Sometimes it's amazing to me just how much my baby mom's hates me. It's like some movie shit, going uproariously out of her way to make me miserable. It doesn't work, by the way, if only because I'm fully aware of how good God is & I love my wife. Still, I'm baffled by the amount of energy she puts into despising me, even though I haven't had a conversation with the broad in months, really though.
At one point, I blamed her poor sense of logic & actuality for her ultra resentment. But that was when I was full of myself & liquors & spirits & couldn't think in a straight line. Now that I'm professionally sober, I see that her extreme disdain for me is far & beyond any place that I touched in her soul. Likewise, most women suffer from the same affliction, a void that can never be filled, & any attempts will be: scoffed at, then accepted, then rejected, then hated, in that order. While my uncles were busy telling me what type of women I should be going after, they never bothered to tell me which ones to avoid at all costs. I'm not the only guy in this position, & my proof is the volume of dudes who talk bad about the mothers of their children. I should start an online support group for us. We could all log on simultaneously, & watch 'The Maury Povich Show' in hopes of catching glimpses of the holy grail of paternity; "you are NOT the father!". Sweet vindication. & then I get jealous towards the lucky, bullet-dodging son of a bitch. Stupid ass nigga will probably be back on the show in another year though, sitting on stage with another, yet somehow less attractive floozie, yelling & screaming about how this kid isn't his either. Some niggas never know when enough is enough.
I should've known better than to become so emotionally intimate with a woman(?) without a father, who had a child at age 14. Instead of red flags & sirens registering, I allowed animal instinct to take control, as I hunted my prey. It's like black bears who die from rattlesnake bites. All the bear sees is a meal, completely ignoring any possible outcome, aside from the one he creates in his mind. Time is of the essence as he feverishly bounds about planning to pounce, instead of studying his prey, looking beyond the fancy package & zeroing in on the possibility of the unknown. &, as the venom warms his blood vessels & darkens his vision, he remembers the barely visible warning signs, the signs that most likely spelled "detour", & more appropriately, "nah, this the wrong one, homie!". Ultimately, the bear gets his meal, & a lifetime's worth of headache & unnecessary bull shit to wash it down. Natural selection can be a beast if burden, if you will. Just saying.
This reason this is on my mind is because, as men, we have to make better choices in mate-choosing. & if we happen to be in the percentage of those who effed up, we have to teach our children that time is fleeting & to make the best decisions possible. "Future" is a word that many people don't use, lest it be in a negative way. The average person, regardless of social status & communal upbringing, hinges on the present. When said future does rear it's head, what usually comes to fruition is the unexpected, & I don't know about y'all, but I hate surprises. It's always so easy to blame the woman for being screwed up or bitter, but somebody's making them this way. Chances are, that broad you meet at the club, exchanged numbers with, invited over & boned had a lifetime subscription to issues of a magazine you couldn't understand even if you really wanted to. It's not your fault she's a bag lady, but by default, you have to sustain the cargo she's incurred. Have you ever brought home a stray dog/cat/billy goat, & it was cool at first. Then, you accidentally step on it's tail & Hell is unleashed. There's a reason behind that "emotional" outburst. You not first person to take the stray in, & surely not the first to mistreat it & cause it pain. So, even though it was far from intentional, the sum was no different.
I believe women are naturally loving & compassionate. Men, as boys however, are taught to be just the opposite. What happens when we meet at the adult intersection is a moral clash, which results in providing the perfect amount of negative energy to push a woman's love over the thin line of separation into hate, & thats an irreversible event horizon, unless you walk around with a flux capacitor in your pocket, or know how to bend the time space continuum. Shit, I don't. I know about as much about quantum physics as I do about cloning sheep.
More specifically, we, as men, can't be too mad at the women who we lazily give children to. If the Bible's right, & the man is the Head of the Body, then we can't be mad if all other "parts" falter on our watch. I believe a good amount of dudes who loathe their baby momma's are truly mad at themselves. They might as well have gotten hit by a diesel truck traveling 8 MPH. In other words, that shit could've been avoided with the proper consideration. Hindsight is 20/20, no doubt, but to just think, it was so simple, it became complicated. For this reason alone, I admire animals, in the sense that they don't compromise their "fight-or-flight" instinct. If something even kinda looks askew, they bolt, & don't stop until they're positive they've fled danger. Men look at that feeling as a challenge to themselves, & as a result, have to endure whatever backlash it subscribes to.
See, I hate hearing young cats already deterred from marriage on account of tasting some bad Kool-Aid, per se. Or seeing their brothers & uncles on the business end of a horrible relationship, & judging their possibilities based on that. Trust, it's not as bad as it seems. For every 2 chicks that are hopelessly lost, there's 1 who's worth all the time & effort living will allow. I know what I speak. One of the best things about life is finding a woman who has your best interests at heart, without all the unnecessary complication. Those are the ones you find when you think with the big head, as well as the little one. Because that little one will lead you to seemingly happy times, but ultimately abysmal places. Again, it's that word "future" that needs careful consideration.
It's times like these when a parent hopes that the whole "do as I say, not as I do" mantra holds some type of weight. One would like to think that showing their seeds the outcomes of bad decision making would help them steer clear of any grievance. Yet, how many of us actually listened to the fables our parents piled up on the dinner table, right next to the vegetables we didn't eat either? Fuck being healthy & strong, I want cake. & lots of it. & I'll deal with the stomach ache later.
Really though, there's some shit that Pepcid can't help you with.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Monday, December 14, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Calizonamexitexana (...now say it backwards)
My people, I'm back! California to Arizona to New Mexico to TEXAS to Louisiana.
&, wow...fuck a road trip. I won't even ever watch "National Lampoon's Vacation', or any movie kin to it again in this lifetime. I lived it. Dude, if the situation to travel cross-country arises, & the method of travel is a car (or van), do yourself the biggest favor & say no go, word to Hall & Oates. Actually, I'll say be hesitant & leary; make sure that you travel with like-minded individuals. There's nothing worse than being held captive in a vehicle, miles from home with a bunch of folk who don't understand you & probably don't like you much anyway. I speak from fresh experience.
My "fam" & I left L.A. for Shreveport, LA last Friday morn. We arrived that Saturday night. Easily the suckiest, most uncomfortable 30-something hour experience of my life. Shit, if it wasn't for my homies over at XXLmag.com, I might have thrown myself under the bus (or van), literally. But, I did enjoy Shreveport, though. It's a quaint, countryside city; a far cry from the horrible, war-torn pictures that Lil Wayne & C-Murder paint about their respective state with their abysmal *ahem* music. It could just be that I spent the majority of time around my wife's Louisianian family, with their daily home cooked meals & adorable ebonical speech. Me being a city boy & such, I thought the bigger the family, the bigger the ratio for convicts to mental illness. Imagine my surprise when I meet people who genuinely spent time with each other doing nothing at all because they chose to, as opposed to a few uncles on house arrest & some cousins who can't leave the house because "the streets is watchin'". My wife's Grandma, who was the reason for the trip, is the coolest, nicest lady in the world. She's what a seventy-something year old Black women should be, rather than Tyler Perry's uberpopular homoerotic manifestations, seething with self-hate & ignorance. No shots at today's Black women, but you gals can only hope to eventually become that type of matriarch. Nah, fuck that, shots fired! Black girls (who become women, sort of) are in a state of emergency; lemmings diving off the cliff of practicality into pits of certain doom at breakneck speed. & most are either too stupid, too proud or too busy chasing children & various types of checks to see what lies ahead. I would feel sorry for said Black women, if I wasn't so put-off by their shitty attitudes & lack of self respect. There are exceptions though, & you know who you are.
Anyways...
I spent a week trolling around town, trying my hardest to look like I'm from Los Angeles & still blend in simultaneously. If you know about Lewzanna, you know light skins are a dime a dozen, so 50% of the time, I fit in perfect with the homegrown Creoles, or "Geechies" as their refered to by the older crowd. But the other half of the time, gold teeth & dreads were noticeably absent from my person, which had your boy sticking out like a nipple ring through a bra-less wife-beater. I'm calling niggas "bruh" & "dude", which had to be some sort of dead giveaway, what with their "fowkz" & "playaz" & the occasional "shawty". One could also assume that, because none of my clothing had dollar signs plastered across it, or an "LSU" insignia, I probably didn't buy my clothes from the same swap meets that they did. I didn't see one pair of True Religion's or Ed Hardy's. Except what I was wearing. But I saw lots of Dickies. Whole suits, like niggas got them tailor-made in every color imaginable. With fedoras & cowboy hats & drivers caps & doo-rags, etc. We went to church & the preacher had on a Dicki-nah, I'm bullshitting. But, he had gold teeth though.
[tony's note: i'm joking. in actuality, the methodist church we attended had a lovely female pastor. service that day consisted of prayer & communion. unfortunately, no "down home" fire & brimstone heathen hate. guess we chose the wrong sunday.] At the risk of sounding tourist-y, the landscapes were breath-taking. Even the dilapadated houses appeared regal; rife with history & a story to tell. & the state is covered with moisture & lush greenery; I hadn't seen that much water & trees since my uncle stopped selling dope.
Black people in major cities always seem to have hidden agendas. There's always crab's that need to be pulled back down to the bottom of the barrel. But, out there, it seemed like all the crawfish (as opposed to regular old crabs), or mud-bugs, were comfortably resting where they may, waving at strangers & kindly smiling at one another. It was quite beautiful. Me being born & raised in Los Angeles, a nigga smiling at you means he's about to rob you, he's with the cat who's about to rob you, or he's about ask you for your phone number. My apprehension withered away though, as the days passed & I realized that this was just a laid-back, relaxed city amongst a country of contrite narcissists & ego-maniacal know-it-all's. Right, wrong or indifferent, folks in Louisiana were just chillin'. Can't be mad at that at all.
Normally, unfamiliar surroundings automatically activate my pretension, like some time-release, douche nozzle, anti-personality pill. But, it never went off down there. Maybe because I was too busy hoping a tornado didn't rip through our parrish. Or was preoccupied with slapping big-ass mosquitos away from my ears & mustache. I mean, BIG-ASS mosquitos. I can only imagine what their roaches must look like. Like shiny-ass hamsters that probably run as fast as a three year old.
As for the music, I didn't get to hear much, but when the occasional hooligan drove past, he was playing 'Gucci Mane'. Not that the guy's an exceptional lyricist; on the contrary. Dude's as basic as you can get, topic-wise. Lyrically, he blows [||]. Wack juice must stain his sheets when he sleeps on his back. Definitely not what one would get an earful of in the City of Angels, but don't tell him that. For what it's worth, I'd rather hear my son freestyling to a beat from 'Mario Kart'. No really, my son can actually bust a rhyme or two. Gucci, nah. No Dice. But God bless his gold-toothed heart for trying.
All-in-all, I don't have too much to say bad about Louisiana. Even the police are pretty down to Earth. You'd never catch a cop in a big city like Los Angeles texting while on duty (no dry snitching). L.A. cops are too busy racially profiling coloreds & looking for the next young nigga (or ese) to shoot in the back. You know, doing their job. But, I guess when every other person isn't potentially wanted for attempted murder, there's more time to chillax like normal folk. Don't get me wrong; there were a couple of shootings not too far from where we were. It's not like niggas are down there trying to rekindle the civil rights movement or anything. If a group of people were marching, it was most likely to Sam's Seafood. If you're ever in Shreveport, do your mouth a favor [||], & indulge in some of their delicious cuisine. It'll make your tongue slap your brains out.
Perhaps the most, umm, slighty hypocritical facet of the "down south" experience was the amount of love swirls I saw. See, in Los Angeles, it's not uncommon to see people paired up in a variety of unnatural ways. Black/white, girl/girl, sickly/obese, etc. But for all of America's southern racist complexities, I didn't expect so many bi-racial couples. I saw a nappy head Hip-Hopster & a blue-eyed (yet well-endowed) she-devil making out under trees where I'm virtually positive an ancestor of his was hung from at some point in the state's history. But, it didn't faze him. I had the urge to yell out, "Obama for life", but decided against it. Now, if dude were smart, he'd use that race card throughout the entire relationship, making her his sympathetic, guilt-stricken slave. Reparations, per se. Nothing says "40 acres & a mule" like brand new Jordans & a PS3 from a white chick who you've convinced is related to your Great grandfather's owner. & If he were even smarter, he'd break out the sex-whip during Black History month. Just saying...
Eventually, the time came to head back home. Ugh. Piling back into the dreaded van I'd grown to hate a week before, I asked Jehovah to once again grant us safe passage through America's dangerous highways. The irony of that prayer is that as soon as we pulled off of the 10 freeway onto Normandie Avenue, we barely avoided an accident. I guess I should've expanded the prayer a little, to include "all the way to our front porch", or something. For the most part, fuck Los Angeles & all the asshole denizens I share it with. But, there's no place like home. Really though.
**HONORABLE MENTIONS**
I met what may have been the oldest living white dude at a Texas truck stop. & he seemed as intrigued to talk to me as I was to him...
The outskirts of New Mexico at 2:30 am is colder than a vampire's vajayjay. Not only was I the only Black man at that truck stop, but I was the only guy wearing a jacket. Go figure...
Skunks really stink. Like in the cartoons, when they have radiation waves of ass funk emanating from their body's. Yeah, that shit is for real dude...
The cemeteries in Louisiana are so God-awfully close to the homes that no one can convince me that those folk's ain't living on top of dead people...
