The Dying Art of Common Sense

As I walked into the gas station, I saw a young man peering at the instructions on the pump with a blank expression as he repeatedly poked the same button. Each jab at the panel produced a loud beep, but no actual gasoline. Finally he gave up and headed into the station with a look of frustrated dejection. The attendant inside repeated the instructions, which sounded pretty basic to me: “Press the credit button; insert your card; and then enter your billing zip code.” Yet after hearing the instructions (twice) the customer went back outside and still couldn’t gas up his Honda. As the attendant headed outside to help the clueless customer, I heard him mutter under his breath, “I coulda sworn they told me when I was a kid that reading is FUNdamental…” After about three seconds, the attendant was coming back into the store shaking his head. He looked at me and said, “You should write something about that: the dying art of common sense.” Okay, Abdullah. Here you go.

I laughed off the comment at first, but the phrase stuck in my head the rest of the day. The eloquence of it belied a more glaring truth: common sense really is a dying art. We’ve become a society that needs a warning on coffee cups that the contents may be hot. I certainly hope the contents are hot--that’s kind of what I’m paying for.

My favorite warning was on a box containing a new toaster. In three languages it warned that the toaster inside was not intended for use in or under water. Which is a shame, since I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in the midst of a bath and had a sudden craving for some fresh, crisp toast.

I think part of the decline in common sense is the increase in lawsuits. Corporations became afraid of finding themselves on the receiving end of class action lawsuits, so they began catering to the consumer public as if they were dealing with especially dim-witted five-year olds. There’s a difference between warning someone about an unknown danger, and pointing out what should be common damn sense. As a result, we’ve lost our ability to think for ourselves.

The only way to save the dying art of common sense is to think for ourselves. Consider the consequences of your actions, and respond accordingly. Take the time to read the instructions fully before deciding you’re smarter than the engineers and professionals that designed whatever IKEA piece of crap you’re putting together. And for crying out loud, use your turn signal—we’re not mind readers.

au revoir...

I’ve never been especially good at saying goodbyes. You would think I’d be better, having been raised an Army brat. I spent most of my childhood being the New Kid in one school or other, and that meant saying goodbye to the kids at the previous school. So you would think that by this stage of my life I’d have it down to a science.

Still, I found myself struggling when it came time to say goodbye to JT. We met about almost a year and a half ago when a friend brought her to my birthday dinner at Chico’s. In her I immediately found a kindred spirit: we laughed at the same jokes, finished our sentences the same way, even sharing certain “beverage preferences.”

When I was hired on the front desk of the hotel where she was front office manager, the bond only grew stronger as we spent most of our time on the clock together. Eventually, a bunch of us started spending our free time together, and our status as mutual besties was sealed.

Recently JT reconnected with someone from her past, and she decided to move to Florida to be with him. As happy as I am for her, I’m going to miss the shit out of her. I know that I’ll get to see her again (I’m planning on flying down in October for her birthday), but it still sucks knowing she’s not on the other side of town. It was a comfort knowing that I could stop by her job and say hey, or we could meet up after work for a Sea Of Sangria at Chico’s.

Since she left Greenville early this morning, she stopped by the hotel last night to say goodbye to me. As I hugged her, I could feel the telltale lump forming in my throat. My eyes started to prickle, and I knew I was seconds away from a good healthy, heart-broken cry. But we’d promised each other “no tears” so I had to man up and dig my nails into the palms of my hands. I was actually doing okay at keeping the tears at bay until we walked away from each other. I made the crucial error of looking back over my shoulder in time to see JT walking out the door. The sight of her red curls bouncing behind her as she walked out was just too much. I choked out something about “needing a minute” to my coworker, and found a quiet corner to cry into.

Eventually I got myself under control, but it all reminded me of when I was a kid moving around all the time. All over again, I felt myself being separated from something familiar and it hurt like hell. There are two comforts that I have that I didn’t when I was a kid. For one thing, we didn’t have Facebook back then. Thanks to the wonders of the interweb, I can keep up with her in a way that I never could with my childhood friends. Second, I’ll be seeing her again in less than two months. I think I can manage without her physical presence for that long. I just don’t want to have to.

