Flipping the Switch

Since I've returned to work July 9, I often remark that flipping the switch has been the hardest part for me, and doubly so for working the night shift. As I continue to heal, let us keep each other in prayer for all of the things we live through daily and have to flip a switch for, and the discernment to know what we can finally release or draw closer to. I know that getting back to 💯 is still a long road yet living at 90 percent is much better than remaining tethered to the recliner and the short walks up and down my street. 

That being said, some of you still should've pulled up for conversation or the very least, brisket. Guess what? You still have time. I might have even dug out the best hand cut filets or ribeyes in town (for my vegetarian or vegan friends, eggplant parm or some sort of root vegetable from the farmer's market) to chow and shoot the breeze. 

So...what has made flipping the switch so dang difficult?

I really don't know.

Perhaps I legitimately needed to reset for the first time in eighteen years from working like a government mule and peep the changing landscape around me. I've begun cleaning out my digital space and footprint - and the literal one - as well, but that bit of work feels incomplete. I still have that itch to waste time (and strain both my neck and fingers) by perusing social media, and when it comes to the yardwork and such, the labor part tends to fall by the wayside. Even as the days shorten and the temperatures fall, I still feel that the break away just wasn't long enough yet as a borderline recluse and professional night owl, I could easily do without people beyond the two I share home with and a few friends and neighbors indefinitely. 

What about needing this money? 

Sitting around the house to receive a pittance from a job that has barely paid the bills may be a cause of concern. Everything is taken care of, so no alarms or a GoFundMe or whatever quick fundraising scheme exists is necessary. All it does is evaluate my spending habits and as easy and wholesome it would be to say leave all my faith and trust in the Lord above, Ford Motor Company, State Farm, the mortgage, etc. all tend to induce a fret here and there with the monthly statements. So, while I could use the cheddar, living for the greenbacks alone just doesn't cut the mustard. 

September is National Prostate Cancer Awareness Month: Fellas, please go get checked, and if there is a family history, make the phone call as soon as possible! Due to genetics, I've always known that I needed to be seen but what if I told you that I believe that both lifestyle and habits have something to do with it? My sedentary nights in the office and well-known obsession with making damn good barbecue every single cook may have been contributors, and as I stop short of blaming either, the sitting around can be considered unhelpful. 

Here is the history, and something we can thank former President George W. Bush for. Read below:

Prostate Cancer Awareness Month was designated in 1999 by the American Foundation for Urological Disease (now known as the Urology Care Foundation). In 2003, President George W. Bush officially declared September as National Prostate Cancer Awareness Month. 

Signs & Symptoms of Prostate Cancer:

Blood in urine

Blood in semen

Trouble urinating

Unintentional weight

Erectile dysfunction

Bone pain

Decreased force in the stream of urine

Sometimes, flipping the switch is easy.

Sometimes, I'd rather stay in bed.

What comes of flipping the switch? Is it maximizing my value not only to the people at home but also my job, family, longtime friends, but also having what some think should be a 24/7 availability for shenanigans and their assorted projects? Or am I heading back to a burnout worse than the one that got me out of education some thirteen years ago? Even beyond that mental breakdown, would I feel compelled to answer every phone call from seasons past with new priorities on the horizon seen and undiscovered?

As I continue to navigate the new life of carrying a backpack with my medical supplies around nearly everywhere because I cannot trust public bathrooms anymore and I never know when a spasm may occur, keep me in your fervent prayers for a complete recovery in all aspects. Flipping the switch will get easier over time; consequently, there are some directions that absolutely do not need to be revisited. 

God bless, I'm out. 

When the Littles Have Smoke: Dub Shack BBQ Presents Smoked Lil' Smokies

I know I told you that Tailgating For Everyone ended last season, but what if I had three packages or Lil' Smokies tucked away in the bottom of the deep freezer that needed to see the light of day? Stick around to find out how enjoyable they became with a little smoke and some time.

