So, I’m sitting in a Starbucks, behind a young female who is wearing a “Big Peckers” t-shirt with the photo of a rooster with a huge beak and he’s winking at me. Ironically, this is the most interest I’ve been shown all year. At my own table, I’ve decided to try something new by ordering a café latte—it tastes like ash. I tried to salvage the drink by adding 10 or more packets of sugar, and in typical Michael fashion, in an attempt to be neat, I ended up with more sugar on the table than in my drink. I’m a mess, aren’t I? Oh, I failed to mention that my keyboard is now sticky. At any moment, one of the letters is going to get stuck and this whole blog will consist of all F’s. With my luck, that will be mistaken as my trying to communicate with terrorists and the government will swoop down from the ceiling and that will be the end of me and my blog. Wait a second. I know what you’re thinking. Why would the government be hiding in the ceiling of a Starbucks? Well, Starbucks is like on every corner. How else do you think the government knows everything? You don’t really think people are drinking that much coffee, do you? (Dear Government, I’m just joking. I’m too young and well moisturized to go to jail.)

Anyway, recently I’ve been all caught up in the idea of my impending graduation. This all started when I began receiving boatloads of notices about the ceremony from my school. At first, these notices were fun because they made things official and I could finally tell the world, “I’m not lying. I really am going to graduate. And my school thinks so too.” Then I realized that all of the notices came with a formal threat and a price tag. “If you plan on graduating in the fall, submit an application along with a $30 fee,” “If you want your cap and gown, submit an application with a $40 fee,” and “If you want future emails telling you when and where the ceremony will take place, submit an application along with a $200 fee.” Whereas I used to get all warm and fuzzy inside when the notices arrived, now I just get all warm and sweat a lot before I raise my hands over my head as my school goes through my wallet. One day I fear the notice is going to say, “We have your mother. If you want her returned to you in time to attend your little graduation, submit an application with a $1,000 fee.” Yes, it really is like blackmail. Maybe I should call David Letterman to see what he would do.

Speaking of my mother, because she allegedly went through 43 months of labor to have me, I sometimes feel obligated to return the favor by answering the phone when she calls and by taking her around to interview the low-quality-care nursing homes I’ll be placing her in 20 years down the road. Hey, I’m doing my part. Some children don’t even give their parents any say. Don’t judge me! But I digress. So, I was picking up some DVDs that she’d ordered online from Wal-Mart when the alarm went off as I exited the store. I panicked as the store greeter approached me. I looked over my shoulder and saw my car off in the distance. For a brief moment, I thought about making a run for it. I’ve seen Cops. I was not ready for my close-up, and I was in no mood for a cavity search that day.

My underarms began to sweat as the elderly gentleman looked at me suspiciously and asked to see my bag. I handed it to him along with the receipt. He asked if I had electronics. I tried to speak, but my voice failed me. I just shook my head. He then asked for the names of the DVDs I’d purchased. Of course, I couldn’t remember. I mean, why should I have known the names of the DVDs just because I had paid for them and they were in my bag? The nerve! It wasn’t like I was on Jeopardy where I would get a prize for knowing the answer to those types of questions. I hadn’t studied. It wasn’t an exam. He looked at me skeptically and I explained that I was just picking them up for my mother but that everything in the bag was on the receipt. Just as I was about to demand my one phone call and to tell the greeter that I would take no further questions without my lawyer present, he let me go. Of course, the alarm went off again as I walked out the door. This time, I ran.

Speaking of running, I may need to incorporate more exercise into my daily routine—and not just when I’m running from the law. Recently I’ve been making more alterations to my clothes than a seamstress. In fact, one day at work I had to make a mad dash to the restroom with a pair of scissors so I could cut slits into my boxers because they were cutting off the circulation in my legs. Of course, I hated to ruin a nice pair of boxers, but it was either that, or have my legs amputated, and after some thought, I figured it’d be easier to buy new boxers than to buy new legs. I wouldn’t even know where to get new legs. On-line? Target? Family Dollar? I’ll just say this, they aren’t lying when they say that you’re metabolism starts to slow down as you get older. Here I am, enjoying the last weekend of my twenties and wondering if diet water and low-fat lettuce will be enough to sustain me for the rest of my life.

