Nina Simone’s Inner Nina Simone

Sometimes you need to hear that you’re doing a good job and somehow KNOW you’re not wasting your potential. And be kind of a dick about it, 

The Jons and I were listening to “Igor” by Tyler and one of my favorite comedians Jerrod Carmichael referenced the concept of ‘wasted potential being detrimental to the soul’ (paraphrasing) which is not to be taken as a radial ideal. N*ggas continuously waste their potential every single day. Like most of the people I know in my Tier 1 and Tier 2 friendship will quickly take opportunities and then just as quick toss them in the garbage. The amount of people who loved doing activities or skills that are now lost for one reason or the other,

Why do people do that? Why do the Jons do that? Everyone does that sh*t.

One may look at self confidence and self esteem and self anything, really. You’re working a job and you’re doing great job and you’re numbers are high and you’re efficient and blah, blah, blah. At a certain point, nobody cares. People take that greatness for granted. Could you imagine be so proficient at something and people not acknowledging that you’re the lifeblood of a company. You’re probably putting minimum effort into it and you being more efficient than a heat pump. And nobody saying a thank you or a please or anything. 

At a certain point, free company yoga during a lunch break or a pizza party coddles you and suppresses you’re freewill cognitive ability. People over here in a cubicle selling paper in bulk and they can juggle knives with their tongue. Leaving no fingerprints,

Older people talk about working at a job for 25 years or talking about having kids and being married to their high school sweet heart. Some may call it consistency. Which is great and important but there’s also (I’ll call this a radical notion) that people don’t want to do those things. Sometimes people talk to Jonathan like making dance videos are embarrassing and “wait until I get older”. If I’m 48 and don’t love making dance videos over these past few years, please take my legs. Not everyone wants to be as miserable as you are,

Weak In The Knees

I was running this one time.

I had my two boys Astro & Snoopy, running on one of those warm yet icy mornings in Denver. Astro always pushing. Snoopy always having to be pulled. We had started on our route back, towards Holly Street. By that time, I had finished mapping out the entirety of Denver's city. So best believe I knew where I was going, at all times. Except for one time. We had come to a stop. Well I had stopped. Snoopy had stopped. Astro had stopped. But then Astro went. Then Snoopy went. And unbeknownst to me, I guess I was going too. 

I had been dragged along the pavement for 0.05 miles of our run, actually increasing our pace by 7 or 8 seconds probably. They had only stopped because they were getting choked by trying to drag a 200 pounds worth of Jon. Luckily I only lost a decent amount of skin on my elbow and  my face only got a few pebbles. I had looked up at them after my first dog sledding venture, and they impatiently sat down on their rumps, growling at me to stand upright.. Waiting for me to regain my composure.

Astro & Snoopy were two overgrown weimaraners that outweighed me by a few pounds. They were strong, intelligent, loving, and clumsy dogs. Astro was slightly bigger and actually pushed me to do 5:30 pace with him when alone. Snoopy just wanted to go for a walk and talk about what garbage he ate. Two of the worst running duos out of the 40 dogs I ran but they despised being separated. And who was I to separate two 100 pound dogs from one another?

It took me over 3 months to train Astro & Snoopy to turn at the right time. If we didn't turn at the right time, Astro goes at at right angle and Snoopy would go straight and I'm on the ground. Every morning I saw them, they clawed at the door ( I could literally hear them from inside my door trying to break down the walls to tackle me) and normally destroyed something in the house do to them being aloof.

But the two years I was their lackey I completed over 60 sessions, 250 miles, and unsolicited wrestle time of over a hour. I saw them twice a weak. They got excited every time my car even pulled up. They showered with kisses like I wasn't ever coming back. Until I didn't and for the first time in two years, on my last run, they tried to bite me when I tried to hug them. They knew. They knew that they were my best friends.

Stepdad of The Year

I say this quite often, but I have to remember that I am not the villain or the superhero in everyone's story. I'm probably not even the comic relief or reluctant side character to aid in someone's journey.

Percentage-wise, looking at all the people in the entire world I've ever come in contact with, I am probably a NPC (non-player character) that is sitting on bench, not influencing the story at all. Maybe I'm innocent bystander #38 that gets ran over by a tween on their skateboard at 2pm at a crosswalk between the parkway and the greenway. Maybe I'm not even visible, like the headline of "Breaking News: Man Buys Radioactive Llama!" on some generic basic cable channel and gets bitten by it. And that's okay,

It does get difficult when I am meditating and not focusing. 10 unfocused, isolated minutes practicing ujayii breathing in a criss-cross position is a long time to be thinking about things that aren't of value or relevant to you anymore. Sometimes I think about all the kids I letdown over the last 4 years. I think about why I like to put the numeric symbol for numbers even when it's not grammatically correct. I think about why people talk to me. I think about unlimited tostitos. I think about how people would tweet about my death. I think about if I stayed and helped raise someone else's child and how I would be stepdad of the year.

But none of these things matter in the grand scheme of things. I am a person who has a self-proclaimed "purpose" and only tend to look back on things so I can learn from them and not repeat the same mistakes again. Normally. Things will happen the way they are supposed to and it is my job, nay, our jobs as humans to adjust as needed. Whenever something pops up, deal with, hide from it, it doesn't matter. Humans are adaptable, versatile, innovative...when we want to be. Whatever comes up it's going to steamroll you or you're going to roll with it. Or not, I don't know. I'm not a psychologist. Or reliable. Okay I'm pretty reliable. Wait, who's on first?

