Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Bedtime Story

Counting SheepOne of my regular blog readers, Vye, recently left a note in my “What do you want me to write about?” box. She even signed her name (Gutsy, aren’t you, Vye? Just kidding.)
Vye said that although she enjoys reading my “two cents worth” blogs, I write too many serious posts (Was she alluding to the last one that I wrote about transgenders?). “Lighten-up,” she said. “I know from reading you in the past, that you have a great sense of humor. I’d like to see you write more entertaining, personal posts, and less newsy material. There are already too many blogs being written about contemporary trends and doom and gloom issues.”

Well, excuse me! I was tempted to tell her, “Girlfriend, I am serious by nature. If you want humor watch Donald Trump — on any platform.”
But I didn’t go there. To appease her – since she is one of my many loyal blog followers — Is it up to three now or four? — I decided to lighten the mood, this time, by writing something less opinionated and more personal. Like this.

Several months ago, I bought a new bedroom suite to replace an aging, 20-year-old mahogany set. The timeworn and crammed dresser drawers would not slide in and out smoothly and the armoire, with a slightly unhinged door, had become a nuisance. I held on to that furniture for as long as I did because I dreaded the thought of transferring all of my stuff from one storage place to another. But it was worth the change.
My current, beautiful bedroom suite has a cherry finish and plenty of storage space. The chest and mirrored dresser has lots of drawers with shiny knobs. But my favorite piece is the queen-sized platform bed. Ahh, the bed. It is my dream bed with a bookcase headboard and ten spacious drawers around the frame. I love a platform bed. The one that I have now is the second one that I’ve owned. Box springs begone!
The best thing about a platform bed is that it eliminates the irritating squeaky noises and groans commonly made by an old mattress and box spring set. If you’ve ever had that kind of bed or have one now, then you know what I am talking about. You climb into bed; it squeaks. You roll over during the night, squeak! If there is more action than rolling over it is squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. And there is additional squeaky, creaky noise when you are getting out of bed. Take it from someone who habitually tosses and turns in her sleep most nights, my platform bed with its memory foam pillow top mattress is as quiet as a monk in monastic silence.
Unlike when I was a child who delighted in jumping up and down on my mattress and box spring twin bed, my neighbor’s four-year-old grandson could jump on my current bed and not create a single bounce. Although he’d better not try it. There is only one downside to my platform bed. It is unlike the first one I owned which was low, down near the floor. I could sit on the side of that old bed, stretch out my legs on the floor and lay back on the mattress without bending my knees. My current bed gives new meaning to the term “climb into bed.” It is high. Waaay high. I am a five foot six woman. I consider myself in excellent health and flexible, but I almost need a springboard or step ladder to climb on that high a** bed. And Lord help me if I roll over while sleeping and fall on the floor. Regardless of the carpeting beneath it, from the top of my bed to the floor is a 32-inch drop. If I don’t break every bone in my body, I’d probably be hospitalized and in traction for months.
There, Vye. I have let you and the rest of the Internet community peek inside my bedroom. It won’t get much more personal than that. Can I now get back to expressing my two cents about the rest of the world?
[To buy my book, Legacy, at Amazon.com. Click on the “Buy My Book” tab above.]

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To Be Determined

Check boxesA friend who is a police officer, I’ll call him Jim, also works part-time doing security in an office building. Jim is required to check visitor’s IDs and have them sign in. He told me that recently, a very tall, professionally-dressed woman came into the building and when Jim asked her (we’ll call her Casey) for ID, Casey presented a driver’s license. The photo on the permit revealed a man with a five o’clock shadow, and the gender identification showed M.

“This ID indicates that you are a male,” Jim said politely to Casey. Casey replied cheerfully, “Actually, I was born a male, but I am in the process of transitioning to female.” Although there was some resemblance in facial features, Jim felt that the person pictured on the ID and the one standing before him might — or might not — be the same person. So, what’s a person to do when that happens? The issue is not only a quandary for people like Jim, but others are also concerned about how to handle this kind of situation, now and in the future.

