The Rain

Ugh.


It's raining in Los Angeles. I hate the fucking rain.


Fuck that, "It washes away our sins," bullshit. Jesus' blood did that for me. Worst thing about the rain is the darkness. The confinement. Unless, one happens to like being damp & wet for no reason. I like specific parts of my body wet, for the intended purpose(s). Yes hetero.


The rain has me thinking about something. Haiti. Man, those folks really got screwed. First the political axis of the entire country got kicked & beat to death. Next poverty & famine got comfortable, no thanks to America & Europe. Then this earthquake shook them up terribly so, in which case they weren't even prepared for a mild shaker, much less something about the size of the quake that leveled a healthy portion of Northridge, California when I was younger. Now, disease, despair, death, renegades & vigilantes, politics, destruction.


After they pull through this, which they will, nobody will be able to take their resilience away from them. The moral determination one needs to forge ahead, through such gloom, is the defining line between man & animal. Life & death. I pray for them fervently, but I wish I could do more.


I was watching footage on the news, & thought to myself, "what can I possibly complain about?" Although we all have circumstances that demand our attention, how bad can they be, compared what the Haitians are going through? Unfortunately, it takes someone else's misery to make us appreciate our own. Well, kudos life. Mission accomplished. I saw footage this morning taken inside of an orphanage as the quake hit. Not only were these children living a life rife with variables, but to complicate that, their literal lives were now being turned asunder, in real time, while I watched. Needless to say, I didn't fuss at my little man today for not finishing his Frosted Flakes. I did, however, talk to him about the importance of appreciation, & how life is never really yours to begin with, like money.


A friend & I were talking about the similarities between Haiti & Hurricane Katrina. I said the only real comparable aspect is the unexpectancy of it all. Sure, people can always do more, but by the time that realization is formed, it's usually too late. Which seems to be the schedule of life. No matter how informed we are, there's no such thing as "totally prepared." It didn't help matters any that Haiti has no building codes, which sucks, but not as much as how the country has been treated over the last couple hundred years in general. Haiti's history, which I've learned about extensively over the last week or so, thanks to Dallas Penn & Combat Jack, is an awesome remainder that sometimes in life, you get the shit kicked out of you, only to stand up & get kicked, again. & again. For the most part, there's no legitimate reason that life won't continue to piss in your scrambled eggs, daily, until you die. If that doesn't happen, & by the grace of God you find yourself somewhat happy on this planet, be thankful. Some motherfuckers never experience that.


Come to think of it, I'm complaining about rain, while people walk past corpses. Kinda mate's my whole reason for writing this. Or maybe I just needed to write.

emo thugs>gangstaz

Being born & raised in the real Los Angeles, California (as opposed to cities that are just part of Los Angeles County, no shots), I'm partial to my gangster rap. Always have been. I was in the 3rd grade when my friend Eric snuck Ice T's '6 n da mornin' 12 inch into our class. Yes hetero. That day, we went to his house & enjoyed the smug posturing of Tracy Marrow, the OG. My uncle introduced me to King Tee's music not too long after, before the release of his debut 'Act A Fool', & the day my dad took me to the Slauson Swapmeet to buy N.W.A.'s 'Straight Outta Comptown', & Eazy-E's 'Eazy Duz it', it was a wrap. For those unaware, this is where west coast gangster music was spawned. Every one of those covers had at least 2 things in common. Niggas & guns. Gangsta, indeed. & don't get me started on how slept-on Compton's Most Wanted & DJ Quik are.


That gansta music spead like wildfire. Everybody's city had there own brand of realness to share with the world. & it was all good; every hood has a story to tell. But, let the records show that it started in California, & it looks like it came home to die. The only man I see trying to administer CPR right now is Game. There's only one problem. He's not a gangster rapper. For all intents & purposes, he's more emo-thug than gangsta. Granted, he influenced the Blood nation more than DJ Quik & Mack 10 combined in the 90's, but everybody's a gangster these days. Notice the ratio of rappers to gang-bangers now, versus 10 years ago. 15. Anytime before that, if you claimed it, you had better be living it. Not just throwing on blue or red & gathering every loser you grew up with for your video shoot.


Game's sole purpose is, & always was, to revitalize the west coast by means of what we know. Gangsta music. But, in between willingly putting a whole coast on his back, it seems he didn't learn enough from the forefather's, especially with so much emotion-charged Hip Hop dominating the scenes. Seriously, he would have done major damage had he put on some skinny jeans. Same name dropping, same butterfly tattoo even. It's not even an issue of why or why not emo-rap is popular, it's just that gangsta rap is dead.