INGREDIENTS 

Hillshire Farm's Lil' Smokies package (I used three)

Pit Boss' Sweet Heat barbecue rub 

Truth Sauce's Sweet Heat barbecue sauce 

STEP ONE. Once I finally hung up my creative black apron, I began to hone in on dump-and-go recipes. First, open the package(s) of Lil' Smokies and dump them into a half (or full) size pan. Second, add the Sweet Heat rub to the little guys not necessarily to coat them rather to add flavor to the cooking. Finally, apply enough sauce to coat the Smokies until the ancestors tap you on the shoulder signaling a job well done. Set aside and light the smoker. 

STEP TWO. Light your cooking vessel. Because this is supposed to be fairly easy, the Weber kettle atop the hill received the assignment for the reasons of its cleanliness and the fact that the ashes in that part of the yard are landing on dirt. Once it reaches 350 degrees, bring out the pan and get to cooking:  Feel free to fold in the smokies within the sauce as they should be saucy just the crockpot ones the church mothers bring to the monthly potluck dinners after evening service. They are done upon reaching an internal temperature of 160 degrees but in this case, once we get the smoke (and char) desired. 

STEP THREE. After a brief resting period, serve them party-style!

My thoughts:  Pretty good although I think I should have added a second bottle of the Truth Sauce for maximum coverage. I can do this one again in the event I find myself at a tailgating party, cooking for a baby/bridal shower, or just a finger food event alongside some of those famous "barbecue king of the cul-de-sac"  Cheez-Its. 

Just to keep it short - and the possibility of adding perhaps one more recipe during football season, those grilled Lil' Smokies are a unique way of putting a good time to the smoke. As always, thank you for reading this blog:  Feel free to step outside and do something fun on the pit this week. Y'all be blessed, be safe, be good to each other, and tell everyone that every day is a GREAT day for Dub Shack BBQ!

These Hoes Ain't Loyal

Chris Brown wrote a song about it.

Jamal Bryant preached a sermon about it.

Even I've found out firsthand that these hoes ain't loyal.

So what happened, and why do I feel this way now? 

It's a long story, so grab a bucket of popcorn, take off your shoes,  and find a comfortable seat on the couch: This is gonna take a while

With apologies for the LinkedIn screenshot because Twitter (I know it's called X, but the only X I recognize is Malcolm) is being a twit about sharing my own tweets on other platforms, this has to be said.

Who/what are these disloyal hoes?

Not always the $40 kind but you're reading 

These hoes can be our jobs, our partners in any and all facets of life, and yes, even the organizations we pledge fealty to.

So...when did I realize these hoes ain't loyal? Was it getting passed over yet again for another promotion that created the Eff You vibe that I have been working through the past several months? Was it when my manager lowballed my salary requirements for the last role I interviewed for, and otherwise minimized my body of work? Biblically speaking, had I become Hosea watching the landscape shift before my very eyes in favor of the loosest floozy who may/may not be around after ninety days? 

. 

It makes me wonder. 

For the six weeks I was resting and rehabilitating from my radical prostaterectomy, the only constants were the new routines of my day: Wake up, walk from one end of the street to the cul-de-sac and back, pound twenty ounces of water, do Kegels for fifteen minutes or so, and fall asleep in the recliner to the news, a business course I was taking, or the droning babble of YouTube as content creators retold varying versions of the same stories over and over. For the first couple of weeks, people reached out and we engaged in conversations that ranged across the gamut. What they were specifically about is immaterial only that they happened. My own coworkers mostly left me to my own devices in whooping prostate cancer, and even then I caught the occasional text message of encouragement or to answer a role-specific question. As my own struggles were locally publicized via blog, the way the community coalesced around me was nothing short of unreal! 

I should have taken more pictures; as painful as some of the early days were and the bodily betrayals which ensued, at least the real ones were still around after the dust settled.

I can't always say the same in other facets of life.