An Open Letter to Freshmen: Don't Forget to Live.

Usually when I write a column, I approach it with a mission: to make a point. There’s always one central message to my columns that I want to convey with each word. This message is for the incoming freshman, not to mention a reminder to those returning students at America’s institutions of higher learning. It sounds simple, but don’t forget to live.

While this is an undeniably significant time in your life, don’t let yourself become overwhelmed by the seriousness of it all. Don’t forget to take time to find joy--make the time for joy. Whether it’s intramural athletics, the theater department, or volunteering with kids, find something that makes you happy. One of the worst feelings is to come to the end of an experience only to look back and realize there’s so much more you could have gotten out of it.

Just as important as the activities are the friends you’ll make during this time of your life. Lifelong friends, romantic partners—you never know who will play which role until you take a chance and get to know others. More importantly, you have to give them a chance to get to know you. Share your gifts and your personality because you’ve got a role to play in their lives too.

So go to football games, go to that party next door, ask out the cute redhead in your Econ class that keeps making eyes at you. But whatever you do, don’t forget to live.

Why I'm My Own Biggest Fan

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend who’d looked through the list of “fans” of the Ask Uncle Trey Pound column on the Facebook fan page. After noticing that my own profile picture was among the fans, he joked with me, “I see as usual you’re your own biggest fan!” I laughed along, until I had some time to think about it. I came to the realization that, indeed, I am my own biggest fan. And I can’t imagine life any other way.

My parents raised me to believe in myself and in my abilities. And what is a fan other than someone who believes in those things? So, yes, I am my own biggest fan, and I think everyone else should be as well. Think how many conflicts would resolve themselves if people just had the courage to cheer for themselves. If self-esteem issues weren’t a consideration, how much healthier would the collective populace be?

I was once described as being “stuck on” myself, which I took to mean I was overly impressed with myself. Shouldn’t we all be impressed with ourselves? If nothing else, we’ve survived another year/month/day on this planet, and that’s no easy feat. Just think of the mechanics that go into keeping the human body alive in the course of a day. It’s a thing of wonder, and worthy of admiration.

So, if you’re reading these words, consider this your official permission to love yourself. I give you absolute permission to acknowledge your faults and love your strengths. I am giving you the “okay” to fall in love with the person you are and the person you can become. Just don’t talk to yourself. That shit’s nuts.

New "Ask Uncle Trey Pound" questions!

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

My good friend has a habit that is none-too-endearing. She has the habit of, while talking to someone, pulling out her phone and sending or responding to texts. I get that some things can’t wait, but I’m getting really tired of talking to the top of her head all the time. How can I remind her that I’m standing right in front of her?

Signed,

Put On Hold

Dear On-Hold:

Increases in technology (as well as our dependence on it) mean that more and more people are showing an appalling lack of manners when it comes to social interactions. While it seems impossible to change how everyone with a cell phone behaves, you can at least offer your friend some clues that she’s being rude. Chances are she’s not even aware of how her actions are coming across. I’d suggest a casual approach: when she whips out her phone to check her texts, try sending her a text that reads, “top of ur head is nice, but id rather c ur face.” That should get her attention… at least until the next text comes through on her phone.

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

A friend of mine recently came out to his parents. Unfortunately they didn’t react quite as well as he’d have liked. They basically cut him off and refuse to speak to him or even say his name. While he’s glad to no longer be “living a lie,” he’s heart-broken that two of the most important people in his life won’t speak to him. I’m trying to be a supportive friend, but I have no idea of what to tell him. A little help here, Uncle Trey Pound?

