Saturday, January 31, 2009

The D.L.G. Complex

"Un, stable, creatures. That's my new word fa ya'll." - Sweet pea (Omar Gooding) from John Singleton's Baby Boy.
He was referring to the behavior exhibited by his girlfriend & her mother. In actuality, he was just elohssa drunk & complaining, but that wasn't the point. The point was that, all women, on some general level are crazy, i.e. unstable. Regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, what have you. Can't say that I disagree.

There has to be some scientific reasoning behind the scatter brain actions of the female homosapien. Until I can produce a PHD in the pertaining field of study, nothing I say from here forth can be legitimately substantiated. But, don't let technicality stop you from nodding your head in agreement.

There's overwhelming evidence that the lack of a positive male figure is more harmful to a girl than a boy. Most noteworthy is the fact that all human life is funneled through the female. It starts in her uterus, graduates through her birth canal, & escapes to get lost in the myriad known as life. What happens after said escape is variable, but nonetheless, it begins with the woman. Thus, without "her", there is no "us". Like it or not, that girl you keep calling a hctib will eventually be someone's mom, if she's not already.

Its also been said that a woman finds validation in her relationships with men. Her father is the foundation of that structure, becoming the proverbial model for which all others are to follow. The "daddy's little girl" complex doesn't seem to ever disappear, just goes through rigorous forms of modification, but essentially remaining the same. If daddy did something negative but yet acceptable, a road has been unintentionally laid for the next male to adhere to. That can be fantabulously great, or tragically damaging.

All the insecurities, self esteem issues, doubt, aloofness, stem from some misguided put down, accidental insult, or the more common lack of presence. If you suspect emotional problems in a young lady, trace the dotted lines & the complete picture will undoubtedly reveal itself.

It's not that she doesn't trust you, she doesn't trust her dad. Its not that she doesn't love you, she just never learned how to love a man. The same rhyme & reason as to why her mother couldn't love her father. So on & so forth until the beginning of that blood line is discovered. Realistically, what man in his right mind has the mental capacity to right the wrongs of generations of malfunction?

So here's what you do.

Be the best father you can be to your daughter, before she becomes some dude's chick. Though it may be of her own valition, the outcome may not reflect her intention. Break the chains, end the cycle. Respect her like you respect yourself, & although this isn't as easy as "add water & stir", the astounding simplicity of the process alone should be well worth the effort.

I practice what I preach, which to some degree should qualify me for an honorary degree (like Bill Cosby), but I'll settle for the title of good advice giver, even though my little brother "advises" against giving advice. The reason I know this works is because my daughter bugs me all day & night. Always a story to tell, question to ask, or something to show me.


My plan is to leave the biggest pair of shoes ever in existence for whatever jive talking little huckleberry that comes sniffing around her to fill. If she decides to sniff back, then hopefully that pudding will have the proof in it. No pun intended.

The same ideology can be applied toward the relationship between son & mother. It took me a few decades to learn how to treat a woman, & coincidentally, beyond diapers, my mother & I have never been close. Go figure.

If the theory doesn't apply, & a level of instability is still dominant in her persona, then that would be a clear cut case of a genuinely crazy woman.

If that's the case, remember I'm not authorized to comment on that subject. Stop reading, call the cops & get a restraining order immediately.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Black President

*thunderous applause*

Barak Hussein Obama has done it! After decades of speeches, rallies, movements, & tremendous bloodshed, the dream has finally been realized.

Just look around at all the commemorative plates, collectible coins, swap meet T-shirts & "GObama!" bobbleheads flooding our street corners. I just copped me some Obama shoelaces & a "BaRak Yo' Block!" key chain. Can't beat 2 for 5. Congratulations are in order & well deserved.

*cue "Hail to the Chief"*

In America's eyes, a black man is now Commander-in-Chief. But to black folks, we know black men to be, well, a lot different than our President is. Could you imagine...

*DJ scratching "If I ruled the world" by NaS feat. Lauryn Hill*

Upon announcing his acceptance of the nomination, the speakers would begin blaring "My President is Black", complete with a surprise performance from Young Jeezy, draped in a red, white & blue ankle length chinchilla fur coat, throwing bottles of Belvedere vodka into the audience. The soon to be president-elect throwing up his W's (for Washington, no doubt) in the background. As he & Jeezy exit the platform, he quickly swings back around, & shouts "y'heard?!?" into the mic before chucking the deuce.

The secret service/hype men are uniformed in XXLarge white tees, complete with starched sleeve creases & all white Air Force 1's (of course) to match. Cornrows optional, stunna shades mandatory.

There's a few fist fights in the 3 mil plus crowd, the faint stench of purple kush wafting through the air, combining with all the Cool Water & Drakkar fumes you would expect from so many black folks in one location. As the cavalry of triple-black armored Benz trucks roll out, it would be easy to spot the soon-to-be president's vehicle, because his license plate would read "SALLGUD". 26" chrome rims sparkle as they swerve towards destiny.

Inauguration Day would historically be moved to Los Angeles, held at the Staple Center, on a Sunday morning. On this day, every Baptist church in South Cali is empty. Now, imagine the tailgate party when Clarke plays Grambling. Then multiply that by 10,000. You could smell the barbecue ribs from Inglewood, all the way to Pico Rivera.