Today's Hip Hop fan has evolved from the mindless music fanboy who found excitement in the caveats of hardcore 80's war stories. But, don't tell Game that. He's still hanging with the boys in the hood, driving around aimlessly in his lowriders, & gang banging like this was Little Rock, Arkansas. For the record, Game is as talented as the rest. I like his music, but there's only so much repetition one man can stomach. I couldn't care less about the authenticity of his gang affiliation. It doesn't matter to me if, however comical, he was a pole dancer. [||]? What matters is that, unless you troll the covertly hidden underground scene--which is actually awesome out here, Hip Hop is homeless in L.A. I wouldn't mind a dude taking a stand for the city, or the state, or the coast. A man who's not scared to be a mouth piece, regardless of the hate. But also a man willing to admit that relevance is tethered to what's current, like it or not.


Alas, Game can't save Cali Hip Hop. Neither can Snoop. Not even to sure about Glasses Malone & Bishop Lamont either. Ice Cube even knew that, that's why in the mid 90's, he did what the Clippers need to do-move out of Los Angeles for better opportunity.


Let the 'Nets tell it, & there's no such thing as a regional bias, so this sentence alone could blow my whole theory to smitherens.

I Can Not Tell A Lie

As a kid, I had the kinda pops that would teach me things in a way that made me want to listen, learn & use that shit in real life. Even if to only be more like him. I guess that's admiration. & I guess I do the same thing to/for my son, because on a regular basis, dude surprises me with the way he handles things. His teacher says he's "very mature", among other positive adjectives. I wish more Black men could experience the fruits of positive, tangible fatherhood.


One of the main things he made sure was planted in my psyche was the importance of honesty. Most kids are told "don't lie!", but my dad went as far as to lead by example. Case in point; I've never, ever in my life believed in "Santa Claus". Never had a reason to. Easter Bunny & Tooth Fairy, same thing. Until I moved out of his house, I stood firm on that value, so much so that, one summer, honesty caused an ass load of headache for my family, including almost jail & death.


Yeah, I got some stories...


It was the summer of 1988, between my 6th grade graduation from 54th Street Elementary & my first year at Orville Wright Junior High. We all know that jump from grade to middle school is one the first big steps towards adulthood. Puberty, a little more freedom, the onset of the teenage years. At this juncture, we begin to realize that the world is our oyster. We may not have the skill to crack that bitch open & have at it's mystic pearl just yet, but we've pulled up a chair to the proverbial table & begun to behold the possibilities.


As if the anticipation of Junior High school wasn't enough, my family & I were also moving that summer, to a bigger apartment. My life was changing right before my eyes. Luckily, I'm the type of lad that can respect the unknown. That shit's exciting, in most cases. The new apartment was roughly a half-mile up the street from the old one, so I wouldn't be moving too far from who & what I knew. That made the transition that much easier to accept. The school bus stop was a block away, & all the small conveniences one could want were in walking distance. Also, I'd already been frequenting these establishments, so it was no surprises. Anyone who knows where Slauson Avenue & Overhill Drive cross, in L.A., knows that, back then, that was a generally "good" area. Funny thing though, two summers after we moved there, a nigga got shot in front of our quadplex over some drugs, stumbled into our alley & bleed to death. That was the first freshly dead body I'd ever see.


[tony's note: real life gunshot wounds are nothing like television ones. & coagulated blood stinks...]


My dad told me he needed my help to make this move go smoothly. No worries. My dad knew he could depend on me, especially since I'd been looking after my little brother since day one. I don't recall my parents ever having a babysitter. So, he tells me what I need to do.


"The gas man is going to the new house in the morning. I need you to let him in."


"Okay."


"But, an adult needs to be there. So I want you to tell them that your mother is next door, & they can g'head on turn it on."


"Okay."


"Are you sure you can do it?"


"Of course, dad."


The next day approaches, & my dad drops me off at the new place on his way to work. My mom had already left for work. My brother & I were latch-key kids anyway, so I had no problem chilling alone, waiting for the gas man. Eventually, he arrived & knocked on the screen. I opened the door, hoping he would mistake me for an adult & handle his business. No dice.


"'Sup lil man. Ya mom's here?"


Damn. I didn't want to lie.


"Umm, she said she'll be right back, but to tell you it's cool. You can start now."


"Nah, gotta be someone here over 18 here."


Figured I'd be able to convince him, even pleaded with him. It wasn't happening. He said sorry & headed back to his truck. Now, in my mind, I knew I was in trouble. Trouble for NOT lying. What kinda shit is that? When I did finally talk to my dad, he was pissed. But, oh well. Back then, I didn't know that we had to be out of the old spot by the end of that day. Hey, I'm a kid. He should've taken off work, instead of asking me to do his dirty work, as if bills & rent pay themselves.


