In Da Club Remix

My grown women friends and the enlightened ladies that comment on this blog point out very clearly that there are plenty of reasons to go to the club for women. "I like going out to dance with my girls, have a few drinks and shake my booty" says Miz JJ. "When me and my friends go out, it truly is to UNWIND!" says Fallen Angel. I can appreciate that. (Thanks for commenting by the way).

I can understand the plight of those dudes too. I've had and still have boys that do the club thing. I know they are decent guys but decent guys don't thrive in the club. You can't get with no girl in the club being regular. You've got to adjust to your environment.

When you walk in the club you can separate the crowd into clear groups based on their intentions. These classifications are universal to any given non event night at any club across America. Maybe the world. You got your "Chill" crowd. They are just hanging with the girls. Drinking a little. Dancing in groups. Laughing at dance moves each other do. They're chilling. You got your "On the Prowl" group. They came to attract attention. They scan the crowd for cute dudes. They dance seductively by themselves and wave away ugmos that try to dance with them. The want the ballas. They don't want to get down immediately. They want to sample your money first. You got your "With Somebody" girls. They came with or to meet one person in particular. That's it. Once they find him they only dance with him, only talk to him, only look at him. Lastly, but certainly not least, you have the "Stick It In My Ass and Call Me A Bitch" girl. It's only one of them in the club at any given time.(more on the event nights). Sometimes she doesn't even show up.

That girl sets all the events in motion. First let's go on and admit that this "chick" does in fact exist and does attend the clubs on a regular basis. She's your friend that you don't drink after. That you wash your hands after you touch her. That you don't sit down in her house.

If every woman that came to the club acted respectably and with class (like 85% of all ladies in the club) there would be no problems. This "chick" opens up the endless possibilities for the end of the night for horny guys. If you can get her to dance, whisper a little something in her ear, buy a couple of drinks it's over. If you came to the club hunting for pussy, you're talking about the difference between having a good night and a great night . Her legend travels the city like a folk song on the wagon trail. Dudes that harass women in the club are looking for her. Problem is SHE LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU!! She's a regular lady that gets it in her mind to f*#$ somebody that night. She doesn't bare the mark of the beast. She isn't hideously deformed. She isn't even immediately recognizable. Dudes have to find her. She's not always there but she comes there enough to inspire dudes like an old Negro spiritual.

(deep Negro baritone)
I'mma goin' hoooomme (GOIN" HOME)
Ta git in dat aaaass (GET THAT AAASS)
Goin' hoooooome (GOIN' HOME)
oh Lawd
Ta git in dat ass (GIT IN DAT ASS)

Dudes come to the club to find that "chick". She is all dressed up dancing around in the crowd of all the other women. The time tested, certified, absolute best way to find that "chick" is to play the law of averages. Simply put you got to have that Baseball game.

Think about it like this. An average major league hitter on a REALLY good year averages a .300. Usually you're looking at about a .200 or less. That means he is successful roughly 20% of his attempts at bat. He fails 80% of the time! Hits 2 out of 10 balls, and he's good! He'll keep his job and will be back tomorrow. When he does connect there's no guarantee he'll get past first. He keeps going because he knows eventually he's gonna connect and its gonna be one of those sweet homeruns.



Right out of the park and he can jog home to the roar of the crowd. He does that for like 200 games a season. He keeps going and striking out. 25, 30 games no hits. Running to first, maybe scoring maybe not. End of the season you only remember the sweet homeruns.

Apply that principle to the club. Everytime a dude goes holla at a girl he's at bat. He's striking out 80% of the time. Girls walk away, throw drinks in his face, cuss him out, give him fake numbers. He gets no love 80% of the time. The rest of the time he might get a number, maybe see her again, probably not. Then out of the blue he gets with that "chick" and hits it out of the park. Mission accomplished. That one time assures him he is doing something right. He keeps going.

It has nothing to do with you ladies. I know it's annoying as hell but how else do you get a girl in the club? Its proven in the law of averages. Your odds of succeeding increase by increasing the number of attempts. They have no choice but to keep going and holla at everybody they see if they want to achieve that goal. You never know which girl is that "chick".

Oh but it gets deeper..
It gets deeper...

!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JENNY B!!

In Da Club

I never realized how traumatizing it is for a woman to go to the club. As much as women flock in droves to get up in the spot I thought they were having a wonderful time.

The way I look at it women spend about 8 to 12 hours in preparations for one night the club. A night is not even a whole night, we're talking 4 hours max. You have to figure in hair, nails, shopping for clothes, make up, coordinating schedules for friends and rides, babysitters in some cases. I peeped you out in the club, shawty, I'm tacking on another hour for practicing those moves. (You ain't come up with that little dip and twist move out of the blue.) I'm thinking to myself, logically who would devote that much time to something and not enjoy it? Especially when you are not only not getting paid but are paying to have be there. Fine women will drink for free and get in free but I've never heard of a fine women not getting hit up for parking. It might be possible though.

Talking it over with some friends this weekend they hit me with the ill horror stories. I've heard about the "Dance Floor Rapist" tales.

