Somehow, I have part of a black man in my soul.  I am a white male.  My parents are both white.  All four grandparents are white.  I’m as averge white as you can get.  Yet there remains this black man within.

And so with Barack Obama nearing the presidency, I thought it appropriate to explain to my readers why I think there is a black man within.

I grew up in Oregon.  There aren’t very many black people there.  In our high school of 4000, we had exacly one black boy … and he was 1/2 Mexican.  So I didn’t really learn much about the black culture until I moved to Texas.

One of the first things that I noticed that I have a black man within is how much I love basketball.  I play it three times a week.  I love the NBA.  I don’t care much for the white player in the NBA.  I tend to enjoy watching the black man play more than the white man.

Several year ago, I bought a Mitsubishi Galant.  As I’ve been driving it, I notice other owners of the Galant.  I’d say about 90% of the people I’ve seen driving the Galant are Black.  It is a standing joke between my wife and I … whenever we see a Galant, we go out of our way to see the race of the driver.  Almost always the driver is Black.  And if he or she is not Black, they are a minority.  I especially loved the suped up, ghetto Galants.  My black man within desires to pimp my ride.

I love fried chicken.  Church’s, Popeye’s, KFC, Pollo Campero … you name it, I love it.  I also still love McDonald’s.  (Have you ever noticed that McDonald’s commercials hardly ever market to the white boy anymore?)

Watermelon … my summertime favorite.

This last story really made me realize that I definately have a black man within.  A couple of weeks ago, I attended a co-worker’s 30th anniversary luncheon.  She is Black.  There were two tables … one for her and her family and the other for all the employees.  Of course I sat at the employee table.  There were two black men at the table.  Everyone else was white or Mexican.  For lunch, the meat choice was steak, chicken or salmon.  I love salmon, so naturally I ordered it.  When the meat came out, I noticed everyone at the table ordered steak except the three people who ordered salmon.  As I said, I was one of the salmon orders.  The other two … you guessed it … the two black men at the table.  No one knew why I was laughing out loud when the meat arrived.

That’s all the evidence I have.  As more surfaces, I’ll post it.

On a side note … have you ever listened to a black person pray?  Count how many times they say the word “just” in their prayers.


The squids are out of school and enjoying the summer.  One of the summer’s first activities for the kiddos was basketball camp.  We enrolled Little Apollo in the Josh Howard basketball camp back in March.  Little did we know that it would change our son’s life forever.

“How was your first day at basketball camp?”

“Wiiiikeeeed” he calmly replies.

“Are you OK there sport?”

“It’s all good man.  It was high times to sundown baby.”

“C’mere bud.  Lemme see something in your hair.”

I pretend to be taking something out of his hair and then I bend a little closer and take a whiff.  Yup … Mary Jane.

“Hey listen bud, you’re going to go to a basketball camp a little closer to home tomorrow, OK?”

“No problem dad … it’s all good.”

I was shooting the basketball at the local gym.  Ten of us had just finished a game in which my team won.  Then everyone left except me.  I stayed to practice my deadly 3-point shot.

The ball swished through the net and bounced to the wall behind the basket.  I walked over to pick it up.  I bounced the ball once and then stopped.  My right (shooting) hand was gooey and discustingly wet.  The ball had bounced in a puddle of spittle.  It wasn’t the watered down kind … it was the snotty white-greenish kind … absolutly sickening.

I threw the ball away and dried my hand off with the towl and picked up another basketball.  I continued to shoot 3-point shots.  I hit the first, the second and the third.  I shot a fourth and nailed it.  Ten shots later and I still had not missed.  No … no way … it couldn’t be.

I backed up three feet behind the NBA line – swish.  Halfcourt – off the backboard and in.  Insane.

I have an appointment today with an NBA team representative.

I’m becoming more convinced that Oregon is or is becoming a castrated state.

These poor 12-year-old boys can’t handle playing basketball with a girl.  The 6’1 12-year-old girl‘s mom explained how her daughter got kicked off the team.

“She scored 30 points,” Jaime’s mom, Reiko Williams, told The Oregonian. “I remember one play. She stole the ball, dribbled up court and made a behind-the-back pass to a teammate. He missed the lay-in, and she grabbed the rebound and put it in. I think it was just too much for some of those parents.

“The next day, she came home and said they wouldn’t let her play with the boys anymore.”

Instead of playing like boys around this girl, the boys whine to their parents and complain that they can’t really play like they “normally” do around the other boys … so the parents complain and get the girl kicked off the team!

They are all wusses – the boys and their parents.  Jaime, the 6’1 12-year-old girl (I’m still in awe) should be allowed to continue to play on her team.  The boys just need to grow some nuts.

The NBA has some tough times ahead after this report.

2006 Finals

It will only be a matter of time before Cuban starts clamoring again about the Mavs’ embarassing meltdown in the 2006 Finals.  The report even takes a swipe by posting a picture of the 2006 Finals game in Miami.

This is just so sad.