Our furniture was already in the new place, so at least we had that going for us. By the end of the day, we were completely moved in, sans heat & hot water. My dad, who's a mail carrier, needed a shower after work. Me, being a boy going through puberty, needed one also. We still had the keys to the old spot, so him & I went there to clean ourselves. After a five minute ride, & him telling me that all-in-all, I didn't do anything wrong, we arrived. You know how when you live somewhere for a long time, you become acquainted with the logistics of the street. Volume of people walking, amount of cars passing, etc. Two dudes were walking down the street, which was slightly unusual for that time of evening. Of course, I noticed them. We pulled up & I got out first, looking at the dudes who to me, looked like Ed Lover & Dr. Dre. That's old school, youngsters. My dad got out & before I could look at him, I heard a loud, shaky voice.


"Gimme those keys, man!"


What the fuck? Was he joking? Nah, not at all. He repeated his sentence, as he pulled what looked like a .38 out of his pocket. Now, the slo-mo kicks in. I'm assessing the situation. These bum ass niggas were robbing my dad at gunpoint.


"Run, Anthony!"


I was also taught that my dad shouldn't have to repeat himself to me. So, I bolted. I ran around the corner, crying, mortified, hysterical, to a large complex around the corner. I knew a lot of the kids, but adults, not so much. Instinctively, I looked for lights & open doors to find help. Oh, & I'm screaming "HELP!" the whole time as well. First door slams right in my face. Word? Am I not a crying kid? Next door I saw, fuck that, I opened the screen myself. An older lady pushed me out the house, while I'm trying to tell her my dad might be shot & shit. *SLAM* Now, on top of my fear builds anger. Old ass scary bitches need to live in a retirement village or some shit if they can't hack it in the real world. Maybe they should be living in a church, because real life happens out here.


I had one older homie, who was like the coolest older kid in the area. He lived in that complex. We all called him "Teddy Bear" for whatever reason. All I remember was him coming outta nowhere, picking me up & running me back around the corner to find my dad. Like a football player. When we arrived back on the scene, my dad's car was still there, & our old neighbor's who'd heard the commotion were standing outside. My friend Terra's mom took me inside, while the other adults started walking down the street to find my dad. In a matter of minutes, he came walking up the street, sweaty & out of breath. He said when I ran, he ran the other way, & those scumbags followed. He said he thought he heard a click, then the guys just scattered. I was so relieved, I cried even harder than I had been. The adults milled around, Teddy Bear made sure I was cool, & everybody went back home. My dad & I got in the car, & headed home as well.


Never did get that shower, though.


We got home, & my extremely angry father stopped the car, got out, ran inside, & came right back. Now, he seemed even madder. Still in shock of it all, I just sat there. My dad asked me was I okay, for like the hundredth time, & we left again. We headed back to the old apartment. I assumed we were going to finally take our showers. We got to the spot, & kept driving. I was curious, but I wasn't about to ask my dad where we were going. My question was answered without any words being exchanged.


I looked over, & he had his gun on his lap. What?! My dad had every intention of finding & killing these men. He was looking, ever so intently, in every shadow, nook, cranny & possible hiding spot for at least a mile's distance. I couldn't believe this. I knew he'd carry his piece from time to time, as well as I've seen him attempt to kick people's asses if he felt they were wrong, but this was another level I'd not yet witnessed in my dad. He was cursing to himself, ignoring the fact that his son was a foot & a half away from him. Shit was scary, because I know what he's capable. At least, before he got all sensitive with age & grandfather-y.


Of course, God helped those clowns get away. I think that made him even angrier, because he wouldn't be able to exact his revenge. We got home, & him & my mom got into a big argument. I stopped listening once she started quoting bible scriptures & talking about me being in the car. Fuck that shower, man. We were home, & "safe", & my dad didn't kill or get killed, so I was good. in hindsight, I understand why he took me back out with him. I can't say I wouldn't do the same thing. Men are complex creatures. Threats of violence are usually met with reciprocation, even if at a later date. This was no exception. I know for certain what my father's intentions were when he never contacted the police. Hardbody.


My mom talked to some emergency gas people, & the following day, there was a dude out to turn our gas on. My father & I have NEVER spoken about the situation. Probably never will. I'll never forget that shit, really though.


Some years down the line, I was watching a football game with some friends. I saw this face, & lit up. "Oh shit!" I said, "that's my homie from my old neighborhood." It was Teddy Bear, who's name is Marcellus Wiley, of the San Diego Charges, Buffalo Bills & Dallas Cowboys. He was a big ass kid, so it made sense when I saw him plowing down the oppostition, & I also remembered how fast that nigga scooped me up, & jetted down the street. Up until that point, I'd all but forgotten that attempted robbery even took place. Even a few more years later, I saw Marcellus at a grocery store in Ladera Heights. He remembered me, came over, gave me a hug, & asked about my "crazy ass dad".