Hangover in full swing, Mr. President makes his way to the podium. Removing a pair of Gucci shades (the ones with the huge gold insignia on the side), he glances red-eyed over the sea of people, & then bellows a tremendously loud "Hellllllllllll Yeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaah". The crowd goes wild, a couple of gunshots ring out in the distance, which cause the secret service to discard their barbecue filled paper plates & pick up their unregistered fire arms. But all remains peaceful, that's just how we celebrate.

After a very brief speech that starts with "Yo!" & finishes with "Nah'mean?!", he steps back, opens his suit jacket to reveal body armor & screams, "Weeee maaaaaaaade iiiiiiiit! Fo' mo' yeahs! Fo' mo' yeahs!", as animated onlookers join in with the chant. Jesse Jackson appears from nowhere to join the on stage festivities, but is beaten severely about the head & shoulders, & dragged off the stage kicking & screaming. Secret service quickly return to their chicken, ribs & cans of grape soda. The crowd explodes with excitement, & the one white guy who had the balls to come & support the cause is robbed at gunpoint amongst a sea of wave caps, braids & the occasional Jheri Curl.

The President is then joined by all three of his baby mommas, along with three younger ladies (his daughters Sh'Terra, Monifa & Gwendanae, who's pushing a baby stroller) & two young men (his sons DaLonte & Martelle) dressed just like the secret service, but in platinum chains with rotating, diamond covered medallions of Martin Luther King Jr. & Rosa Parks' faces.

The first family, indeed.

*cue "Hail to the Chief"*

Meanwhile, somewhere in the trenches, various KKK groups are madder than hell, but even more scared to leave their log cabins. The smart ones have stocked up on enough bologna, chewing tobacco & whiskey to last the entire 4 year term.

Sean "P. Diddy" Combs remixes The National Anthem, & Newport cigarettes experiences their largest profit margin ever.

God Bless America, Fa Sho!

Wednesday, January 28, 2009


Kcuf friends.

I don't mean that in a "get money, hustle fa mine, against all odds" type of way. I mean it exactly how it was espoused.

Kcuf friends.

The definition of that loosely translated word is extremely flexible. To an extent, it varies with age, susceptible to scrutiny at any given moment. At the risk of sounding like an after school special, what exactly is a friend?

Before an adequate answer can be reached, understand that this is less of a question & more of a riddle. The appropriate response depends solely on the individual. Like snowflakes & fingerprints, no two descriptions will be alike.

Contrary to popular belief, it's not someone you grew up with or someone who you reveal your innermost secrets to. That interpretation is widely misunderstood, & grossly overused. It's more or less some elohssa you decided was cool enough to continue to hang around. If "love" & "companionship" pop into your mind, that's simply tihsllub propoganda, & there's a strong chance that you have been hoodwinked & bamboozled.

On a basic level of comprehension, those closest to you are friends, technically speaking (emotionally as well as physically). Take into consideration the process which goes into deciding who is granted such access into your life. There's no interview, no application, no background check, no requirements, & no experience necessary. Just a gut-feeling inspired portal into your world. Aside from offering up one's virginity, that's the most vulnerable position a person can place themselves in. You can't choose family, but you sure as kcuf can keep them at the business end of a 10' pole. Friends, however, are "by invitation only". If they ever decide to hurt you, YOU gave them the weapon, told them the window was unlocked & clearly stated what time you go to bed.

Only time determines who's worthy of such a heralded title. & in that time, I've concluded that I have no friends. Kcuf friends. All I truly have is family. In the sense that, if I considered you a "friend" at this point in my life, you have earned an honorary induction into it as a permenant fixture. On the same token, many of my actual family members have been excommunicated from my universe. For whatever reason, my sandline has been drawn & come hell &/or high water, I don't need them. I'd rather burn &/or drown, respectively.

I've endured pain, hardship, successfully been one of the "less fortunate", & only a select few have stood aside me while the storms were weathered.

Bloodlines have no merit against fact-based truths. Buddies, associaties, homies, peoples, partners are all interchangeable terms, like life-sized Lego blocks. But "family" is as rock solid as the tablets carried by Moses, & to a degree, just as important. I take that tihs very seriously.

Those who I love, know who they are, & that, is fact-based truth. They are my family. I NEED them, as opposed to want or desire.

After hate & beyond dislike is "Kcuf you". If think this pertains, you are most likely correct.

Kcuf friends, I don't have any.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

I Hate Kanye West (But, in a good way)

Have you ever seen a guy, & for some uncanny reason suddenly got the overwhelming urge to bump into him, or set him on fire?

You know the type; loud mouth, horrible shirt, "exotic" body fragrance, really shiny shoes, & some vintage hair style that looks like whoever stopped wearing it did so for a reason? Yes? Well that's how I feel about Kanye West. I know celebs are required by law to have a certain blowhard quality about them, but this guy supercedes the norm, straight into the douche-nozzle stratosphere.

&, while I'm all for fashion renaissance, his taste in haberdashery is suspect at best. What stylist gives a thumbs-up to a sports coat/sweatshirt hybrid in desperate need of a size upgrade? The legally blind one. Match that type of atrocity with audaciously tight jeans, so impeccably fitted that you can count the tube sock stripes, & your outfit has officially insulted my intelligence. Every time I see a picture of Kanyeezy, I feel like he's flipping me the bird after he spit in my soda. I never judge books by their covers, but I judge weirdos by their uniforms at break-neck speed.