Just like being in the wilds of Africa, women go to the club in groups for protection. One of the girls always gets separated from the pack. That's when the hyenas swoop in. They move in quickly. Strategically positioning their widebacked monstrous selves between the pack and the unlucky slacker. Obstructing the view. Suddenly she's all alone in the middle of a crowd with this dude. Touching and feeling and groping. Putting his "equipment" all over her. Breathing his hot breath. Luckily another girl saw her struggling to get away and saved her. Man makes you wonder how many girls go home with mysterious wet spot on their clothes. That s#*$ ain't cool.

I had not heard the "Mr. Celebrity" story before. The girl is barely 5 ft tall. Dark chocolate, island sista. Very petite, very heavy Trini accent, very cute. She's in the club and this tall ass dude comes over to her. (Tall guys love short women.)He hovers over her like the last piece of chicken. After sucking up all her air he tells her to come with him, so he can show her something. She says no and pushes him up off of her. Dude goes into this tirade. "Don't you know who I am?! You should be beggin' to come with me! Don't you know who I am?! You know how many women want to be with me!" Dude geeks out so hard she grabs her friends and heads to the bouncer for protection. Dude won't let up. She points him out and the bouncer says, "Don't you know who that is? He's such and such. He plays for the Clippers." She's a PhD candidate in chemistry from Trinidad, she don't know nothing about American basketball players. Ask her about organic compounds or chemical bonds and she's all over it. I'm from America and I wouldn't recognize a Clipper player even if they had their full uniform on a basketball court with cameras following them around. Dude was out of order but she had to leave! How f#*$d up is that?

Put that with all the "Gold-toothed Po Pimps" and the "Ugmo Nights at Visions" and the "In Love Sloppy Drunks" I don't see how women can have any fun. What is the point really if all this bad stuff is very likely to happen on any given night. Is it worth all the stress, time, and money?

Apparently it is.

Stick Me for My Paper

Don't you love ambiguous titles for stuff. Take for instance this title. "Stick Me for My Paper" You think I'm about to go into my little thing about Biggie Smalls but no I'm not talking about Biggie. The Biggie argument is a moot point to me. I love B.I.G. but I think a little romanticism is going on with that. It's gotten to be real cool to shout him out, quote his lyrics and say he's your favorite of all time. I don't want to have that argument today.

Could I be talking about Lego? Lego has been making those little blocks for 2000 years or so. Now they are closing their American facility to move it to Mexico. They say times have gotten bad for them. With all the Playstations and XBoxes and gameboys kids don't want any real toys. You give a kid a Lego set you might get cussed out. ("Wha the hell am I s'pose ta do wit dat?") What is Christmas without spending 2 hours covered in little plastic blocks of varying sizes, shapes, and colors looking at a little tiny folded piece of paper trying to make a dinosaur adventure island for your G.I. Joes? I can see the benefit of moving to Mexico though. If I was in the ivory tower and somebody told me I could stop paying people $7.50 an hour with benefits and move my plant to Mexico where I could start paying people 45 cent an hour and a loaf a bread a week, there wouldn't be much discussion after that. Yet I'm not talking about sticking hard working Americans up for their paper either.

I'm talking about the King Papers. Coretta and Martin are gone. As much as we talk about how much we love them and how much respect we have for everything they did for us (especially Martin), respect and love don't keep the lights on. The King children need that cash. They don't have the money to maintain the King center, or probably to maintain their lifestyles. Unfortunately whatever gifts Martin and Coretta had they didn't quite translate to their babies. Their claim to fame is that their parents were great people. Doesn't make them great people. They really can't get the money coming to the foundation with the figure head gone now. I don't think anyone pays to go see the King children.

The solution to their problems are to let Suthebys auctions off the old documents of their father. Drafts of the "I have a dream speech", His Nobel peace prize speech. Letters. Notes to Coretta telling her not to fix Sista Rosa's jumbalaya any more because it gave him gas. All kinds of stuff. They are expecting between 15 and 30 million for the lot. Automatically people are getting upset because they say the King papers should stay in the black community. Black owned so to speak. Selling the papers is like selling our heritage to them. I agree and disagree.

I agree because Martin Luther The King was the key to the civil rights movement. If King didn't do it, it wasn't gonna happen. He got 5 million people to march on Washington and until he flew down in his pastor suit with flowing red cape and turned water in to wine we were a lost people. Victims of racist America. Maybe there is a little romanticism there too. Truth is more people marched in the Million Man March than the march on Washington. Black leaders chastised him for taking a stance against Vietnam. He was considered revolutionary and danger until Malcom came a long. History glosses over that stuff. Martin is our saint though. It would be good for us as a people to show how we can take care of our own history. Keep his papers for prosperity on display at Morehouse for all to see and be proud of.

I disagree because in addition to being black I'm also an intellectual and a realist. I know anybody that buys the King papers are not going to destroy them, hide them, or burn them. Who would pay $15+ million dollars to get some kindling for the fireplace? (Besides the paper are all digitally archived now) I know white people value King's legacy almost as much as black people do. In some cases more so. I know of all kinds of public institutions with the funds and knowledge to keep the papers in pristine condition for damn ever. Would it make me any less proud of the King legacy to see his papers in a huge elaborate display at the Smithsonian compared to somewhere not as elaborate on Morehouse campus? I don't think so.