This blog post is brought to you by "Hello" by Jermaine Cole himself. One of his lines was the foundation of this entire entry.

Every time I think of the proverbial stepdad, I think of Steve Rogers. For NO reason.

Just Don't Curse

She asked me if I wanted to move in with her. 

Move in with her

She asked me when I wanted to get married.

Getting married, getting married

She asked me if I wanted to have kids. 

Having kids, having kids, having kids

She wanted me to move in with her by September, get married in January, and have a kid or two on our honeymoon in Madrid. Two weeks after our my "Last of Us 2" party with Dee, Skeeter, and Skeeter's brother in an Applebee's. So I turned and did a whimsical glance to her forehead. And this is what I asked her in an unforgiving tone:

Why is my momma's cookin'  so tasty and delicious and everything yo' momma makes smells and tastes like chitlins and old collard greens,

Why y'all keep making slave biopics but won't feed my mule (ya' momma is the mule),

Why don't you support my dreams even though my dream is to have a dream about a dream,

Why is it weird to be normal but not normal to weird,

Why are people not as obsessed with their own self, there's so many cool things about you, 

Why did I run over 1,000 miles this year, just to always end back up at the same place I started,

Why can't I love myself like how Kanye Love Kanye,

Why is Chris Brown unable to function as decent human being,

Why do people eat grits when you can eat real, edible food for breakfast,

Why do people take out their earphones but still don't listen,

Why are people not allowed to get their fingernails painted and cry if they have a penis,

Why don't you got my back like Heromine had Harry's, Drake had Josh's, or Jim Carrey had Jim Carrey's,

Why use lots word when few words do trick,

Why do flies like the smell of poop,

Why are there always flies when I sit beside you while you watch "Big Bang Theory",

Why do you watch "Big Bang Theory",

Why does no one care about cornbread unless it's gentrified, 

Why do rappers lie in 85% of they rhymes,

And how come whenever you visit my momma, you always cursin'?

Why would I want to have a kid with you when I barely see you as it is, on any plane of existence, and I don't think a kid wants to smell like fish all their entire life.

And I was thinking about how can I have a bachelor part y if I am not getting married to you in January or February. Nor march. Nor the 21st night or day of September. 

And I am not moving in with you because your favorite artist is Jason Derulo. 

No one listens to Jason Derulo.

I Believe in The Pop, The Lock, AND The Drop

Dirty Shawn Bradley’s, the cracked screen of a MP3 player, and my mom’s flimsy headphones. 

Stretch the thighs, hamstrings, shoulders, lower back, fingers, neck, biceps, triceps, and most importantly your spiritual animal.

Flip through Outkast, Dangerdoom, N.E.R.D., Yeezy, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, & start with Young H.O.V. to get started. Wait for Ms. Storm’s menacing scowl and short strides to pass by.

Start.

Up Twin Cedars, right on Twin Cliff, loop around Cedar Cliff, down to Stoney Parkway, up Greyfield, wrap around Wraywood to Old Happy Hill to come back. Negative splits so high schoolers don’t mock your efforts.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Pump your arms, relax your double-jointed hands, caress the chest, evenly breathe from your diaphragm, strike the ground more, lower your forehead; your body is synchronized and one with the infinite, whatever that means. 

T.R.O.Y. starts to play as I loop back around, my second wind keeps my pace honest but my hand-me-down baggy clothing exposes my left shoulder. The saxophone medley makes my heart sink, and I phase out of this world. Into a sort of ignorant bliss.

Have you seen it? It is truly spectacular. The spectacle of a vista in the tundra could not compare. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind if only for a fraction, a millisecond. The deciduous trees reach out to bid me a greeting to an elevated space, to feel every cell in my body to work as a whole system. Complete synchronization.

Goofy grin on my face, middle school composure, ashy kneecaps, arms flailing carelessly, headphones keep falling off, half a mile left, 30 minutes until my bus arrives at Foxwood. 

Chris Diamond, acne-prone 16 year-old, 4th string quarterback, 1st string white trash. I initiate an euphoric wave to the hormonal group of teenagers, showered by routine calls of “faggot.”

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Bundles of Jon Part 4

My name is Jonathan, half blank, half give a shit.

My name is Jonny, half black , half licorice.

My name is JODY, half black, half don’t give a shit.

My name is Jon, 

But listen, without the ‘H’, 

Half black, half ordinary negro.

These are my bundles of Jons, all of the Jonny bravos, Jon hamms, Jon-Jon, lil Jons, and John Henry irons.

I’m energetic, sometimes translucent, elusive, electric, engaging, enthralled 

Bothered, shocked, Baffled, appalled, and sometimes a straight goof, goof, goofball.

Some days I’m  informative like a Stewart, sometimes I’m going HAM like Ham, 

I’m good and bad for your heart, like John Candy,

I go well with Tater Tots like a Heder, irrationally emotional like a Bernthal

I got lips like a Lovitz,

Fry some french fries like a Favreau

I’ll surf through it  like a Tsunami,

And boring like a bald headed black kid bearing a board and named Two-By-Four

BUT NO F*CKIN’ ‘H’ 

It’s just, I’m sorry. Wait no I’m not. Wait, yeah I am. Wait, no, yes, uh.

I apologize. 