And, while we’re on the subject of age, I’ve learned that though we may get older in years, some of us never get older at heart. On the same day that I’d almost made my television debut on Cops, while pulled over on the side of the road, I saw a small turtle about to cross a six-lane highway. Immediately I went into hero mode and ran to save the turtle from what could have been its last stroll. Without thinking, I picked up the turtle by its shell, and somehow, instead of putting the turtle closer to the woods, I kinda sorta accidentally put it in the front seat of my car. For some reason I wanted to show my mother the turtle. Grinning, I called her to tell her about my new pet. Of course, my mommy said I couldn’t keep it because they carry germs and STDs. I told her that the turtle looked clean and that I was sure he’d used little turtle condoms, but she still said no. Thus, with all my hopes and dreams shattered, I put the turtle back in the woods, which I think was probably best for all of us. I already have plants and a fish that I sometimes neglect to feed, water and take out for walks. Because of this, I’m sure I’m just one phone call away from being reported to fish protective services. This is why I never let my fish use the phone, no matter how much he asks to.

Anyway, the moral of this story is to enjoy the grandness and the many wonders of life. I mean, one moment you’re about to go to jail for shoplifting at Wal-Mart, and the next you’re putting a wayward turtle back on the right track. Take a step back, smell the roses, and enjoy the sunny days while trying to find things to love about the rainy ones. Learn to find the humor in the small things because all of those small things put together equal all of the moments of your life. And ok, I’ll just say it. The other underlying moral of this story is, don’t do crack. However, I’m sure that was blatantly obvious.

Michael Rochelle

Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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As some of you may know, in about two weeks I’ll be starting my last semester of undergrad. Allegedly, in December I’ll be getting some form of degree in English after approximately 40 years of pop quizzes, presentations, and final exams. All of the laughter and tears—mostly tears—have led up to this finale. It’s like American Idol where I’m Paula Abdul and it’s just starting to register that I won’t be returning next season. I’ll walk across that stage, get a rolled-up sheet of paper that won’t really be my degree, but instead will contain a question that if I don’t answer correctly will have me labeled as the weakest link. I’ll phone a friend for help, and then because I don’t have any friends, I’ll have to settle for whoever answers when I call 411 for assistance. Of course, they won’t know the answer to what color yellow and blue makes either and I’ll be relegated to being an assistant bagger at a Dollar Store for the rest of my life..

Of course, I’m being just a tad bit dramatic. But the reality is, because it can’t be completed within a few weeks, finishing school has always been a long-term goal. I never thought my degree would be just around the corner and a few blocks up. It seemed like school would always be a part of my life like taxes and Big Macs. For me, getting a degree was like this unattainable urban myth like receiving a check from Publishers Clearing House. I mean, I’m a veteran at this school thing. People who started school after me have already graduated, set up fraudulent internet businesses, and retired to Columbia where they are safe from any legal actions.

For the last seven years I’ve watched other people raise their hands when professors asked who’s graduating this semester. It was never me. In fact, a few of my teachers stated they thought I’d already crossed that threshold. Now, I can neither confirm nor deny that I’ve walked across the stage during a commencement just for pretend. However, I can say that I will give Michael Hartley his degree when I actually get one that has my name on it instead of his. (Michael, I’m sorry for any confusion my accepting your degree in your absence may have caused, but your cap and gown was a perfect fit.) Even worse, I’ve seen the look on people’s faces when they ask me how school is going and I tell them that I still have 3 or so years left before I complete the two-month degree program from a partially accredited university. Actually, I think my graduating has less to do with any effort on my part, and more to do with the fact that those individuals probably petitioned Congress to pass a bill where I’d have to graduate or else.