Actually I might feel better about it. No I'm not an Uncle Tom that doesn't care about "our history". I care a great deal about it. I think it would be wonderful to walk through an archive of American history and see the King legacy proudly represented. That's what we were fighting for, right?

John

John
18"x25"
watercolor

Another Solomon original. Inspired by me thinking "I wonder what a black and white protrait over a solid color would look like. The meaning would be changed by the color. What if it was red. A bright splashed on dripping wild red. What if I..."

Let me know what you think.

Attack of the Co-workers

Read TGIF and The Cypher first.

Still not doing...

A
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...at work. My boy Dave has pointed out how no matter what job you go to there is always one disgruntled black person. Most of the time its an old black dude. You have to ask yourself, why is he so mad? Is the job really that bad or is his life f&$%d up?

I wonder if it's the same for people at other jobs. I wonder if CEO's pull up to the job first day and a black guy walks up to him and goes "Man this job ain't s#*$. You see that little ass plane they give us? How they expect us to get by with $20,000 a month expense account? Those damn stockholders always calling and want to know what we doing all the time. It's f*#%d up man. This s#*$ sucks." Depends on you perspective I guess. I can see how even the greatest job in the world will get on your nerves after 18 years of doing the same s&*# every damn day.

I think every job has certain stereotypes. Like a fat person. Something like 40% of Americans are obiest now so maybe that's the reason for that. But why is the fat person always snacking on something healthy like yogurt and granola bars and fruit? If I see a fat person eating cake and ice cream all the time I can comprehend that. You know how many granola bars you have to eat to not only stay fat but get fatter? What is the point of eating healthy at all?

There always the uppity ass dude. He swears he knows everything about every damn thing. They always want to explain s#&$. If I ask you about this one file in this one project I don't need to hear anything about the history of the company, how they name the file because the sign couldn't fit in sideways, and how they had to change the materials due to cost. DUDE, I DON'T CARE! GIVE ME THE F&$%IN FILE AND SHUT THE F&#$ UP!

Who else has a little woman that wears 3 inch heels but can hardly walk in them?

How about a big booty chick? There is always one big booty chick that walks by the guys and waves like she don't know we looking at her ass. I couldn't pick her out of a crowd.

Uh oh...about time to go home. I have not done...

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...all day. Time for the weekend. This job is alright. F#&$ what dude talking 'bout.

The Cypher

Read TGIF first.

"Yo"

Bum boom boom boom
Bum boom boom boom

"Yo"

Bum boom boom boom

"Go head, Trev"

Bum boom boom boom

"yo, yo
Yo Reg is on my team, Dee's on my team, Chris on my team, you know what I mean, I sit back and dream, want to drink Mo' like a fiend, drive cars and get mad c.r.e.a.m., but I'm in this classroom, teacher in the bathroom, gettin drunk, yo she smell like a skunk, yo Dee stop laughin, you mess'dup the beat"

"You stupid man. Cmon Reg."

Bum boom boom boom
Bum boom boom boom
Bum boom
Bum boom
Bum boom boom boom

"Who the f#&$ is this, rappin in the claaass, if Renada walk I'm gonna smack that aaaass, cause its so phat, I'll get it from the back like ratta-tat-tat, all up in the crack (oh!), I'm grimey, crazy, vicious, when I finish she'll say "that was magically delicious", I go coo coo for that coco, crazy like a do do, open up those lips and put it in real slow slow, I take a girl like Tasha ("Don't talk about me, boy"), bet I make her holla, she says "stop its too big", aye yo I give it to her harder. Stop throwing stuff. Stop playin, girl. You know you want me."

Bum boom boom boom

"She was lookin at your ass the other day, yo."

Bum boom boom boom

"I know she was. You can holla at me girl. I'll f&$ you."

Bum boom boom boom (laughing)

"Yo you see his face! He took the hell off! She ain't gonna catch that guy. Big Chris you got it."

Bum boom boom boom
Bum boom boom boom

"Aight"

Bum boom boom boom

"What, what, what, yo, yo"

Bum boom boom boom

"You gonna spit or keep saying that s$&%?"

Bum boom boom boom

"I got this man.yo
give it to you like this, or that, I ball, I rap, I'm muthaf&#%in' man like method, take the word don't test it, eat my steak feed you carrots like a rabbit, fresh cut, new kicks and a jacket, i'm so fresh all the bitches call me magic,("Get Tony yo") Tony been cutting grass with them shoes, white with green stains that s#&% ain't cool, don't mean to be rude, I went to his house, smack'd his mama in the mouth("OOOOOOh"), I ask'd to use the bathroom, she wouldn't let me piss, I went outside let it go in a ditch, outside by the flowers, when I f$*% his mama, she charge me by the hour, she start sucking and kaboom! black juice fill the room!!"

"OOOOHHHHH!! Damn yo! HAHAHA He got you, Tony. HAHAHA He got you good yo. You dirty Chris. You dirty yo."

"What you back there doin, Detron? I can't leave the class good and you start cackling like a.."

"Like a what? A monkey?"

(class laughs)

"Y'all get back to work."

This is just a random ass memory. Just laughing my ass off at old stuff while I'm sitting here not doing...

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TGIF

It might be because its Friday. It might be because it was hot this morning. Or because I had to take my car to the shop today. But you know what I feel lucky. Lucky enough that I'm not doing a gotdamnthang at work today.