When we are born, our gender is recorded on our birth certificate. Do transgenders receive an altered birth certificate to reflect their sex change? Will birth certificates eventually be revised to include a blank line following the word sex or gender with a check-box “To be determined.” Or will sex be presented as a multiple choice option? Please check one:  __male, __female, __ both, __ other.

I am not trying to be funny or mean-spirited. It’s a fact that things are changing in this world at warp speed and many changes are beyond the scope of imagination, or to put another way — stranger than fiction.

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Putting an Old Spin on the New Norm

Banana 2Contemplating the state of  things boggles my mind. I can’t speak to other countries, but in America, the land of the free, the home of the crazed, er, I mean brave, in the land of opportunity, you can be anything you want to be. If you are male, you can transform to female or vice versa. Just ask Caitlyn or Chaz. If you are white, you can go black without transforming anything, except your skin tone and hair texture. Ask Rachael. And if the King of Pop were alive, you could ask him about making an ethnic transformation from black to white. Plainly stated, with courage and enough money, you can have it your way. And I’m not talking about a burger.

Rational dictates that just because you consider yourself to be something doesn’t make it so. Perhaps in Fantasyland. But in the real world no matter how you try to color it, reconstruct it, snip it, implant it, legislate it or rename it – it is what it is. Remove the thorns, trim the stem, and pick the petals off, a rose will still be a rose. Calling a dog a cat doesn’t make it a feline any more than calling a tomato stuffed into a cucumber stuffed inside a banana skin makes it a new fruit. Or does it?

Political Correctness or fear of reprisal prevents numerous people from publicly expressing their feelings about controversial issues, especially if their opinion goes against the grain of what some call “the new norm.” But there are some brave hearts who are not afraid to speak out.

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Ugly Feet

FEET Sepia toneIt’s the time of year when women like to show off their pretty feet. That is women who have pretty feet. Let me be the first to tell you that I’m not one of them. My feet are so ugly that they would make a podiatrist recoil. And, if ever there is a TV show featuring the world’s ugliest feet, I will go toe-to-toe to convince you that I am a shoe-in to win first place.

There might be some saving grace for my right foot, but the left one puts its counterpart to shame. Lefty has a bunion that looks like a swollen golf ball, and it has a hammer toe to boot. The toe next to the hammer has a small bump. And though the middle toe has no defects, the one beside the pinkie has twin corns but the littlest piggy has none.

When I was a child, my mom, like most moms do, would take me shoe shopping and have me try on the shoes while in the store. She would press down and around the toe area to see if I had wiggle room and then tell me to walk around. If I assured her that the shoes felt “Good.” and she was satisfied that my feet had adequate space, she would buy the pair. But occasionally, a day or two later while wearing those cute shoes, my dogs would start yelping. It was as if the shoes had magically decreased a size after we brought them home.

When I became an employed young adult, living on a shoestring budget, I still, occasionally and inadvertently, bought ill-fitting shoes, mainly because I liked the style. One thing overlooked for years was that I had wide feet. The cute narrow shoes that I favored, especially the pointy ones, often scrunched my toes. My feet are a testament to years of wearing uncomfortable shoes.

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Page from a Police Officer’s Journal (A Poem)

(This poem was submitted by Guest Blogger, N. Justus)

Crime Scene Chalk Mark

It may seem to some that we are killing all the black men.

Picking them off like flies, then using alibis,

Saying “I thought I drew my Taser,” but grabbed my gun instead

And shot him in the back.

Well, he shouldn’t have run for his life.

While I had my knee on his head he should have played dead

Instead of talking about “I can’t breathe.”

“Nigger, please,” I wanted to say, but my mike was on

And some dyke riding by on a bike was recording everything on her cell phone.

Caught on camera. Damn. Damn!

Why don’t they just leave us alone to do our deed?

No need to feed it to the media or put it on YouTube.

Saying cops gone wild. That’s putting it mildly.

We’re just helping you out ‘cause you killing each other anyhow.

Making it look like we’re so bad. How sad is that?

You know it ain’t true. We just do what we do.

Just like some of you.

What slavery failed to do

What the Klan couldn’t too

YOU are destroying you.

Thug life. White wife.

Homicide. Prison bride.

No matter how you color the story

It all boils down to Black Genocide.

And one day it will be bye, bye baby

black race gone.

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