I just love the Jons. It’s as though I couldn’t promote self-love so I promoted the 4 quarters that make me, me. I’m not on some Split or MPD stuff. There is no we’s, there’s only me’s. Jon is sweet, Jon is protecting, Jon is loving, Jon is brash. I’ll beat the sh*t outta of a super sucka’ but I’ll explain why I did afterwards. 

And when I say cull the herd, it’s what I do. 

The Last Black Superhero In Arvada

I don’t think it’s fair to rule out the possibility of superpowers in today’s modern world. The preconceived notion that it’s only found in comic books or blockbuster movies seems ignorant at times to a Jonny. Because I’ve see these powers before, I feel them,

—

After an afternoon nap, I had this dream where I sleeping in my own bed and I woke up. All of my Christmas lights were on and handful of people I know were standing in my living room. Around all of us were paintings and drawings and writings that I created as a child until present day. Even though I don’t illustrate anymore, JODY saw one of my more prominent works as a child.

It was a picture of my friends Alex and Matt along with me going against our common enemy (John with a “H”.) Alex was in a green cape, I was in a red cape, and my friend Matt was in a purple cape. I remember I drew Matt’s face with a slight grimace, but not sure why. It was though I wasn’t sure about him,

—

Ever since Jon was a young Jon, everything was this epic or graphic novel of sorts. My friends, my identity, my family, church, going to school, making food; it’s as though every scene or scenario gave off this huge aura or vibe. As solid or as bright as Christmas lights. Everything to me had its own place in this eternal journey. Well at least in my head so it seems. Everything must be drawn and fleshed our to me. Like it had to be extra. And what did I do with all of this information?

First of all not a Jonny, Jon, JODY, nor Jonathan was the hero in my own narrative. I was the narrator narrating everybody else’s epic climax (nice one Jon). But forealla, all of the friends who were heroes or bullies who were villains or friends that turned out to be villains, was described on paper. Whether it be illustrating or writing, every thing had to be documented. Everything essentially had its own purpose. 

This is also reflected in my own self-reflective nature, yes, right, absolutely. So whenever something happened in Jon’s everyday life to one of the protagonists, it would often intercept my energy levels and I would often figure out how to correct it. Because that’s the job of a narrator I feel like sometimes and that’s the job of a friend. I think,

And the powers that everyone encompasses has a range. My friend Jamal has the ability to serenade anyone with in 100 feet with his classical guitar. My friend Abby can redirect any opposing threat with a few choice words. Big KAT can lower anyone’s emotional or intellectual shields to make them vulnerable with a willingness to share almost anything with her. Beanie Baby’s ergh, baby has to beginnings of showing great strength at a young age, the physical stature of a brick wall almost. 

What are my powers? Depends on whatever my narrator gives me,

Late At Night

I am writing this in the time sequence it takes for "Early In The Morning" to play from start to finish two times. Apologies for abrupt finish but y'all should be used to it,

Jon has been thinking about the past year and a half I have been in the Denver metro area. All of the renewed friendships, new relationships. The renewed relationships, new relationships. Of course over analyzing and self reflecting like a 10 year-old trying to ask a crush out. And I realized something,

Jody is a perpetual 10 year-old trying to ask a crush out,

Not the actual action but rather meeting new people in a intellectual capacity, romantic capacity, gainz capacity, professional capacity. It's like a GIF of me calling Big KAT or Cousin Skeeter to hype me up so they can say what I want to hear. And also what I don't want to hear,

When Jon meets new people there's multiple emotions; I feel isolated and confused and irritated and annoyed but then I feel energetic and hopeful and honestly bashful like a Taylor Swift meeting her next victim, Jon meant partner. There is no in-between when Jody meets people that are expected to have a significant part in my life. 

To be honest, I thought it was weird and exceptionally excessive how I've been towards anything and everything. Whether it be selling my entire 1,200 basketball card collection for a Nintendo DS Lite when I was 12 or telling someone upon meeting them for the first time "we are probably going to be besties forever" and wholeheartedly meaning it or making a 75-year plan on how major events in Jon's life will unfold or convincing thee Nupes they can't shoulder shimmy for shit.

Like I am not lonely, I am alone; not a reference to me being single or not being near my Tier 1s. Don't get me wrong, Jon has the best family and friend network of all time; the Jons will always have unconditional love and a place to stay. 

But I'm from the south and now Jonny lives in Colorado; my physical, day-to-day network is not established. There are no Tier 1s, family members, monogamy, etc. There's this revolving door to this dingy hotel of new friendships/relationships and I am standing in the lobby taking the effort to make a new fresh casserole for every single person I make eye contact with. I know I have few half marathons under my belt but even Jody gets exhausted until depletion. I'm tired, we all are. I'm not tired of meeting new people, I am tired of giving everybody 100% of my energy (shout-out to my outgoing introverts). And it's my problem I have to deal with sooner rather than lter

It is crazy because one would think these thoughts would unfold late at night with a tin of gin that would make Jonny Boy feel like I'm a kid again. Which honestly, with this mindset, may come with a fabricated depreciation of one's self,

I went over my time limit.

The Gap Band's "Early in The Morning" is a reference to the love/lust relationships as well as me literally always being up early in the morning .

Fear The Pink Mist

I'm not a fan of the color pink. It's so bright and loud and flamboyant for my own taste. It doesn't blend very well; if you have a pink shirt, like that blush, flamingo, taffy pink is what I am referencing. Mostly,

Jonny Boy doesn't own anything pink really. Unless you count the pink covers and pillow case, rose pink iPhone, pink phone cover. Sometimes Neo Yukio. That's it, I swear. What can I say it's a solid color,

I reference this color because of what it represents in society. Like that feminism, femininity, feminine traits that people associate with women or women-like movements. Breast cancer awareness, those coochie hats etc. And I think it has taken away from the color itself. 