This is in no way an attack on Mr. West, but more at the implications of his pop star status. For all intents & purposes, the dude is an icon. Kids know who he is, which is basically the solidification of celebrity status. But not even fame & riches will make me ignore when a person is a real-life cartoon character. A caricture, if you understand the difference between the two.

America has an infatuation with "the elossA". West just happens to be the latest posterboy for extreme jerkness, a walking billboard for toolism far & wide. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind though, I admire the fortitude it takes to openly say the president doesn't care about black people, and to proclaim one's self as (& I quote), Martin Louis the King. Not to mention slapping the snot from unassuming photogs, which equates to being mauled damn near to death by the cutest bear cub you've ever seen. As harmless as this guy appears at first glance, I believe him to be the devil in denim leotards & sleeveless church sweaters.

This kid's about 3 minutes from referring to himself in the third person. "Whatever Kanye wants, Kanye gets! Fa Sho!"

Maybe I'm jealous of his star power, because only the most elite Hip Hopper would annouce that his house is too clean to listen to Hip Hop in. Gadzooks!, to say the least. This guy should just walk in circles and eat his own feces. I remember a time not to long ago when I pined for his music. Now, I throw up in my mouth a little bit everytime I hear him [ahem] sing.

I'll admit, he is an example of what a Black man can accomplish when he sets his mind to it. Not revolutionary by any standards, but definately a quality to be admired, once you get past the eye doctor sun shades & spasmatic dancing. He's taken music in a direction probably not witnessed since disco morphed into hip hop. He played a large part in changing the dress code for young people across the world, however flamboyant it may be now. "Goodbye baggy jeans, hello yeast infection", or something to that effect.

Temper tantrums & personality deficiency aside, its good that young people can look up to a person who's honest with himself. The songs he writes are usually what a lot of us feel, but don't know how to vocalize. Thousands of rappers today possess the ability to get yor head nodding, but only a select few can make you dance, think & question your taste in clothing all in one shot.

I'd rather not look in my mirror & see that clown staring back at me, but if it works for him, more power.

Maybe in some intergalactic way, his oddly shaped behavioral patterns will have a positive effect on future generations. God knows he could do way worse than Tupac, Lil Wayne & 50 cent did.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

FuN iN a bOTtLe: part one

Two things that constitute a good blogger are; intellect & experience. The best blogs satellite around based opinions, sprinkled with sparse narration, & usually give the reader a thought or three that had not existed previously. Hence, I try & steer clear of that of which I know not, for the sake of looking like a pathetic pseudo-know it all. If you think I'm doing a good job, slap the person next to you. Hard.

With that said, I'm going to throw myself under the bus here. I'm a recovering alcoholic. The story that lead me to such a catergory, while very interesting, isn't the point, but the segue. The point is actually, I know drunk. Fall down, piss in the trash can, "Damn, I did that?" drunk. I started drinkin at the age of 18, & didn't look back until God stepped in & basically said, "Aight pal, if you don't like it here, you can leave! & I'll help you pack."

I'm sure it's obvious I chose to stick around.

But, knowing full fledge alcoholism has its benefits, however absurd. A lot of things in life are somewhat enjoyable, but bein drunk makes everything a party!

1. Sex-The most experienced sex machine will admit that the Dance of Nakedness can be very awkward. I'm sure it's just animal instinct, but there's something about exposed body parts flopping around all willy-nilly that gets people going, yet at the same time makes us blush in places you wouldn't see if we were clothed. Sort of like Adam & Eve, when they bit the apple, then scurried in opposite directions for coverage.

From the first move, to the ceremonious undressing, to the nitty-gritty of bumpin uglies, it can be uncomfortable. Especially afterwards ("So, uh, how much do I owe you?"). But, booze makes it joyous, anonymous, & easy to forget, good or bad.

Sobriety makes you want to be considerate, focusing on sensuality & pleasure. Blah. Inebriation removes those governors, & all energy is aimed toward the goal at hand, explosion. Hopefully for the ladies as well. All the weird position finding becomes irrelevant, because where there's a will, there's a way. Elbows & hair aren't a major factor when one doesn't know up from down. The target is in the same location as it was each & every time you've engaged in the act prior to this one.

Lastly, as the sauce saturates your innards, it lulls you into slumber to prepare for the hasty retreat the following morning. Unless you unconciously choke on your vomit & die in your sleep.
*bloggers note: don't drive drunk & always use protection*

2. Conversation-Any loudmouth can blab endlessly about just about anything. Proven fact, just look at most politicians, & what the hell is a philosopher anyway? The average person knows at least one iota about some random subject, & if they're good liars as well, there's no end to the exchange of moronic ideas. But, incorporate a little happy juice, and what would've been a night of boring jibberjabber becomes an evening at the intellectual's roundtable. Sports seem to be the most common topic. Boozehounds may forget where they left their keys, may not know how to get back home, might not even be able to decipher pretty from ugly. But I bet they know the stats from every NBA game on last night, with or without cable. I had a buddy who got so drunk, he told me stories about his childhood that, well, let's just say I got extremely uncomfortable & asked him to leave my house. Watching two drunk dudes get into a serious debate is like watching monkeys trying to start a fire with bananas. It begins with the economy, & somewhere around the Big Bang theory, veers off towards why people have pinky toes. & if it doesn't end with one of the guys yelling, "I'll cut yo' ear off" then they weren't drunk enough.
*bloggers note: Be careful, dude WILL cut yo' ear off*

3. Babysitting other peoples children-Just joking. I wanted to see if you were paying attention.

Stay tuned for part two..........

