Confession

Thursday night was fun. My roommate and I finally decided to put up our dart board in the living room. My girlfriend was there as well, and suggested that we’d play a game of 301. “Three-oh-what?”

See, I don’t imagine darts as a “black person’s hobby.” And many are going to think that’s ignorant, racist, naïve or whatever, but let’s be real. Not many black dudes I know, play darts. The bar across the street from my house has 2 dart boards, and 2 pool tables. I’d always gravitated towards the latter. But not because I’m black, but because I love to relive my childhood days of playing with my 3-in-1 Fisherprice Pool Table.

Do you remember that? It was the best. Pool, Ping-Pong, and Knock Hockey all in one. Our family played ping pong and pool endlessly for four months straight after we got it. My mom was a pro at ping pong. She grew up in suburban New Jersey with her four siblings where they did nothing but play ping pong and capture wild animals (refer to story of my Uncle Stevie somehow bringing a tiny duckling home, than later crushing it by rolling over in the middle of the night.)

Anyway. My mom was a seasoned vet at ping pong. My father was no slouch either. Who knows when he learned to play? Then I remember the first time they played each other. I never saw my father moving his hand so fast - except when he impatiently shook loose his Pall Mall cigarettes. And my weirdly sweet, “I’ll bake you a cookie for no reason” mother was quite a competitor. There I stood by, watching as the plastic ball whizzed back and forth across the miniature table. My father had the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up, apparently oblivious that it’s the shirt that’s making him leak from his forehead. My mother, with her pupils dilated - focused more than I’d ever seen her, pruned and pursed her lips tighter with each stroke of the paddle.

Then it ended. Score 21 to 19. My mother, in slow motion, raised her arms in the air - victorious. Looking at them, you’d think they’d just run the New York City Marathon. My father reached for his jar of water , panting. (Note: he drank from old, rinsed out relish and mayo jars. Never cups. Don’t ask.) His flannel button up shirt drenched. My mother's lips finally unclenched each other, then shifted into their normal shape.

That afternoon I saw my parents sweat, yell, stretch, and moan in ways I had never imagined. I’m still in therapy.

I became better at ping pong, and moved my way to playing pool. Keep in mind the Fisher Price 3-in-1 was smaller than normal. The pool sticks were as short as rulers, and the balls were as small as gerbil poop.
We made it work. I'm now proficient in the art of miniature pool and half-size table tennis.

So back to Thursday night. The three things I knew about darts:
1) You throw the thing, point first, at the red dot in the middle.
2) Don’t throw it, point first, at a human.
3) You can, however, throw it tail first at someone’s eye… and it’ll be really funny.

***RANDOM THOUGHT***
Why is it that even the biggest, and baddest of men are still scared of having a rubber band pointed at their face?
***End of RANDOM THOUGHT***

So my girlfriend explained to me and my roommate the rules of 301. Hit spots on the board worth certain amount of points, so they get subtracted from 301. The first one to 0 wins.. But you can’t go past zero (so if it’s your go, and you have 15 points left, if you hit 17, you turn is over because that leaves -2, and you remain at 15.)
We play. Did I mention that the dart board was hers, that she and her roommate used to play everyday? Well, she won the first game. Getting to zero while I had about 115, and my roommate, Al, had like 299.

She wins, looks at us, says nothing, struts off to the kitchen for her pointless victory lap. Little does she know that Al and I are extremely competitive. (We once played Madden football on Xbox for seven straight hours, never going more than 45 seconds without talking trash to one another… On thanksgiving.) So we decide to make a wager. Play again, but the loser has to buy beverages for the weekend. She’s game. We’re P-O’d and focused so she doesn’t stand a chance.

See what you have to know about her is that she’ll buckle under pressure if you keep in her ear about how much she sucks. Clang! “You might wanna hit the board this time.” B-dong! “See that red circle in the middle? Yea…aim there.” Diong! “You know, you’re allowed to play with your eyes open, right?”

I win, Al comes in second, and she finishes with a bunch of points left. Now she’s steamin’ mad. I, being the shark that I am, know she’s mentally incapable of beating me at this moment. Believe me, I cant take this girl bowling without her blowing a gasket because that one pin she barely knicked, was supposed to be a strike. Yea, OK.
So we make another wager. "OK, since we’ve begun throwing garbage on the floor and started putting pots in the bath tub, the loser has to get garbage bags and dishwashing liquid."

She knows she’s in a funk, but we persuade to agree.
CLANG!
B-DONG!
DIONG!
She missed the entire board just like the previous game, but this time her bad aim is compounded with anger and frustration. And the wall paid dearly. “No. Uh-uh. I’m not buying any *expletive* garbage bags.”
“Fine, that’s fair cause you don’t live here. But at least buy the dish liquid. Cmon you did lose.”
“Fine.”

But I can’t help myself. “One more game. This is the last one. This one for garbage bags separately.” It takes a lot more convincing but she agrees. Her dented pride interferes with her better judgment.

The dart board now hangs on a piece of Swiss cheese thanks to her performance.
So, Kris, if you read this - I’m sorry. I preyed on your inabilities to hold it together after losing. I knew you’d buckle like a stool under a fat lady. But Al and I really needed dish liquid - and garbage bags.

Welcome

Well, I'd just like to welcome myself to blogging. Please, hold the applause. Thanx. On here, Im going to have many things. Some of my posts will be random thoughts - just observations and questions I may have. A chuckle may come about when read (I was teased recently for using the word chuckle...was that warranted?). I'll have short stories, long stories, but no poetry. CANTSTANDIT. There, I said it.

Why is everyone so scared of saying they hate poetry? Just admit it, you do. What is it, exactly besides a bunch of short sentences that never line up with each other that uses no punctuation, but too many adjectives. I don't get it. I have one world literature class that was interesting for the first two weeks, but then we read Walcott for the next 4 months. Whatthehell is that guy talking about?!? Anyway, my professor, a young, skin-and-bones brunette from Canada who has an English accent and wears flannel belly sweaters in the winter, loves Walcott. Seriously, every time she talks about him her eyes become glossed over with infatuation. It's scary. All she needs is a bunch of cartoon hearts circling above her head. One day, when she asked me what I thought about Walcott's use of "Sir" in A Sea Is History, I was gonna say, "actually, I couldn't care less. I hate the guy's work. And I hate poetry too." But I pictured her gasping then walking over to me wide-eyed, and whispering in her English accent, "how dare you? One mustn't utter such wurds."

Yeah, so there will be no poetry.

Most likely.

Actually, some poems blow my mind and are simply, extraordinary.

A grain of salt, people. A grain of salt.