Signed,

Straight Ally

Dear Ally:

Tell your friend that there’s good news: he’s already done the hard part by coming out. That first baby-step out of the closet can be the most difficult one to take. So he should be proud of himself for being honest with himself and with the world. As for your friend’s parents, try looking at things from their point of view for a moment. Even if they had some clue as to your boy’s true orientation, they still have to deal with a hard truth. They no longer have the luxury of ignorance and denial. Now that they know their idea of their little boy isn’t an accurate one, they have to sort of mourn it. They’re going to have to let go of their preconceived ideas of who their son will be and what his life will look like. And the hard truth is that they may never get to that point. There may never come a time when they embrace their son openly and without reservation. But tell him not to let that stop him. While it might be hard to believe, there’s a whole world out there waiting to accept him for who he is. And you’re being a good friend to him. Good luck to the both of you.

Last Call with Uncle Trey Pound

There’s a fine line between a hobby and a habit. In the case of drinking, that line is usually the one a cop asks you walk to prove your sobriety. Thankfully, that’s never been an issue for me, but recent events have caused me to rethink a major part of my life. In April, I turned 33 and I began planning the birthday celebrations like any other year. Little did I know that this year would mark a turning point in my drinking career.

Everything was going fine at first—if you can call five shots of Jager in twenty minutes “fine.” Before long I was having difficulty navigating the trip to the bathroom, and my words seemed to have a lot of trouble coming out of my mouth in an understandable fashion. After copious amounts of alcohol, we made our move from Chico’s to 5^th Street Distillery. About that time that things began to get a little…..hazy. And by “hazy,” I mean strange drinks I hadn’t ordered kept appearing in my hand. Thinking only of the sober children in China, I made every effort to finish each drink. Finally, I got to a point where the only acceptable answer to the question “Hey Trey Pound! Want another shot??” was “Hell no.”

I clearly remember the exact moment when things took a turn. My stomach began to make this odd, threatening gurgle, and I knew that I would very soon be returning all that alcohol to the bar. I made a half-assed attempt to stem the flow of vomit, but when Jager, vodka, beer, and something that tastes like Mike’s Hard Lemonade are all determined to exit at once, there’s no stopping it. I’m told that I managed to limit my vomit to my friend’s boots, but then he knew what he was getting into when he kept handing me drinks.

I finally emptied the tank and started trying to figure out what the next plan should be. There’s the old Puke-n-Rally: you get it out of your system, then you’re back for more. But at the (newly minted) age of 33, I had a major revelation. As I flicked a chunk of vomit from my cheek, it occurred to me that I’ve become That Guy. There I was, belligerently drunk, surrounded by people who were fetuses when I drank my first sip of beer. Talk about depressing.

Thankfully, I was surrounded by friends who’d been there before and knew how to handle the situation. They quickly moved me away from the crime scene—I was coherent enough to respond, “Hell if I know…” when one of the bouncers asked me who puked on the deck. I managed to make it out of there without getting caught/embarrassed/photographed, but the lesson was learned.

I could pontificate on how moderation is the key to safe enjoyment; I could also mention the healthy side effects that come from cutting back on one’s drinking. But anyone who knows me knows what a load of bull that would be. Instead I’ll say this: if you happen to encounter me and I’m not my usual ebullient, out-going (possibly naked) self, I’m probably not depressed or suicidal. I’m probably just sober. This might take some getting used to.

The Time God Showed Up at My High School Reunion

There’s one thing that can always be said about the North Pitt High Panthers: we sure know how to throw a memorable reunion. Not twenty minutes into last night’s Panther Palooza multi-class reunion, a little girl almost drowned in the pool of the hotel. Apparently there was a group of teenaged girls having a pool party, and one of them slipped beneath the water on the deep end and went unnoticed. At the same time, a group of Spaniards were in their room on the fourth floor and one of them looked out the window and noticed the girl, lifeless, at the bottom of the pool. The men raced down to the first floor, one of them dove in, and together they pulled her out of the pool.