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

"The Last Piece Of Chicken"

Last night, I killed three spiders, bare-handed none the less, opened a greasy jar of mayo, & a warped relish container. This morning's jelly jar resisted, but the countertop & I showed it who was boss! My arthritis is wrestling with my carpel tunnel syndrome now something terrible & I'm afraid to leave the house today because I can't stop throwin' up gang signs. I'm beginning to understand why old men have those nubs instead of fingers & hands. It's like a grenade exploded in their palms. A "wife & kids" grenade.

Walkin' down the street with my daughter this afternoon, we saw a huge chihuaua, the fiercest ankle biter this side of a midget wrestler. I snatched off my belt, Indiana Jones-style & did fearless battle with the ravenous beast, while my little girl yelped like a damsel in distress! If President Obama hadn't been sworn in today, I'd be making all sorts off "whipping it like Toby" jokes, but I have a little more class than that. But I will say, the next time that dog gets insubordinate with me, he'll be minus a foot. My socks took the brunt of the attack, but I protected my princess, & defended my territory, so all's well in the kingdom so far.

As per request by the Queen, I hauled box after box of meaningless mementos from the 8' high closet shelf to the garage. I'm 5' 11.5". My back feels like I've been gang raped by a band of lascivious amazonian women who've never smelled man flesh. No gatorade, no ice packs, no love.

Hunched & limpin', I came across my son who decided today is the day he tests his 5 year old machismo. I sat down with a grunt, & almost instantaneously, he slaps me across my face, hard like a pimp on a mission. Now as time slowed down around me, I could;
A) ignore it, & just shake my fist at the little bastard or
B) charge him like a rhino, with all intentions of crane kicking him to the carpet.

......................Crane kick it is.

Now, if you have a five year old at home, then you're aware of the lighting quick reflexes they possess. Before I stood fully erect, he jetted past me, laughs & giggles met my moans of back pain, thus pissin' me off even more. I turned to give chase, but all that remained of him was his dust, which I was forced to eat.

Imagine a polar bear trying to catch a mongoose, if the polar bear had a dislocated hip, & the mongoose was hopped up on PCP. After what must've looked like an episode of "Itchy & Scratchy", I gave up. Back to my chair.

I awoke from a brief nap to the smell of chicken frying the sound alone made my mouth water. All the kids were seated at the table with my wife, eyes bigger than Chris Tucker's, waiting on the bird to make it's way onto their plates. With a growl, I got up, hobbled into the bathroom to wash my pretzel-like hands, rubbed my spastic back & headed towards much needed nourishment.

I sat, & of course everyone was eating already. I poured what was left of the Kool-Aid, the syrupy under belly of the pitcher, into my plastic cup & reached for the pile of greasy grub that my palette desperately needed. Upon further inspection, I noticed something odd.

The big piece of chicken was gone.

Furious, I chewed my Kool-Aid syrup, threw my napkin down, & headed back to my chair.

Oh well, they'll all want presents for their birthday's. & my revenge shall be sweet.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Father's Day: fact or fiction?

Holidays are douche bag reasons to sit at home, stuff your face with artery cloggin' cuisine, & shamelessly spend money. Simple & plain.

They otherwise provide little to zero enlightenment on the supposedly special day. Take your pick & prove me wrong;

Mother's, Father's, Christmas, Veteran's, Labor, & Halloween doesn't count.

MLK, Hannakah & Kwaanza get a pass, because I have actually learned a few things about them once I stopped being so one-sided.

Now let's look at Father's Day. An odd, if even celebrated day to praise the Man who makes all things possible. Before we go further, immedietely exclude those individuals who have no right even acting like the day belongs to them. You are dismissed, see you next session.

& just like that, at least half of the faces disappear. I suck at math, so there's a huge possibility that it's far more than a 50% margin. Yikes, to say the least.

I have a Father, with a capital F, because it's a title he earned fervently. He happens to be my dad as well, which today, is a sweet bonus to the deal. I thank God everyday that the psychopathetic (yes, crazy+sad) tendencies of my mom didn't drive him away long ago. Quite frankly, I might've left. I've said it as a child, & I'll stand by it today; my Dad can kick your dad's ass anyday of the week. Word to Jur-El.

That's Superman's pops.

Now, here I am, a man raised by a man who choose to give a damn about his family. I've never seen him unemployed. He showed up at every school function I've ever been involved in. He knew all of my teacher's on a first name basis. He checked my homework. He spanked me so bad once that I never, ever ever, did what I did again in life. He ate metal, drank fire, & saved kittens from trees. Dude was, is, & always will be the most awesome superhero the world has never heard of.

So, its only natural I emulate what I experienced growing up. I believe that kids eventually do what they choose to, but the stronger the foundation, the safer the building. I'm living proof of that philosophy.