While I am always happy to see someone get his/her money, promotions, new roles, etc. at work, the way I and some others had been bypassed consistently for one reason or another began to really grate on my nerves. What's the point in giving 100 percent when the results and rewards do not reciprocate the effort, particularly when someone so vastly under qualified can be elevated solely because of nepotism or being more visible to decisionmakers? 

Is HR the gatekeepers we have always thought they were?

In another episode of "these hoes ain't loyal", I can finally speak of what prompted my family's decision to leave one church congregation for another house of worship. As the chief finance officer (CFO) among other hats this deacon wore, it was my fiduciary responsibility and obligation to the church body that we were not only simply paying the bills but also shoring up the reserves as well as remaining mindful of the upcoming expenses such as property taxes, the annual insurance premiums, payroll taxes with the federal government [Uncle Sam wants his pound of flesh from the church 501(c)3 exemption be damned - let no one say otherwise], etc. Late last year, I was asked to break protocol and pay the musician in cash under the guise of pastor's instruction. I declined to do so, and instead of having support and backing from the chairman of the deacon board, he berated me as if we had not codified policy within the past fourteen months. Maybe I should have turned in my keys and removed myself at that very moment, but for some strange reason, my logical reaction is to see things out in hopes of an aberration that would not repeat itself. Over the next few months, I discovered midweek cash transactions occurring primarily to circumvent the required paperwork and mandatory two signatures for accountability. Fortunately, the numbers matched up by Sunday morning but the headaches continued to mount as the pigeonholing became more frequent. I had already witnessed the end of the new members course, and as the known food pantry director, my role was minimized to cutting the checks and opening the doors each third Saturday morning instead of identifying external opportunities for growth and expanding our focus. Lastly, let's not get started on the tech overhaul that quadrupled in cost overruns and now is as underutilized as an independent voice among liberals or conservatives. My own household packed up its spiritual bags without me although the decision had been made a couple of weeks earlier.

Where was the loyalty and support for my own growth, development, and leadership? Crickets. 

Here is the live version of Steely Dan's Deacon Blues. Check it out.

Life has a way of becoming a proving ground of sorts, especially when the faithfulness proves to be a complete waste of time. When the hoes - can be male or female, by the way - get what they want, they often discard the soldiers who paved the way for a better present and future. See how Black people get trotted out in front of the public eye as heroes and the Next Big Thing until our honesty or opinions run contrary to what is implied of the soul who originally checked off boxes before they are called everything but a child of God and demonized before the evental sanitizing. With this acknowledgement, often posthumous, it merely tries to whitewash the truth spoken to power so violently assaulted in its moment.

Disagree? I have modern examples.

Why is Arkansas so hellbent on not teaching Black history to the point that the reason for denial is that it makes some people uncomfortable?

Which Israel matters, the Biblical one or the ethnostate established in 1948? They are NOT the same.

Why do we celebrate the lowest denominator of people as if their values are to be aspired toward?

Y'all do it, stop lying.

When we start taking stock of ourselves and making the moves that ultimately benefit our legacies, we will find that being loyal to hoes leaves us broken, stunted, and otherwise bitter as a result of wasted energy not limited to time and cash. 

Growth is walking away rather than throwing hands.

.01

I'm almost ready to ring the bell.

After the past seven weeks of healing, resting, rehabbing, and otherwise being confined to a low weight limit, I guess the time to punch a clock is imminent. It's not like I am ready and willing to walk across the parking lot to that trailer park in the sky; however, bills gotta get paid. What I do know is this: Act II has to count for something. Working like a government mule for the next 20-30 years (yes, my original retirement date is my 75th birthday but I don't see that desire to manage other people's crap that long anymore). Plus, standing next to the smokers with a table and Square account doesn't seem the best way to enjoy life after the swamp or wherever I end up toiling for the Man. Even then, I believe that my wife will want me to turn in my badge, ditch the coveralls, and surrender that parking space in front of the storeroom which I walk from at least twice per shift in favor of the condo in Ocean Springs before either of us loses cognition or the power to live out deferred dreams.