Monster energy drink + truck stop black coffee + blood pressure medicine = what the halfway mark of a crack high must feel like...
Shouts out to Tricie, Feewee, Collin, & Sean for making us feel at home...
&, wow...fuck a road trip. I won't even ever watch "National Lampoon's Vacation', or any movie kin to it again in this lifetime. I lived it. Dude, if the situation to travel cross-country arises, & the method of travel is a car (or van), do yourself the biggest favor & say no go, word to Hall & Oates. Actually, I'll say be hesitant & leary; make sure that you travel with like-minded individuals. There's nothing worse than being held captive in a vehicle, miles from home with a bunch of folk who don't understand you & probably don't like you much anyway. I speak from fresh experience.
My "fam" & I left L.A. for Shreveport, LA last Friday morn. We arrived that Saturday night. Easily the suckiest, most uncomfortable 30-something hour experience of my life. Shit, if it wasn't for my homies over at XXLmag.com, I might have thrown myself under the bus (or van), literally. But, I did enjoy Shreveport, though. It's a quaint, countryside city; a far cry from the horrible, war-torn pictures that Lil Wayne & C-Murder paint about their respective state with their abysmal *ahem* music. It could just be that I spent the majority of time around my wife's Louisianian family, with their daily home cooked meals & adorable ebonical speech. Me being a city boy & such, I thought the bigger the family, the bigger the ratio for convicts to mental illness. Imagine my surprise when I meet people who genuinely spent time with each other doing nothing at all because they chose to, as opposed to a few uncles on house arrest & some cousins who can't leave the house because "the streets is watchin'". My wife's Grandma, who was the reason for the trip, is the coolest, nicest lady in the world. She's what a seventy-something year old Black women should be, rather than Tyler Perry's uberpopular homoerotic manifestations, seething with self-hate & ignorance. No shots at today's Black women, but you gals can only hope to eventually become that type of matriarch. Nah, fuck that, shots fired! Black girls (who become women, sort of) are in a state of emergency; lemmings diving off the cliff of practicality into pits of certain doom at breakneck speed. & most are either too stupid, too proud or too busy chasing children & various types of checks to see what lies ahead. I would feel sorry for said Black women, if I wasn't so put-off by their shitty attitudes & lack of self respect. There are exceptions though, & you know who you are.
Anyways...
I spent a week trolling around town, trying my hardest to look like I'm from Los Angeles & still blend in simultaneously. If you know about Lewzanna, you know light skins are a dime a dozen, so 50% of the time, I fit in perfect with the homegrown Creoles, or "Geechies" as their refered to by the older crowd. But the other half of the time, gold teeth & dreads were noticeably absent from my person, which had your boy sticking out like a nipple ring through a bra-less wife-beater. I'm calling niggas "bruh" & "dude", which had to be some sort of dead giveaway, what with their "fowkz" & "playaz" & the occasional "shawty". One could also assume that, because none of my clothing had dollar signs plastered across it, or an "LSU" insignia, I probably didn't buy my clothes from the same swap meets that they did. I didn't see one pair of True Religion's or Ed Hardy's. Except what I was wearing. But I saw lots of Dickies. Whole suits, like niggas got them tailor-made in every color imaginable. With fedoras & cowboy hats & drivers caps & doo-rags, etc. We went to church & the preacher had on a Dicki-nah, I'm bullshitting. But, he had gold teeth though.
[tony's note: i'm joking. in actuality, the methodist church we attended had a lovely female pastor. service that day consisted of prayer & communion. unfortunately, no "down home" fire & brimstone heathen hate. guess we chose the wrong sunday.] At the risk of sounding tourist-y, the landscapes were breath-taking. Even the dilapadated houses appeared regal; rife with history & a story to tell. & the state is covered with moisture & lush greenery; I hadn't seen that much water & trees since my uncle stopped selling dope.
Black people in major cities always seem to have hidden agendas. There's always crab's that need to be pulled back down to the bottom of the barrel. But, out there, it seemed like all the crawfish (as opposed to regular old crabs), or mud-bugs, were comfortably resting where they may, waving at strangers & kindly smiling at one another. It was quite beautiful. Me being born & raised in Los Angeles, a nigga smiling at you means he's about to rob you, he's with the cat who's about to rob you, or he's about ask you for your phone number. My apprehension withered away though, as the days passed & I realized that this was just a laid-back, relaxed city amongst a country of contrite narcissists & ego-maniacal know-it-all's. Right, wrong or indifferent, folks in Louisiana were just chillin'. Can't be mad at that at all.
Normally, unfamiliar surroundings automatically activate my pretension, like some time-release, douche nozzle, anti-personality pill. But, it never went off down there. Maybe because I was too busy hoping a tornado didn't rip through our parrish. Or was preoccupied with slapping big-ass mosquitos away from my ears & mustache. I mean, BIG-ASS mosquitos. I can only imagine what their roaches must look like. Like shiny-ass hamsters that probably run as fast as a three year old.
As for the music, I didn't get to hear much, but when the occasional hooligan drove past, he was playing 'Gucci Mane'. Not that the guy's an exceptional lyricist; on the contrary. Dude's as basic as you can get, topic-wise. Lyrically, he blows [||]. Wack juice must stain his sheets when he sleeps on his back. Definitely not what one would get an earful of in the City of Angels, but don't tell him that. For what it's worth, I'd rather hear my son freestyling to a beat from 'Mario Kart'. No really, my son can actually bust a rhyme or two. Gucci, nah. No Dice. But God bless his gold-toothed heart for trying.
All-in-all, I don't have too much to say bad about Louisiana. Even the police are pretty down to Earth. You'd never catch a cop in a big city like Los Angeles texting while on duty (no dry snitching). L.A. cops are too busy racially profiling coloreds & looking for the next young nigga (or ese) to shoot in the back. You know, doing their job. But, I guess when every other person isn't potentially wanted for attempted murder, there's more time to chillax like normal folk. Don't get me wrong; there were a couple of shootings not too far from where we were. It's not like niggas are down there trying to rekindle the civil rights movement or anything. If a group of people were marching, it was most likely to Sam's Seafood. If you're ever in Shreveport, do your mouth a favor [||], & indulge in some of their delicious cuisine. It'll make your tongue slap your brains out.
Perhaps the most, umm, slighty hypocritical facet of the "down south" experience was the amount of love swirls I saw. See, in Los Angeles, it's not uncommon to see people paired up in a variety of unnatural ways. Black/white, girl/girl, sickly/obese, etc. But for all of America's southern racist complexities, I didn't expect so many bi-racial couples. I saw a nappy head Hip-Hopster & a blue-eyed (yet well-endowed) she-devil making out under trees where I'm virtually positive an ancestor of his was hung from at some point in the state's history. But, it didn't faze him. I had the urge to yell out, "Obama for life", but decided against it. Now, if dude were smart, he'd use that race card throughout the entire relationship, making her his sympathetic, guilt-stricken slave. Reparations, per se. Nothing says "40 acres & a mule" like brand new Jordans & a PS3 from a white chick who you've convinced is related to your Great grandfather's owner. & If he were even smarter, he'd break out the sex-whip during Black History month. Just saying...
Eventually, the time came to head back home. Ugh. Piling back into the dreaded van I'd grown to hate a week before, I asked Jehovah to once again grant us safe passage through America's dangerous highways. The irony of that prayer is that as soon as we pulled off of the 10 freeway onto Normandie Avenue, we barely avoided an accident. I guess I should've expanded the prayer a little, to include "all the way to our front porch", or something. For the most part, fuck Los Angeles & all the asshole denizens I share it with. But, there's no place like home. Really though.
**HONORABLE MENTIONS**
I met what may have been the oldest living white dude at a Texas truck stop. & he seemed as intrigued to talk to me as I was to him...
The outskirts of New Mexico at 2:30 am is colder than a vampire's vajayjay. Not only was I the only Black man at that truck stop, but I was the only guy wearing a jacket. Go figure...
Skunks really stink. Like in the cartoons, when they have radiation waves of ass funk emanating from their body's. Yeah, that shit is for real dude...
The cemeteries in Louisiana are so God-awfully close to the homes that no one can convince me that those folk's ain't living on top of dead people...
Monster energy drink + truck stop black coffee + blood pressure medicine = what the halfway mark of a crack high must feel like...
Shouts out to Tricie, Feewee, Collin, & Sean for making us feel at home...
Monday, October 5, 2009
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...
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...
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
How I Could Just Kill A Man
We've all heard Derrion Albert's tragic story. Not tragic because he was a relative or personal friend, but tragic because we had the privilege of witnessing his beating. A beating that led to his death.
Things like this occur regularly, throughout inner-city war zones all across the glorious U.S.A., on any given day. However, reading about them in the newspaper or online doesn't force us to attach a human life to the victim. Having the luxury of viral video gives the poor kid a personality, a presence, a life, so to speak. These are the images that build legends, more so than eyewitness accounts & empty anchor person rhetoric.
I try to imagine what he was thinking; put myself in his unfortunate shoes during the last several heartbreaking minutes of his life. I would like to think that, somewhere in the earlier part of the violence, he blacked-out & wasn't aware of the horror he was experiencing. Knowing the resilience of the human brain, he was probably cognizant of his predicament, if only in a haze, but knowing the fortitude of the human mind, the whole episode was most likely funneled into some dark, solitary place, in case he survived the attack.
I saw on some news outlet, where the relatives of the accused were denying their respective family member's involvement, even going so far as to call Derrion a "gang member" & saying insensitive things like "it was just a gang fight, they're all gang bangers" & "my son was defending himself". How do you say that to the mother who must not only avoid the media, and the video being forced down society's collective throat, but also has to bury her son? Even if that were God's truth, it still doesn't justify the lack of compassion that we, as humans, have for one another.
Not that this incident has a monopoly over societal ills; parents are killing their own children (& vice versa), fathers are raping their daughters, the list is a bottomless barrel of inequity with no foreseeable future other than annihilation. & regardless to whatever, it's not a race issue as much a people issue. Impoverished people, to be exact. The detrimental cycle of poverty breeds a different kind of creature. "The Cosby Show" was merely a fun house mirror, designed to distort the wicked actuality of our genuine reflections. So contrast to that fantasy, when despair is all you know, there's basically no chance at creating anything else. Of course there are exceptions to the rule, but within that rule is Murphy's Law (anything that can happen, probably will), & the mathematics just don't work in most "exceptions" favors. They wind up as statistics or innocent victims to the reality they're forced to digest routinely.
Any possible solution goes beyond tax reforms & job markets. There's no political advisors or government officials with the ability to change the hearts of man. Even if the most unfortunate, misguided soul was taken from his natural environment & thrust into the richest, most beneficial environment with every imaginable bell & whistle life has to offer, that wouldn't necessarily change generation upon generation of programmed misinformation, struggle, & survival of the fittest ethos. & truth be told, the real skills one need to "live" in today's society aren't taught in school. That's why so many youth's become disenchanted with education by 10th grade. Their education comes from the street. The same street where their ignorance was conceived, waving good bye to them as they leave, & subsequently, saying "Hello" to them when they return home.
& I'll tell you this; these rappers aren't helping matters one bit. Even the one's with a voice are usually to wrapped up in their own personal battles to lend a hand. It all begins at home, as we should already know, but think about the conditions of said homes in a lot of instances. So, what we can do, individually, is reach out to those tangible, be it boy or girl. Help those still within arm's distance. Now is not the time to be innocent bystanders, but willing participants in whatever avenues need to be traversed. Again, it all begins at home...
Broken homes, drug abuse, desensitization, racism, classism, depression, alcoholism, violence in general are all fueled by a harsh poverty that many may never escape. Those that succumb rarely make it through to the finish line. I'm not here to preach, but, wow. Something's gotta give.
*RIP to all those whose untimely, unnecessary deaths remind us about this turbulent life we live daily*
Things like this occur regularly, throughout inner-city war zones all across the glorious U.S.A., on any given day. However, reading about them in the newspaper or online doesn't force us to attach a human life to the victim. Having the luxury of viral video gives the poor kid a personality, a presence, a life, so to speak. These are the images that build legends, more so than eyewitness accounts & empty anchor person rhetoric.
I try to imagine what he was thinking; put myself in his unfortunate shoes during the last several heartbreaking minutes of his life. I would like to think that, somewhere in the earlier part of the violence, he blacked-out & wasn't aware of the horror he was experiencing. Knowing the resilience of the human brain, he was probably cognizant of his predicament, if only in a haze, but knowing the fortitude of the human mind, the whole episode was most likely funneled into some dark, solitary place, in case he survived the attack.
I saw on some news outlet, where the relatives of the accused were denying their respective family member's involvement, even going so far as to call Derrion a "gang member" & saying insensitive things like "it was just a gang fight, they're all gang bangers" & "my son was defending himself". How do you say that to the mother who must not only avoid the media, and the video being forced down society's collective throat, but also has to bury her son? Even if that were God's truth, it still doesn't justify the lack of compassion that we, as humans, have for one another.