However ridiculous as it sounds, I don't even take Father's day seriously. Probably because it's barely recognized around me. I'm not even quite sure what the date of it is. Come to think of it, I doubt I've ever seen a commercial for it. It's no more important to me than my birthday. Maybe it should be.

I'm a real father, the quintessential clone of my father's, & his father's behavior in regard to their offspring. Some say I spoil my children. I ask those people where are their kids? That usually forces a subject change.

I make it a point to hug, kiss, & teach my children as much as possible. I don't lie to them about anything, especially my mistakes. That has got to be the worst way for demons to haunt a parent. Their whole fiasco could've been avoided if the kid's were aware of "unsafe sex" or "just one drink". In a perfect world, knowledge & wisdom would fall out of the sky, or have it's own TV show everynight after dinnertime. No dice. It's buried in boring books, & hidden in the innuendos & insinuations of anonymous people traveling through life. If you're lucky, one of them will stop & help you along your journey. That's where a Dad steps in.

A kind word, a gentle touch from a father is more powerful than any force on Earth. On the opposite end of the sprectrum, the sentence "I'm disappointed" has caused my kids far more tear shedding than any extension cord or switch could ever. Feelings & emotions trump belts & backhand slaps any day of the week, bet that.

For any adults out there who won't admit how much not having their dad there hurts, I apologize for them. I'm sorry. & a lot of women don't know how to handle it when a man isn't willing to just throw them under the bus, because that's all they know. To those men who have the unfortunate situation of having children with a woman like that (me included), I also apologize for those women. I'm sorry. I'm one of those men as well, so I'm going to also give myself a hug.

No matter what life hurls in my general direction, I vow before God to be there for my kids as much as humanly possible. That's all I know. Anything else would be disrespectful to the morals my father planted in me. Or as Charles Barkley would say, "uncivilized".

I refuse to be embarassed like Shaquille O'Neal's dad, on national TV being called a deadbeat.

Maybe that's why I don't really but into the Fathers Day hype. I know that its basically a thankless job, but take a look around. Somebody's got to do it. Why not me?

Sunday, January 18, 2009

R.I.P. Mr. Rogers

That statement is a bit tardy (several or more years to be exact), but dude's gone none the less.

Damn shame too, because if ever his field of expertise was needed, its today.

Like "yesterday" today.

Now, before all the scrutiny & character assasination begins, let me say in his defense, that Mr. Rogers was from a simpler America.

Where people went to bed with windows & doors unlocked. When parents could incorporate capitol punishment into their "adulthood preparation" routine without the fear of a DPSS shakedown (not that I condone it, but I understand).

Before poisonous Halloween candy & Chester the Molester flooded our neighborhhods, unregistered. Teachers relentlessly wielded paddles, & children were seen & not heard. Thanks to Fred Rogers & "Trolley", the latter was easily achieved.

His show, along with Sesame Street, Electric Company, 3-2-1 Contact, etc, taught kids about love, friendship, compassion, as well as fundamental scholastic abilities. Coupled with the razzle dazzle of hand-puppets & imaginary far-away places, we had no idea of the values being instilled in our juvenile mindscapes.

See, I just don't believe Rihanna & TI have my children's best interests at heart, what with all their money makin' & record sellin'. & even without the shenanigans of the entertainment industry, somethin' still tells me those aren't the type of individuals I want my kids to admire. Nothin personal guys.

Back then, I played sick a lot because my teacher was a douche & watched PBS from dawn to dusk. & I don't think I turned out all that bad, especially according to the grade curve. These kids today are oblivious to that simpler America.

The world is so bass ackwards now, the only place people use the word "safe" is during a baseball game. I used to walk to school in the first grade, with a gaggle of neighborhood crumbsnatchers, & no supervison. Now my sons on the other hand, aren't allowed to sit on the porch unless I'm in arm's distance. & I couldn't call myself a good father if I wasn't prepared to deal with all the reasons my daughter will have to blurt out "I hate you!!!!" everyday after her 13th birthday.
"So what?! I'm NOT your friend, I'm your father!"

Imagine my surprise when I overheard my less-than-a-decade old little girl quietly singing about how she "kissed a girl, & [I] liked iii-it". For the record, her Mother doesn't monitor what she listens to or watches. I assume she sits right along side her, joyously proclaiming her love for the fairer sex as well. I don't know, but I don't doubt. Lucky for me though, her Stepmom is a great role model.

I asked my youngest boy what he wanted for his birthday, he said "Grand Theft Auto: Chinatown Wars". Do toy stores still carry Lego's? Etch-A-sketch's? Forget about coloring books. Not even 6, but he's ready to wage war on illegal immigrants over turf & cocaine. Now, somebody please tell me how that happened?

I know I have good kids, wholeheartedly, but one man alone isn't strong enough to rebuke such secular wickedness alone. The only man ever in existence that powerful was tricked, captured, mutilated, & died on a wooden stake, while his father watched. So what the hell do you think would happen to little ol' me?

I don't believe in destiny. I don't subscribe to fate. I'm a follower of hard work, dedication & unyielding faith. I planted the seeds, & I turn & water the soil nonstop, but that may not be enough. Until my Higher Power is recognized by the higher powers, all effort could very well be for naught. Sad, pathetic fact.