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All day long. No preparing next week. No cleaning up from this week. No organizing. No designing. Nothing. Not...

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I'm taking the day off from work... at work. Anybody that tries to stop me or make me do something is getting the Kunta Kinte special. I'm chopping off feet today, bitches. Don't push me.

I'm gonna do this tag from Fallen Angel. Identify and give a shout out of appreciation to those who have helped or are helping me in my life. That's what I'm gonna do. Get your ipods out put on Anthony Hamilton Coming from Where I'm From, track one. "Mama Knew Love". I know its the same beat as Jay Z "Mama Loves Me" but Anthony Hamilton got that soul in his voice that makes it that much better. Look, you like having 2 feet right? Just do it.

The Fam gets a big shout out. I don't go through the day without thinking about them. All of them. Ma, Pop, 2 brothers, 2 sisters, 3 nephews. Can't live without them. Move to ATLANTA!!

Magic Mike and Reggie Lee. My other brothers. It's been like 18 years now right? Its way easier to deal with life when you have real friends like that. Reggie is in the desert doing his super soldier thing. I still match wits with Mike weekly. Reg is married with a cute little girl and Mike is on his way to owning Lowes. When we talk its like we're still cruisin through the country in a battleship gray Festiva. No power steering! All muscle taking the curves, remember that?!

Shirley the first person I met at ECU. Made leaving home for the first time much easier and much more fun.

Josh P the greatest roommate ever. Frat brother supreme. Talking in the room eating hotdogs on the George Foreman helped me keep my cool. Dez was there too. Can't forget my boy D.

Dre, James, Stan. They brought me into the mighty Iota Phi Theta Fraternity Incorporated. Gave me a purpose when I needed it and some wild ass memories. We ain't had to be throwin' it up like that Dre!! RICOLA!!

Alexis made that time in Greenville worth living. You don't know how much I hated being around Greenville til we became friends again. Move to ATLANTA!

ECU Dining Services for firing me. The best thing that ever happened to me.

Dave helped me get 2 jobs. Keeps me thinking about doing art as a career. We gon' make it Dave.

Jenny B. Who I love more than life. My measure for all real women. My first girlfriend. My biggest supporter. My best friend ever. Who showed me the joy of loving and being loved. One day the moon and stars will align and we will live in wedded bliss forever. For ever, ever? For ever, ever girl.

Outkast for making that good music that kept me up and hype for my late night paintings.

Everybody that read my blog and came back. You like me! You really like me!

That's it for now. Since I ain't doing..

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...at work today, I'm gonna write another blog.

Nice Try Billy Boy

Sorry, Bill Campell, paying $60,000 in back taxes, a $6,300 fine and a 30 month sentence for being found guilty of 2 counts of tax evasion sounds about right to me. The judge says he factored in evidence from a friend about how you took records to hide evidence in the trial that might have worked against you. I can see that too.

I can't appreciate you and your supporter waving the black flag, so to speak, to make everybody all hyped up about your problems. I think you and bitch ass Frank Ski (a dj on the radio station down here in Atlanta) are about the only people that think race was involved. I was especially delighted at the responses from people on Frank's show yesterday.(Notes I hate listening to his show and I only catch it when people tell me something good like yesterday Is going on)

Frank had Atlanta's new major Shirley Franklin on their and was going on and on trying to make it seem like it was such a blow to black people in public office. Like now it was a big crusade out against black people in positions of power. Her response was to the effect of "No it doesn't make me nervous. I don't feel anymore nervous than any of my white counterparts that I talk to. Anyone in this office will be under a microscope because of the nature of the job. Its all about personal ethics." That's coming from a black woman mayor. Take that Frank Ski.

For some odd reason he also had one of the federal persecutors up there. Frank Ski has this complex where he thinks he's right and no one can argue against him. His mistake was bringing on a man that is trained to argue against other people that are trained to argue. He must be good because after all he is a federal prosecutor. After pointlessly trying to act like dude must be happy now that he got Bill Campbell. (like he must be really proud of himself) The guys beaks Frank's face in half. He tells him about how his daughter kept him up last night and how bad that was. He goes on to explain how he doesn't care about convicting Bill Campbell. He goes to work, he gets a case and he prosecutes. Black, white, man, or woman if you bring him evidence about somebody breaking the law he'll review it. If he reviews it and finds that its credible, he prosecutes. That's what he does. Its his job. He's already prepping his next case. He doesn't know Bill Campbell doesn't care about him in the least. Way more important than the fact that Campbell was black was that he was an alledged corrupt mayor.

He explained the case against Frank's buddy Bill like this: Aside from the fact that 10 people in his administration have been proven guilty of accepting bribes, there were records that proved undeniably all of Mr. Campbell's exploits. Trips with a news anchor in a prolonged affair, high stakes gambling, lavish gifts for mistresses, etc. Going through the records there was $160,000 spent beyond his salary and money received from being mayor and other engagements, that can be directly connected to him. Money that was not reported to the government at any point. Bill has yet to give any reasonable explanation for where the excess money came from. There is no way all that money came from him gambling. That is tax evasion, plain and simple. In the grand scheme it is impossible for the government to justify taking half of the money a person at McDonalds earns and not hold public officials to the same standard. They should in fact be held to a higher standard because they are officers of the government.