Not that this incident has a monopoly over societal ills; parents are killing their own children (& vice versa), fathers are raping their daughters, the list is a bottomless barrel of inequity with no foreseeable future other than annihilation. & regardless to whatever, it's not a race issue as much a people issue. Impoverished people, to be exact. The detrimental cycle of poverty breeds a different kind of creature. "The Cosby Show" was merely a fun house mirror, designed to distort the wicked actuality of our genuine reflections. So contrast to that fantasy, when despair is all you know, there's basically no chance at creating anything else. Of course there are exceptions to the rule, but within that rule is Murphy's Law (anything that can happen, probably will), & the mathematics just don't work in most "exceptions" favors. They wind up as statistics or innocent victims to the reality they're forced to digest routinely.
Any possible solution goes beyond tax reforms & job markets. There's no political advisors or government officials with the ability to change the hearts of man. Even if the most unfortunate, misguided soul was taken from his natural environment & thrust into the richest, most beneficial environment with every imaginable bell & whistle life has to offer, that wouldn't necessarily change generation upon generation of programmed misinformation, struggle, & survival of the fittest ethos. & truth be told, the real skills one need to "live" in today's society aren't taught in school. That's why so many youth's become disenchanted with education by 10th grade. Their education comes from the street. The same street where their ignorance was conceived, waving good bye to them as they leave, & subsequently, saying "Hello" to them when they return home.
& I'll tell you this; these rappers aren't helping matters one bit. Even the one's with a voice are usually to wrapped up in their own personal battles to lend a hand. It all begins at home, as we should already know, but think about the conditions of said homes in a lot of instances. So, what we can do, individually, is reach out to those tangible, be it boy or girl. Help those still within arm's distance. Now is not the time to be innocent bystanders, but willing participants in whatever avenues need to be traversed. Again, it all begins at home...
Broken homes, drug abuse, desensitization, racism, classism, depression, alcoholism, violence in general are all fueled by a harsh poverty that many may never escape. Those that succumb rarely make it through to the finish line. I'm not here to preach, but, wow. Something's gotta give.
*RIP to all those whose untimely, unnecessary deaths remind us about this turbulent life we live daily*
Monday, September 28, 2009
Hate The Game, Not The Player...
So, Lamar Odom married Khloe Kardashian, girlfriend of about 3 months, over the weekend. Thus, leaving behind his baby momma &/or love interest of about 10 years & their 2 children. According to TMZ.com, Liza Morales is dealing with Odom's marriage for her kids & wishes the newlywed's happiness because "everyone deserves to be happy". However, she refused to let THEIR children attend their FATHER'S wedding. WTF?!
Says Ms. Morales-"Yes, the circumstances over the last few weeks have been upsetting but none of my actions publicly or from the privacy of my home could be classified as a meltdown. I have maintained a brave face for my children who are my main concern and I remain strong for them."
Maybe I missed something in my slow, neanderthal way of man-thinking, but did somebody die? Sounds like the worst thing ever has happened to her & life is at a complete stand still. Really though, 10 years & no wedding? You've been living fantasies sweetie, for 'bout a decade or so. No Shots, though...
Swizz Beats, musical mastermind behind a whole bunch of shit, has apparently left his wife, R&B singer Mashonda for a more popular, & arguably more talented (& more attractive. No Shots, though) Alicia Keys. This isn't new news by any stretch of the public eye's imagination. Though the couple is still legally married, Swizz has more than made it official that his marriage is doomed to despair & has since had his pieces picked up by Ms. Keys, soon to be Mrs. Beatz, figuratively & literally speaking. Now, Mashonda has made her outcry public document via Twitter (is there any other way to snitch??).
Says Mashonda-"Already I can hear some of you saying "why are u blaming her, You cant make someone leave their wife, You cant break something thats broken". Well, my marriage was not broken, as far as I knew we were celebrating our sons birth and getting ready to celebrate our 5 year wedding anniversary . Call it blind love, whatever. I call it being a devoted wife.."
"As far as I knew" is usually what a defendant says on the stand when asked about their knowledge of some criminal act that's taken place, when they know damn well it wasn't right. Or, what most women say to illustrate the blind eye they've decided to turn towards whatever mishap has landed in their weaves semi-unexpectedly.
Regardless to the urban legends & broken home myths that fill court building hallways, children don't fix marriages/relationships, & hold no bearings over an individual's happiness. Truth be told, the children are often the resulting mistakes of people acting like the animals they are. Rarely are children born as a sum of love + happiness. I would go in on women not recognizing the power of the 'tang & just handing it to any guy without a speech impediment, but what do I know?
Actually, quite a bit...
Women, you need to understand the nature of the beast with which you decide to up the vajayjay to. Men are merely boys with body hair & bad credit scores, give or take. Man's intention lies in self-serving gratification, be it physical or otherwise. We like things that make us happy, per se. Fun things. Things that aren't hard to operate or take a lot of concentration to engage in. Men complicate things solely out of frustration, where as women seem to do it out of necessity. That alone is an oil & water situation, from the first date (booty call) to the last kiss (booty call). It's not that all men are dogs, or that we're selfish beings from the planet Stingy. It's just that once something stops being fun, we don't like it anymore. Ladies, how many XBox360 games does your man own? Do you know why? Because he finished a game, & at that point, he needed something new to have fun with. It wasn't anything personal towards the game itself; nothing to do with if it gained weight or let itself go. He's simple finished, bored & has moved on from that game, now dull & mundane. Now, had the game learned some new levels or created some alternate endings every time he got to the end, that would be a different scenario altogether.
I'm no Steve Harvey, but women, certain things can't be done in the traditional sense if you want to keep a man. Let's start with the word "keep". You "keep" a pet. You "keep" a pair of shoes. You don't "keep" a man; you "keep" him happy. If you're willing to get willy-nilly over the fact that he's moved on, then get equally as willy-nilly in your efforts to keep him around beforehand.
It's actually not that hard. In fact, most women could/would lighten their load if they just check dude out thoroughly before he becomes an amusement park's worth of genitals. I've always said to my home girls, as far back as I can remember, "Don't bone that dude. Yet.". No hate fellas, but we all know we've told that to a close home girl, only to be ignored while she "falls in love", then soon after has a bastard child while dude has already driven away to the next sperm receptacle. If you've ever seen a Tyler Perry movie, you have an idea how that system operates.
It's always amazed me that the behavior of Man is common knowledge, yet every woman thinks her cooch is the Kryptonite to every super guy she sleeps with. No Dice. Cats wear lead draws these days, girls. In case you're not hip to Superman-ese, that means that dude's already prepared for whatever new entrapment weaponry you think you've invented. It takes more than a home-cooked meal & D.S.L.'s to make a dude want to hang up is walking, umm, running shoes.
Not to be mean, but sometimes that willingness to churn out rug rats without a genuine, God-fearing commitment can come back to bite you in that same booty of yours that answers everytime he calls (see what I did there?). Whatever it is that you assume is so pleasing to him, keep this in mind; there's always a less attractive, less demanding, more appreciative woman out there, so you really need to give him ample reason to stick around for the arguments & what not. Really though. Separation from the pack is far more arduous than separation of the legs.
By no means are these shots at the ladies. In fact, I hope this helps some young, unexpecting girl to realize that a happy, healthy relationship is as easy to attain as an unwanted pregnancy or an STD, if you understand what I'm getting at. Women seem to have a tendency to look down the road, love-wise, & neglect the present. Too busy looking for the marriage, without giving the courtship the proper attention. Then, when it all falls down, the man's a dog, a womanizer, a Federline, etc.
If it takes 2 to tango, then why on Earth wouldn't it take 2 to fuck up a relationship? Most cats naturally have an exit strategy embedded in their psyche to begin with. It's just about how, when, &/or where is it going to take place? Knowing how to diffuse said mechanism is the mark of a woman worth being "kept" by.
Word.
Says Ms. Morales-"Yes, the circumstances over the last few weeks have been upsetting but none of my actions publicly or from the privacy of my home could be classified as a meltdown. I have maintained a brave face for my children who are my main concern and I remain strong for them."
Maybe I missed something in my slow, neanderthal way of man-thinking, but did somebody die? Sounds like the worst thing ever has happened to her & life is at a complete stand still. Really though, 10 years & no wedding? You've been living fantasies sweetie, for 'bout a decade or so. No Shots, though...
Swizz Beats, musical mastermind behind a whole bunch of shit, has apparently left his wife, R&B singer Mashonda for a more popular, & arguably more talented (& more attractive. No Shots, though) Alicia Keys. This isn't new news by any stretch of the public eye's imagination. Though the couple is still legally married, Swizz has more than made it official that his marriage is doomed to despair & has since had his pieces picked up by Ms. Keys, soon to be Mrs. Beatz, figuratively & literally speaking. Now, Mashonda has made her outcry public document via Twitter (is there any other way to snitch??).
Says Mashonda-"Already I can hear some of you saying "why are u blaming her, You cant make someone leave their wife, You cant break something thats broken". Well, my marriage was not broken, as far as I knew we were celebrating our sons birth and getting ready to celebrate our 5 year wedding anniversary . Call it blind love, whatever. I call it being a devoted wife.."
"As far as I knew" is usually what a defendant says on the stand when asked about their knowledge of some criminal act that's taken place, when they know damn well it wasn't right. Or, what most women say to illustrate the blind eye they've decided to turn towards whatever mishap has landed in their weaves semi-unexpectedly.
Regardless to the urban legends & broken home myths that fill court building hallways, children don't fix marriages/relationships, & hold no bearings over an individual's happiness. Truth be told, the children are often the resulting mistakes of people acting like the animals they are. Rarely are children born as a sum of love + happiness. I would go in on women not recognizing the power of the 'tang & just handing it to any guy without a speech impediment, but what do I know?
Actually, quite a bit...
Women, you need to understand the nature of the beast with which you decide to up the vajayjay to. Men are merely boys with body hair & bad credit scores, give or take. Man's intention lies in self-serving gratification, be it physical or otherwise. We like things that make us happy, per se. Fun things. Things that aren't hard to operate or take a lot of concentration to engage in. Men complicate things solely out of frustration, where as women seem to do it out of necessity. That alone is an oil & water situation, from the first date (booty call) to the last kiss (booty call). It's not that all men are dogs, or that we're selfish beings from the planet Stingy. It's just that once something stops being fun, we don't like it anymore. Ladies, how many XBox360 games does your man own? Do you know why? Because he finished a game, & at that point, he needed something new to have fun with. It wasn't anything personal towards the game itself; nothing to do with if it gained weight or let itself go. He's simple finished, bored & has moved on from that game, now dull & mundane. Now, had the game learned some new levels or created some alternate endings every time he got to the end, that would be a different scenario altogether.
I'm no Steve Harvey, but women, certain things can't be done in the traditional sense if you want to keep a man. Let's start with the word "keep". You "keep" a pet. You "keep" a pair of shoes. You don't "keep" a man; you "keep" him happy. If you're willing to get willy-nilly over the fact that he's moved on, then get equally as willy-nilly in your efforts to keep him around beforehand.
It's actually not that hard. In fact, most women could/would lighten their load if they just check dude out thoroughly before he becomes an amusement park's worth of genitals. I've always said to my home girls, as far back as I can remember, "Don't bone that dude. Yet.". No hate fellas, but we all know we've told that to a close home girl, only to be ignored while she "falls in love", then soon after has a bastard child while dude has already driven away to the next sperm receptacle. If you've ever seen a Tyler Perry movie, you have an idea how that system operates.
It's always amazed me that the behavior of Man is common knowledge, yet every woman thinks her cooch is the Kryptonite to every super guy she sleeps with. No Dice. Cats wear lead draws these days, girls. In case you're not hip to Superman-ese, that means that dude's already prepared for whatever new entrapment weaponry you think you've invented. It takes more than a home-cooked meal & D.S.L.'s to make a dude want to hang up is walking, umm, running shoes.
Not to be mean, but sometimes that willingness to churn out rug rats without a genuine, God-fearing commitment can come back to bite you in that same booty of yours that answers everytime he calls (see what I did there?). Whatever it is that you assume is so pleasing to him, keep this in mind; there's always a less attractive, less demanding, more appreciative woman out there, so you really need to give him ample reason to stick around for the arguments & what not. Really though. Separation from the pack is far more arduous than separation of the legs.
By no means are these shots at the ladies. In fact, I hope this helps some young, unexpecting girl to realize that a happy, healthy relationship is as easy to attain as an unwanted pregnancy or an STD, if you understand what I'm getting at. Women seem to have a tendency to look down the road, love-wise, & neglect the present. Too busy looking for the marriage, without giving the courtship the proper attention. Then, when it all falls down, the man's a dog, a womanizer, a Federline, etc.
If it takes 2 to tango, then why on Earth wouldn't it take 2 to fuck up a relationship? Most cats naturally have an exit strategy embedded in their psyche to begin with. It's just about how, when, &/or where is it going to take place? Knowing how to diffuse said mechanism is the mark of a woman worth being "kept" by.
Word.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
"Blame it on the..."
Finally...
Kanye-Gate has died down. It was kind of fun, I must admit. Seeing the closet-racists poking their heads out, if only to spit in the general direction of our beloved King of EmoRap. All the shots taken at him, some deserved, others not, but all quite amusing. Watching him almost cry during his Jay Leno apology. & let us not forget how he may have single-handedly reprised race relations in America, good or bad. Really though, you've got to respect a man who can get the President of the United States to call him a "jack ass" out loud. He didn't even do that for Joe Wilson. Or John McCain, for that matter. Something tells me that he calls Joe Biden that often, among other things...