It was about that time that the attendees of the reunion noticed the commotion and some with medical training ran to help. I (not having had any significant medical training) went out to be nosy. It was a horrifying scene: the little girl was laid out on the concrete, still as a stone, with gray lips and eyes that looked permanently closed. While the men who’d pulled her out of the pool tirelessly performed CPR, all I could do was stand there and pray. So pray I did. I prayed with a fervor I’ve never known before. I’m not a particularly religious person, but I felt a distinct calm settle over me as I prayed. I felt a certainty that she was going to be okay. After about ten minutes of rescue breathing and chest compressions, the girl began to spit up copious amounts of water. The volume of water that came out of that little body was amazing. It was also reassuring. About the time the ambulance and rescue crew arrived on the scene she began to respond and breath on her own. I’ve never felt so relieved in all my life.

After, while we waited in line at the bar (my nerves were shot to shit), we all agreed that the little girl’s survival was a result of God moving in her life. And that’s the story of the time God showed up at my high school reunion.

The Undeniable Allure of the Unattainable

There’s a certain appeal I’ve always associated with the unattainable. I hardly think I’m alone in this—nothing makes an object more desirable than one’s absolute inability to have that object.

In no circumstance is this more pronounced than unrequited love. No man is as attractive as the one you can’t have, and no woman is as hot as the one that’s way out of your league. An unrequited crush is the seventh level of Hell.

So what do you? Do you pine endlessly over the one you can’t have? Or do you make up your mind to move on and cut off the feelings like a gangrenous limb? I guess the answer is as unique as each person who experiences the dilemma. For some the only reasonable solution is to man up and make a move. For others, the best thing to do is move on. Figuring out which answer best fits your situation is the hard part.

The reason I’m thinking so much about unrequited crushes is that I’m feeling one now. I know he’ll never be mine, and that makes it all the more difficult to be around him. His smile is a bittersweet thing: it changes my day for the better, but it breaks my heart because I know I’ll never be the cause of it. At least not in the way that I want to be.

So, as much as it sucks, I’m going to have to cut off the feelings. It’s not really who I am—I’ve always warn my feelings on both my sleeve and my face. But in this case, it’s better to keep the friend and ditch the feelings. The feelings would never amount to anything, but the friendship is something to treasure. I can feel it when I’m with him—he’s going to play an important role in my life. I would hate to ruin that with my silly crush. The best thing to do is let go….how exactly does that happen again?

The N-Word

Recently, a “friend’s” Facebook page posted a status update including the N-word. I, being the loud-mouthed smartass that I am, felt the need to post a response on her comment. Because of Facebook’s settings (even though I removed her from my friends) I still got updates when others commented on her wall post. I was, frankly, depressed by the number of people who defended her use of the word. One person even responded, “…racism and segregation are over…” and suggested I just needed to get over it.

As I made my way home, I stewed over the situation and decided to break down all the arguments so that people will, hopefully understand why the N-word pisses me off so much.

1.) "It's just a word."--True, it is just a word, but words have power. The things that we say have an effect on others, and if you're going to put words like that out there then you need to be ready for the reaction you may receive.

2.) It's in rap song"/"People say it all the time."--True. The word is featured prominently in rap songs, and quite a few people use the word in everyday conversation. That doesn't make it any more right. People have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge before, but does that mean I'm lining up to take the plunge? Nope. Which brings me to my next point...

3.) "Black people use it."--True. Nevermind the arguments about taking back the word or taking the sting out of it by using it liberally. That's another coluimn. My answer to this argument goes back to response #2: just because someone else uses it doesn't make it okay for you to.

4.) "Racism isn't around any more, so it doesn't matter."--False. Let's not kid ourselves here. As long as there are human beings that judge others for superficial reasons, there will be racism and discrimination. While we can mandate people's behavior, there's nothing we can feasibly do to change the hearts and minds of others. At least not overnight.

5.) "Well, it doesn't bother me..."--I think it's awesome that you're so highly evolved and open-minded but you're not the only one who hears the things that you say. You don't know where I've been or what I've been called, so don't go throwing around loaded words and looking shocked that I'm pissed off.

Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, I feel much better. Thank you for listening to the ramblings of an angry Black man.

Friendship is like herpes...it's forever.