In retrospect, Mr. Rogers might have been the dam holdin' the flood at bay. The calm voice & soothing persona, for all we know, may have been pacifying the ravenous beast that's now seemingly too strong for man to capture & contain. & damnit, he made me feel good about being me, even before I was formally introduced to myself. What television show, cable or otherwise still does that?

If any philanthropists are reading this, let's invest some serious loot into this stem cell thing. Mr. Rogers may need to be cloned.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

"The Last Dragon"

I love my wife.

Although it took some time, quite a bit of growth (on my part of course), & a sprinkle of Divine intervention (okay, more like a drenching downpour), I realize now that in order to digest the harsh realities of a cruel world, it's imperative that I have a strong, black (African American I mean..) woman standing next to me. Not biased, just personal preference.

Next to me, as opposed to behind, unless I'm protectin' her from things that go bump in the night, terrorists, or jumping spiders. Plus, God made Eve from a rib, a supportive structure bone from Adam's side. He could've used a vertebrae, but He opted otherwise.

If I were easily influenced, rap music, bitter friends, & endless hours of watching "The Maury Povich Show" would have me under the impression that "love" is just a myth. Especially Black love. Contagious urban legend that's been recounted to generations throughout the ages. Unattainable to mortal man. None of which is remotely close to actuality.

Don't let the national divorce rate fool you. They're just propaganda.

Love is equally as tangible & powerful as hate, as the two undoubtedly intersect at some point. Sort of like third cousins. If you continue tracing the bloodlines, you'll find the connection eventually.

It's most powerful enemy is Lust, the device to which our primal insticts are attuned to. Lust knows no sense of humor, nor does it recognize the "good" in people. It only knows animalistic behavior & mating rituals. Not particularly the foundation one should lay (no pun intended) for a long term partnership.

& while Lust can indeed induce profuse sweatin', elevated heart rates & heavy breathin', Love is in reality the more laboring of the pair. Lust is a job, Love is a career, if you understand the difference between the two.

Take the movie "The Last Dragon" for example. Bruce Leroy had to tolerate endless hardship, which he willingly traversed, because he realized the spoils of his fleeting reward would be worth the travel. That's dedication. All the tumult he endured made the moment he had been searchin' for that much more gratifying (the "glow", remember?). & when he kicked Sho-Nuff's ass in that warehouse, you couldn't tell him nothin'! Word to Kanye West.

In a nutshell, that's love. A fight with yourself (control), for your self (satisfaction). Many never find it, but c'mon, when have you ever located an object having no idea what it looked like?

"Yo, can you help me find my keys, man?"

"What do they look like?"

Good question.

If that epiphany could be experienced in our teenage years, how sweet would life be? Granted, more than half of us (me included) wouldn't have some of the beautiful children we were blessed with, but that aspect is surely debatable. Others wouldn't have some of the horrible diseases we were cursed with (DEFINITELY NOT me included, thank God), but like my Dad says, "hindsight is 20/20". It would make for a much more comfortable commute to the end of our respective roads.

I'm teachin' my kids this crap ahead of time. I advise you do the same.

In digression, I love my wife. No major follow up statement or witty, tongue-in-cheek quip, I just like saying it aloud.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Say It Loud

Friends, Romans, Countrymen. & Drug Addicts, Prostitutes, Congressmen, School Teachers, Truck Drivers, etc. Lend me your ears (& a couple bucks if you got it, the economy's hurtin' my pockets something awful).......

Rejoice in new found freedom & respect! The long sought after spoils of trial & tribulation! The triumphant calm after what has been a tumultuous storm! Altogether now, say it loud;

I'm Black (African American, I mean) & I'm proud!

If only Malcolm, Martin, & Abraham Lincoln were here to see this.

Finally, Black folk can hold our heads high for somethin' other than the sake of lookin' cool, or exhalin' the smoke of choice skyward. It took time, but we moved from the back of the bus, to the backyard of the White House.

Barbeque's will never be the same again.

Even the least self-righteous house coon must feel a small swell in his chest right now. Not since the National Security backlash of 9/11 have so many Americans of African descent happily exclaimed "Damn, I'm glad I'm black".

*Get it, because that's when all the heat was shifted to those who looked like terr-nevermind.*

It's a proud day in human history when the most profoundly biased nation on the planet has allowed (yes, allowed. Dr. MLK Jr. didn't get killed THAT long ago, folks) a man of other than caucasion nationality to helm this country's voyage. Kudos, President Obama. It even sounds cool, doesn't it?

Hopefully, this ginormous leap in politics will do what Soulja Boy couldn't achieve with "Crank That". What Snoop Dogg couldn't do with "Gin & Juice", & what John Singleton couldn't accomplish with "Baby Boy" or "Poetic Justice".

Unite Black people (most, if not all) coast to coast.

It might not be the rags to riches story that rap careers are made of (county checks, the projects, blah blah blah, although his Dad did bounce on him), but its one of success regardless. Inauguration Day marks the reaching of the fabled Promised Land, or at least a viable step closer to the property line. & I'll tell you what, the fact that Barak is only 50% black doesn't sour the deal one bit. We can even go so far as to give White folks a little credit as well, because half of him is theirs anyway. That seems more than fair. Not "40 acres & a mule" fair, but fair nonetheless.
With all this partyin' like it's 1999, I feel obligated to briefly play devils advocate. Not to long ago, in a not so far away place, when there was a mess to clean up, no matter the magnitude, that job almost always went to the help (read: black people). Anybody see the news today? Or yesterday? Any day within the last year or so? Did I hear the word "conspiracy"? Guess it just my imagination. Or maybe not.........