Of all the excuses conjured up for Kanye's explosive expression, there's one I didn't hear often enough, but makes the most sense. He was drunk. Sure, people speculated on him swigging from a Hennessey bottle in public, but it was never pinpointed as the epicenter of the folly. I heard/read/saw him called everything from D-bag to racist, but I don't recall too many folks saying, "Hey, dude was just drunk", or something to that effect. Not that that's an excuse, but it's a start.
As you guys know, I'm a recovering alcoholic. I'm well aware of the evils that lurk inside those attractive bottles, with their pretty colors & curvaceous bodies & the damage said evils can cause if not managed properly. Still to this day, my wife will tell me some story about something I did, that I have no recollection of, & I laugh on the outside but feel like an idiot inwardly. One memory that I did seem to log onto my hard drive was being at my wife's best friend's house & cursing at her mom one time. She made some comment, & I said, "So the fuck what?". Jokingly, of course. Needless to say, drunk senses of humor don't mesh well with sober ones. She was dumbfounded, flabbergasted. I have no idea what happened after that, or before, but I do know that my wife & her friend's relationship hasn't been the same since.
Another I'll never forget is when my in-laws came to live with my wife, kids & I for awhile, some years back. I extended my house to them, because they were going through some things financially, & I figured this would be a way to prove to my wife that I'm still a good guy, underneath the stench of whatever liquors I got my hands on. I don't have to say that that decision was one of poor choice. It wasn't long before I was complaining about my lack of privacy & feeling like a child being restricted to his room for punishment. & of course, this led me to drink more. The camel's back-breaking straw was something trivial, but in a drunken fit of rage, I yelled "Get the fuck out! Everybody!", to two women & 4 little girls. &, get out they did, immediately. I felt like crap for at least 3 or 4 days, & even though my wife understood, she was pissed. It took them all awhile to speak to me but eventually they forgave me.
I have a friend; one of those dudes who prides himself on material things. The type of guy who can't differentiate between the words 'wealth' & 'worth'. There was a time that we'd sit & get drunk daily, & every so often I'd talk him into handing me the keys to whatever nice car he was driving at the time. One day, mid-drunkenness, I decided I needed to make a run, so off we went, with me behind the wheel. As I turned a corner, I grinded his front right rim against the curb. Man, I'll never forget getting out of the car & bending down to look at the destruction I caused. Adrenaline & testosterone kicked in, so I undoubtedly had to act as nonchalant & defensive as possible, but in my mind I was well aware of the irresponsible thing I'd done. That was easily one of the highlights of my life's low points. I did apologize, though. I even offered to pay for it, but dude knew I didn't have that kind of money laying around. If I did, I wouldn't have driven his car in the first place. We're still "friends" & he never brings it up, but I'll never forget it.
Last summer, when my alcohol problem finally caught up to me medically, the doctors ran every test on me that could. So, to find out that I was disease-free came as a huge weight being lifted from my shoulders. In my quest to solidify my manhood over the last 15 or so years, who knows how much risky behavior I engaged in that fell into the "blackout" zone. Let us not gloss over the fact that I have a set of twins from a semi-relationship *cough-jump off-cough* almost 9 years ago. At that point in my life, similar to a present day Kanye, I went nowhere without a bottle. Literally. I'd refill my water bottle with anything but water; sad part was that I didn't even drink the water. I'd just pour it out, into the sink. The whole "blackout" scenario is very real; some days I'd wake up & remember I'd had company, but would have to ask someone else who was there. Or receive a phone call regarding the prior night & play along, knowing damn well I truly had no idea what they were talking about. During my stint in the hospital, I asked my doc if they thought that I might have any other medical problems, to which he replied "nah, we had to check you for everything, you're clean", as if he knew what I was alluding to.
I have a pretty close friend named Charlie. One of my old drinking buddies. The last time I saw him he was telling me that I drink too much. That was the equivalent of a really fat person telling a slightly less fat person to slow down on the chili cheese fries. Later that day, after a morning stocked with beer & Vodka, he got into a fight with one of our neighborhood chicks, then her boyfriend, then walked around the corner to her house & set it on fire. Alcohol is a helluva drug. But, I'm sure he'll be good & sober when he gets released from prison in 4 years.
Admittedly, I was a self-involved jerk, who didn't care much for how other folks felt, or what they're were going through. In hindsight, it's a wonder I still have friends. & thank God that my wife is intelligent & compassionate enough to have seen past the facade. The average person would've done what most people eventually did do; left me alone with my drink.
Again, being drunk stops being cute when it affects other people, & maybe this was the wake up call Kanye needed. I'm not suggesting dude check himself into rehab or anything, but if a problem is brewing (no pun intended), that may be something he wants to research. It might save him a lot of future grief. & since I'm almost positive that he'll never read this, then I'm saying this to whoever needs to read it.
That "Blame It On The Alcohol" song would have gone a completely different direction than getting loaded & having great parties with the opposite sex if I wrote it. Drunk drivers accidentally kill people, & what do they do? Women get raped at parties, & what do they do? I needed a liver transplant, & what did I do?
Kanye-Gate has died down. It was kind of fun, I must admit. Seeing the closet-racists poking their heads out, if only to spit in the general direction of our beloved King of EmoRap. All the shots taken at him, some deserved, others not, but all quite amusing. Watching him almost cry during his Jay Leno apology. & let us not forget how he may have single-handedly reprised race relations in America, good or bad. Really though, you've got to respect a man who can get the President of the United States to call him a "jack ass" out loud. He didn't even do that for Joe Wilson. Or John McCain, for that matter. Something tells me that he calls Joe Biden that often, among other things...
Of all the excuses conjured up for Kanye's explosive expression, there's one I didn't hear often enough, but makes the most sense. He was drunk. Sure, people speculated on him swigging from a Hennessey bottle in public, but it was never pinpointed as the epicenter of the folly. I heard/read/saw him called everything from D-bag to racist, but I don't recall too many folks saying, "Hey, dude was just drunk", or something to that effect. Not that that's an excuse, but it's a start.
As you guys know, I'm a recovering alcoholic. I'm well aware of the evils that lurk inside those attractive bottles, with their pretty colors & curvaceous bodies & the damage said evils can cause if not managed properly. Still to this day, my wife will tell me some story about something I did, that I have no recollection of, & I laugh on the outside but feel like an idiot inwardly. One memory that I did seem to log onto my hard drive was being at my wife's best friend's house & cursing at her mom one time. She made some comment, & I said, "So the fuck what?". Jokingly, of course. Needless to say, drunk senses of humor don't mesh well with sober ones. She was dumbfounded, flabbergasted. I have no idea what happened after that, or before, but I do know that my wife & her friend's relationship hasn't been the same since.
Another I'll never forget is when my in-laws came to live with my wife, kids & I for awhile, some years back. I extended my house to them, because they were going through some things financially, & I figured this would be a way to prove to my wife that I'm still a good guy, underneath the stench of whatever liquors I got my hands on. I don't have to say that that decision was one of poor choice. It wasn't long before I was complaining about my lack of privacy & feeling like a child being restricted to his room for punishment. & of course, this led me to drink more. The camel's back-breaking straw was something trivial, but in a drunken fit of rage, I yelled "Get the fuck out! Everybody!", to two women & 4 little girls. &, get out they did, immediately. I felt like crap for at least 3 or 4 days, & even though my wife understood, she was pissed. It took them all awhile to speak to me but eventually they forgave me.
I have a friend; one of those dudes who prides himself on material things. The type of guy who can't differentiate between the words 'wealth' & 'worth'. There was a time that we'd sit & get drunk daily, & every so often I'd talk him into handing me the keys to whatever nice car he was driving at the time. One day, mid-drunkenness, I decided I needed to make a run, so off we went, with me behind the wheel. As I turned a corner, I grinded his front right rim against the curb. Man, I'll never forget getting out of the car & bending down to look at the destruction I caused. Adrenaline & testosterone kicked in, so I undoubtedly had to act as nonchalant & defensive as possible, but in my mind I was well aware of the irresponsible thing I'd done. That was easily one of the highlights of my life's low points. I did apologize, though. I even offered to pay for it, but dude knew I didn't have that kind of money laying around. If I did, I wouldn't have driven his car in the first place. We're still "friends" & he never brings it up, but I'll never forget it.
Last summer, when my alcohol problem finally caught up to me medically, the doctors ran every test on me that could. So, to find out that I was disease-free came as a huge weight being lifted from my shoulders. In my quest to solidify my manhood over the last 15 or so years, who knows how much risky behavior I engaged in that fell into the "blackout" zone. Let us not gloss over the fact that I have a set of twins from a semi-relationship *cough-jump off-cough* almost 9 years ago. At that point in my life, similar to a present day Kanye, I went nowhere without a bottle. Literally. I'd refill my water bottle with anything but water; sad part was that I didn't even drink the water. I'd just pour it out, into the sink. The whole "blackout" scenario is very real; some days I'd wake up & remember I'd had company, but would have to ask someone else who was there. Or receive a phone call regarding the prior night & play along, knowing damn well I truly had no idea what they were talking about. During my stint in the hospital, I asked my doc if they thought that I might have any other medical problems, to which he replied "nah, we had to check you for everything, you're clean", as if he knew what I was alluding to.
I have a pretty close friend named Charlie. One of my old drinking buddies. The last time I saw him he was telling me that I drink too much. That was the equivalent of a really fat person telling a slightly less fat person to slow down on the chili cheese fries. Later that day, after a morning stocked with beer & Vodka, he got into a fight with one of our neighborhood chicks, then her boyfriend, then walked around the corner to her house & set it on fire. Alcohol is a helluva drug. But, I'm sure he'll be good & sober when he gets released from prison in 4 years.
Admittedly, I was a self-involved jerk, who didn't care much for how other folks felt, or what they're were going through. In hindsight, it's a wonder I still have friends. & thank God that my wife is intelligent & compassionate enough to have seen past the facade. The average person would've done what most people eventually did do; left me alone with my drink.
Again, being drunk stops being cute when it affects other people, & maybe this was the wake up call Kanye needed. I'm not suggesting dude check himself into rehab or anything, but if a problem is brewing (no pun intended), that may be something he wants to research. It might save him a lot of future grief. & since I'm almost positive that he'll never read this, then I'm saying this to whoever needs to read it.
That "Blame It On The Alcohol" song would have gone a completely different direction than getting loaded & having great parties with the opposite sex if I wrote it. Drunk drivers accidentally kill people, & what do they do? Women get raped at parties, & what do they do? I needed a liver transplant, & what did I do?
Monday, September 21, 2009
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 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...
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Free Dr. Murray!
I'm pretty sick of hearing about Michael Jackson. I thought the whole point of Death was rest, or "sleep" as it's referred to in the Bible. If there is any relaxation in expiration, Mike's seeing no parts of it. What was the point of an effing funeral if the media just continues to parade his corpse around like pictures of Star Jones after her Lap Band surgery? I wouldn't be surprised if him, Tupac Shakur & Bruce Lee were sipping Pina Colada's on some island, stuffing hundred dollar bills into the coconut bra's of some exotic belly dancers. I'd give my big toe to be a fruit fly on that palm tree.
Anyway...
Dr. Murray, a/k/a Dr. Death (I know, right?) is basically being called a murderer, now that Mike Jack's death is officially a homicide. This newest leg of the witch hunt demands that someone be held responsible for the drug overdose that took the King of Pop from us. Now, all the doctor's who bragged about rubbing elbows with Jackson are wishing they hadn't, as they all are being thrown under the proverbial bus, one at a time. Celebrities by profession are now guilty by association. It's hard to feel sorry for multimillionaires, but God bless them all the same.
The main focus of media at the present is that they lay blame to someone. To me, thats a crock of dinosaur poo. I don't know about elite drug addiction, but I know about addiction, which in the grand scheme of things is the same mechanism. I'm no insider or gossip-heavy industry maverick, but I know exactly who to blame for his unintentional passing. Somebody needs to write me a check, & close the book on this one. Really though.
As most of you know, I'm an alcoholic. In recovery, but an alkie nonetheless. When I was checked into the hospital last year, for a veritable grocery list of ailments, the first thing my mother did was pray. Second thing, look for someone to blame. She gave my wife such a hard time that had I been in decent shape, I would've cursed her like we'd never met. I didn't appreciate that, for all the support my wife had given me through peaks & valleys, here's my mother blaming HER for ME almost committing suicide. No Dice.
No one made me drink. I don't care who handed me monies, or brought liquor to my house, or picked me up to go hang; nobody made me do shit. I chose to drink for breakfast, lunch & dinner. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. Yearly. Sure, some can call not stopping me "enabling", but fuck your psycho-babble jargon. Tony does what Tony wants, which is a 33 year old habit. So, when I detoxed & truly sobered up, I vocally took full blame for my misfortune. What kind of douche would say that their stupidity is someone else's responsibility? Rhetorical question.
My point is, for all the circle-running that people are doing, they continuously overlook the fact that Michael decided, in his own warped, fragile little mind, that what he needed was medication. & lots of it. Sure, the docs didn't have to supply it, but who likes being broke, whilst tons of cash are potentially an immoral phone call away? I don't blame Dr. Murray for seeing this as an opportunity to pay bills, eat food & have somewhere to sleep. Hell, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing. If Michael Jackson tells you to do something, you do it. Case in point; rumor has it that MJ made advances on Webster & Macauley Culkin. Look at their respective careers. They should've let Mike do whatever it was he wanted to do to them, & maybe you guys wouldn't be thinking, "who the hell is he talking about?". Catch my drift?