Sometimes I wonder what people think of me. Don’t get me wrong—I long ago stopped giving a damn about people’s opinion, I’m just curious about the impression that I leave with others. I like to imagine myself an outgoing, passionate, funny person, but I know that others might interpret those qualities as being loud, pushy, and obnoxious. My sensitivity may come across as moodiness and my…. oh, let’s just call me a whack-job and be done with it.

But my point is this: no matter what my flaws, I’ve managed to surround myself with a group of friends gracious enough to overlook them. They welcome my contributions and forgive my transgressions. Their only request of me is that I be the best and happiest version of myself possible. And in return, I only have to offer the same consideration. In order to have a friend, I have to be a friend. I have to be just as slow to anger, and just as quick to forgive. Fortunately I’ve had good examples to follow.

There’s my friend, Ashley, who used her connections (not to mention talking a big game about me) to get me a job when things were looking a bit bleak on the employment front. There’s also Lauren, who realized I was having a bad (horrible) night at work and pulled me aside. She made me repeat some nonsense phrase until I started laughing and the proverbial clouds were broken. There are the friends that got me cleaned up and kept me from getting bounced when I threw up in a bar on my birthday. I should especially mention my friend John, who wound up with some of my dinner on his right boot. My bad. There are also the people who’ve gotten out of warm beds to come pick me up after I was “over-served” (yet again, at a bar) while downtown. Speaking of rides, I’ve been picked up from schools, jobs, gyms, detention centers (I’d rather not get into that one), and morning-after walks of shame. And each time, it was made perfectly clear that the friend was offering the service because we were friends, not because anything was expected in return.

The best thing I can do is be that kind of friend to others. I need to be just as generous with my time and talents. I need to be just as open with my own heart as my friends have been with theirs. I’ve been blessed with great friends, and the best way I can repay that is by being a great one myself.

Jessica's Daily Affirmations (click the title for the link)

I ran across this online and had to share it. It just lifted my spirits so much, so here you are....

A Trip Down Pot Lane

I’ve always wondered about my fascination with marijuana. I never experimented in high school—both my parents taught at my school, so that was out of the question. In fact, I led a rather sheltered existence until college. And like people that go a little crazy in college, when I went, I went big.

My first time smoking weed was with my freshman year dorm-mate, “Greg.” “Greg” was from a town about an hour away and had led as sheltered an upbringing as my own. He’d bought a bag of weed from a cousin of his, and wanted to get high. However, like me, he’d never rolled a blunt/joint before, and didn’t know how to proceed. So we figured we’d both give it a shot (this was in the days before YouTube.com) and between his efforts and mine, we’d get high somehow. We managed to roll two of the sloppiest joints I’ve ever seen but the mission was ultimately accomplished.

I wasn’t sure what “high” felt like at first, but it didn’t take long to get the point. On a normal day, my mind is all over the place. Random thoughts (usually of a smartass nature) fire constantly and the periphery is filled with ideas and concepts for my writing. But that night in the dorm room, I felt myself completely focused for the first time in my life. My mind was absolutely and totally focused on….nothing at all. Had you been able to insert a microphone into my head that night, you’d have heard the sound of wind whistling across the deserted open plains, with the occasional cricket sounding off for good measure. And I loved it. I loved the quiet inside my head, and how little I really gave a shit at that moment.

And now, all these years later, it’s still the same. Every time I pack a bowl I still feel the same giddy feeling of Here it comes! as the flame approaches the green. As the bowl warms, and the green chars, then burns, then starts to create smoke, I pull at the pipe like a starved babe at the teat. As that funky smoke fills my lungs (smelling vaguely like a cross between socks and pine straw) I know I’m almost there. I’m only seconds away from feeling like my brain is trying to sneak out of the back of my head.

Okay, show of hands: who already figured out I was stoned as I wrote this?

Am I writing a book yet?