So, before everything gets worse (& let's be real here, "better" isn't even a blip on the radar yet), let us enjoy our moment in the books. Barak Obama achieved superhero status, leaping insurmountable odds in a single election. If planet Earth wants to put a face to the black (I mean African American) experience, I'd rather it be an eloquette, college educated, family oriented man of color, as opposed to, say, someone such as 50 cent.

"Go Shawty, it's ya berfday" can only get us so far ahead as a people, nahmean?

The past has already passed, the present is presenting itself to us at this very moment, but for the first time since the introduction of the iPod, the future is somewhat bright & hopeful.

I, for one, am rather excited, & definitely inspired. Now, I'm going to jump in my ride, play "Hail to the Chief" at the highest volume, & go get "Obama Nation" tattooed on my neck for the whole world to see.

Happy Birthday, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

*go go go go go go go go shawty, its ya berfday*

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

"When I grow up, I wanna be a rapper!"

How many dudes from my generation have muttered these words more than a few times as a youth:

"When I grow up, I wanna be a rapper!"

Now, this was 25-30 some odd years ago, long before the evolution of rampant ignorance that's upon us now. Yes, there once existed a day when rap music, of all things, was considered a somewhat educational experience. It taught us what our teachers couldn't, & things our parents wouldn't. I'm sure that sounds unbelievable to anybody under the age of 21, but, my right hand to God, its true.

Imagine for a second, if you will, a person rapping because he had legitimate gripes about the ills of society. Something other than the requisite "F**k The Police" propoganda, or how "B**ches Ain't S**t". And that same cat explaining to you the importance of self knowledge & brotherly love. Even harder to believe(?!), there was an era when the LESS jewelry you wore, the more respect you got.

*youngsters picking up their jaws*

Once upon a time, guns were aimed at "the man" & his wicked "establishment", both designed for the demise of our people (particularly black, but most minorities were welcome). Self-hate & loathing were signs of weakness, & quickly smothered under the fist of brotherhood revolt. This generation of unsung rap avengers were viewed as the proverbial threat to the mainstream lifestyle the world had become so accustomed to. So I guess, to a certain extent, the "F**k The Police" mantra was appropriate at the time. But nevertheless, it was the total opposite of the verbiage we are so relentlessly bombarded with at present.

Not to take anything away from today's voices, but a lot of the music today is a tad bit, umm, ridiculous in comparison. Of course, perspective is key when making such an observation. If there's no lust for knowledge, the lack of it is not at all important. & vice versa, of course. The young people whose opinions dictate what's hot or not don't have that thirst that existed a mere 20 years ago. Which, is neither good nor bad, but just extremely different from the music my age bracket was brought up on. Nowadays, you have rappers publicly saying that they're too cool to read books.


Some MC's have gone on record acknowleding how intelligent they actually are, then admittingly "dumbing down" their music for the sake of popularity & stellar soundscan numbers. God forbid some easily influenced teenybopper takes any of their flimsy rhetoric seriously, & think that life's really all about "money, cars, hoes".

"I'm glad I'm not a rapper."

Seems like a lot of weight to bear. Too much responsibility for the average Joe Schmoe who just gets a kick out of keen phonetic construction. Far be it from me to take it so serious that I realize my every word could be either severly scruntinized or undauntingly hung-on. Aside from the moral standpoint of being a semi-role model, it just seems like the most dangerous job to have. The qualifications needed alone put up a "red flag":

*Some sort of criminal activity (past or present)
*Gunshot wounds (preferrably several, & life threatening)
*affiliation to some reputed street/prison gang
*dozens of people to protect you at all times
*street credibility (a must!!)

The list gets more in-depth, but there's barely a slot for "posesses talent", & if its on there, its near the bottom. Right above "breathes" & "needs food to survive".

As of late, many rappers have been the target of robberies (strong arm, home invasion, etc), & that seems to be a lot of stress, & very uneccessary when all I want to do is rock the mic &/or move the crowd.

It reminds me of the house party phenomenon that took place in L.A. around the early 1990's. At first, a kid would be throwing a house party, hand out flyers at the Fox Hills Mall, & have the end-all shindig the following Saturday. That scenario became the one guy the guest of honor didn't recognize being rejected at the door, only to return with a baker's dozen of dudes & shooting the party up. Innocent fun gave way to homicidal death traps. Kids went from doing the Kid'n'Play, to bottlenecking at the frontdoor, trying to escape premature expiration.

"If the party's not at Chuck E. Cheese's, you won't catch my a** there."

The violence only seems to be getting worse, with some rappers opting to use monikers that start or end with "Murder", "Killer", & think that it's okay. Imagine a 5 year old boy at Halloween asking his mom for an "Uncle Kill M. All" costume, or reciting the latest lyrics from "MC Murder-Man"'s new single. Kind of shocking, if only a little bit.