What can you say to that?

Frank had to agree with that. He didn't want to and tried to change the subject to discredit the person that came forward with charges of evidence tampering. Bill apparently came to his house and took paper records of all that gambling he was doing. He tried to say how wild it is for this guy keep track of the money at the gambling nights. They apparently gambled at his house every week and he was the banker. He wrote down he got loaned money and who owed who and who paid what. "Who keeps records of gambling between friends?" says Frank desperate to stop his point from disappearing into thin air. That's not even a whole argument. Who jumps out of a plane and gets married on the way down? Who washes their car and dries it with a diaper? Who goes out and rapes a five year old to cure AIDS? It all happens. The fact you have never seen it is irrelevant in court.

It takes me back to my age old motto. I'm not supporting anything just because. It has to have some logical sense behind it. I can't support anybody or anything based simply on the fact that they are black. It is very possible for a man to do amazing things and still be a jackass. Bill Campbell (supposedly) did a lot for black people in Atlanta as mayor. That's cool. I as a resident of Atlanta appreciate it. As a black man well aware of the struggles we encounter everyday, I commend you, Mr. Campbell.

So where'd the money come from?

Dinner for 2

The boots match the necklace. The purse matches the skirt. The earrings match the belt. The nails match eyes. The shirt drapes over her torso ever so softly revealing her amazingly soft creamy skin which is accented by her flowing expertly highlighted hair. The goddess strolls into the room blessing the world with her beauty. She is the caramel Venus, down amongst the trolls. The ultimate winner of the genetics melting pot. The best of 3 heritages shining greater than any before her. I'm breathless as always.

Her entrance is as grand as it has ever been. A magical stroll of gorgeous detachment. She navigates the mortal realm as a specter floating through space above everything, save what interests her at the time. The universe is recreated for her every morning when she wakes and ceases to exist when she closes her eyes at night. There is nothing beyond herself. Her eyes meet mine and my heart jumps still. She leads, as always with that dagger of a smile, beaming of an almost insane confidence. Not true confidence but the appearance of it.

She never loved me but she loved having me there for her. I supported her with an efficiency of an unrequited lover. I once thought of myself to be her favorite toy. She treated me as such. I hate myself for ever having liked it and for liking it the way I did. I was the movie friend. The dinner companion. The hang out buddy. I would have ran into burning building to fetch her ice water for the chance to have her around for one more minute. I dreamed of touching her in the most pathetic sort of way. Brushing against her arm, her leaning against me or (gasp) holding her hand. I could never imagine such happiness as a kiss.

That was the downfall I think. I respected her above all else, more than she even respected herself I believe. I wore my infatuation with her like a big puffy, purple mink coat. After a long day of going out and being used and abused by everything and everyone I was the her favorite couch to relax on. That's where she wanted me and that's where I was.

I was under the spell. I don't know why. All the time we spent together, gave me a chance to thoroughly inventory her. I lived for her star qualities and I knew her every flaw. From how she mispronounced "prescription" (perstription) to her nearly palpable forgetfulness about everything. I've come to see now that she was the most needy and weak minded person I had ever met. Something about being stunningly beautiful robbed her of any desire to do for herself. Any solution to any problem involved her getting someone to do something about it for her. To her, everything could be fixed with a kind word and that smile. That ethereal smile. The rare times that did not work, her usefulness evaporated like water in the desert. She would wait for someone to restore it by acknowledging her beauty and correct her life for her. It was the most pathetic and attractive thing about her.

The main pitfall for us is her insatiable need for attention. She was a status vulture. Her substantial investment in the time, money and energy into being blindingly alluring necessitated her having a companion of the utmost potential to draw attention. He had to be her ultimate accessory. She needed the president of the Alphas. The biggest and baddest Q dog and I was just an Iota. She needed the quarterback and I was a sometime fan in the stands. I would never be enough for her because I was recognized and respected by everyone that knew my name. She wanted someone revered by all.

I grew tired of wearing my smiling mask. It hid my resentment, my jealousy, my crying eyes from her sight. It was too heavy for me to carry any longer. It had gotten to the point of everyday visits and every weekend wasted catering to my pedestal princess. I had had enough. I had matured greatly over the course of our affair. I'd gained strength and knowledge of life. I knew I was choosing stagnation, a voluntary servitude to a woman devoid of the ability to connect with me. I forfilled her need for true male companion ship and she left me wanting for everything. She adored my affection and let me down ever so gently when I dared ask for more from her.

Here we are. On my rare visit home she caught me at my friends house and arranged our dinner. After her spectacular entrance, I sit and eat with the most beautiful woman I have ever known. A woman that drives a Mercedes that she can't afford. A woman that has spent a small fortune to feed on the attention of people she doesn't even know. A woman with a smile to die for, that hasn't read a book in 5 years. A woman that is now the opposite of perfect for me because I am now the opposite of infatuated with her.

The spell is broken. I toasted my emancipation in a silent happiness.

Vaguely

Vaguely
18"x24"
charcoal

You can kinda remember things about someone but the picture is not always perfect.

Dateline's Funniest Home Videos

Dateline has came up with the funniest TV series since Sienfeld. Their "To Catch A Predator" series is the most hilarious show out right now.