Jon-Jon can go outside and wear blue (normally), black, green, purple, orange, red (sometimes), and nobody thinks about a got-damn thing. Just a big-headed negro sashaying off of Colfax lookin' spiffy. But when I have any shade or hint that pink is accidentally existing or breathing on me, that's where the inquisitive inquisition comes,

I have had "problems" "proving" my masculinity for years now. I separate those two phrases with quotations because "I" "don't" "give" "a" "duck" collectively at this point. It seems at this point you can only prove people you're a man by dying, according to Bill Burr. Especially to black people, goodness gracious. Have you openly spoke to most black men about their feelings? It's like trying to perform open heart surgery on an ant. How did my celebrity idol Terry Crews make it this far? It was the first time I understood the importance of discussing gender norms.

Jonny Boy can openly admit there is a bit of an outlier perk on the Jons' behalves. Maybe the ability to twerk, putting on "The Sea" by Corrine Bailey Rae to cry myself to sleep in high school, buying women sweaters because they fit, and looking for any reason to wear a skirt comes into play. But still, it is a part of my whole definition of what it is to be a man and be delicate. The only trait I know for 100% accuracy is the definition of being a man and having masculinity is handling your business; whether it be taking care of your family or dealing with your own sh*t. You can do that wearing jeans or you can do that in a crop top,

"Are You Here" by Corinne Bailey Rae was put on loop certain nights in high school as I as learned how to actively show emotions in private 

Good God Almighty

The following (heavily edited) excerpt was taken from a journal entry written in 2006.

Dirty Shawn Bradley’s, the cracked screen of a MP3 player, and my mom’s flimsy headphones.

Stretch the thighs, hamstrings, shoulders, lower back, fingers, neck, biceps, triceps, and most importantly your spiritual animal.

Flip through Outkast, Dangerdoom, N.E.R.D., Yeezy, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, & start with Young H.O.V. to get started. Wait for Ms. Storm’s menacing scowl and short strides to pass by.

Start.

Up Twin Cedars, right on Twin Cliff, loop around Cedar Cliff, down to Stoney Parkway, up Greyfield, wrap around Wraywood to Old Happy Hill to come back. Negative splits so high schoolers don’t mock your efforts.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Pump your arms, relax your double-jointed hands, caress the chest, evenly breathe from your diaphragm, strike the ground more, lower your forehead; your body is synchronized and one with the infinite, whatever that means.

T.R.O.Y. starts to play as I loop back around, my second wind keeps my pace honest but my hand-me-down baggy clothing exposes my left shoulder. The saxophone medley makes my heart sink, and I phase out of this world. Into a sort of ignorant bliss.

Have you seen it? It is truly spectacular. The spectacle of a vista in the tundra could not compare. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind if only for a fraction, a millisecond. The deciduous trees reach out to bid me a greeting to an elevated space, to feel every cell in my body to work as a whole system. Complete synchronization.

Goofy grin on my face, middle school composure, ashy kneecaps, arms flailing carelessly, headphones keep falling off, half a mile left, 30 minutes until my bus arrives at Foxwood.

Chris Gemstone, acne-prone 16 year-old, 4th string quarterback, 1st string white trash. I initiate an euphoric wave to the hormonal group of teenagers, showered by routine calls of “faggot.”

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Phase 1 complete.

"T.R.O.Y." manifested by Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth first captured my fascination combining hip-hop & running. 

Been Ballin'

I thoroughly believe in the quarter-life crisis and all of its splendors.

The post-college limbo, the uncertainty of a profession, running rapid like a stray dog in heat (or a 46 year-old white man training for the Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon in Virginia Beach); this sometimes feign depression hits people in different ways. I decided to ignore most of these mid-20s dilemmas by completely submitting to everything.

Jody is the epitome of a quarter-life crisis; moving to Denver without any self-sufficient funds, leaving a job and partner with a tin of gin in one hand and a 40-pound kettlebell in the other. Staying in 7 cities in a year, mooching off of friends, going on dozens of Tinder dates, accumulating credit card debt are things that a 21 year-old Jody would not condone.

But Jody is also the epitome of a quarter-life euphoria; moving to Denver with blind optimism, starting 3 new jobs that will be hold dear, moving on from a relationship, dating people freely, doing yoga and mimosas on late Saturday mornings, experiencing almost every city in the Denver metro area.

From the age of 21 to 25, the soundtrack of my life going from “Angels” by Chance the Rapper to “Been Ballin’” by Ballout. One song inspiring hope and joy and optimism while the latter inspiring hope and joy and optimism with a side of a fickle and frivolous baller-ish lifestyle.

Every time my Newtons hit the pavement, every time my fingertips reach my toe tips, every time I toss a weight in the air is the only certainty I feel. It’s nice because most people do not even have that and it has chiseled off of the confusion of my 20s. I know exactly what my body will do and when and how it will do it. It won’t fail me because it can’t. Because I am not sure what I do without it.

"Been Ballin'" By Ballout ft. Chief Keef has been looped in my head from my favorite social media favorites King Vader and Lenar.