So, yeah.

Here's a little story...

TI is getting out of prison pretty soon. I'll admit, his story really intrigues me, & I just had a somewhat random thought. When his trial began, all the talk was about how he was a snitch, & a punk, & he must've cooperated with the police & the feds to get his sentenced reduced, blah blah. Never, not once, ever, did I hear anybody give him propers for having the balls to live out his lyrics. He had every intention of buying guns & bulletproof armor & silencers for the sake of going to war, with revenge on his mind. C'mon, that's gangsta! Granted, he never got the chance to carry-out his plan(s), but that was because his bodyguard was the snitch. He didn't go to jail behind riding around with a pistol just because, or getting caught with a misdemeanor amount of drugs; dude was getting ready to go out in a blaze of glory, word to Bishop. Not that I hand out kudos for ignorance, but if I were to do so, I'd call Cliff to the front of the line. Unlike 50 Cent & Tupac, who's street credit card was swiped in the victim lane, TI just happened to get infiltrated before he could make someone else the victim. Maybe he'll give us a song about it when he gets out. We know how much Hip Hop loves a rehabilitated convict with a story to tell...


Rappers going to jail is nothing new. But, when they go to jail for real shit, that makes all the difference in a career. Sometimes, it even destroys said career, & the artist's life in the process.


Almost 10 years back, I rapped with a dude named Regino, in a group called 'Tha Most'*. We did a little damage out here, hooked up with some cats called 'Kali's Finest'*, who were running around the L.A. underground gangsta rap circuit turning a few heads here & there. They had a guy in their ("our") clique, named Big Lurch*. Dude was a Texas nigga, pre-chopped & screwed & syruped-up Dirty South type cat who had a buzz rapping with a NoCal group called 'RBL Posse'*. KF Klik's studio was located in the heart of the Van Ness Gang's territory, so the majority of cats who came in & out were more or less Bloods, with Lurch being no exception. In fact, it was only a couple of us who didn't at least covertly claim a Blood affiliation. Not that we were Crips either, we just weren't Bloods. But, it was cool though, because it was about the music, & dudes had love for one another, like any crew should.


The big homies Big Gee & Wunder (Kali's Finest) were putting the final touches on their second LP around this time, so their was a lot of collaboration going on between the whole squadron. Regino & myself were slated to do a song with the homie Big Lurch, but between work, kids & police trying to shut down their side hustle *wink wink*, the song never emerged. I wish it had though. One day, I went over to the studio to cop some medication, & in the backyard, going at it like two wolverines, were Big Lurch & the unofficial third member of Tha Most, K-Borne. Lurch was getting served up, bolo's to the nose & jawbones, but that didn't stop him from squabbling. The fight actually stopped when K-Borne took a step back & looked puzzled at Lurch, who was yelling & screaming like a man possessed. K walked back inside, seemingly disgusted with the whole situation, rather than like a man who just beat the monkey piss out of another dude in front of a small crowd. I broke out to drop off my kids, & returned awhile later to find out what was up with the turmoil.


"Grands! You ain't know that nigga be gettin' wet, dog?!"


"Nah. Word?"


I'd always noticed that Lurch was always in his own world, but he never bothered anybody. The times I chilled with him, clowning, sipping some drank or standing in the driveway while I smoked my Newport, he was always a mellow guy. I'm pretty good with my radar, & obviously he flew right under it. After this fight though, I found out that he was indeed a sherm head, & had no problems letting niggas know. All of us blazed, some of us-especially me-were admitted alcoholics, a few dudes stayed off the X pills, but this dude smoked sherm (pcp, angel dust, water) like it was trendy. I'd heard mad stories about sherm stick smokers, thanks to Jay Felony*, various relatives, & of course, from watching 'Cops' since it's inception, but he didn't seem one bit like the type to flip a car over, naked & sweaty [||], while fighting off 6 police officers.


Once Kali's Finest started having personal problems & decided to go their separate ways, the entire crew followed suit. Everybody branched off to do whatever it is that men do once they've given up on a dream deferred. In hindsight, some of the most fun I've had in my life was during the time we were recording, smoking, drinking, playing PS2, doing shows, etc. I really felt like somebody, & even got stopped ot in the city a few times because of a performance the night before. Once in NoHo (North Hollywood), we even signed autographs for some little kids, & shared some positivity with them.