The set up is so basic, its genius. A group of volunteers pose as underage girls online. They wait around and sure enough the perverts start to line up. After having a few conversations the jump into the dirty talk. That leads up to the pervs arranging a meeting with the girl when her parents aren't home. When the guys show up, out comes Chris Hanson and he interviews these jackasses. That is the most hilarious part, they sit down and talk to him about what's going on. What the f#&$?! They do the sloppiest backtracking ever caught on TV. Pervs caught red handed. The best part is they start to leave feeling embarrassed yet relieved that they got away. Suddenly they get swarmed by cops! HAHAHA! You stupid pervs! You thought you were getting away! HAHAHAH!

This is definitely the thing that is perfect about reality TV. Not the faux reality TV on most stations. Stuff like Real World, The Apprentice, etc are damn near scripted sitcoms. The stories that these freaks have are so amazing Dean Koontz couldn't make this up. Firefighters, teachers, priests. They stroll up the drive way looking around with armfuls of Mike's Hard Lemonade and beer. Condoms in their pockets. They come in happily identifying themselves, all the while imagining getting some of that underaged nookie. All the way up until Chris comes out like, "Excuse me. What are you doing?" HAHAHA! They look at him like he's a the boogie man. A clear mix shock and guilt. If you look closely their bodies jerk like they just stopped themselves from taking off in a full sprint. It amazes me every single time that they sit down and talk to him.

"What were you coming over here to do?"
"I came to hang out." or "Came to talk and make some new friends."
"To hang out alone in a house with an 15 year old. What is the beer for?"
"I was thirsty." (HAHAHAHA!!) or "I uh..its..uh"
"That's not what you said in your chat. You said you wanted to lick her virgin body and give her great pleasure like a real man. You talk, quite explicitly about various sexual acts. I didn't know you could do all that with a potato. Sniffing pubic hair. Masturbation. You were very explicit. You want to beep his beep and beep his long beep beep I can't even say this stuff out loud. Did you bring condoms, Mr. (insert sexually explicit screen name)?"
"Yeah. But I..uh..I always carry condoms with me." They say while shifting on the stool uncomfortably.
"So you thought it was ok for a 42 year old man to bring alcohol and condoms to meet a 13 year old girl. You're a married man with kids. What was your plan tonight? What would have happened in this house if me and me television crew had not been here?"
(uncomfortable silence) HAHAHAHA!!

Dateline has been doing this a while. They started coming up with stuff to make it more challenging. They use decoy little boys. Web cams. They have these crazy voice over recreating the online conversations. They set up the houses way out in the country so the pervs have to drive like 200 miles to get there. They catch almost 20 dudes every episode. The really bad part is that some of the people have seen the other Dateline shows!

I give major kudos to Dateline for this one. They catch the pervs and provide some of the most classic moments of TV in the last 5 years. I swear I almost died when that dude came in the house and got ass out naked, walking around dick swangin' waiting for a 14 year old girl to come out. When he tried to say all he wanted was to talk, Chris Hanson said "Marvin, you're naked." HAHAHAHAHAH
HAHAHAHAHA!!

Wooooooo. oh man You crazy Chris Hanson.

Some Get Back

I have always had this innate desire to go back and confront adults from my childhood. It's nothing incredibly serious. (No I wasn't molested or abused. I had a very nice childhood all things considered.) I got issues with some folks. The people I'm talking about never hurt me you see. They shattered my world none the less. They showed me how ugly it is on the other side of my front door. I remember them distinctly because the moments of our faithful interactions are etched into my brain. I'm secretly incredibly bitter about my mental scars. I don't want to fight them. I just want to talk s#$& to them.

I would go to the Hull Street Market (the sto' like my grandma says it). I was about 8 or 9 and there was this bum that lived on the street around there. I hated going to the store because he always popped up. I hated how he talked to me like I was an adult. He used to always harass me about my mama's change. "Hey let me see what's in your bag, little man? Your mama don't need all that change, let me get me something to drink. It's hot as hell out here. You just gonna act like a ol bitch and not say nothing. I ought to smack you and take your change. See what your punk ass daddy does about that." Imagine how traumatizing it is for an old evil looking man to threaten a little kid. I remember that day vividly because soon as I turned the corner I took off running back home. I fell and messed up my favorite He-Man t-shirt (I'm an 80's baby). I want to go back to that moment and mush that dude in the face. "What the hell you doing out here talking to little kids like that?! Get the hell on somewhere with your old ass! Looking like Roger Troutman on crack! Go comb your knappy ass beard and go back to Cameo with you old ass! Word Up Nigga!" Then I would mush the korean lady at the register. "Why you let that dude harass your customers? Call the police or something. Now give me a sugar daddy and some red hots."

Then it's on to Ms Weaver. Sixth grade P.E. teacher extraordinaire. Damien and Trevor had me in a damn head lock. They had ripped my shirt and dragged me across the gym. She sends all 3 of us to In School Suspension for playing while she was talking. I made direct clear eye contact with her with my one good eye that wasn't compressed against his forearm. My face was bright red. I was choking and gasping for breath under his musty arms. "Woman are you blind or something? You so fascinated with kickball, that you can't see past your puffy mustache and help somebody. Fix your wig, bitch, and get a clue. This dude is 6'2" 215 how the hell was I playing with his big gorilla ass. Pick those sagging ass titties up when I'm talking to you."