Seriously, I’ve been putting a lot of thought into my next move. I mean, what now? Do I go straight into Grad school? Since I’m not independently wealthy and would have to go further in debt for more education, is Grad school worth it? And if I do end up applying for Grad school, do I continue my writing path, or do I do something that’s more translatable into the work world like an MBA or something of that sort? In my opinion, an MBA would be helpful in case the writing thing doesn’t pan out. However, others feel that my pursuing an MBA, which isn’t my true passion, would just make me put off my writing pursuits just that much longer. In the words of Janet Jackson:

Soap opera says,
You’ve got one life to live,
Who’s right?
Who’s wrong?

I’ll give you a minute or two to stop dancing. Go ahead. I’m patient. After all, I’ve waited 7 years for my degree, I guess I can wait for you to finish doing all those 80’s dance moves. Actually, I’ll take a moment to do the robot myself. Go Michael! Go Michael! It’s your birthday!

It’s times like these that I wish I could call the Psychic Friends Network and have them use their expertise and infinite wisdom to help guide my steps and direct me as to what I should do. I had this conversation with an acquaintance the other day and he strongly advised me that if writing was my passion, I needed to put my all into it and not worry about having an MBA to fall back on. He said that I’d be successful if I just went for writing wholeheartedly and to look at Tyler Perry and Terry McMillan as examples. I explained to him that they are the exceptions and for every successful writer there are a million who struggle their whole lives and never get that big break. I could see me now with no home and selling copies of my book and funnel cakes from the trunk of my car. He considers me not to be forward thinking. I consider my view to be realistic.

That being stated, I’d like to open up dialogue with my readers—ok, my reader—as to what you think I should do, whether you’ve been in a similar situation, and how it worked out in the end. What is your opinion of MBA programs and how they aide a person in being successful throughout their lives? Do you know of anyone who has an MBA? If so, what are they currently doing professionally and was the pursuit of an MBA their original goal or a fallback plan?

People always ask me what I want to do with my life as far as writing is concerned. As an English major, if you don’t want to teach, people don’t believe that there’s anything else you can do to make a living. My goal is to prove them, and myself, wrong. This blog is just the beginning—hopefully. I’ve always wanted to be a columnist where I could write whatever I wanted. Think Carrie from Sex and the City except without the strappy sandals, expensive dresses, and due to a severe dating drought, without the sex. I want to write articles about me crying because some guy flipped me off on the interstate. I want to write about the cashier at the supermarket who yelled at me because I got $60 cash back from my debit card when the limit was $50—I don’t know how I would have known that, but apparently I should have and I’m a disappointment to the entire human race because I didn’t. I want to touch people. Make them smile. Make them think. My ultimate goal is to be a staff writer with a magazine, newspaper, or marketing department. In addition, I want to write novels, poetry, scripts, and other creative forms of media as well. In fact, you’ll be happy to know that I’m on page 215 of a novel I’m working on right now.

Yes, these are my goals. I’m a writer who will graduate in December 2009 with hundreds of thousands of other graduates searching for work and competing with more experienced and possibly more educated individuals searching for jobs in the middle of a recession. On the surface, the prospects don’t look good. However, I’m a positive person and I’m going to hold my head high, walk across the stage, accept my diploma, and head straight to the unemployment office while I’ve got the momentum. Just kidding. But keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I prepare to embark on the next chapter of my life. Thus far, graduating from college will be one of my biggest accomplishments yet. In fact, I’ll be the first college graduate on my mother’s side of the family, and I’ll be one of a small few, if any, on my father’s side. That’s huge. The pressure is on, not just to be successful for myself, but to be an example to others so that maybe my nieces, nephews, and pets won’t have to work so hard or and can have someone to look up to. I’m blazing new trails. From now on, just call me Harriet Tubman.