Time passes. One day, there was a rumor floating around the neighborhood that some dude ate his girlfriend. Literally. As per hood gossip, nobody had names or specifics, but they had the general locale of the event & an overview of what happened. & that was basically the extent of the information I'd got; some nigga ate his girlfriend. In a bad way. Supposedly, he was caught walking down Broadway, covered in blood when the police stopped & arrested him. Living in South L.A., you get used to hearing stories about people found dead or getting killed in bizarre ways. This story, however, was a tad more eerie than some anonymous gangster getting set on fire on front of his baby mom's house. Plus, when a rumor hits the neighborhood so intensely, from various sources, than there's enivetably some truth to it. Eventually, the buzz died down, & it was just another urban legend, about a crazy cannibal nigga who may or may not still be roaming the streets, in search of the next nigga to chomp on. Random folks that I knew, who don't live anywhere near me had even caught wind of the story, & knowing I'd lived on this side of Crenshaw, they'd ask me if I knew or heard anything about it. Yet & still, no one ever had a name.


A couple years pass. One night, I'm watching 'Dateline' or 'Newsline' or something to that effect. They preempt a story about a neighborhood that looks vaguely familiar, & the story of a man who killed his friend's girlfriend while he was high on PCP. Commercial break. At this time, I was still smoking weed & drinking like I hated my liver, so, being faded, I was drawn into the premise. When the show came back on, the story went something like this:


Antron Singleton, living in South Los Angeles, had allowed his friend & his friend's girlfriend, Tynesha Ysais, to come live with them during a rough patch. One morning, the friend left the residence & left Ysais at the apartment with Singleton. Reportedly, Antron was high off of PCP, & confronted the young lady in an aggressive manner. She rebuffed him & the situation escalated. What happened next was unclear, but according to the man, he was high, & the young lady was wearing a t-shirt with the 'Tasmainian Devil' on it. The man also said that the cartoon character attempted to attack him & he defended himself by stabbing it. In a strange turn of events, the man admitted that he then began trying to eat the character after he assumed it was dead. Afterwards, he went outside & that's all he remembered until waking up in police custody. The police reported receiving a call from a neighbor, hearing a violent scuffle, & when they arrived, they found a man staggering down the street confused, covered in blood, dazed & hallucinating.


Medical records showed that Antron had undigested human flesh in his stomach.


At the end of the report, they showed the man's face. I jumped up & grabbed my cell.


"Hello?"


"Nigga! That WAS Lurch!!"


"Daaaamn..."


Regino had called me awhile back about the story when he'd first heard about it, & he had heard that it was Big Lurch, but the problem was that no one had seen him in quite some time, so he & I dismissed it. Dude was a little off, but hey, who's not? But that off? Who'da thunkitt? We both watched the remainder of the show in silence, then got off the phone.


That was one of the weirdest moments in my memories.


At the end of the program, Lurch, sitting pathetically bounded by shackles & behind 3 inch thick bulletproof glass, told the viewers that he was sorry for what he'd done. He added that they should stay away from drugs at all costs. He finally got the fame he had been searching for. Too bad it came this way. He received life in prison after being found guilty on all charges.


With all the misogynistic, drug addled gang bangers who live their lives by the sinister soundtrack that some rap music provides, one can only wonder how successful Lurch would be if he put out an album based around that unfortunate circumstance. Sadly, he'd probably do pretty well. That's street cred for your ass.
---------
*-Google if you're that curious

Mighty Earl & The Boss Bacon

Racial profiling has been a long standing problem in Los Angeles, as well as most "urban" areas across the U.S.A., for quite some time. I just love how "they" give racism technical sub-divisions, like how they split up the areas of Disneyland. In short, police monitor/harass specific "types" based solely on appearance, with the bias that said individual is most likely doing wrong because of who/what they are. I don't agree with racial profiling, partly because I'm Black (a favorited target of the profile), but mostly, because I'm not a bigot (well, in most cases, at least).


Los Angeles has a new police chief in Charlie Beck (by his name, he sounds like he should be an alcoholic cartoon character), & his first order of business is to address civil rights leader Earl Ofari Hutchinson's allegations that the LAPD has ignored 8 years worth of complaints regarding the matter. I'm sure other major cities will soon follow suit, granted it has tangible effects towards resolution.


I don't subscribe to any fascist views, but I do, however, live in a city that's quite dangerous depending on location/date/time of day or night, etc. In other words, some parts of L.A. are screwed the eff up (including the well-to-do spots). If you own a television set, you have a general idea of where not to be when the sun leaves the sky. Hell, maybe not even when the sun is up, either. That just gives more people the opportunity to witness something they don't plan on "snitching" about to begin with. Funny thing about that though, is whenever family from other states come to visit, they always want to see Compton, Watts & the Slauson Swapmeet; three places where people I know personally have been shot, shot at, & beaten up severely, respectively.