Navajo

It has to be noted that I don't think Masego in his song Navajo is a racist for making direct yet sexy references to a woman who he calls an "Indian" who people normally identify as somehow who has been there since the beginning of a relationship or someone who is rooted in their culture. Eh, maybe he might be a little racist. Still hits though.

I am going for a 4-miler and queued up 3 Masego tracks that keep my pace honest. I think about my worn burgundy sleeves that stretch about 3 inches past my wrist, how my knees look like I've been kneeling on mummy caskets, and if I should switch out my Colorado expired tags to my unexpired Virginia tags.

Finally have gotten back into teaching yoga which flopped after my full attention had been diverted to the school year. I routinely forget that I have my 200-hr yoga certification, and it seems like I am not to assertive about earning back that $3k.

Yoga has been by far the best physical fitness to practice to remediate me after yelling at precumbescents and having my award-winning hips planted in a car for 1.5 hour commutes lately. I still have night terrors that my booty will look like Hank Hill's gluteus maximus.

The butt which is famously connected to the hips is by far the most interesting part of the body to me. It can be a pancake or resemble to apples or have the texture of a spoonful of jell-o, or big and hard like something that may be big and hard. I obsess about the genetics that I am alley-ooping over to my young ones when they hatch from underneath their momma's buttcheeks which will be bountiful. What id I have one of those loser's kids who have no booty or maybe the kid who has to have butt-pads installed so it won't hurt when they sit because it is all bone, like wings from B-Dubs. What if my kid is twerking on someone and somehow elbow them with their own butt? Tragic,

Tragic.         

The song "Navajo" by Masego found its way into my playlist through it's hard bass and sexy sax solo towards the end of the song.

Blood on The Leaves

I think about how my life will be when I am 32 years-old. I think about how my Papa feels whenever I call him and catch him at the right time for a 15-minute conversation. I think about how a kid reacts when I redirect them after talking during an exam. I think about what would happen if I didn't leave you. I think about about how painful that needle is when it hits my skin after every tattoo.

I think about how my body feels since it's been over 2 months since it hasn't had some sort of alcohol in it. I think about you a lot. I think about holding my body weight directly over me in gym and how vulnerable I feel underneath it. I think about the two bites I take before swallowing a forkful of chicken pad thai.

I think about how Noname was feeling when she performed Bye Bye Baby and if she didn't mind if I cried singing along with her. I think about the endorphins that flood my body when I hear a Cameo song when I am lifting. I think about what that guy was wearing on his crotch in that one Cameo song. I think about how Astro & Snoopy feel after I run them every Saturday morning at Hilltop.

I think about how hard it has been for me to enunciate specific words since I was 7 and wonder if I should take more speech classes. I think about my old friend who committed suicide a month ago and wondered if I could have helped. I think about how wacky it must have first sounded when Kanye West mixed together "Strange Fruit" & "Down 4 My N*ggas".

I think about how Shanita feels when I send her obscure memes with no context. I think about much joy I feel when I post a new dance video. I think about the people I blocked in my life because they made me feel like rotten two-week leftovers. I think about the 180 kids I left in Norfolk and if they ever think about me. I think about how Christmas lights look on my skin as I wrap myself in a fleece blanket and pass out on the carpet.

I think about how much I love running in the city and weaving through black figures and illuminated posts. I think about you and me and leaving behind the mundane life of a stable 25 year-old. I think about the people I instinctively hug or call after a run or if I get off of work. I think about how rooted I feel when I flow through triangle series in a Vinyasa flow.


And when I think about everything and the mind gets flooded...

"Blood on the Leaves" by Kanye West has always had a special place in my heart.

So Many Details

I'm standing on a street corner off of Colorado & MLK Boulevard, waiting to meet up with a new friend to go a night jog. My legs do a light jig to stay warm in an early 40s wind chill, moving to the rhythm of a Toro y Moi tune. I have on my Norfolk State dri fit shirt, running shorts, and backward baseball cap completed with a worn pair of Newtons. The circle emblem on my wireless headphones flash a dim blue symbol, representing I am locked into some "phat beats".

To a regular mayo Denver resident, I am a crackhead having a seizure on a corner looking to buy some contraband. But if by contraband one means "friendship" well lock me up with TayK-47. I have been living in the Denver metro area for about a year-and-some-change and have been lacking on making friends. Or one may say "crack-a-lackin". I snicker to myself as I start on dynamic leg movements. Maybe it's my aggressive friend invitation initiation or reluctance to meet new people in a conceived squad or tired from the tirade of being a teacher from a work week, thoughts running through my head as I hit baby lunges.

It is 4:30, and I've been waiting on this corner for what it must have been 45 minutes. Or 3 minutes. Either way the sun transitions to cover and my shiny black-boy legs reflect the illuminated street lights. My phone vibrates and I quickly delete the "flakiness" that I have almost become accustomed to millennials.

It sucks that I have begun the trend as; the "oh let this person be on standby in case something else comes up" and I miss the commitment of pre-internet. If I didn't show up to my friend's house in 2006, one may assume I am as good as dead.

I wonder if I could have handled more than 4 or 5 friends at one time. In middle school, high school, college, post-undergrad; I typically had 2 good friends, 2 or more back up friends, and a dirty dozen of associates. If one died then at least there was one to support afterwards. Like Ed, Edd, 'n' Eddy. What a formidable squad, as I check my phone for the 10th time in 3 minutes to see if this potential best-friend-forever will pop-up. We met at a coffee shop about a week prior, so I assumed it was meant to last until we were 90 year-olds playing Gamecast like it never went out of style.

