White Men Can't Rake

“There is no doubt that Mexicans, filled with dignity, willingness and ability to work are doing jobs that not even blacks want to do there in the United States”
–Vicente Fox (former President of Mexico 2000-2006)

Perhaps by virtue of my zip code or the silver spoons lodged firmly in certain residents’ throats, the number of home owners observed in gardening attire, bent ass-backwards to prune overgrown shrubs, pull weeds, or simply maneuver lawnmowers and spreaders across postage stamp acreage is negligible. In other words, white people in my neighborhood don’t stand in their grass. Presumably, they spend weekends listening to atonal jazz, reading English-translations of foreign novels, or maniacally shuttling children from practice to practice in the hopes of padding the family ego through competitive sports. So when autumn leaves fall or spring growth blossoms, I assume my token position amongst the affable Mexican day laborers.

Strangely, it feels disrespectful to strap on the leaf blower, as if I’m blatantly thumbing the eyes of these industrious landscapers, selfishly impeding their revenue stream with my amateur arsenal of tools. Just as a serial masturbator would anger the bible thumping right-to-life crowd with his wasted discharge of potential children, so must my presence in work gloves annoy the illegal squadron of lawn doctors. Either that, or I’m simply confusing them; effecting bewildered glances not only due to my melanin-challenged skin tone, but because these amigos can reshape multiple yards and grill a burrito in the time it takes me to blow leaves out of a small pachysandra patch.

Last Saturday marked a seismic event on the block, as two (count ‘em two) white men armed with dueling leaf blowers eradicated the last of the autumn debris in preparation for a new season of greenery. Me, and the realtor next door. Yes, the realtor, assiduously toiling to improve the curb appeal of his listing, yet taken aback at the way nature had reclaimed the property. Two white men slogging in adjacent yards seemed apocalyptic, almost dangerous, like we’d passed into some kind of dream nexus or Bizarro World worm hole; an affair nearly as foreboding as the crossing of proton pack streams in ‘Ghostbusters.’ Thankfully, witnesses were few and panic was averted.

But white men can’t rake. Not well, at least (see “No Money, No Problems” from Jan 14). Try as we might, I’m probably more suited to analyze the complexities of jazz, or trash my last semblance of dignity by shuttling random kids to track meets in a mini van: the end of the line for all Caucasians. That said, if faced with the reality of modeling seersucker pants on an afternoon yachting trip with uptight, gin drinking Protestants, I’d much rather hang with the Mexicans. They seem like a fun bunch, and the prospect of copious tequila while whistling at passing butt cheeks is a lot more enticing than croquet swing dissection. In between nacho refills, I can educate my compadres in the realm of financial discipline, and they can regale me with swashbuckling tales of navigating the Rio Grande in bathtubs.

Of course, this all begs the question: what can white people do? For one thing, we can swindle your money, hawking a complex alphabet soup of financial products like ABS, CDO’s, and CDS; analyzed, ironically, by a bunch of industrious back room Indians and/or Asians who see not in color, but in mathematical formulae and greek letters. Beware of people who have difficulty matching their socks, yet express flippant ease at destroying the financial landscape with instruments of byzantine complexity. And white people can sell this stuff, quite well I might add, due to our conversational breeziness and ability to look important in suits. Not only do we take pride in our wardrobes, but we conveniently jam toxic assets down the mouths of other white people who lack investment acumen or pecuniary sophistication. Then we get greedy, fuck it all up, and wait for cunning, stodgy white men (and one youthful half-white man) in the upper flanks of government to whitewash the scandal (excuse the pun) and bail us all out.

Now if you could pass the rest of those cervezas, it’d be appreciated. Just get that rake out of my sight. It’s really breaking my stride.

Boredom Rides Shotgun In The Carpool Lane

The below article was commissioned by a suburban living publication, wherein I was tasked with writing about kids and carpools. It was also swiftly rejected for offensive content. Now I'm left holding a piece that likens me to a deranged pedophile. Win some, lose some, I guess.

Would you trust me with your kids?