Access my full blog: www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: www.justmichael.net

Some people are born with common sense. Other people are just born. I’d like to think that I have a good head on my shoulders and that I have the ability to reason and use good judgment. As a matter of fact, my shrink always agrees with my logic. It’s like I talk and he/she/it just nods his/her/its head right along with everything I say for the whole session as I lay there nude on the couch. The reason I say he/she/it is because the verdict is still out. However, it’s what my insurance would cover and it’s very convenient to have my sessions in the middle of a McDonalds.

Despite all of this, because of random things like cell phone radiation, the price of tea in China, and a healthy fear of swine flu, my version of common sense, which my team of doctors ensure me was installed when I was hatched, sometimes functions intermittently. For instance, the other day I was at Wal-Mart with my parole officer—also known as my mother—when I saw a matching coffee maker, toaster, and iron being sold as a set for $20. Now, I don’t know why this interested me so much. I already have a toaster and an iron, and I don’t drink enough coffee to brew my own. Besides, someone has to keep Starbucks in business and I take on that responsibility with pride. But there is just something about being in a Wal-Mart that makes you evaluate taking home things you don’t really need or want. I’m surprised I haven’t left with a kid yet. I mean, they are reasonably priced and all, and the ones from Cambodia are on sale this week.

Anyway, so I see this matching iron, toaster, and coffee maker set and it was as if I’d never seen a more perfect combination since peanut butter and jelly, the iPod and music, or cell phones and free daytime minutes. Though I’ve probably seen about 60 billion coffee makers in my life, this particular one took me back to my childhood as it beckoned for me. It practically called my name and said, “Take me. I’m yours, Big Daddy.” I couldn’t resist the temptation. I had to touch it. I just had to know how it worked despite the fact that my parole officer/mother had strictly forbade me to touch anything, even if I was going to buy it. I carefully removed the unit from the shelf and began to investigate where the water went in. It was then that my beautiful day took a turn for the worse.

They say that curiosity killed the cat. Well, I can’t speak for this alleged cat because I never saw an autopsy report, but I can say that curiosity did lead to the demise of a coffeepot. I had tilted the coffee maker just enough to find out how it worked, when the coffeepot dislodged itself from the holder and fell to the floor in slow motion. My life flashed before my eyes and I screamed out, “NOOOOOOOOO.” In my experience, Wal-Marts are typically loud places. Well, not when you break something. Then, you could hear a pin drop, or in this case, a coffeepot.

As the coffeepot smashed to the ground, my first thought was to grab my mother’s hand, leave the cart behind, and run. Unfortunately, this wasn’t possible because the whole incident had been witnessed by millions of customers who had come from miles around to see what I’d done. They encircled me. They pointed and shook their heads disapprovingly. Somehow they knew that I didn’t even need a coffeepot and were questioning why I had picked it up in the first place. Fleeing was pointless. I knew the other patrons would rat me out for some lint and a pack of Skittles. In addition, my parole officer had already begun removing her belt and giving me the “I’m about to beat your behind right in the middle of this store” look. She’d never been on TV before and thought that a public flogging would be an easy way to make the nightly news. I was humiliated.

After my mother received straight 10s across the board and a standing ovation for successfully executing one of her famous five hits with one swing lashings, I pulled up my Superman underoos as quickly as I could. With the fear in my heart of having to pay for the merchandise, or forever being banished from Wal-Marts across the nation, I searched for an employee to report the incident. When I found a lady whom I thought to be one, I asked, “Do you work here?” She snarled, “What do you need?” I knew right then that if I admitted that I was the culprit, she’d have me out back in front of the firing squad within a matter of minutes and I just couldn’t allow that to happen. I mean, how would my parole officer have gotten home. I decided that the less information I gave, the better off I’d be. After all, I have my whole life ahead of me. “That coffee pot over there just fell and broke,” I said. Now, this wasn’t exactly a lie. It did fall. And maybe it did have a little assistance from me, but the Bible says nothing about withholding information being one of the 10 commandments. As far as I’m concerned, as long as I didn’t eat from the tree of knowledge, which they also sell at Wal-Mart, I was fine.