Like most folks in urbanized environments, I've been the victim of a crime a couple of times myself. Some anonymous, like car burglary, & others, hands-on & personal, like being robbed at gun-point. I've also been privy to seeing quite a few crimes of various natures happening right before my eyes (life in the Big City, am I right?). Not to mention the amount of criminals I happen to be related to. There on my "side", per se, but that's just a matter of happenstance.


Every time I was a part of or witnessed a crime, the person committing the crime looked like me. I've never been held-up by a white boy, asian person, or a gay dude. Well, you can't really tell who's gay nowadays, but, you smell my cologne. My question is, is it racial profiling if all the people in the area happen to be one of two shades of brown? Theoretically speaking, if all the folks in a 10 mile radius are either Black or Hispanic, who the hell else are the police supposed to pull over to meet their monthly quota?


Like most Americans, I don't like domestic terrorism, & a lot of the goings-on in plenty of middle-lower class communities could easily fall under that umbrella. At the same time, I don't need the coppers running around town like The Gestapo in cold world Prussia. It's 2009, & there's only one minority; poor people. & within those environments of poverty, of course the crime rate will be higher. Does that mean that the police are coming down unnecessarily harder on the coloreds of these neighborhoods, or are they earning the income that we, the people, pay them?


I've never been a "Fuck the police" type guy, even when N.W.A. had me singing it on the school bus. I understand that some are good, & some are bad, like any other organization of differing humans. Perhaps Earl will get to the bottom of this before too long, but in the meantime, don't get it twisted.....I won't be riding around Beverly Hills all willy nilly after sunset, either.


I've been bumped up in basically every major metropolitan area of Southern California. Literally, dozens of times I've had to prove my innocence to the business side of a shiny badge. I'm aware that some coppers are misguided man-children who got bullied all through adolescent life, & feel the need to regress when they see a nigga minding his own business. That said, I tread lightly when they're around. At the least, I try not to give them extra reasons for bothering me, such as smoking weed in my car without my seatbelt on doing 75 in a school zone. All jokes aside, a lot of cats take no precaution as to what the poe-poe's job requirements are, then cry foul as their unregistered weapon lands them in the pokey.


That, friends, has nothing to do with the profiling of a race. That's what we call "slipping", & there's not too much of a justifiable agrument against that, especially not in a court of law.


With the race divide transitioning into the rich versus the poor, I'm curious as to where the one time's priorities will shift to. I'm sure they are as well.

gone fishin'

Guess what?

I'm on a family vacation!First time ever, road trip & all. My wife's family lives in Louisiana, so we drove from Los Angeles to Shreveport to visit for a week. I've never been on a vacation in my life, so this is a new thing for me. I'm a creature of normalcy & routine. I like to know where my draws are, & that I can walk through the house in them & such. But, everybody needs time to cool their heels every now & then, I guess. You guy's have seven days to miss me, so enjoy yourselves while I'm gone. & don't do anything I wouldn't do.

But first...

I'd like to thank all of you, my supporters, who give me a reason to want to share my thoughts & opinions & snarcasm. I started my blog in January, & honestly, if I didn't have all y'all to write for, I would've stopped a long time ago. I'm deeply appreciative to be invited into your computers & enjoyed ([||] for the fellas) on a regular basis. Sometimes this site is my therapy, & I'm just thankful you guys have the patience, understanding & sense(s) of humor to ride with me. I'm not going to name names, but I know who my folks are. If you think this post is directed to you, there's a good chance it is.

So, even though I'll miss y'all, say a prayer for boy, & don't forget about me. & believe, when I get home, I'll have some stories to tell.

Be cool, & be careful motherfuckers. I'll holler next Monday.

*Btw, it says it on top of the page, but I'll say it again down here;
tonygrands@gmail.com
That's in case you business with me, or just want to chat*
In a minute...

Stop me if you've heard this one...

I went to a gathering at my in-laws this weekend, & I'm not too partial to the majority of them in the first place; I was just there to keep an eye on my son (yeah, I'm over protective but so the fuck what? Too bad more Black fathers aren't). Anyhow, as soon as we get there, it was drama. You know Black folks can't get together for 15 minutes without some neck-rolling & finger-pointing. *cue the obligatory racist joke* Somebody either drank the last of the Kool-Aid or bad mouthed Tyler Perry.