I like money, but I also like my new taste of freedom.

I also like vacation time. 

What is so special about the .01 that you see in the title line?

That number represents my PSA score. In other words, I am 99.99% cancer-free! In a few months, it should become goose eggs across the board with occasional monitoring from my urologist. Without a prostate (read my last post), that number is to be expected. 

What does that mean moving forward?

Well, those lifestyle changes I implemented seven weeks ago will hopefully stick long term. That means more water, less Dr. Pepper and Miller Lite; reaching my daily step count without having to borrow the neighbor's dog because I don't feel like walking; and now, readjusting that sleep schedule back to night life. I also need to reach out to all of you at one point or another - block party, anyone? - and remember that once upon a time before life got in the way that I was somewhat of a fun guy to be around. Even more importantly, continuing to be a lifelong learner means squat if I don't put the new-to-me knowledge to practice and share in that "reach one, teach one" kind of way. 

Not just Black knowledge but also the very winnable war against prostate cancer👆🏿

One thing I definitely appreciate AND respect is the fact that so many guys have reached out and said that I have been the catalyst in getting their prostates (and other parts) checked out. Although that Canadian rapper told us he was only here for a good time not a long time, our loved ones would like for us to stick around a bit longer. 

Once again, thanks to everyone who had a kind word, thought, prayer, conversation via text, phone, quick road trip, or any of the social media platforms I still use, and all of the support given to my family. The love was felt and reciprocated at least the same way y'all sent it to me. I often remark about a mustard seed of faith carrying me a long way through life's trails and tribulations, yet I also have had a gang of people standing in the intercessory gap for me in this war we won together: Don't take this or yourselves lightly at all. 

Anyway, may God bless each and every single one of you. 

I'm out✌🏿

Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread

Read the question and answer about the daily bread. While we are taught to think of it in the literal sense, this explanation provides a different view:

Is it true that in the Lord's prayer the original word for daily bread is "epiousios" and as that word is unique to the New Testament and appears literally nowhere else in Greek literature, we don't really know the true translation of it? The word appears twice, once in Matthew 6:11 and one in Luke 11:3. It doesn’t mean “daily bread.” It’s an adjective to describe bread, seen nowhere else, which suggests it’s a neologism (a word made up for the occasion) or a legmenon (an unusal word that shows up only one time — (technically twice, since it’s in the same story told in Luke and Matthew). It does not mean “daily.” There are normal words in Greek to indicate “daily.” No, it’s more complicated. epi means upon, or over or super (as an intensifer) ousious is about being and existence, so it would probably be more accurate to translate the “daily” “our daily bread” as “super substantial” or maybe “essential” bread.

This article is pretty good plain-langauge reference on who write the canonical Gospels, and when. it’s from a Catholic source, but I suspect it would be OK with mainstream Protestant scholars.

(Disclaimer — Biblical studies are enormously complex, and I’m no Bible scholar, even though I read the whole thing — and it’s really a library of many books from different times and source — and did spend a few years studying it and a lifetime appreciating it.)

I'm Leaving Here Without Something

I know one thing: I'm leaving here without something. 

Three weeks ago, I underwent a radical prostaterectomy (big word for some - I'll go in depth later in the text) and it's pretty safe to say that I am leaving here without something. During that time, my body has never experienced so much pain in so many places and I've not remembered a period of my adult life when I had so little control over situations. From a series of spasms that could very well have broken me to having my mobility reduce me to walking up and down the driveway without getting tired, the mess that cancer leaves behind tried to drop me off like Tyrese Haliburton during this year's NBA playoffs. 

No sir, I ain't going.

What am I leaving here without? 