Homicide, no. Suicide, most definitely. If blame absolutely must find a target, paint a bull's eye on the back of Joseph Jackson's fancy sportscoat. Otherwise, Mike was addicted to drugs, & chose to indulge without seeking any help. However slow & calculated, Mike did it to himself, & there's no two ways around it. He was no saint, no angel, & 100% human. Capable of the same fallible, erroneous behaviors as the rest of us.
Rest In Peace, Mike, whenever they decide to let you...
Anyway...
Dr. Murray, a/k/a Dr. Death (I know, right?) is basically being called a murderer, now that Mike Jack's death is officially a homicide. This newest leg of the witch hunt demands that someone be held responsible for the drug overdose that took the King of Pop from us. Now, all the doctor's who bragged about rubbing elbows with Jackson are wishing they hadn't, as they all are being thrown under the proverbial bus, one at a time. Celebrities by profession are now guilty by association. It's hard to feel sorry for multimillionaires, but God bless them all the same.
The main focus of media at the present is that they lay blame to someone. To me, thats a crock of dinosaur poo. I don't know about elite drug addiction, but I know about addiction, which in the grand scheme of things is the same mechanism. I'm no insider or gossip-heavy industry maverick, but I know exactly who to blame for his unintentional passing. Somebody needs to write me a check, & close the book on this one. Really though.
As most of you know, I'm an alcoholic. In recovery, but an alkie nonetheless. When I was checked into the hospital last year, for a veritable grocery list of ailments, the first thing my mother did was pray. Second thing, look for someone to blame. She gave my wife such a hard time that had I been in decent shape, I would've cursed her like we'd never met. I didn't appreciate that, for all the support my wife had given me through peaks & valleys, here's my mother blaming HER for ME almost committing suicide. No Dice.
No one made me drink. I don't care who handed me monies, or brought liquor to my house, or picked me up to go hang; nobody made me do shit. I chose to drink for breakfast, lunch & dinner. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. Yearly. Sure, some can call not stopping me "enabling", but fuck your psycho-babble jargon. Tony does what Tony wants, which is a 33 year old habit. So, when I detoxed & truly sobered up, I vocally took full blame for my misfortune. What kind of douche would say that their stupidity is someone else's responsibility? Rhetorical question.
My point is, for all the circle-running that people are doing, they continuously overlook the fact that Michael decided, in his own warped, fragile little mind, that what he needed was medication. & lots of it. Sure, the docs didn't have to supply it, but who likes being broke, whilst tons of cash are potentially an immoral phone call away? I don't blame Dr. Murray for seeing this as an opportunity to pay bills, eat food & have somewhere to sleep. Hell, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing. If Michael Jackson tells you to do something, you do it. Case in point; rumor has it that MJ made advances on Webster & Macauley Culkin. Look at their respective careers. They should've let Mike do whatever it was he wanted to do to them, & maybe you guys wouldn't be thinking, "who the hell is he talking about?". Catch my drift?
Homicide, no. Suicide, most definitely. If blame absolutely must find a target, paint a bull's eye on the back of Joseph Jackson's fancy sportscoat. Otherwise, Mike was addicted to drugs, & chose to indulge without seeking any help. However slow & calculated, Mike did it to himself, & there's no two ways around it. He was no saint, no angel, & 100% human. Capable of the same fallible, erroneous behaviors as the rest of us.
Rest In Peace, Mike, whenever they decide to let you...
Monday, August 24, 2009
The 5 Minute Factor: part two
.....continuation from yesterday's part one (I suggest you read it first).....
I've had a gun pointed at me on a few occasions. Every time though, a strange sense of calm washed over me, as if God were in my head telling me that I'll be fine; it'll be over soon. No bullshit. The same feeling I had last year, as I lay dying in an ICU cubicle. Doctor's were telling me, in so many words, that I probably wouldn't leave there the way I WANTED to, & perhaps it was the cacophony of meds being pumped into me every minute, of every hour, but I was never scared, word to T.I. & Bonecrusher.
Anyway.....
*no dry-snitch* was the type of kid that, when on high alert, allowed his fight-or-flight mechanisms to take over. Not surprisingly, this time it was fight rather than flight, which I personally saw him do several times over the years, so I understood when I'd heard. Rightfully so, as fast as valley cat drew the weapon, it was snatched from his hand, & that quickly, the aggressor became the aggressee. *no dry-snitch* kicked him away, so that the same thing wouldn't happen to him, & kept the nozzle of the handgun stubbornly pointed in valley kid's general direction.
All this happening as the 3-penny piece watched in awe.
Knowing the plight of the over-eager, hard-headed young street survivor, I'm positive that several words were exchanged & some derivative of a scene from "Menace To Society" was acted out before the following took place;
Pop. Pop. Pop.
& like that, *no dry-snitch* was hoofing it back to his relatives' locale. Out of bounds, & out of options, his aunt, uncle & cousin jettisoned him to his mom's apartment, who in turn took him to another aunt's; his home back in L.A., around the corner from me. After all, how much thicker is blood than 'harboring a fugitive' when you really think about it? She gave him a few dollars & the best advice the mother of a murderer can give to her hell bound son; (& I quote, because I know her-more on that later) "Stay The Fuck In The House, *no dry-snitch*!".
He showed up on my porch early the next morning, with a bag full of clothes & a smile on his face. I opened the door & snatched him in, looking around before I slammed it shut, & began the "Furious Styles" rant & rave routine.
Fuck that. I've been a big part of a chain of command in this boy's life for years. Best believe I was going to get in his ass [||] about this uber-stupidity. He'd cry & go home before he'd even think about doing shit to me, word to strong male figures worldwide.
He told me his version of what happened, which was pretty close to what had already been leaked to the streets. Bad news travels fast, nah'mean? I rolled a blunt, & as we got high & mellow, I could smell the fear, paranoia & remorse, which by now was more pungent than the dirt weed we set ablaze.
The chick-a-dee had relatives out here, of course, & word of valley boy's death hit the block before *no dry-snitch*'s dusty Fila's did.
His aunt, a very nice but stern older lady wasn't ready to let a demon reside in her home. He'd been there all this time, so I didn't see what the big deal was, but nonetheless, he was on the run, & now homeless.
Guess who extended their back house?
Oddly enough, I've never felt as safe as I did with a killer living with me. It was better than having a gun. Anyone with a wild younger brother or an unstable rotweiler knows exactly what I mean. Except, this was beyond wild; *no dry-snitch* took a man's life, with his own gun. Bishop x 100, really though.
So, his mom paid me rent, &
thanked me often. In hindsight, her thanks wouldn't mean shit had the police ran up in the house. & best believe, they were looking for *no dry-snitch*, even went to his aunt's crib applying the pressure. Little did they know he was in my backyard, looking over the wall. But, that kind of thing doesn't register to a monster. He'd walk to the store, stand on the block, & pretend that all was normal, completely oblivious to the 5 minute factor.
The summer was over & he concluded that the heat had simmered, even though Black & Whites stayed canvassing all of our Black asses. One afternoon, he said somebody owed him so money, & when I offered him some, so he wouldn't have to leave, he mumbled & started walking away.
"I'll be right back Ant, in 5 minutes."
To be concluded tomorrow.....
I've had a gun pointed at me on a few occasions. Every time though, a strange sense of calm washed over me, as if God were in my head telling me that I'll be fine; it'll be over soon. No bullshit. The same feeling I had last year, as I lay dying in an ICU cubicle. Doctor's were telling me, in so many words, that I probably wouldn't leave there the way I WANTED to, & perhaps it was the cacophony of meds being pumped into me every minute, of every hour, but I was never scared, word to T.I. & Bonecrusher.
Anyway.....
*no dry-snitch* was the type of kid that, when on high alert, allowed his fight-or-flight mechanisms to take over. Not surprisingly, this time it was fight rather than flight, which I personally saw him do several times over the years, so I understood when I'd heard. Rightfully so, as fast as valley cat drew the weapon, it was snatched from his hand, & that quickly, the aggressor became the aggressee. *no dry-snitch* kicked him away, so that the same thing wouldn't happen to him, & kept the nozzle of the handgun stubbornly pointed in valley kid's general direction.
All this happening as the 3-penny piece watched in awe.
Knowing the plight of the over-eager, hard-headed young street survivor, I'm positive that several words were exchanged & some derivative of a scene from "Menace To Society" was acted out before the following took place;
Pop. Pop. Pop.
& like that, *no dry-snitch* was hoofing it back to his relatives' locale. Out of bounds, & out of options, his aunt, uncle & cousin jettisoned him to his mom's apartment, who in turn took him to another aunt's; his home back in L.A., around the corner from me. After all, how much thicker is blood than 'harboring a fugitive' when you really think about it? She gave him a few dollars & the best advice the mother of a murderer can give to her hell bound son; (& I quote, because I know her-more on that later) "Stay The Fuck In The House, *no dry-snitch*!".
He showed up on my porch early the next morning, with a bag full of clothes & a smile on his face. I opened the door & snatched him in, looking around before I slammed it shut, & began the "Furious Styles" rant & rave routine.
Fuck that. I've been a big part of a chain of command in this boy's life for years. Best believe I was going to get in his ass [||] about this uber-stupidity. He'd cry & go home before he'd even think about doing shit to me, word to strong male figures worldwide.
He told me his version of what happened, which was pretty close to what had already been leaked to the streets. Bad news travels fast, nah'mean? I rolled a blunt, & as we got high & mellow, I could smell the fear, paranoia & remorse, which by now was more pungent than the dirt weed we set ablaze.
The chick-a-dee had relatives out here, of course, & word of valley boy's death hit the block before *no dry-snitch*'s dusty Fila's did.
His aunt, a very nice but stern older lady wasn't ready to let a demon reside in her home. He'd been there all this time, so I didn't see what the big deal was, but nonetheless, he was on the run, & now homeless.
Guess who extended their back house?
Oddly enough, I've never felt as safe as I did with a killer living with me. It was better than having a gun. Anyone with a wild younger brother or an unstable rotweiler knows exactly what I mean. Except, this was beyond wild; *no dry-snitch* took a man's life, with his own gun. Bishop x 100, really though.
So, his mom paid me rent, &
thanked me often. In hindsight, her thanks wouldn't mean shit had the police ran up in the house. & best believe, they were looking for *no dry-snitch*, even went to his aunt's crib applying the pressure. Little did they know he was in my backyard, looking over the wall. But, that kind of thing doesn't register to a monster. He'd walk to the store, stand on the block, & pretend that all was normal, completely oblivious to the 5 minute factor.
The summer was over & he concluded that the heat had simmered, even though Black & Whites stayed canvassing all of our Black asses. One afternoon, he said somebody owed him so money, & when I offered him some, so he wouldn't have to leave, he mumbled & started walking away.
"I'll be right back Ant, in 5 minutes."
To be concluded tomorrow.....
Friday, August 21, 2009
& the moral of the story is...
*Kills a horse. Beats it with a stick*
So, Plaxico Buress is going on vacation for two years. We all (should) know the story by now; big-time football star carries unregistered firearm into a club. Said gun discharges in club & wounds him in the leg. He's taken to the hospital, then to jail for the incident. After lengthy trial, Buress is sentenced to 20 months for numerous charges. I guess the judge isn't one of those-"oh, he shot himself, so I guess he's learned his lesson"-types.
Donte Stallworth killed a pedestrian, while driving drunk, & was sentenced to 30 days, but anyway.....
Now, Plax is scheduled to start serving his time immediately, as if he's a flight risk. He probably can't run as fast as he could before, but nonetheless, the judge is taking no chances with a guy who got paid to run faster than most men. Blacks stay losing.
No racism, but high-profiles White folk get away with so much. Hell, even low-profile Caucasians stay on the lenient side of the law. I could go in on the (lack of a) justice system, or the on-going battle for respect & equality, but I'm tired of beating that dead horse.
*Throws stick down & walks away*
Plaxico had a target on his back from birth, being an American of African descent. He beat quite a few odds by not being murdered in his front yard &/or not ending up a part of the prison system's revolving door policy. The fact that he made it out of the hood, & into the limelight without a negative push makes his a story of success against all odds. So.....why the fuck did he walk into a club with a gun?
It couldn't have been for protection. Dude can probably knock fire from the average sized man's ass [||]. Maybe not a Kimbo Slice, but definitely a Taye Diggs or Tyrese. It shouldn't have been to prove a point, because being young, rich & Black is a point proven in & of itself. So the question still stands, to which the only answer I can find is that he is a dumb ass.
As Black men, we need to step our game(s) up. In fact, it's not a game, so we need to step our living up. We have too many eyes on us, from the government, to our children & wives, down to the criminals, haters, & crabs that aim to pull us back to the bottom of the barrel. As long as every other step is the wrong one, we will stay losing. The good guys are over-shadowed by the bad ones, & we know this to be fact. Thats why Gucci Mane sells waaay more albums than Mos Def. That being the obvious case, we must try twice as hard to be the best men we can be.
I don't believe in role-models, but I believe in positive examples. Barack Obama has enough on his own plate, so I can't expect him to shoulder a community's burden worth of exceptional leadership. I should be able to get some help from some neighbors, rappers, thespians & athletes as well, because when my child(ren) leave my supervision, they're under yours.
No judgment, I'm just saying. We, Black men, are capable of the greatest feats. It's time we show America, if no one else, that they brought us here for a reason.
