Sunday, July 24, 2005
Faves and Peeves
Here are all things Devas T.; favored and unfavored:
Things he faves:
High fructose ropes
I'm not sure when this love affair began, probably sometime around his high school freshman year. This mom-and-pop convenience store, a hop-and-a-skip down the block from his school, kept their shelves fully stocked with those oowie-gooie strawberry confections better known as Twizzlers. Longing for something sweet, he never much cared for those black licorice things. Breakfast was shunned, and so was his lunch, in favor of these pull apart twists.
Reading anything Richard Wright
There's something about the way Richard Wright tells a story. When Devas T. opens one of his books, his attention span, normally short, is quickly widened, as he is compelled into a story of fight, flight, oppression, corruption and adventure.
English Leather body wash and a brand-spankin' new package of Fruit of the Looms (The idea that he, too, might look in his skivvies, like the guy on the box is enough inspiration for him to continue crunching his abs, and doing deep squats.) These are the things that a wife can provide that makes a brotha feel loved. Oh, and she mus'nt forget, a brand new tube of tooth paste, blue Listerine, Magic Shave and some Ban. Oh, baby—oh yes!
Toss out the Cold-Eeze
There's something painfully wonderful about running a one-hundred-and-one-degree fever, skin crawling chills, ears so clogged he can't hear a thing. His burning throat, a nose with one nostril blocked, and eyes burning bright red. That's when he sips, ever so slowly, a cup of lemon and honey TheraFlu and shoos away everyone in sight, so he can enjoy his beautiful agony in peace, with a touch of sympathy from the wife. Heaven.
Scale model cars
This brotha will never in his lifetime, on the salary of a children's book artist or a graphics reporter, be able to afford the luxury of a Ferrari, a Hummer, or an Oscar Mayer Weiner Mobile. So Hot Wheels will do. And they do. He's blessed.
Things he peeves
Washa de handsa (As Madonna might say)
There is nothing that offends this brotha more, than standing in front of a men's room stall, and hearing the drip-drip-drip, as the man standing next to him fling-fling-flings, then flushes and exits without washing his hands. Ugg at the thought of washing his own hands then having to touch a urine stained door knob. That's why he always opens public restroom doors, paper towel in hand.
Good service costs?
The last thing this brotha wants, after eating an over-priced dinner at an elegant downtown restaurant, is to pay a gratuity in the form of more money. You mean a thank-you won't do? Maybe he's just growing old and grumpy. Or maybe he's just plain ole cheap. Is it too much to expect, to be served his food, with a sprightly smile, in a timely manner, by a waitress with old fashioned home-taught manners? Probably so. Now, don't get me wrong, yes, the brotha does tip his twenty-percent, 'cause he knows what they say when a black man's waiting to be seated. "You wait that table, 'cause black folk don't tip."
Is it somehow trendy or fashionable or completely necessary, he thinks to himself, for parents to adopt a child from half way across the world, when a child right here, in their own back yard needs a loving family? Children aren't Chihuahuas, some kind of exotic breed to show off. He wonders to himself if parents in Italy or Romania or China like to adopt black children from Harlem, simply because they are cute, or in vogue? He scratches his head.
What more can reveal a persons retardical ways, than driving a car, a really cheap car, with silvery rims, that spin in reverse.
Hack and spit
If you're jogging along and breathe in a fly, without question, go right ahead: snort him deep into your nose, thoroughly mix in thick salivate, then hack, snort and let her rip. Devas T. won't complain. But to spit on the walkway, or road, for that matter, for the mere pleasure of spitting, come on, please pleasure yourself in other ways.
No speak Spanglish in Texas
After walking into a Taco Cabana and ordering a flauta, which he pronounced floota, the cashier frowns up her face, and corrects him. "Flautas" she says, the words rolling nimbly off the tip of her tongue. She turns her head and jibber-jabbers something he didn't understand, in a language unfamiliar to a transplanted Texan. She and a coworker laughed to themselves, leaving him to wonder, "did I do something wrong?" If something is said, on American ground, why can't it be said, in a language a brotha can understand — ebonics.
Eight is bad luck
This next item relates more to phobe than to peeve, but this phobe happens to peeve a brotha as well. Can you name the thing that is small enough to fit in a jar, that has eight legs, eight eyes and fangs? No, not a monster nor alien goon. But, yes, I speak of no less than a spider. Large as your fist or small as a toe, this brotha proudly professes arachnophillic tendencies. I remember the day one of these eight-legged mongrels took his truck — ratty as it is — hostage for almost an hour. He returned to his truck after eating his lunch, and upon preparing to leave, he sensed something move. That’s when he spied it, hovering on the edge of his seatbelt: a big, black, hairy, jumping and hissing spider. Ok, maybe it didn't hiss, but it may as well, because he damn near broke all ten of his fingers, as well as his seatbelt trying to get out. One hour, four phone calls, three thrown books and alot of sweat was lost before he finally won the battle for his ride, and killed the beast, who had cowardly scuttled off beneath hid seat. But a brotha was not going anyplace with the legend of bigfoot, loose in his truck.