’t know what they were saying to him. I’d like to think that instead of saying, “Way to go, man!” at least one, if not all, of them, told him that what he did was out of line. It has also been reported that Smith said Denzel told him, “At your highest moment, be careful. That’s when the devil comes for you.'” Take heed Will Smith. Take heed.

This morning on The View, Smith’s mom expressed her surprise about her son’s actions. She said that she had never seen him behave that way.

And while many people are empathizing with “Poor Will” I agree with today’s guest host also on The View. She expressed her thoughts concerning the possible reasons for Smith’s behavior and whether the Academy should discipline him. She said, “Just because you can explain it doesn’t mean that you should excuse it…We cannot have selected consequences to decide who gets punished and who doesn’t.”

Will Smith may one day receive a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but it’s likely already being tarnished by the legacy of his recent Oscar-winning night behavior.

That’s my two cents, and I’m taking it to the bank.

 

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