I really got fire for one person in particular. It was 1996. I was 16 riding my bike down the road from Reggie's house going home. It was just starting to get dark outside. I'm riding along enjoying myself when I see lights approaching from behind. I move to get into the next lane out of the way, at the same time this dude accelerates in the next lane to pass me. BOOM! I black out at the initial impact and wake up seconds later in total pain with a mouth full of dirt and blood. I remember trying to move and not being able to. I start crying. I make myself notice of every second, thinking I'm going to die on the side of the road. I listen to my every breath praying for the next sweet inhale of life. This dude gets out the car and starts cussing at me! He's mad about his car!! I black out again thinking, "what kind of s#&$ is this? I live a good life for 16 years and the last thing I'm going to hear is a guy cussing at me about his car".

I have to come in with the Kill Bill red light and the crazy synthesizer music. EEEEHHHH! OOOOOOO! EEEEEHHH! OOOOO! " Muthaf#$&a!! You hit me!! I'm sitting here dying on the ground and you talking about your punk ass Maxima! F#&$ your car Nigga! You gonna cuss at me about some bulls#*%! Get some help! Stop bitchin and ask me am I ok or something! You country ass bastard, driving like you ain't got no damn sense! Where the F#&$ you going that you got to run down people to get there? It's f#&$in Roanoke Rapids, It ain't nowhere to go nigga!! You Big Bird looking mutha f#*%a!"

I'm not holding a grudge on anyone. After dude scared me I got the "don't let people get to you" speech. It built up my defenses to the world at large. In ISS I actually sat down and talked to Damien and Trevor on some real talk and we kinda became friends (kinda, but not really. They never did that extreme stuff again). I survived that accident. Haven't rode a bike since but I lived to leave small town life forever. You might say they made me stronger by doing me wrong but they were wrong regardless. I may forgave them for their transgresses, but they still need to be cussed out.

(P.S. I'm still with abolish the N word, it slipped in there today)

Stone Cold

How about you save the Proof tributes for someone that gives a damn.

Let's face the facts on this one. His greatest contribution to hiphop was holding Eminem's keys while he was on stage performing. Somehow while he was keeping Em's sodas cold he managed to release a wack ass cd. Let's not mention his wack ass D12 cds. I'm not saying he probably wasn't a nice guy. Hell he might have been a really fun loving guy. The thing is not even 2 minutes before he caught one in the head he pistol whipped a guy and then SHOT HIM IN THE HEAD! He f*#$in killed a guy over an argument about what? Who was the king of Detroit? That kinda over rides all the other good stuff he might have done in his life. He should've got shot for that. His best friend is super rich. All he had to do was get the crowd to wave their hands side to side and make sure their was a jar of all green M&M's in the dressing room. No this dummy wants to pistol whip and shoot people in the club cause he wants everybody to know he's the "king" of one of the poorest cities in America. Dummy.

Just as dumb as those teenagers that ran up on that marine in Midtown. Five MIDDLE CLASS TEENAGERS decided to ride around in their mom's caddy and rob people. They aren't even poor and desperate for money. Two of their parents are teachers. They lived in a brand new subdivision. Who robs people for no reason? Apparently all the trouble started when the girl was working at Six Flags and started dating another dude that was working there. They get together listen to rap music and decided how cool those gansta lyrics sounded. So cool they decided that was what they needed to do. They go patrolling the streets 2 days before graduation. They see a waiter just getting off work. They pull up and jump not knowing this dude is really Batman. I smile to myself imagining the slow motion "Oh S#@*!" as he kicks the gun out of somebody's hand.(I know for sure somebody let out an "Oh S#$%!". It was an "Oh S&#%!" let out by somebody at that scene). When its all said and done the only injury the waiter has is a cut on the hand (a self inflicted cut) and an elevated heart rate. Two of the dudes are in custody. Two other dudes stabbed up in critical condition. The girl is dead. Turns out the waiter had $8 in his pocket. Dummies.

I don't have sympathy for dummies. All of the before mention idiots made incredibly destructive choices and they got what was coming to them. When Proof finished pistol whipping that cat and he turned the gun around to shoot him in the head, what the f#&$ did he think was going to happen? Did he think the crowd would all fall to their knees and start to worship him? Did he look up to the sky and feel his record sales about to go up because he now had the ultimate street cred? Did he imagine himself going home and his wife and child patting him on the back for handling his business like a real thug? How about the teenagers. Did they laugh and shake with excitement as they grabbed the shotguns and hopped into mommy's caddy? Did they already make plans to go to Sonic for root beer floats after pulling off a real life crime? I don't feel sorry for Proof's murdering ass and I damn sure don't feel sorry for those kids. Two shotguns and a pistol that situation could have easily been way different with one flick of a trigger. The waiter could have been taken out. All he's guilty of is walking home after work.

"Damn you cold, Solomon. Do you feel sorry for anybody?"

Yes I do, my friend.

Midgets.