Fuck fighting the power; it's time to BE the power.
So, Plaxico Buress is going on vacation for two years. We all (should) know the story by now; big-time football star carries unregistered firearm into a club. Said gun discharges in club & wounds him in the leg. He's taken to the hospital, then to jail for the incident. After lengthy trial, Buress is sentenced to 20 months for numerous charges. I guess the judge isn't one of those-"oh, he shot himself, so I guess he's learned his lesson"-types.
Donte Stallworth killed a pedestrian, while driving drunk, & was sentenced to 30 days, but anyway.....
Now, Plax is scheduled to start serving his time immediately, as if he's a flight risk. He probably can't run as fast as he could before, but nonetheless, the judge is taking no chances with a guy who got paid to run faster than most men. Blacks stay losing.
No racism, but high-profiles White folk get away with so much. Hell, even low-profile Caucasians stay on the lenient side of the law. I could go in on the (lack of a) justice system, or the on-going battle for respect & equality, but I'm tired of beating that dead horse.
*Throws stick down & walks away*
Plaxico had a target on his back from birth, being an American of African descent. He beat quite a few odds by not being murdered in his front yard &/or not ending up a part of the prison system's revolving door policy. The fact that he made it out of the hood, & into the limelight without a negative push makes his a story of success against all odds. So.....why the fuck did he walk into a club with a gun?
It couldn't have been for protection. Dude can probably knock fire from the average sized man's ass [||]. Maybe not a Kimbo Slice, but definitely a Taye Diggs or Tyrese. It shouldn't have been to prove a point, because being young, rich & Black is a point proven in & of itself. So the question still stands, to which the only answer I can find is that he is a dumb ass.
As Black men, we need to step our game(s) up. In fact, it's not a game, so we need to step our living up. We have too many eyes on us, from the government, to our children & wives, down to the criminals, haters, & crabs that aim to pull us back to the bottom of the barrel. As long as every other step is the wrong one, we will stay losing. The good guys are over-shadowed by the bad ones, & we know this to be fact. Thats why Gucci Mane sells waaay more albums than Mos Def. That being the obvious case, we must try twice as hard to be the best men we can be.
I don't believe in role-models, but I believe in positive examples. Barack Obama has enough on his own plate, so I can't expect him to shoulder a community's burden worth of exceptional leadership. I should be able to get some help from some neighbors, rappers, thespians & athletes as well, because when my child(ren) leave my supervision, they're under yours.
No judgment, I'm just saying. We, Black men, are capable of the greatest feats. It's time we show America, if no one else, that they brought us here for a reason.
Fuck fighting the power; it's time to BE the power.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
North Pole to the Stripper Pole...
I'm not one to get preachy about women & what they should do. At the very least, I'm only responsible for my own daughter (assuming she's actually my kid), but her mother usually intercepts any positive intentions I have toward her. I can only hope that my children's mom doesn't brainwash my daughter to have the same, lopsided mentality that her entire man-less family does. Rejection does incredible things to a person's perception.
[tony's note: one of these positive, black female role models really needs to holler at these 'baby mommas'. there will NEVER be a solution as long as THEY contribute as much to the problem as WE do.]
The small amounts of time I do spend with her are mostly so full to-the-brim with fatherly wisdom & pearl-casting that I rarely get the chance to sit & talk with her. So, even though I attempt to make up for lost time, said time is spent making up for lost time; a vicious cycle that will never end.
I think it's more important to teach her about the perils of low self-esteem & the dangers of boys than it is to know what her favorite food is. Since I'm in a position of submission from the gate, I use my time wisely. After all, I'm not her friend, & won't ever be. I prefer that we fill our time with big words, rather than small talk, per se. In the words of Chris Rock (or, some other prominent Black social commentator), my job is to keep her off the pole. Whatever euphemism you choose in regards to that phrase is fine by me; it still works.
My first real duty as her father, was to debunk the Santa Claus myth. There's no such thing as a man who's going to give you things for free, & if he does exist, don't trust him. That was relatively easy. My last real duty as a father is to debunk the exotic dancer myth. There's no such thing as a man who's going to give you things for free, & if he does exist, don't trust him. This may prove a bit more difficult.
Not only is a bitter ex there to (try &) intercept the words that my little girl needs to hear from her dad, but the rappers, TV shows, movies & dumb ass friends surrounding her have more access to her psyche. I'm not teaching her to "Jerk" or "Reject". On the contrary, I'm want her to "reject" any "jerk" who wants her to see his "stanky leg". But society is telling her there's nothing wrong with that, so I appear the overbearing witch doctor attempting to hypnotize her out of having fun.
Nah. I'm just trying to keep her off the pole, literally & figuratively.
If I can fill her with self-righteous indignation then maybe that will quell some douche nozzle loser from filling her with poor self-worth & unwanted babies.
But, hey, if I don't accomplish my mission, & you happen to be at a strip joint & see my daughter dancing, tip her good, because that means she has mouths to feed at home.
[tony's note: one of these positive, black female role models really needs to holler at these 'baby mommas'. there will NEVER be a solution as long as THEY contribute as much to the problem as WE do.]
The small amounts of time I do spend with her are mostly so full to-the-brim with fatherly wisdom & pearl-casting that I rarely get the chance to sit & talk with her. So, even though I attempt to make up for lost time, said time is spent making up for lost time; a vicious cycle that will never end.
I think it's more important to teach her about the perils of low self-esteem & the dangers of boys than it is to know what her favorite food is. Since I'm in a position of submission from the gate, I use my time wisely. After all, I'm not her friend, & won't ever be. I prefer that we fill our time with big words, rather than small talk, per se. In the words of Chris Rock (or, some other prominent Black social commentator), my job is to keep her off the pole. Whatever euphemism you choose in regards to that phrase is fine by me; it still works.
My first real duty as her father, was to debunk the Santa Claus myth. There's no such thing as a man who's going to give you things for free, & if he does exist, don't trust him. That was relatively easy. My last real duty as a father is to debunk the exotic dancer myth. There's no such thing as a man who's going to give you things for free, & if he does exist, don't trust him. This may prove a bit more difficult.
Not only is a bitter ex there to (try &) intercept the words that my little girl needs to hear from her dad, but the rappers, TV shows, movies & dumb ass friends surrounding her have more access to her psyche. I'm not teaching her to "Jerk" or "Reject". On the contrary, I'm want her to "reject" any "jerk" who wants her to see his "stanky leg". But society is telling her there's nothing wrong with that, so I appear the overbearing witch doctor attempting to hypnotize her out of having fun.
Nah. I'm just trying to keep her off the pole, literally & figuratively.
If I can fill her with self-righteous indignation then maybe that will quell some douche nozzle loser from filling her with poor self-worth & unwanted babies.
But, hey, if I don't accomplish my mission, & you happen to be at a strip joint & see my daughter dancing, tip her good, because that means she has mouths to feed at home.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
K(eep) i(t) S(imple) S(tupid)...
Have you ever thought to yourself why the hell, say, Too $hort is still making albums that sell relatively well? Never mind the fact that he hasn't changed his style since 1983. & that said style was quite possibly one of the most basic a-b, a-b formats ever introduced to an instrumental. & at the risk of tossing out [||]'s like they're going out of business, he's not the most attractive dude to look at, so sex appeal is not an issue. [||]. Not that he's the only person in this category, I just chose to use him as an example....
"Example of what, Grands?"
Of simplicity, & the breath-taking outcome of it's practice. One's lack of bells & whistles makes them relatable, on all accounts. As often as society likes to scramble brains & confuse the masses, complication is a turn-off. Music, art, life in general is more enjoyable when a person doesn't require a 15 minute processing time to understand it.
The human experience is hard enough, what with trying not to get killed or catch deadly diseases, without unnecessary hitches, glitches & razzle-dazzle. Especially the self-inflicted wounds born out of narcissistic stubbornness. It's imperative that one chills, from time to time at least, & admires the world they try so hard to sustain in. Smell the roses, per se, & if you happen to get stung by an overzealous bee, chalk that up to life-living & keep on pushing.
It's a simple solution to a paradoxically complex dilemma; just stop making life so hard. 9 times out of 10, it's not the incident that's difficult, it's the way you go about it dealing with it. Example; bills need to be paid yet, the money doesn't quite seem like it's going to stretch all the way. Whatdoyado? You do the best you can, & know for a fact that, no matter what, it will resolve itself, one way or another. Really. Thats it.
When I was a kid, my Dad would always say, "one way or another", & I guess it stuck. I mean, take the worst possible scenario of hardship, & add this component to the equation, "well, at least I'll be dead eventually". Tell me that doesn't release a tremendous amount of pressure.
Really though, when times get tough, just say it, "one way or another". If need be, get it tattooed on your neck, backwards & in reverse, like the sticker on the hood of an ambulance. That way, every time you need to remind yourself how beautiful you are, you can get a gander of this statement as well.
"They" say that life is too short (full circle, Ha!). If that's the case, relax, relate, release, regroup, then re-engage, in that order, daily.
One way or another.
"Example of what, Grands?"
Of simplicity, & the breath-taking outcome of it's practice. One's lack of bells & whistles makes them relatable, on all accounts. As often as society likes to scramble brains & confuse the masses, complication is a turn-off. Music, art, life in general is more enjoyable when a person doesn't require a 15 minute processing time to understand it.
The human experience is hard enough, what with trying not to get killed or catch deadly diseases, without unnecessary hitches, glitches & razzle-dazzle. Especially the self-inflicted wounds born out of narcissistic stubbornness. It's imperative that one chills, from time to time at least, & admires the world they try so hard to sustain in. Smell the roses, per se, & if you happen to get stung by an overzealous bee, chalk that up to life-living & keep on pushing.
It's a simple solution to a paradoxically complex dilemma; just stop making life so hard. 9 times out of 10, it's not the incident that's difficult, it's the way you go about it dealing with it. Example; bills need to be paid yet, the money doesn't quite seem like it's going to stretch all the way. Whatdoyado? You do the best you can, & know for a fact that, no matter what, it will resolve itself, one way or another. Really. Thats it.
When I was a kid, my Dad would always say, "one way or another", & I guess it stuck. I mean, take the worst possible scenario of hardship, & add this component to the equation, "well, at least I'll be dead eventually". Tell me that doesn't release a tremendous amount of pressure.
Really though, when times get tough, just say it, "one way or another". If need be, get it tattooed on your neck, backwards & in reverse, like the sticker on the hood of an ambulance. That way, every time you need to remind yourself how beautiful you are, you can get a gander of this statement as well.
"They" say that life is too short (full circle, Ha!). If that's the case, relax, relate, release, regroup, then re-engage, in that order, daily.
One way or another.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Dedicated To My Friend
R.I.P. Damon Johnson
I lost a very close friend of mine Tuesday morning. He was struck by a car, attempting to cross the street. Said street is always full of a bunch of idiot drivers who are either A) drunk, B) haphazard or C) incompetent, like 85% of the rest of the world. But, for whatever reason, it was his time to die.
God bless his family. I will miss him, as much as a man can miss another man without needing a "no homo" at the end of the sentence. When you're a kid, friends come & go, but as an adult, when you consider someone a friend (as opposed to homie, buddy, potna, etc.), it really means something significant, well at least to me. & to lose that friend, is something that has to be dealt with on an adult level, i.e. realistically.
Death is an amazing thing, in that, you can compulsively prepare for it, do all you can to avoid it, yet do nothing at all to prevent it. That, to me, is uncomfortably hilarious. Case in point; Damon survived several gunshot wounds a few years back. Btw, several = four or more. Yet, he got through it, physically & mentally. He's been to the penitentiary a couple of times, & although he came home with the same state of mind he had after the shooting (shell-shocked), he got through it. Simultaneously the coolest & toughest person I'd met since I've become an adult. But, for all the tests God presented & Damon passed, this was a pop quiz without a cheat sheet.
The doctors tried to save him, but that wasn't in the cards. Within the hour of his
passing, the whole neighborhood was outside, walking around, hugging, dapping, smoking weed in memoriam, & drinking alcohol as they sat in awe. There's even a makeshift tribute to him on the corner that the ambulance took him from. I wonder did he realize that this would be his last time ever leaving the hood?
Sooner than later, we'll have his funeral, & all of us will have a chance to tell him "Peace Out" for the final time. After that, we'll come home, laugh at his silly antics, regret any arguments & disagreements, part ways & continue to live our lives, until the next time death rears it's insidious head.
The last time I saw him was Saturday morning. He was flirting with a bus driver. Kool-aid smile & all. The last time my friend Tone saw him was as he tried to stand back up after the vehicle knocked him down. Then, the paramedics arrived.
Y'all be cool & careful out there. Tomorrow isn't promised, & don't forget that.
I lost a very close friend of mine Tuesday morning. He was struck by a car, attempting to cross the street. Said street is always full of a bunch of idiot drivers who are either A) drunk, B) haphazard or C) incompetent, like 85% of the rest of the world. But, for whatever reason, it was his time to die.
God bless his family. I will miss him, as much as a man can miss another man without needing a "no homo" at the end of the sentence. When you're a kid, friends come & go, but as an adult, when you consider someone a friend (as opposed to homie, buddy, potna, etc.), it really means something significant, well at least to me. & to lose that friend, is something that has to be dealt with on an adult level, i.e. realistically.