Therefore, the moral of this story, which I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, is wear clean underoos, because you just never know. Speaking of you just never know, several people have asked when it is that I post my blog so that they’ll know what day to check for updates. My goal is to post at some point over the weekend so it’s safe to check each Monday. Today I got a tad bit behind, but I’ll do better in the future—especially when I get up to like three readers because it will be more professional of me to have some type of system and to display a certain level of responsibility, which will work in my favor when I purchase those kids from Cambodia.

Until next time, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, which pretty much gives you free reign to do whatever you like.

Michael

Ten years ago I purchased a bed. Last week, I put it together. Wait, before you start judging, let me explain. At 19, one really doesn’t get the whole logic and theory behind the need to connect the headboard to the bed frame. At 29, however, something just kicks in and makes you want to tackle all these little challenges that you just lived with before. No lie, this year I’ve done things I’ve wanted to do all my life. I dusted my lamps. I changed the vacuum bag. I killed a spider without calling my mom OR dad to come over as backup and encouragement. Nope, I tackled this challenge on my own. Last but not least, I learned that everyone in the world isn’t Black by simply cleaning off my TV. Imagine my surprise to learn that Barbara Walters AND Madonna are White. No, really, they are. You can’t argue me down about this one. Maybe you should clean your TV screen too.

Ok, so let me be honest with you. The real reason I connected the headboard to the bed frame was not because I’d finally gotten to that item on my to-do list after 10 years. Instead, I’d finally gotten tired of my old bed frame clanking every time I made a move for the remote or got up to go to the bathroom. After years of having my neighbors think that I’m a tad bit more “active” then I really am at 2 in the morning, I decided to upgrade before I was voted off the island by the rental office and labeled with offensive names that I wouldn’t dare say in public or in this blog. Imagine explaining to your neighbors that you really aren’t a (insert appropriate word here), and that you just have an over active bladder. All this time I thought their sneers were because I had my own blog, not because they thought I was a “man of the night.”

Anyway, I purchased the bed frame from Value City Furniture—an experience all in itself—and decided to stop at Lowe’s to get screws and stuff to attach the headboard because I was told that there weren’t any in the box. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Lowe’s, Home Depot, or any other store of that nature, but, for one, they are huge. You could be lost in there for two months before a search team would find you. And two, there are sharp things everywhere that could injure a clumsy person like me. I can see the headlines now: Young male gets arm caught in key making machine before being strangled by a set of mini blinds. More news on this breaking story at 10.

So, I ask the lady at the door where the screws are, and she says, “Over in hardware.” I say, “Isn’t the whole store hardware?” I thought it was funny, but apparently having a sense of humor IS NOT a requirement for working at Lowe’s. I eventually leave the store with 16 screws, 8 washers, and 8 nuts—not including the two I…wait a second…my mom might be reading this…so 8 nuts. As luck would have it, when I got home and opened the bed frame box, guess what I found: screws and nuts. Trip to Lowe’s wasted. Thank you Value City Furniture employees for being so well informed about the products you sell. And if there are any readers of this blog who are employees of VCF, of course, I don’t mean you. You’re wonderful. Keep up the great work!!!

Anyway, with all the bed frame pieces laid out in front of me, I immediately got to work. I followed the instructions step-by-step and had the frame together within a matter of minutes. Next, I opened the pack of screws and saw that the tops of each were rounded and there were no holes for me to use one of my handy-dandy screwdrivers. I was so disappointed because I never get to use my screwdrivers and I’d really like to get my dollar’s worth. But, “No problem,” I said to myself. “Let’s assess the situation. What would Barrack do?” I reached for my hammer to bang the screws into my wooden headboard. Despite my best efforts, the screws refused to work with me. I then grabbed a pair of pliers, and that’s when the magic happened.