My hands are starting to lock up, I reckon it is time to go if I am going to protect my recently moisturized kneecaps from turning into dust. I queue up my favorite Toro y Moi album Anything In Return and start a route over the flashing lights off of the Boulevard.

The song "So Many Details" brings nostalgia to my mind, as it connected me to one of my best/worst best friends of all time.

Running Man Challenge

Apologies on how sporadic I am at maintaining a blog. Haven't had a functioning laptop in a while. I could also note other numerous excuses, but for now I am just going to dive into the recent running activities.

I ran the Richmond Anthem Marathon this past November, 46-seconds under sub-4:00. First and probably only time running with headphones on. To say 26.2 miles showed me the 'gas face' would be an understatement. After being almost two minutes late to the actual race, I reached a hiccup during the run. 

I despise running over 10 miles. Oops.

Only running 20 miles twice in my life and expecting to qualify for the Boston Marathon off of that may have been a potential problem. This thought first occurred as I gobbled down multi-flavored gels like it was some chicken pad thai I bought with a Groupon. It's as though my body knew I had only ran a certain amount of mileage. So besides getting my third I mean thirteen wind, besides producing all that lactic acid, besides summoning Chief Keef to get my body through this self-inflicted pain, it hit me. No, I mean it literally hit me.

 

First in the inner quads then outer quads then calves and then feet and then stomach. The unsolicited cramps, ouchie. My body told me it was time to go home, but my ego said only a tiny, little, 10k left. Then we can go home and buy more pasta off of Groupon. I ran to about the half marathon mark at 7:30 pace, finished the race at a 9:30 pace. I hit every 'Power-up' button poster, every candy joint, every high five from toddlers; I would have summoned Shenron if Krillin was running with me. 

Despite my ill-preparedness for yet another RVA-based race, the vistas surrounding the James River looked as though they were forged from The Joy of Painting. The mild gusts of wind carried the water down the stream, making its way down and through Belle Isle. The roads and back-roads took runners through the West End, which I never went to as a child. They had me thinking about moving back one day. Homes and houses caught my eye, distracting me from the eventual ensuing pain I would have a mile 20.

An old lady (I only say she was old because she told me she was 75) caught me at 23 miles. She said "woop-woop, woop woop woop, woop woop woop, woopity, I'm 75, keep woop-woop-wooping," because I could only hear her through the pauses in a Solange melody. My old 7th grade gym teacher was there, giving out medals. Still had the same goofy smile and frizzy hair, dabbed with a little bit of gray. She was nice to me. At mile 9, a young man had Domino's and beer for each person willing to sacrifice pit-stop time. I hung out there for about 5-minutes before I realized I still had to finish a race. 

And as I crossed the finished line after whizzing by Grace, Broad, and Cary Street while running like I had a penny stuck in my arse because of leg cramps, I thought only one deafening notion as I walked back to my Honda.

"Only 54 minutes to shave off my time... I'm going to have to try again next year for Boston Qualifier, don't I?"

Dance Party on a Tuesday Morning

Recently I moved out of my parent's Richmond home and relocated to the port city of Portsmouth. Haven't posted much in the past month due to this transition. There's something about moving out of your parent's home and beginning a new job in a new city with crippling student loans that will keep a Jon on edge.

BUT

Of course there are the runs (not those runs) that keep my emotions and thoughts stable as I began my adult life $58,000 in debt. I live in a nice neighborhood; my landlords cook me dinner every once in a while. Charted out a nice route to run before work (4:30 am cardio sessions are a bit of an adjustment) which leaves me passed out by 8 or 9 at night. Been running about 25+ miles/week along with upping my weight training back to 3 times a week. My fitness goals goals right now is to get down to 195 FOREVER. Maybe getting in a marathon by November. Knowing that my mom's showstopper meals will help me keep off the pounds.

Source: giphy

There's the subject of running and exercise that I talk about when it comes to being me staying mentally and physically complete. But without positive/distract(ive) reinforcement of music, I wouldn't be able to get far. As stated earlier, I run based off those feelings of uncertainty. Morning before a big final? Run. Stepping back into a state of depression? Run. About to ask a Nubian Princess out? Run. Evening before a new DC/Marvel movie coming out that has mixed reviews? Run. Just had a bad race? RUN! My anxiety levels peak over the simplest of tasks, and the little things I do can counteract those negative aspects go a long way.

How does an emotional bastard even get up before an exam go for a 45-minute run? Wouldn't that add more frustration? What's the incentive? For one, Running groups are great for people. Finding a good paced group and hanging out with new people while discussing a whole spectrum of topics is great.. Unfortunately for me I'm in a weird spot. I'm not exactly a casual runner but I'm not align with someone who does a marathon in 2:30 hours. I also only run before or after the sun sets due to strict personal preference. That's where the beats, rhythms, and rhymes come in.

My running playlist is as highly maintained as my running shoes. I'm constantly swapping out songs weekly and painstakingly on the hunt for good songs. Some people listen to audiobooks on racial diversity or listen to scientific journals or informative podcasts. Most people listen to upbeat or energetic songs that keep them at a certain rate of intensity during a workout. The emotion may be empowering or techno-y. I definitely have that type of music on my playlist, but I have a mix of emotions. Songs can be menacing and Debby-downers or songs can match the intensity of a RATM mosh pit. A song I can listen to that makes me cry over a romantic movie soundtrack can as easily be in my playlist as a song by The Black Eyed Peas. The common theme is tempo. Whether it's half-time or full-time; that beat has to be in alignment with my stride. In addition ot has to grab my emotions and I need my imagination to capture the song. I need to be consumed by it or the song has to be scrapped. It's not a technical as it seems. Here's an explanation of my current top 4 running songs.