Midgets are cursed to live in a world made and maintained by people three times their size. Imagine having a fully functioning, fully capable mind locked in the body of a Cabbage Patch Doll. You ask somebody to hand you a napkin and all they say is "Look at your cute little arm. You are just as cute as you can be. Yes you are. Yes you are as cute as a itty bitty button wutton". Ten year old want to pick you up all the time and kiss you on the face. You have to always be the elf at the Christmas party. The second you get mad and cuss out some kid for staring at you and people call you an angry leprechaun. You can't win. That's tough.

And on the Count of 3...

Go

Full stride out the door. Head for the fence. Cut left at the wall and go straight. He imagines it all before he makes a move. It has to be flawless if he has any chance to get away.

Go

Legs burning, chest heaving. Running harder than ever before. He should have never worn his bright white shirt and yellow and blue Nikes. Too late to change. No time for regrets. He doesn't think they saw him head this way. Regardless if they did or not he's committed. This route has to work. The smooth fluid movement he imagined, bouncing off the gate and through the cut opening in the broken fence, fails painfully. He's face down in the dirt.

Go

He hops up from the ground and lets the wind blow off the dirt. He's made it to the hard part, running the broad side of the building unnoticed. He focuses straight ahead not wanting to check for them, lest he finds what he's looking for. He watches the distance between him and salvation steadily lessen. He wishes he was the Flash. He could make it there in a blur of an instance. He wishes he could be carried away in a breeze to escape this part and return to his normal life. His legs burn, his chest heaves. His eyes focus on his next obstacle.

Go

Over the 4 foot opening he feels the sweat running down his back. He becomes aware of the stinging from the cuts on his arms. He tries to savor the brief moment but can only think of how he got himself into this predicament. His grandma would laugh and say he's finally wrote the check his ass couldn't cash. His dad would say he should have listened and never went that route in the first place. Too late to change. No time for regrets.

Go

The fence ends. Straight shot now. Legs burning, chest heaving. He strides even harder now that safety is within reach. Suddenly a push from behind sends him falling through the grass. He rolls twice, stopping face down just feet from home. He punches the grass in frustration, then turns to his assailant. They stand menacingly over him. He looks up with determination.

Tag.

He's it.

Not for long he vows, clenching his fist. Not for long.


(I know this is not what Common was thinking on that song but this is what I imagined this weekend. Nobody wants to be it.)

The Great Walter Mosley

It ain't no secret that me and Walter Mosley books are quite fond of one another.

Seriously I love to read. You can't pay my older sister to pick up a book. Same parents, same upbringing and she's allergic to reading. That really has nothing to do with anything but I just wanted to mention her (luv u Shaunda!)

Anyway I've read a lot of books. For the longest time I thought something was wrong with me because I could never get into black authors. I used to think it was because black authors for the most part are only promoted if they operate within the confinements of "African American Literature". (you know that little section off to the side at the bookstore) What that means to me is over the top relationship dramas with over sexed, over-stereotyped character (the thug, the good man, the professional conflicted sexy main character, the mother, the gossipy friends,etc..) with a quaint religious overtone and weird endings. Never liked them. Still don't. Then there is the black erotica with Zane leading the way. Personally, speaking just for me of course, 10 pages describing a sex scene is too much for me (let me get this right a sorority that does what?). Then you got your "Gansta/Street Novels" Iceberg Slim and Donald Goings inspired writings describing the thug life and pimping. I got into these slightly a little more. Whoreson was decent. Pimp was decent. I didn't get excited by it especially. (*note if reading Pimp changed your life you had a suck ass life).

I've read the classics. Autobiography of Malcom X, The Color Purple, stuff like that. Why did I always have to read about blacks struggling in the ghetto or having sex? Where is the action, the suspense, the mystery....the imagination. Sure black authors write about what they know. The struggles of ghetto life and violence and sex are something we see everyday. I know, I know. That's why I started reading. In a small town a ghetto child too smart for public school doesn't have many choices. Play sports and hang with a bunch of dudes all day (negative captain). Walk up and down the streets getting into trouble (not happening). Find a creative outlet and dream about tomorrow (ding ding ding!!). Black authors stories never soared above my surroundings. They explained exactly what I figured I wanted to avoid. They left me tired and bored. Til I read Devil in a Blue Dress.

It was everything I liked about reading. Easy Rawlins is a man with a tough, colorful life story, a dangerous best friend, a pention for doing favors, and a skill for getting in and out of trouble. Over all the Easy Rawlins' Mysteries , Mr. Mosley has built a world of very believable people(black and white) dealing with all the major events of US history and confronting issues of race, class, life, and death. The stories are very well written and keep you engaged. It changed my mind about black authors. Now I realize what is promoted is not a complete picture of the black author.

Cinnamon Kiss is the latest of the Easy Rawlins Mysteries. I love this one just as much as the others. This time around Easy's daughter Feather is dying of a rare blood disorder. Easy has to come up with $30,000 for a treatment. He's about to turn back to the streets with a plan Mouse cooked up to get a lot of fast money, when he's hired to find a missing woman known as Cinnamon. As always things get more complicated as things go on with Feather's life in the balance. It's a good book.

Now I see that black authors are like all authors. The good ones are always there and they are covered by the millions of wack writers in the world. I just have to look for them.

Feel free to read the entire Easy Rawlins collection:
Devil in a Blue Dress, White Butterfly, A Red Death, Little Yellow Dog, Black Betty, Big Bad Brawly Brown, and Little Scarlet.