It started with a quote I heard from Alice Walker when describing her artistic process for Urban Style (an entertainment program highlighting Black personalities), “If I write a page or two a day, then at the end of the year, I’ll have a book.” When I heard that, it hit me like a bolt of lightning—I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve wanted to be an author all my life, but I’ve allowed myself to become overwhelmed by the idea of writing a book. It just seemed like such a huge thing to write a book. So I allowed my insecurities to stop me from pursuing it. But seeing someone who’s managed the task successfully—not to mention repeatedly—break it down so simply put it into new perspective for me. I guess it’s similar to Rome not having been built in a day. Anything worth doing is worth taking your time and doing right. I’m out of clichés, so I hope my point has been made. If I just take this a page at a time, I can accomplish something really special.

The problem is, just what should I write? I still like the idea of a semi-autobiographical fictional spy novel called Just Smart Enough to be Dangerous, but lately it’s been suggested to me that my daily internet ramblings could be compiled in a coffee table book. The working title is Brain Sharts from Uncle Trey Pound but that’s open to negotiation. See, with my ADD-addled brain, I’ve got ideas firing with every waking moment. Sometimes I’ll have to text myself an idea just to make sure I’ll remember it later. I’ve also been known to email myself a phrase in the middle of the night because I got an idea that I knew I’d be able to use in my writing. I’ve considered overlapping Crash-style plotlines; I tossed around the concept of a Beverly Cleary-style coming-of-age novel; I’ve debated short stories versus a memoir. Then I ridiculed myself for thinking I had anything relevant or important enough to say to justify writing a memoir. Then I beat myself up for ridiculing myself. The shame-spiral ended in vodka, and let’s just leave it at that. That’s when the genius switch in my brain clicked on (I love it when that happens) and I realized that the best way to tell a story (which is the goal of any author) is to tell a story with which I’m familiar. So that means it’s going to involve some element of my own life. And since it’s going to involve my life, then it’s going to involve copious amounts of alcohol and sexual excess—but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. In fact, I can recall several books I’ve read (and loved) that featured alcoholism and sexual depravity as key plot components. In retrospect, that may be why I enjoyed them, but that’s neither here nor there.

But the type of book I attempt (very important word that one, “attempt”) almost doesn’t matter. What matters more is embracing the adventure. Living isn’t just about living to see another day—though some beg to differ. I believe life is more about the adventures that make said life worth living. Speaking in clichés, life is defined by the moments that take your breath away. And the idea that I could write a book takes my breath away. The idea that I might put words on paper, and that someone else might read those words—on purpose—makes me slightly dizzy.

In Memory of Sgt. Neal

There are certain people that come into our lives, and leave a definite impression. I’ve been blessed in that it’s a long list of people who’ve cared for me, believed in me, and gone out on the proverbial limb for me. One of those people was Sgt. Wiley T. Neal.

Sgt. Neal was larger than life before there really was a concept. He had a booming voice that could make you unconsciously clench, but could lower to the most confidential whisper when telling you he believed in you and everything you were capable of. He nit-picked every detail of our JROTC uniforms, but only because he believed we were capable of better.

Since Sgt. Neal and my father were both JROTC instructors at North Pitt High School, Sgt. Neal was more than a teacher—more even than a parent’s co-worker—he was like an uncle to me.

So when my mom called and told me that Sgt. Neal had gone on to answer the Great Roll Call in the Sky, I didn’t mourn the passing of a teacher. I didn’t even mourn the passing of a man who’d dedicated his entire adult life to service in one form or another. I mourned for one of my heroes.

See, heroes (in their truest forms) are rare. We tend to throw the word around to anyone that goes out of his/her way to help another. While it’s always admirable to be of service to our fellow humans, there’s something more required to earn the title of “Hero.” A real hero doesn’t act based on what he’s heard is right or wrong; a real hero acts based on what he knows is right. A real hero knows that the ones who need the help the most are the least likely to ask for it, but he stands ready to offer it anyway. By that standard (or by any other, for that matter) Sgt. Wiley T. Neal (US Army Retired) was a Hero. And he was one of my Heroes. And he will be missed.