A number of things namely my prostate and pelvic lymph nodes, among other things. In exchange, I received five incisions on my stomach and the discomfort of a literal butthurt existence of sitting on bleachers for the course of my daughter's swim season. Externally, I look cool as a fan - I've even lost weight - yet the internal stuff is why I have really gotten to know my recliner.

So...what happened during the prostaterectomy? I'd share my surgeon's notes but some of the details are too personal for public consumption. Rather, here's a synopsis: I was intubated, knocked out for the three hours or so it took the robot and surgeon to make the five incisions on my belly, and when I woke up, I no longer had my prostate, and my pelvic lymph nodes exited the chat to be further tested. Instead, I had a catheter for fifteen incredibly painful days which resulted in me doing everything in my power to stay home.

I know we're in June and November is coming, but fellas...know your nuts not just the busted ones 😁

Where does that leave me today?

As I mentioned earlier, I don't have to wear the bag on my leg or tote a larger one at bedtime or up and down the driveway and the short distance from the house to two, three, four, or five in either direction of my front door. (Fun perk about living in the dead center of the subdivision is seeing life happen without getting out of my lawn chair.) I'm still walking for short distances throughout the day, and the one day I decided to venture out for a few more steps, Park Plaza Mall aged me twenty years without entering a single store! 

Each day is different, and as a cancer survivor - yes, I'm claiming it - I've really learned to appreciate the smallest of wins such as tying my own shoes, the glow of morning sunlight, climbing in and out of the truck, grilling chicken thighs and pork chops; and most importantly, the time to reset my body, mind, spirit, and priorities. Thank you all for your prayers and although the visits haven't quite been constant to the point of staging the house, you are certainly loved and will always hold a place of gratitude with me. Special shout out to my familial coaches Dad and Chastity for making me climb out of the recliner and live a seminormal existence; Alan and Aston for living the Kendrick Lamar line and popping up before the nephew's AAU games; Jason and Michelle for mowing my weeds; the Saint Mark, Mount Zion, Greater Friendship, and all of the church families who have put me on their prayer lists; Heath for the beer and cookies; the numerous phone conversations with cousins; those Arcwood hooligans [I know, we're always Rineco cowboys new corporate name be damned] and everyone who has reached out at any point in the past three weeks. I cannot tell what to do, just go as God directs you.

Lastly:  Be blessed, be safe, be good to each other, and have a marvelous week! 

The Fight For My Life

2025 is supposed to be the Year of Momentum, right?

I took the first step forward, and all of a sudden it since feels like a gut punch from Iron Mike. I know it's not supposed to be this way, and once I made the first move forward, then why does it seem like I am catching fades from all sides and some from directions I did not expect? I guess this is one of those storms that keep on raging in my life, to paraphrase the great gospel singer Douglas Miller; honestly, sometimes it's hard to tell the night from day.

To view the video of Douglas Miller singing this poignant track that is heard in nearly every Black church service at least one Sunday a month, click on the link. If it isn't being sung, your house of worship may have a lousy singer like myself with a microphone. [Mt. Zion knew I couldn't sing, but Deacon Ced tried nonetheless. I'm not giving Saint Mark the notion of bad singing that the media team would desire to boo me off the stage like the Apollo.]

For those who really want to sing along, the accompanying lyrics are below:

Though the storms keep on raging in my life

And sometimes it's hard to tell the night from day

Still that hope that lies within is reassured

As I keep my eyes upon the distant shore

I know He'll lead me safely to

That blessed place He has prepared

But if the storms don't cease

And if the winds keep on blowing in my life

My soul has been anchored in the Lord

Ooh, ooh

I realize that sometimes in this life

We're gonna be tossed by the waves

And the currents that seem so fierce

One thing I like

But in the word of God I've got an anchor, hallelujah

And it keeps me steadfast and unmovable

Despite the tide

But if, if the storms just don't cease

And just in case the wind keeps on blowing

Blowing in my life

My soul

My soul's been anchored

In the Lord

In the Lord

Lord

My soul

My soul been anchored

In the Lord

My soul

My soul

My, my-my-my my

My, my-my-my my, my, my, my

My soul

My soul been anchored

My soul been anchored

My soul been anchored

My soul been anchored

Though the billiards may roll

The breakers may dash

But I shall not sway because

He hold me fast

So dark the day

Clouds in the sky

I know it's alright

Because Jesus is nigh

And my soul

My soul

My soul

My, my-my my

My, my-my my, my, my, my, my, my

My, my-my my, my, my, my

My soul

My soul

My soul

My soul

My, my-my

My, my-my-my my my

My, my-my my

My, my-my-my-my-my my

My, my, my-my-my-my my, my

My, listen

You crush me down but Jesus picks me up

He sticks right by me when the going gets tough

And my soul

My soul

My soul

My soul has been anchored in the...

My soul

My soul

My soul

My soul

My soul

My, my-my-my

My, my-my-my

My, my-my-my, my-my-my my

Though the billiards may roll

And the breakers may dash

I shall not sway 'cause he hold me

He hold me

Through sickness and pain

Sunshine and the rain

My, my, my, my, my, my, my

My, my-my-my (my, my-my-my)

My, my-my-my (my, my-my-my)

My soul (my soul)

My soul has been

Has been, help me say it

Anchored

Anchored

In, in to the Lord

So what happened? Let's go back in time to Good Friday - or further down the road, to late December from a routine doctor's appointment with the urologist. My PSA (prostate specific antigen) count was triple the mean, and since it had remained normal all of this time, he was concerned enough to order a MRI to make sure I was still OK and if he might have seen something amiss. Two months later at that exam and the beginning of three-digit expenses, enough was seen for me to return to another trip and one more exam. Although it could very well save my life, having a biopsy done is a 0/10 for the pain induced afterwards. Not only was I literally butthurt but also I had sprained both my left ankle and right wrist walking in the neighborhood from stepping in a hole in the street three hours prior. In this moment, I have to not only leave it all up to God but also do what is best for my wife and daughter for Lord knows my baby needs her Daddy, and the way better and significant help meet wants to keep doing this journey with me come hell or high water. As I am knowledgeable of probabilities from my days as a hack bettor and understanding analytics first through sports that I was never good enough to play and later on Roulette tables, I knew the odds were not exactly in my favor due to my own genetics and family history, I rolled the dice anyway and prayed for a positive outcome.

Good Friday, April 18, 2025, will forever be etched in my journey on this rock.

My doctor gave me the news:  I have prostate cancer.

For those who wish to know, I am Stage 2. It's early enough to capture and beat for a full life but enough for some serious life changes to occur and have the procedure done pronto.

Thank God Chastity was in the room next to me because I was too tired to be shocked from having worked off an hour earlier, and with the fact of that I needed a quick nap before it was time to get my locs retwisted really did not allow me to have time to sit and mope.

Yet.

I was given three options two of which were not viable at all, so I had a few days to weigh out the pros and cons of each direction before conferring with our decision to win this war. Once we came to the choice, scheduling the next step became the next critical thing. Am I worried? Of course! How are the bills going to be paid if I have to miss work for more than a few days? Who's mowing this grass? The earlier appointments ate through my PTO. What about vacation time this summer? Would I be able to go without being a burden? What are the ramifications of the eventual treatments? What becomes of my immediate family's dynamic? Any count, whooping prostate cancer is way bigger than me, so leaving my faith on the line in God's hand is the only way.

I gave myself ten days to mope around, and now, it's time to go head-on with the beast in my body.

In the coming days I'll be taking an extended hiatus from social media beyond those happy birthday memes my Facebook friends receive - and yes, even Barbecue Sundays at the house. What I am asking for are prayers (and well-wishes from those who do not pray or believe in a higher power) for my family, a successful beatdown of cancer, and a full recovery to resume normal life activities to enjoy all of you.

That's it.

God bless, I'm out.