With the growth of the internet, & the ravenous tenure of the paparazzi, there's no privacy for superstars, rap or otherwise.

"So, you mean to tell me that if I decided to get dressed up, complete with $200,000 worth of jewelry on, you guys will know my every move & all my where-abouts?"

No thanks.

"My $500,000 car, with the $100,000 rims on it that I brag about so much, is in every magazine on the newsstands, & on every website?"

It's no wonder rappers don't let the world see their children's faces. That would be a Mexican Mafia-style ransom kidnapping waiting to happen.

This is in no way an attempt to stamp out some young hopeful's future. I'm just saying I'm glad I'm not a rapper. I'm much more comfortable hearing (as opposed to performing) the music in the safety of my little house, in my mediocre car, with $100.00 rims on it.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

"I'm a grown a** man! (no, really, I am)"

Not that anyone asked, but I think I've got a pretty level head for a 70's baby. We get a bum rap sometimes, we're either test tube babies, crack babies, or the "oops" generation. My friends & I used to sit around gettin' drunk & comparin' the stories of our accidental conceptions like its a contest:

"Backseat of a VW..."
"Prom night"
"On a campin' trip"
"At my older brother's fifth birthday party"
"A congical visit"

No clear cut winner in that competition.

It seems like our generation began the whole "ADHD" phenomenon, but what did they think would be the outcome of all the drugs & free love of the 70's. How the hell could we sit still in a playpen with trace amounts of coke in mommy's breast milk? I'm not sayin my mom did lines, but who's nose runs all year long? I think those pocket-sized Kleenexs were designed just for those people. I know I wasnt the only kid who wondered why mommy & daddy had a glass straw that was too short for any cup in the house. This was years before "Maury Povich", so imagine how many of our buddies haven't a clue that the mailman might really be their father. No wonder mommy would go out of her way to give him such a nice present for Christmas. My friends who don't know who their dads were shouldn't feel bad though, actually. They weren't alone, because their moms probably don't know either.

The 80's fostered in the crack era. Now by this time, mom & dad cleaned up their acts, but by then it was time to focus on all the crack slave relatives. We all had 'em. The ultra-skinny uncle who you couldn't let in the house if you were alone. He always wanted to tell you something, anything, but for whatever reason, he just could not tell you through the door. Hey, I might have been a kid, but you guys could've told me that he was going to "borrow" the TV. Or the VCR. Or the stand that supported the TV & the VCR. How about that female cousin who never went to school, was real fat for a year , then just lost all that weight. Grandmomma had all kinds of reasons &/or excuses, but ain't no diet in the world that'll make you go from before to after Starr Jones except child birth. Now, I had an uncle who got shot for breaking into my Grandmother's car. Nothing weird about that, right? Well, he got shot by his brother, my other uncle, for getting to the car before he did! Best part(?) is, he shot him in the a**. Cocaine is a powerful drug, especially when its cooked, and ingested in place of real food.

As for the 90's, I really don't remember much. I just sort of sailed through it with poorly rolled joints, Nighttrain & grape Kool-Aid, & fleeting hopes of having as much casual sex as humanly possible. Hey, one out of three ain't that bad.

Which brings me to the 2000's. Now, I've got 3 crumbsnatching dustbunnies, hellbent on driving me insane, with a quickstop by the poorhouse on the way. The funniest thing about my kids isn't their growth, but my own. Not too long ago, I was wearin my fitted cap tilted, chasing the next high, & still lying to my parents about my current "job prospects". Now, I'm as sober as a catholic school nurse's aid, rocking grown man hairstyles (no parts that resemble highway maps), and watching what I say around my offspring. Who would've thought I'd ever use "heck" & "freakin' crap" as exclamations? I find myself telling my son to pull up his pants while he's telling me that "cats at school is hatin'" & intercepting my daughter's make-up bag heading out of the door with her on the way to the fashion show that is second grade.

& the whole "marriage" thing is a trip too. Its kind of like, have you ever seen the flyest pair of tennis shoes on Earth (or so you thought at the time), & no matter what it took, or how long, you had to have 'em? Then, they finally become yours, & you sported them constantly, subsequently making them your favorite kicks EVER. All summer, cleaning them, showing them off, damn near taking showers & having sex with them still attached to your feet. One day, you see another pair, even flyer. But, you love your shoes, & they're so comfy that you doubt the other ones would hug your dogs in the same manner. In an act of blind loyalty, you turn away, go back home, & intently clean the old ones. Until they're looking brand freakin' new, or at least as close as possible. But every so often, you can't help but think about those shiny new shoes that would've complimented every piece in your haberdashery. You shrug it off, & go on with your day. Well, that's marriage. A grain of salt, in a nutshell (whatever the hell that means).

Times change, & I guess I have to change with them. No longer am I the young & carefree rebel without a cause. Thanks to unplanned pregancy, an allergy to condoms, & the strength of the phrase "I do", I'm now a mature, somewhat responsible adult, fighting like a wolverine to make sure my damn kids don't turn out like I did. That's the lesson we should've learned (but didn't in most cases), do better than your parents, & your kids should follow suite. Sounds good.

As long as my children don't turn out like The Jackson 5, or Janet, or Rebbie, it should all work out just fine. That sounds good too, but just ask Marley (that movie dog) not all endings are happy.

*crossing fingers*