Death is an amazing thing, in that, you can compulsively prepare for it, do all you can to avoid it, yet do nothing at all to prevent it. That, to me, is uncomfortably hilarious. Case in point; Damon survived several gunshot wounds a few years back. Btw, several = four or more. Yet, he got through it, physically & mentally. He's been to the penitentiary a couple of times, & although he came home with the same state of mind he had after the shooting (shell-shocked), he got through it. Simultaneously the coolest & toughest person I'd met since I've become an adult. But, for all the tests God presented & Damon passed, this was a pop quiz without a cheat sheet.
The doctors tried to save him, but that wasn't in the cards. Within the hour of his
passing, the whole neighborhood was outside, walking around, hugging, dapping, smoking weed in memoriam, & drinking alcohol as they sat in awe. There's even a makeshift tribute to him on the corner that the ambulance took him from. I wonder did he realize that this would be his last time ever leaving the hood?
Sooner than later, we'll have his funeral, & all of us will have a chance to tell him "Peace Out" for the final time. After that, we'll come home, laugh at his silly antics, regret any arguments & disagreements, part ways & continue to live our lives, until the next time death rears it's insidious head.
The last time I saw him was Saturday morning. He was flirting with a bus driver. Kool-aid smile & all. The last time my friend Tone saw him was as he tried to stand back up after the vehicle knocked him down. Then, the paramedics arrived.
Y'all be cool & careful out there. Tomorrow isn't promised, & don't forget that.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Rap Music Is NSFW
*it means Not Safe For Work, in case you're confused*
My generation is possibly the first (& only) generation to say that when we grew up, along with doctors, lawyers, & astronauts, we also wanted to be rappers. It was tangible & realistic. Fortunately, this was during a time when being a rapper meant more than shallow word schematic & pointless show boating. Of course there were exceptions. & when exceptions become the norm, then it's all bad, but this wasn't the case then. Gaudy jewelry was juxtaposed to cognizant thinking & actual points of view. Rappers were the dudes who one looked to for a sense of direction. Legitimate community voices who were just beyond our reach. Believe it, or not (young people), at one point in time, rappers were role models, to a reasonable extent. We all grow up & out of that, though.
Funny how a couple of decades can switch shit up.
Now, most rappers are nothing more than comical clones of the last musical mishap they witnessed (i.e. each other). Two dimensional caricatures of a distant memory. Plainly stated, these niggas are wack. Talent & skill have taken a back seat to bullet holes & felony charges. Really though. The ones that aren't ghetto jesters or soldiers of the coon calvary are still the furthest from positive influences that a person could be. There was a time when young people wanted to be rappers for the right reasons. Nowadays, I don't hear that much.
Seems to me that being a rapper is quickly ranking up there with cops, in terms of danger factor. This year alone, I can think of incidents where rap dudes have been:
shot
shot at
arrested
attacked
humiliated
robbed
murdered
These occurrences happen regularly, & have been for years. Call me old fashioned, but thats not worth groupie sex, costume jewelry, the mo' problems that come with the mo' money, or the immense hatred that goes along with it all. It's hard enough just being a regular Black guy in America, much less a moving target for the 35% of society that has nothing better to do than scheme, scam & pull all the other crabs in the barrel back down to the bottom.
I guess to a degree, a lot of rappers bring certain elements to themselves. There's nothing wrong with being successful, but it's how you go about displaying it to the public. Doctors & lawyers make crazy money, but you don't see them going to the salon with $35,000 worth of jewelry on. Or making videos of them, at home, burning piles of cash then uploading it to Youtube. Figuratively speaking, if you slather yourself in honey, expect the flies to gather on your flesh, if you get my point.
With all the hoopla about the rap game being reminiscent of the crack game, a lot of the danger level gets ignored. In no other genre of music has one artist sent a memo to the others stating that they cannot ever come [back] to his city. What part of artistic creativity does that fall under? Everybody has beef with everybody else, & if we leave it to a guy named Joe Budden, the beef game might have just stepped into the pay-per-view fight night arena. The hustle that became the [new] WWE is now a certifiable gang bang. Like the videos for "Bad" & "Beat It", except with more niggas & real weapons.
God bless these cats, though. Rapping is some dangerous shit.
Good luck with that fellas.
My generation is possibly the first (& only) generation to say that when we grew up, along with doctors, lawyers, & astronauts, we also wanted to be rappers. It was tangible & realistic. Fortunately, this was during a time when being a rapper meant more than shallow word schematic & pointless show boating. Of course there were exceptions. & when exceptions become the norm, then it's all bad, but this wasn't the case then. Gaudy jewelry was juxtaposed to cognizant thinking & actual points of view. Rappers were the dudes who one looked to for a sense of direction. Legitimate community voices who were just beyond our reach. Believe it, or not (young people), at one point in time, rappers were role models, to a reasonable extent. We all grow up & out of that, though.
Funny how a couple of decades can switch shit up.
Now, most rappers are nothing more than comical clones of the last musical mishap they witnessed (i.e. each other). Two dimensional caricatures of a distant memory. Plainly stated, these niggas are wack. Talent & skill have taken a back seat to bullet holes & felony charges. Really though. The ones that aren't ghetto jesters or soldiers of the coon calvary are still the furthest from positive influences that a person could be. There was a time when young people wanted to be rappers for the right reasons. Nowadays, I don't hear that much.
Seems to me that being a rapper is quickly ranking up there with cops, in terms of danger factor. This year alone, I can think of incidents where rap dudes have been:
shot
shot at
arrested
attacked
humiliated
robbed
murdered
These occurrences happen regularly, & have been for years. Call me old fashioned, but thats not worth groupie sex, costume jewelry, the mo' problems that come with the mo' money, or the immense hatred that goes along with it all. It's hard enough just being a regular Black guy in America, much less a moving target for the 35% of society that has nothing better to do than scheme, scam & pull all the other crabs in the barrel back down to the bottom.
I guess to a degree, a lot of rappers bring certain elements to themselves. There's nothing wrong with being successful, but it's how you go about displaying it to the public. Doctors & lawyers make crazy money, but you don't see them going to the salon with $35,000 worth of jewelry on. Or making videos of them, at home, burning piles of cash then uploading it to Youtube. Figuratively speaking, if you slather yourself in honey, expect the flies to gather on your flesh, if you get my point.
With all the hoopla about the rap game being reminiscent of the crack game, a lot of the danger level gets ignored. In no other genre of music has one artist sent a memo to the others stating that they cannot ever come [back] to his city. What part of artistic creativity does that fall under? Everybody has beef with everybody else, & if we leave it to a guy named Joe Budden, the beef game might have just stepped into the pay-per-view fight night arena. The hustle that became the [new] WWE is now a certifiable gang bang. Like the videos for "Bad" & "Beat It", except with more niggas & real weapons.
God bless these cats, though. Rapping is some dangerous shit.
Good luck with that fellas.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Talk Is (Not) Cheap
Some douche nozzle rap dude named Brisco (who?) got robbed a few days ago. He was at a "local" barbershop, somewhere in Florida, when 4 masked men rushed into the establishment, fired a few rounds & relieved him of roughly $40,000 worth of cash & jewelry, & took the keys to his leased Range Rover after (supposedly) pistol whipping him. No more than 2 days later, the rapper releases a song aimed at the criminals, saying that there's now a bounty on them for acts committed.
Fucking idiot.
First of all, the guys had him in the ultimate position of submission (i.e. at gunpoint), & for all intents & purposes could've bodied him right there, just off the strength of green-eyed monsters & hatred. So, how does he pay them back for ONLY taking some material possessions & not his life or his manhood? By threatening their lives, in a "song" for the whole world to hear. After the police were notified, that is. So, not only will his threats fall on the ears of these random, obviously blood thirsty jackals who he probably can't identify in a police line-up, but if something necessarily negative were to happen to the goons, he'll be the first one the authorities contact.
Not to say one should ever be appreciative for being robbed, but I've been robbed before. At gunpoint. I was grateful that the nigga didn't get all LAPD on me. If (& when) ever I find myself at the business end of a handgun, & happen to survive the ordeal, pride is the only thing that stops me from telling the dude "Good lookin' out on not cappin' me, bro". What Brisco did is the equivalent of "na-nanny-na-naa", with a twist of "watch ya back, bitches!". Silly me, I stopped teasing bullies when they graduated to felonious activity.
Fucking idiot.
[tony's note: slick rick NEVER got robbed. just saying.]
In the same vein, rapper Joe Budden has been beefing with quite a few dudes this year. Yeah, you may not have heard of this rapper either. His last foray into the "beef" department was with a more legendary MC named Method Man. Sans the underwhelming details of the root cause of conflict, they had choice words over the last couple of months. At which point, members of Meth's entourage (Wu Tang Clan) decided they'd had enough of this guy disrespecting their brother. Now, here's the tricky part....
The confusion between Joe & Meth was supposedly quelled 2 weeks ago, at a concert series known as "Rock The Bells". Although by now, several other Wu-affiliates had taken up residence on Joe's back. But, after the truce was declared, Joe Budden pulled one of those sneak disses; second cousin to the Backhanded Compliment. Something to the effect of, "& the next nigga who say something, I won't be so nice".
Funny how some dudes just refuse to leave well enough alone.
This weekend (Saturday, August 8), at an extension of the same RTB venue, Joe's words finally caught up with him. Raekwon, one of Method's group members, who entered the "beef" to assist him, had a guy, who knew a guy, who brought a guy to the concert, & said guy punched Budden's in the face. Live on the 'Nets, for all who saw to see. What will come of this, who knows. But, I doubt it will escalate too much more. In most cases, a swift jab to the side of the head clears up any misconceptions. Word to Joe Budden. Then again, these rap cats avail themselves to such a distorted view of reality, anything's possible. I predict the Youtube/WorldStarHipHop onslaught is beginning as you read this.
Now, I don't bite my tongue too often because it hurts, so I can empathize wholeheartedly, but at some point, silence is just the wisest option. & not to sound like a bitter, anti-climactic antagonist, but what is it about being a rapper that makes one assume that every life-situation is a cock-measuring contest? If Brisco so happens to be discovered in some swamp with a bullet hole in his temple & his silk Versace boxers stuffed into his mouth, society will blame Hip Hop. Not the dumb decision making of one peacock, but the entire movement will be (once again) thrown under the (tour) bus. Same with Joe. If he allows his ego to return fire on whoever he deems opposition, again, Hip Hop will be the reason for the violence. As opposed to blaming the overgrown crybaby, who some dude(s) finally decided deserved his proverbial spanking. Nothing says 'you're talking too much' like being blindsided with a haymaker.
"Mouth almighty, tongue everlastin', Ya ain't satisfied until somethin' happens...." - (c) Whodini, "Big Mouth"
Fucking idiot.
First of all, the guys had him in the ultimate position of submission (i.e. at gunpoint), & for all intents & purposes could've bodied him right there, just off the strength of green-eyed monsters & hatred. So, how does he pay them back for ONLY taking some material possessions & not his life or his manhood? By threatening their lives, in a "song" for the whole world to hear. After the police were notified, that is. So, not only will his threats fall on the ears of these random, obviously blood thirsty jackals who he probably can't identify in a police line-up, but if something necessarily negative were to happen to the goons, he'll be the first one the authorities contact.
Not to say one should ever be appreciative for being robbed, but I've been robbed before. At gunpoint. I was grateful that the nigga didn't get all LAPD on me. If (& when) ever I find myself at the business end of a handgun, & happen to survive the ordeal, pride is the only thing that stops me from telling the dude "Good lookin' out on not cappin' me, bro". What Brisco did is the equivalent of "na-nanny-na-naa", with a twist of "watch ya back, bitches!". Silly me, I stopped teasing bullies when they graduated to felonious activity.
Fucking idiot.
[tony's note: slick rick NEVER got robbed. just saying.]
In the same vein, rapper Joe Budden has been beefing with quite a few dudes this year. Yeah, you may not have heard of this rapper either. His last foray into the "beef" department was with a more legendary MC named Method Man. Sans the underwhelming details of the root cause of conflict, they had choice words over the last couple of months. At which point, members of Meth's entourage (Wu Tang Clan) decided they'd had enough of this guy disrespecting their brother. Now, here's the tricky part....
The confusion between Joe & Meth was supposedly quelled 2 weeks ago, at a concert series known as "Rock The Bells". Although by now, several other Wu-affiliates had taken up residence on Joe's back. But, after the truce was declared, Joe Budden pulled one of those sneak disses; second cousin to the Backhanded Compliment. Something to the effect of, "& the next nigga who say something, I won't be so nice".
Funny how some dudes just refuse to leave well enough alone.
This weekend (Saturday, August 8), at an extension of the same RTB venue, Joe's words finally caught up with him. Raekwon, one of Method's group members, who entered the "beef" to assist him, had a guy, who knew a guy, who brought a guy to the concert, & said guy punched Budden's in the face. Live on the 'Nets, for all who saw to see. What will come of this, who knows. But, I doubt it will escalate too much more. In most cases, a swift jab to the side of the head clears up any misconceptions. Word to Joe Budden. Then again, these rap cats avail themselves to such a distorted view of reality, anything's possible. I predict the Youtube/WorldStarHipHop onslaught is beginning as you read this.