Forty-five minutes later, I had three blisters and one screw completed. 3 ½ hours later, my whole hand was one big blister and all of the screws were in place. I was so proud of myself for starting a project and seeing it through. I wasn’t even worried that my hand needed to be amputated because of all the manual labor. Instead, I just ignored the throbbing and patted myself on the back because I was a big strong man with tools and everything. My biological father would have been so proud—even more proud than that time when I was 28 and I finally learned the difference between golf and basketball. Imagine my shock when I learned that Tiger Woods didn’t play for the Clippers. You learn something new every day.

The point of all this, and I do have one, is that we, as individuals, can do anything we set our minds to. If Oprah can be the most powerful sorceror in the world, and Barrack can be president, why can’t I put my bed frame together? After that accomplishment, the sky is truly the limit. Now, I finally believe that all things are possible. I can’t even begin to explain how good this realization feels. The only thing to do now is set another big goal for myself. Hmm…maybe I’ll vacuum.

Today I’m going to try something different. Usually, I try to keep my writings humorous. However, with the recent deaths of well-known individuals such as Michael Jackson, Steve McNair, Farrah Fawcett, and the Oxy Clean guy, reality doesn’t always seem so funny. But in addition to the deaths of celebrities with whom we’ve never shared the same air, taking a brief gander at the local newspaper or the nightly news will reveal that people are dying right in our front yards and it’s not due to bouts of cancer, drug use, heart attacks, or bad choices. Instead, the cause of one’s demise could be that person sitting beside you on the bus, or across from you in a business meeting. It could be the person you pass before entering a store, or the person you accidentally cut off in traffic that may decide whether you’ll make it to see the next day or not.

On Saturday, I stopped at the local liquor store. Now, I hate the use of “liquor store” because it has a bad connotation regardless of whether you drink responsibly or not. And if something horrible happens at such an establishment, the victim is looked at as a lesser person than they would be looked at had they been assaulted in a grocery store. It’s almost like we blame the victim for being in a liquor store in the first place. Anyway, I pulled up in front of the store and noticed that the lights were out. There were people standing out front. It wasn’t until I got out of the car that I noticed about 60 roses taped to the outside of the front door. I then noticed that the people, who I thought were just congregating outside, were signing posters and shaking their heads in disbelief.

When I approached the crowd, I asked what happened. At that point, I hadn’t yet peeked through the glass door to see the blood on the floor less than three feet away from where I stood, or the various broken bottles that remained in the same spot where they’d landed two nights before during a senseless altercation. I was told that the owner, a man I’d seen each time I stopped at the store, had been killed in a robbery less than 48 hours earlier. Two masked gunmen, at some point, had been standing in the exact same spot where I was standing before they took the store owner’s life. And for the victim who had gone to work that Thursday just as he had done for years since he purchased the establishment, he, too, had stood where I was standing to open his business for the day. Of course, he had no idea that day would be his last.

His car still sat in the parking lot where he’d parked it.

I will never understand how a person could kill another human being. What reason does anyone have to end another person’s life? And how does one live with themselves after committing such an act? How does one eat, sleep, or watch TV after killing someone? It’s sad to think that we live in a world where a person can strive to do the right thing and live there life the right way, but be murdered because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or because they had more than what others are willing to work to earn, or for some other senseless reason.

I’m not sure how to end this because, as I read the paper about the 5-year-old who was struck by a stray bullet discharged from the gun of a 17-year old, the shootings of the police officers who were simply responding to a domestic violence report, and the 26-year-old who was found shot to death in his car at a park, it appears that these incidents are becoming the norm. With each occurrence, the shock value decreases as we become more and more desensitized and began to expect these types of things to occur. In fact, after being told of the store owner’s death, one former patron asked a Baltimore Sun reporter who was covering the story if “the store was going to open.”

So, no laughs this time around. Instead, I’m hoping and praying for change and a miracle. My heart goes out to anyone who’s been affected by these or any other senseless acts of violence. To those of us blessed to have seen this day, please be careful and stay positive through these trying times in which we live.