Get Away

The Internet
A break-up song about a couple who want to go on a trip but their relationship is too turbulent to even leave the house together. This neosoul-indie mixed with R&B-infused group is backed by a persistent bass that keeps my running tempo high. The guitar melody gently covers the singer's voice that keeps a serene atmosphere.

My emotion: Relaxed. It feels as though I go back-and-forth between drinking warm milk and vibing out in a small club with a few close friends.

They Reminisce Over You (T.R.O.Y.)

Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth
This early '90s hip-hop group samples some jazz using a saxophone and upright bass that helps the rapper effortlessly spit lyrics about past family members and friends. It reminds me of why hip-hop is my favorite genre, as I am fully invested in hearing this story I've heard over thousands of times over the past two decades.

My emotion: Nostalgic. The song came out around the time I was born. A lot of my earliest memories come from hearing this played in the background of my initial thoughts as a toddler. 

Paint It Black
The Rolling Stones

This song hits me right in the face whenever it plays. It overwhelms with this psychedelic, almost melancholy feeling. But with enough aggressiveness to where if I was at a funeral, I would immediately want to kick the ass of the person who murdered a loved one. Even if cancer killed them. I normally have no business listening to '60s rock music, but this song aligns right into a mood I rarely try to feel. Which is...

My emotion: Anger. This song puts me in delightfully angry mood. It's as though I'm warming up my car to go to work. But I drive a 1968 Plymouth Road Runner Hemi. And I need the avenge the death of my father. (He's still alive right now but just saying)

Radio Ladio

Metronomy
This indie-electronic band is one of the few bands I keep up with on a regular basis. During a time I despised the existence of electronic music, this group combined the up-tempo rhythm with a repetitive but ever-changing-melody. It's hard to explain, due to the fact I lose my mind every time it pops up.

My emotion: Enthusiastic. I first heard this song on a video game and instantly begin irritating like a inebriated barista. 

source: lolworthy

Thanks for reading! Share if you would like. Here's the URL of my everchanging playlist on Spotify. Or you can search it. It's called Loretta Devine.

https://open.spotify.com/user/1216617677/playlist/2giHCRxBZbSxeipvcGqBGB

A Fat Boy's Guide to Running*

Recently, I ran my first 10K (6.2 miles) this past Saturday in Richmond, Virginia. This event is the annual Ukrop's Monument Avenue Race, with almost 25,000 participants on a gusty Saturday morning. With a posted time of 39:46, I was disappointed in my quest for a 37-minute PR. I failed to live up to the expectations of my CW Flash t-shirt; in all actuality should have not been worn unless I had a legit chance of running this race in the sub-35. Not 35 minutes but in 35 seconds. Or maybe 3.5 seconds,

Anywhoooooooooooooooo, I thought of something. A thought, plucked from the dusty cabinets of my corner office from a company that's owned by Delhaize. I wanted to jot it down on a notepad, but then again it would probably be good to finish this race first. But during that brief moment of inexplicable pain from my thighs and the pain from letting Wally West down, there was a theory. The Theory of Why?

This is the 1st race my uncle and I have completed together. According to him it'll be the last

Why am I running this race?
Why do I feel happy that my uncle is here in this self-elected suffering?
Why did that girl not to go to the middle school dance with me?

Enter: 5 Philosophies I have about Exercise. As a self-described extreme fitness-minimalist and semi-narcissist, I compiled my own list of reasons why running has stayed in my routine. Why did I list 5 reasons? Because I love the number 5 dammit. Now these aren't thee set of guidelines for an extreme fitness-minimalist/semi-narcissist, these are my guidelines for an extreme fitness-minimalist/semi-narcissist.


1. Food I don't want to imagine the amount of food I swallow on a daily basis. Yes, I said swallow. I don't chew. The food quantity may be high but so is the quality. Not a fan of salads, but I veggie boast all of my meals. Grilled cheese sandwich? Sprinkle some spinach leaves and sweet peppers in that thang with flax seed bread. Generic box-pasta dinner? Take all the veggies, yes all of them and throw it in. Minus the left foot.

Source: Tumblr

I do eat out 1-2 times a week because I am firm on the belief of "treating yo' self." I have no idea what a cheat meal is to be honest. Cooking in bulk for two or three days definitely turns me off from getting cardboard pizza from Lil' Caesar's. But I will consume cardboard pizza from Lil' Caesar's.

2. Schedule My daily agenda always incorporates exercise. Whether I'm sweating or not. I keep a general schedule of going to the gym or doing yoga or running because that's what I programmed myself to do. Do I want to exercise this much? Hell no. There's no specific routine I follow; I don't time myself on my runs or log how many sit-ups I do. On certain days, I will go to gym and hangout or just put on workout clothes but watch SportsCenter. And leave.

So this doesn't mean I'll peer review scientific journal articles on an elliptical. At the height of my workload in college (18 credits), I would spend no more than 45 minutes exercising. Most people halt their Pilates session due to cramming for an exam their undoubtedly going to fail or a hangover from one too many St. Ives at Snoop Lion's house. But that time was blocked out, due to my...