I’m hardly irresponsible. In another life I owned a lucrative seat at a once exalted investment bank; secured by merit, mind you, not because I traded my dignity for intercourse with a randy executive. Truth be told, avoiding the minefield of infidelity was a personal victory, both at the workplace and on the sidewalks of Stepford when mingling with domestics. And domestic I’ve become, another casualty of the economic fallout which relegated our nation’s leaders to money minting desperados. With financial security reduced to indulgence, my new status on the bread line affords ample moments for introspection, especially while awakening to the dreaded Kathie Lee Gifford hour of the Today show and wishing for a shotgun (for the television, not my temple). Numerous weeks have been squandered observing the stay at home moms of the village: the stroller pushers, the play-date negotiators, the resentful career flusher-cum-homemaker, and the lipstick temptress with her seductive saunter. In the span of three months, I’ve been degraded to a cut-rate voyeur of Daytime In Suburbia, weaning off that final swell of testosterone amongst the afternoon company of mommies, geriatrics, war veterans, and Ellen.

And you know what? I want a piece of this, permanently. There’s an inexplicable joy to seeing the midday sun lighten the facades of Main Street; something very “Leave It To Beaver” in the camaraderie of park bench lollygagging and conversations about the weather in meat markets and bakeries. I want a slice of that hot apple pie, that Mayberry ideal fresh out of the oven. Better yet, I want in on your kid’s car pool.

That said, come April 15th I won’t claim any dependent tax deductions. Not yet anyway, and not because my penis is broken. Hell, I can hardly stand the rugrats sometimes, forcing me onto bad knees to hear their incessant incoherent nonsense, fingerprinting my furniture with various bodily fluids, and erupting into fist-pounding tantrums over lost toys or reneged dessert privileges. And once we’ve mastered diapers and sharing, it’s time to pray your adolescent prodigy doesn’t crash the family car after funneling King Cobra behind the Sunoco mart (you know, the one that sells to underage kids) or take to smoking with last year’s Camaro driving dropout. Let’s not even get started on acne or vocational aspirations. Yet still, I think I can handle the car pool.

Exploring the aisles of costume wholesalers, I’d expect to unearth a Mickey Mouse mascot head on the cheap. What kid wouldn’t want to be escorted to school by the world’s friendliest rodent: giant white gloves clutching the steering wheel, huge head bobbing through an open moon roof, agape neighbor watching me suit up while pondering the exact moment when my train flipped the rails. Who doesn’t love Mickey Mouse? Think back to that summer he tousled your hair, then hammed it up in the family photo gently ribbing dad.

But let’s quash all the rumors proactively, shall we? Those whispers exchanged at the PTA meeting, the muttered indictments at brunch questioning my motives for Carpooler of The Year. I’m not an idiot, I’m simply unemployed, with heaps of time to anticipate your demeaning accusations. Nipping them all in the bud: I did not quit my job following a superb mental breakdown, I am not a registered sex offender, I will break your kid’s teeth if he wets his pants on my seat, Twinkies are indeed brain food and belong in the lunch bag, and this mouse costume is not used in conjunction with a role in a pornographic theater ensemble. Finally, if you note an ever changing lineup of children in this automobile, some not even enrolled in the school district, perhaps you should warn them to stop treating my car like a gypsy cab. I’m just a chauffeur. I don’t take attendance.

Erroneous gossip aside, ladies, you want me in that carpool. When you’re dawdling at leisurely lunches with the alcoholic socialite contingent, or philandering with a FedEx hulk at the hourly motor lodge, you need me in that carpool. And I couldn’t be happier to offer my services, gratis. Not only does this coupe with rear bucket seats beat the stigma of the yellow bus, but it fits six (even with the colossal mouse head) assuming we perch two urchins atop the center console. In fact, I’m thinking of delaying the job search a few months. My $364.50 weekly take from the labor department is enough to keep the electric humming in this modest abode, and besides, I enjoy discussing weather at the meat market. Have another appletini, or sign up for that second pilates class. I’ve got it from here. Come April, I’ll sprout pendulous breasts and trade Martha Stewart recipes with the rest of your jaded friends. And we’ll all find a nice young delivery boy to ravage.

That is, if you trust me.