The incident itself was completely irrelevant, but one aspect of it kind of made me chuckle, in a bad way. My brother-in-law's baby momma got into an argument with some bird that lived in the apartment complex. Luckily for me, my (sort of) sis-in-law had her gay lover with her. As the confrontation ensued, the gay lover jumped in, & was told by the bird, "Oh, you wanna act like a nigga, I got somebody for you!". [tony's note: bird = wild haired, bra-less baby factory] Normally I ignore those types of things, especially when it doesn't involve any of my real family members, but I couldn't help but laugh at that. It amused me well into the evening, & for a few minutes this morning when I woke up.

See, I have no real problem with gay peoples. In fact, without sounding like a bigot, they are some of the coolest folks I've come across during my travels (recovering alcoholics can be a delight as well). & God knows I prefer lesbian porn over watching some hairy-assed dude shafting poor, defenseless white girls. But, as with most things in life, there's always a boundary. Being a lesbian is one thing; attempting to actually be taken seriously as an equal counterpart to Men is another ballpark (no pun intended).

I've noticed that, at least in Los Angeles, the butch dyke has taken on a new role. What was once the female companion to a woman who's chosen to explore her sexual options has now become a pants sagging, wave-capped corn rows wearing, sports bra to hide the chi-chi's ass anti-feminist, who's wholeheartedly adamant on edging out men in their quest for empowerment. Let us not forget what James Brown said. In case you did, this is a man's world. That doesn't mean that we don't need women, but we don't if said female is insistent on awkwardly standing in front of a urinal to create the appearance of peeing while standing.

It's to the point where two girls occupying the same personal space nowadays get automatically labeled lesbians. In my younger days, it was a case of figuring out which one I'd rather have casual sex with & mostly likely it would be both. Now, it's like trying to sneak peeks at some fresh-outta-prison cat's girlfriend. When Women's Liberation spoke to equal rights, I assume they didn't mean getting knocked the fuck out like a man, but if it walks like a duck, by all means, quack quack.

Perhaps the most mystifying facet of all this is that gay women always seem to have upwards of three children in tow. So first, I'm sure they soured their kids' heads with talks of how useless their fathers are, & next, to add insult to injury, they open-mouth kiss their women friend(s) in public as if it's a normal occurrence. On top of the fact that mommy's woman friend dresses like daddy, but has a period like mommy. Only in America people. If this were the Middle East, heads we be on sticks next to curb side mailboxes. Again, I don't judge, because that God's responsibility & it would behoove me NOT to step on Jehovah's sandals, but this can't be the way it was supposed to be. I doubt my grandmother had any bisexual experiences. Yet, I have a cousin who has/does, & thats okay, too. When I met her girlfriend, I could've sworn she looked at my mustache & got mad at it. As if she doesn't get enough hair on her lips already.

It's not necessary to prove how manly one is, unless of course, they're not. It's overkill, ladies. If you want to munch carpet, feel free to do so until it gets caught in your respective throats. But, don't piss on my Air Force 1's & tell me it's drizzling. Whatever your parents did or didn't do to you can be discussed on therapy couches that span as far as the eye can see. & with this looming health care initiative, I'm sure said help isn't far off. But I beg of you, don't impose your hostilities on us real men, who father your children, kill your spiders & move your furniture. Even if we are just your cousins & uncles.

Really though, I'm just saying. Don't shoot the douche nozzle, I'm only delivering the message. Speaking of douche nozzles, I wonder how a dyke butch (see how I did that there?) keeps the pipes clean? Never mind, no I don't...

The 5 Minute Factor: part three

....Conclusion (I suggest you read part's one & two first. Trust me)....

Funny thing about haphazard behavior is that rarely do you cover your ass. You just jump head first into the situation, without weighing all possibilities &/or outcomes. Throughout this whole ordeal with *no dry-snitch*, while I'm being the protective older brother to an "armed & dangerous" criminal, I never once asked him what happened to the gun. I was so caught up in the Cloak 'N' Dagger experience, I'd forgotten why he started coming around me to begin with, those light years ago. No dad, no older brothers, uncle (by marriage) was a crack-head, mom only 15 years older than him; he was looking for someone who would be looking for him.

How did I forget to ask him about the fucking gun?

5 minutes became 5 hours. Nightfall became the next day, with no signs of *no dry-snitch*. All the members of the neighborhood goon squad were congregated at our meeting spot, my front porch, when I came outside that morning. Everybody looked at me, & I knew. Seems he, against my warning, decided to stroll through the neighborhood on his way to wherever. His thing was to show the world that he wasn't scared of anything, Pigs included. Once he made his rounds, gave some hugs & shook some hands, he headed to his destination.