3. Emotions 30-minutes a day. 5-6 times a week. I'm a fervent little shrew. If I'm not doing a violent movement or activity every day, I'm extremely irritable. Never been able to figure out why. If I don't release that energy onto a tangible structure then it is as though someone told the ill-est yo' momma' joke and it will pester me the whole day. It's only a brief amount of brief amount of agony.

Source: Tumblr

4. Breaks 30-minutes a day. 5-6 times a week. But not every week. I'll take a break due to food comas, exhaustion, laziness, revamping my entire existence, etc. It's important to know your limitations. You don't have to go Dwayne Johnson or Sarah Paulson's tempo. Take your time; reward yourself and your temple. It's the only one you have, normally.

5. Music I don't know how people get through a workout and not listen to Flava Flav blaring in your ear. Do they enjoy the potential cramps and shortness of breath and dizzy spells without a little Shakira to move their tailfeather? Or maybe Daft Punk isn't enough to help them to do that yoga? Perhaps Katy Perry doesn't have enough hot sauce in her veins (swag)?

I could go on all day, but music one of the biggest reasons I can get through 4 sets of push-up rows. How it can help me finish that last 400 meters. Or breakdance when hitting that downward dog. A personal preference that has been plenty essential to round out my philosophies.

As a recent fan of CW's The Flash, I decided to rock it with my ever-present zebra headband

No matter how terrible a race or how upset I am with myself for any reason or how much I don't want to do what I need to do, there's always one thing that is constant. One thing to look forward to. I may go about it an alternative way, but I am still able to reap the bounty.

Like a saying I overheard in a conversation outside a middle-Georgia Bar between two Donald Trump Supporters:

There's more than one way to skin a cat

--


*The reason for the title is because "technically" I am considered overweight for my age and height.

Runs From Trolls & Jim Crow

I was running, running, running,

Through the forest, forest, forest,

And it was pretty, pretty, pretty,

But then I saw Horace, Horace, Horace,

I love trail running. In college one of my preferred areas to frolic around in was Bartram Forest. It is a network riddled with trails right off US-441. Miles and miles of dirt, trees, rocks, and the occasional naked hippy*. One of those areas where somebody could fall asleep in and wake up unscathed.

Bartram Forest Entrance (GWS Gallery)

But my favorite reason to run out in nature is when I get into a certain elation. I catch a third wind**. For background, second wind is what most people feel at a certain point of distance running. When your body switches metabolic processes. This anaerobic metabolism becomes that best friend at a bar who you only call when you want to completely ruin your life for a couple of hours. But third wind. That’s when limbo presents itself to me. Time isn’t a priority nor is my body exhaustion an issue nor do I care where I am going nor do I realize where I am. Or who I am.

I just run.

Did I mention, mention, mention,

That I stole from Horace, Horace, Horace,

He was a troll, troll, troll,

Who’s face was bleh, bleh, bleh

Loblolly pines served as inebriated High Overseers. Always physically imposing but essentially inept. My agenda had been clear that cloudy morning. To take back a relic my possession from the nasty, horrid-looking, disease-ridden, no nipple-having, mud-troll.

Once I mustered up my will, I crept up to a seemingly-lifeless cobblestone bridge. Tiptoeing up to the unprotected item, I made an unnatural noise and lunged for it. Once it pleased my fingertips, I fell backward. The troll did not make one grunt, grumble, or mumble. 

Then I left.

These pines were often burn to reduce hazardous fuels

I wove in-between the burnt timber as though I was Thomas Saint. My toes provided traceable footprints, but it would take the troll a fortnight to catch me. That is if I were to stop moving. My bare feet trampled over stones, acorns, pine combs, red clay, smoldering ashes. The calluses on my feet were that thick to where I could have had a footbath at the crest of Orodruin. One foot, two foot, big toe, small toe. Rain drops falling off the tip of a leaf. Not on-beat but perpetual.

By the time the troll had consumed his late-morning brunch, I was already grabbing a pint at The Green Dragon Inn.

By the time the troll figured out his relic was not with him anymore, I was grabbing my fourth pint at The Green Dragon Inn. 

648 kilometers from where the troll got hit.  And he screamed out to the heavens, I mean he screamed to where all the creatures and critters who had functional eardrums. My  own ears caught his tone and along with the black muck in his pupils. It was as though he was sitting in the stool right next to me. Listen, he told me:

“You get back here you f*cking n*gger.”

My mind collapsed from my fugue state of strenuous activity. I fell through the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th stages of limbo. My wireless headphones were at 0%. Somebody woke me up.

There were three humans in the cab of a modded pick-up truck. The trail route in Bartram I normally take had been washed out, so my bare-feet had to hit the Vinson Highway pavement. Only for a few minutes. The action and reaction only took a few seconds. I didn’t yell back or throw a rock at their windshield. Maybe they were unaccompanied minors attempting a prank or maybe a white supremacist group or maybe some of my college associates. Maybe I could have even set myself up for an outdated slave joke since on occasion I run without Asics. But maybe is for the indecisive.

Whatever the maybe was, I didn’t have time for it. I had 5Ks to run.

I glanced back at that troll, troll, troll,

Who called me a derogatory term, term, term,

But I did not stop, stop, stop

Because I was not done running, running, running,

--

*A story for a different time.

**A third wind is a term I made up to refer to a euphoric feeling. In this state, I imagine a daydream sequence of me running in an imaginary environment. In for this fictional setting, I’m a hobbit running through The Shire.