What I didn't know was that this whole time, that same dirty gun was on him, always. Jacket pocket, back pack, under his big, dirty ass t-shirt, etc. He always said that valley dude's homies would find him before the cops did, but I've never been good at math, so I didn't put two & two together. That day he left, plain clothes cops were watching, & followed him to where he ended up. Upon leaving that house, they detained & questioned him, & after bumping him up for about a half an hour, a sergeant arrived & I.D.'d him. He had weed & the gun he used to murder another man. It turns out it wasn't a man at all, but another misguided teenager who watched too many movies growing up & was substantially ignored at home. Brothers from another mother, one might say.

That chicken head, the eye of this tragic storm, testified against *no dry-snitch*, & even though we all wrote letters to the court, the judge ultimately threw the book at him. *no dry-snitch* caught the book like a man, & carried it with him under the jail.

25 with an L. Epic fail.

That was a few years back. Now, he's just urban legend; neighborhood fodder used to scare kids straight & teach them about choices. We all know kids don't listen though.

Come to think of it, he used to read things that I wrote & tell me how good I was. Oh, how he'd love this...

The 5 Minute Factor: part one

How many murderers do you know personally? I know 2. Here's one......

I have a natural magnetism for certain types of people. Mostly the downtrodden. I'm not sure why God decided to give me such an arduous responsibility, but nonetheless, I've accepted it & use my powers for good. Sometimes I become frustrated with the amount of vagabonds & borderline homeless dudes I know, but what can I do? I feel entirely too blessed not to share what God gave me with others if I'm able to. It even talks about something like that in the Bible, word to Jesus Christ.

My young home boy, named *no dry-snitch* was a good kid who, unfortunately, had his eyes widened by the daily antics of the neighborhood supervillians. The gang-banging, dope-dealing, petty criminal activity that we all love to watch on a straight-to-video DVD or hear chronicled in a rap record. Shit is real in this field.

A boy in a man's body, who would spend half of his day following around my friends & I, like an annoying sibling or stray dog, & the other half around the corner with the local ruffians. Seems like that balance would work out in his favor if ever an extreme situation arose, but he (& I) found out that in a matter of 5 minutes, everything you've learned/adopted/believed in can be forgotten & forever lost.

If you know about Los Angeles, you know that every third person has a relative in Pomona, Victorville, The Valley, Ontario, Perris, etc. Those places just happen to be the "get my ass out of L.A." hotbeds. So, *no dry-snitch* had close family in The Valley, who he'd visit often. So much so that he'd met a girl out there. He was still young, so when he came home one day, talking fast & smiling, I knew he had genuine feelings for her, as opposed to good ol' Black lust. Lust, as in, he'd already had a daughter who he never saw, through no fault of his own, so to me, he saw this as a chance to do the whole girlfriend/boyfriend thing correctly.

From the day I'd meet him, he'd gone from decent, clean cut youth, to a misdemeanor-commiting menace to society. Complete with too much hair & gang tattoos. He came to me for advice a lot, which I rationed out to him, depending on how much weed he had, but the one real situation he needed guidance on, he turned to the supervillians.

It seemed that the valley girl already had a boyfriend. In most instances, "out-of-town" niggas detest L.A. dudes, & he was no exception. The fact that he was affiliated with the Eight Trey Gangsta Crip's made him an easier target for the boon dock thug-wanna be's. & now, he'd coveted on of their prized hood rats. Some nigga lost his future baby momma, & surely looked to avenge his loss.

The day came when the two young, Black males crossed paths, on the valley hooligan's home turf. Home court advantage, per se. But *no dry-snitch* wasn't a punk by any means & he held his ground. The two fought, & after what I can only assume was an ass-kicking, the valley boy ran away threatening further violence, in the way that only Black kids from the ghetto(s) can; he's going to be back "with his strap". Again, my young compadre wasn't afraid of much, so this, to him, was another nigga barking as he scurried away with tail tucked.

This wasn't his first foray into the ignorance that is gang violence stemmed from female. In Juvenile Hall, he'd gotten into a squabble behind some tender chick filet, & stabbed a fellow "inmate" in the thigh with a pencil. No stiches, no harm, no foul. As with most incarcerated young men, this only fueled his bloodlust towards the next opportunity to flex his masculinity.

So, 5 minutes later, valley dude returned, this time in a car. He stopped the car & exited. *no dry-snitch* said that he didn't seem to have a gun, but he wasn't looking for one, what with all the adrenaline surging through him. Valley guy walked over & began talking loudly, while the prized chicken head began to back away. *no dry-snitch* decided that he was going to swing first, connected with valley cat's jaw & knocked him to he ground. Immediately, he jumped back up & produced a handgun aimed right for *no dry-snitch*'s chest.

To be continued tomorrow....