Now, I don't bite my tongue too often because it hurts, so I can empathize wholeheartedly, but at some point, silence is just the wisest option. & not to sound like a bitter, anti-climactic antagonist, but what is it about being a rapper that makes one assume that every life-situation is a cock-measuring contest? If Brisco so happens to be discovered in some swamp with a bullet hole in his temple & his silk Versace boxers stuffed into his mouth, society will blame Hip Hop. Not the dumb decision making of one peacock, but the entire movement will be (once again) thrown under the (tour) bus. Same with Joe. If he allows his ego to return fire on whoever he deems opposition, again, Hip Hop will be the reason for the violence. As opposed to blaming the overgrown crybaby, who some dude(s) finally decided deserved his proverbial spanking. Nothing says 'you're talking too much' like being blindsided with a haymaker.
"Mouth almighty, tongue everlastin', Ya ain't satisfied until somethin' happens...." - (c) Whodini, "Big Mouth"
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Guess Who's H.I.V.+?
Okay, you got me. Your guess is as good (hopefully not better) than mine. But, at some point one has to imagine that we will eventually be reading such a phrase on TMZ.com or (God forbid) MediaTakeOut.com. Frankly, I'm surprised MTO hasn't used some variation of that headline already. They're a pretty low-brow, douche nozzle website. For example, according to MTO, both Bow-Wow & Soulja Boy are closet homo's (with "pictures" to back up the allegations). Hell, I could've told you that based purely off of my keen ability to see. That site is nothing more than a rumor-fueled gossip fest; a bunch of fat, black women who swear they'd do a better job on The View than Whoopi Goldberg (no relation to the wrestler) &/or Star Jones (no relation to Nasir or Knight Rider). Ftr, nobody's fucking with Whoopi though. Unless you're Ted Danson.
Now apparently, Lil Wayne is having two more kids this year, to add to his 20 year old daughter & son he had earlier this year. Not counting the handful he undoubtedly has tucked away somewhere in Magnolia Projects, that brings the (public) total to four. One would gather that he doesn't "stay strapped" as he declares. But, hold that thought...
Supposedly, Man was designed to inseminate. I don't dispute that. It's a natural animal instinct. Just look around & various mammals are bumping uglies with the sole intention of pro-creation. Humans, however, are the only species to do it willingly, for recreational purposes. Like cocaine. Knowing that it's an automatic response, more consideration should be taken when the chance of a hormonal explosion is imminent, kind of like avoiding a bill collector. You KNOW if you answer the phone, no matter what you say, you're going to have to deal with these people asking for money. So, you don't answer. Or, at the very least, you prepare some lame duck excuse ahead of time to get around the situation. That's called preparation. Same rules apply here. Or at least they should.
Dudes must've forgotten what happened to Magic Johnson. & save your "AIDS ain't real!" rhetoric. It's real enough to kill people. Don't tell me shit about a conspiracy. Perhaps Magic's a space alien whose physiology destroys the virus. Maybe he has Michael Jackson's doctor, & takes a molotov cocktail of meds that the average cat isn't privy to. Either or, don't forget the underlying point. He. Caught. Something.
Point is, I'm seeing way too many carefree, willy-nilly pregnancies nowadays. I could go in on the broken home, no Father propaganda, but that's another drop for another day. You could just watch "The Pursuit of Happyness" & glean what you will. Seriously, & I say this as a husband, father & human being....
Go buy some god damned condoms! Really though.
Maybe it's not 1989, & perhaps there's all types of new medicines which allow the infected to live a "normal" life, & maybe folks are under the impression that it's still a "gay disease", but at this point, I suggest you pull your head out of your ass, & wise up. Btw, Black women between the ages of 24-35 have the highest infection rate of the largest group of growing cases, which is coincidentally, Black woman. Quick math problem for you: H.I.V. infected Black Women + frequently incarcerated Black Men = ?. The more I look at that equation, the more I see how the answer could be a number of things, all of which translate to a healthy mix of genocide/suicide.
I'm all for the expansion of bloodlines & the joy of creating life, but remember, shit's real. Just because no one's talking doesn't mean there's nothing to talk about. I'm going to leave you with two words that can make a great deal of difference in your life. At least for the time being...
Prophylactic & Masturbation.
No judgment, I'm just saying.
Now apparently, Lil Wayne is having two more kids this year, to add to his 20 year old daughter & son he had earlier this year. Not counting the handful he undoubtedly has tucked away somewhere in Magnolia Projects, that brings the (public) total to four. One would gather that he doesn't "stay strapped" as he declares. But, hold that thought...
Supposedly, Man was designed to inseminate. I don't dispute that. It's a natural animal instinct. Just look around & various mammals are bumping uglies with the sole intention of pro-creation. Humans, however, are the only species to do it willingly, for recreational purposes. Like cocaine. Knowing that it's an automatic response, more consideration should be taken when the chance of a hormonal explosion is imminent, kind of like avoiding a bill collector. You KNOW if you answer the phone, no matter what you say, you're going to have to deal with these people asking for money. So, you don't answer. Or, at the very least, you prepare some lame duck excuse ahead of time to get around the situation. That's called preparation. Same rules apply here. Or at least they should.
Dudes must've forgotten what happened to Magic Johnson. & save your "AIDS ain't real!" rhetoric. It's real enough to kill people. Don't tell me shit about a conspiracy. Perhaps Magic's a space alien whose physiology destroys the virus. Maybe he has Michael Jackson's doctor, & takes a molotov cocktail of meds that the average cat isn't privy to. Either or, don't forget the underlying point. He. Caught. Something.
Point is, I'm seeing way too many carefree, willy-nilly pregnancies nowadays. I could go in on the broken home, no Father propaganda, but that's another drop for another day. You could just watch "The Pursuit of Happyness" & glean what you will. Seriously, & I say this as a husband, father & human being....
Go buy some god damned condoms! Really though.
Maybe it's not 1989, & perhaps there's all types of new medicines which allow the infected to live a "normal" life, & maybe folks are under the impression that it's still a "gay disease", but at this point, I suggest you pull your head out of your ass, & wise up. Btw, Black women between the ages of 24-35 have the highest infection rate of the largest group of growing cases, which is coincidentally, Black woman. Quick math problem for you: H.I.V. infected Black Women + frequently incarcerated Black Men = ?. The more I look at that equation, the more I see how the answer could be a number of things, all of which translate to a healthy mix of genocide/suicide.
I'm all for the expansion of bloodlines & the joy of creating life, but remember, shit's real. Just because no one's talking doesn't mean there's nothing to talk about. I'm going to leave you with two words that can make a great deal of difference in your life. At least for the time being...
Prophylactic & Masturbation.
No judgment, I'm just saying.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Hip Hop 101 (summer school class)
Hip Hop is dead........
I would've figured that phrase ran its course by now. No Dice. Every time some cat praises Soulja Boy for his musical accomplishments, 18,000 out-of-work myspace rappers sound off in unison that he's the reason they gets no shine. As if their lack of skill isn't the culprit. Or their complacent, arrogant anonymity is working in their favor. Too many indians, in my opinion. Might be time to clean house, Trail of Tears-style. & coming in a close second to the deceased Hip Hop propaganda, is the sentiment that it needs to be saved. Which, to me, is equally as confusing. How? From who(m)?
See, at first, Hip Hop had no ties to the secular world. It was celebration music, only available only to card-carrying members, that eventually picked up steam & became scantily rebellious as it partied the night away in abandoned buildings & city parks. Once that introductory crowd had gotten comfortable with its care-free, disco-inspired roots, we began to see that we had a voice. Not only one for house party call & response, but one to be reckoned with on a social level. Yes, motherfuckers started hearing us. Then, it became obvious to all with eyes & ears that we weren't going nowhere.
In a gradual, modest change of direction, it became war music. Something to fight the powers that be to. Like so many poets/radicals before us, we rallied against our oppressors & battled The Machine to be recognized, as a people. Just as Martin would have continued to do if he hadn't been assassinated mid-struggle.
As we began to gain momentum, we became hungrier, demanding more fuel for the movement. We couldn't just fight the power, endlessly, without some sort of entertainment between fist-pumping & chest-pounding. & we'd had enough of their stories; by now, it was time for our own. Tales from the hood. Around the way stories that we could relate to, in our language. The language of Hip Hop.
After so much entertainment, though, we needed a dose of reality. In retrospect, we essentially chose to keep it real, as opposed to keeping it right. Be it positive or negative, our narratives carried on with the traditions of African folklore, creating legends & myths, angels & demons, to keep us occupied & away from the very same realities we existed in. &, at the same time educating each other about our perceptions & experiences.
Now, we find ourselves in the midst of renaissance. Passing of the torch. Changing of the guards. Today's Hip Hop is spearheaded by change, not unlike the change brought forth with the inauguration of Barack Hussein Obama. The revolution has revolved, & the circles are now straight lines, pushing forward. Evolution. Adaption. The time for us to remain the same never existed; we'd just created our own optical illusions with redundancy.
The next stages of Hip Hop will undoubtedly be challenging, if only for the fact that transformation isn't easily digested. It means leaving behind stuff we've learned, people we've met, all things familiar. Its time for a leap of faith, in hopes that the youth are truly our future, in Hip Hop & beyond. Whether or not we agree with the philosophies, accept the costumes or subscribe to the new belief system is a moot point. Very soon, tomorrow will be today & since we can't beat 'em, we might as well join 'em. Now, the old(er) heads who were there at Hip Hop's inception can sit back & reap the benefits of a crop well planted.
I take this shit seriously. Long Live Hip Hop.
I would've figured that phrase ran its course by now. No Dice. Every time some cat praises Soulja Boy for his musical accomplishments, 18,000 out-of-work myspace rappers sound off in unison that he's the reason they gets no shine. As if their lack of skill isn't the culprit. Or their complacent, arrogant anonymity is working in their favor. Too many indians, in my opinion. Might be time to clean house, Trail of Tears-style. & coming in a close second to the deceased Hip Hop propaganda, is the sentiment that it needs to be saved. Which, to me, is equally as confusing. How? From who(m)?
See, at first, Hip Hop had no ties to the secular world. It was celebration music, only available only to card-carrying members, that eventually picked up steam & became scantily rebellious as it partied the night away in abandoned buildings & city parks. Once that introductory crowd had gotten comfortable with its care-free, disco-inspired roots, we began to see that we had a voice. Not only one for house party call & response, but one to be reckoned with on a social level. Yes, motherfuckers started hearing us. Then, it became obvious to all with eyes & ears that we weren't going nowhere.
In a gradual, modest change of direction, it became war music. Something to fight the powers that be to. Like so many poets/radicals before us, we rallied against our oppressors & battled The Machine to be recognized, as a people. Just as Martin would have continued to do if he hadn't been assassinated mid-struggle.
As we began to gain momentum, we became hungrier, demanding more fuel for the movement. We couldn't just fight the power, endlessly, without some sort of entertainment between fist-pumping & chest-pounding. & we'd had enough of their stories; by now, it was time for our own. Tales from the hood. Around the way stories that we could relate to, in our language. The language of Hip Hop.
After so much entertainment, though, we needed a dose of reality. In retrospect, we essentially chose to keep it real, as opposed to keeping it right. Be it positive or negative, our narratives carried on with the traditions of African folklore, creating legends & myths, angels & demons, to keep us occupied & away from the very same realities we existed in. &, at the same time educating each other about our perceptions & experiences.
Now, we find ourselves in the midst of renaissance. Passing of the torch. Changing of the guards. Today's Hip Hop is spearheaded by change, not unlike the change brought forth with the inauguration of Barack Hussein Obama. The revolution has revolved, & the circles are now straight lines, pushing forward. Evolution. Adaption. The time for us to remain the same never existed; we'd just created our own optical illusions with redundancy.
The next stages of Hip Hop will undoubtedly be challenging, if only for the fact that transformation isn't easily digested. It means leaving behind stuff we've learned, people we've met, all things familiar. Its time for a leap of faith, in hopes that the youth are truly our future, in Hip Hop & beyond. Whether or not we agree with the philosophies, accept the costumes or subscribe to the new belief system is a moot point. Very soon, tomorrow will be today & since we can't beat 'em, we might as well join 'em. Now, the old(er) heads who were there at Hip Hop's inception can sit back & reap the benefits of a crop well planted.
I take this shit seriously. Long Live Hip Hop.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The Other Woman's Milkshake>Kelis'
Twitter is at it again. First, it made rapper Asher Roth seem like a racist douche nozzle, then it caused legal woes for baseball legend Tony La Russa, now it's helping R&B singer Kelis spread her message of anti-cheating, at the expense of her soon-to-be ex hubby/rapper Nasir "NaS" Jones.
Actually, this has nothing to do with Twitter; that's like the dude's on "Cheaters" who blame Joey Greco for bringing the wife to the other woman's jacuzzi party, only to catch her man on the down stroke of another chick's upside. Twitter was as much an innocent bystander to the melodrama as the couple's unborn son.
Simply put, the pair fell victim to statistics. Most couples do, so there's no reason fame & "fortune" would exclude them from the club. I've heard that it had to do with a sex tape Kelis had floating around, but that's never been proven, per se. If anyone has it though, please provide link, for research & things. I've also heard that NaS cheated, which I can totally believe. That's one of the things men do; cheat, move heavy furniture & kill spiders.
Kelis' tweet was something to the effect of "I hate cheaters", or "I hate the sluts who participate", but whatever it was, the thousands of folks that read it got her insinuation. Hell hath no fury like a (black) woman scorned. I can read between the lines, it really said "Yeah, that n*gga cheated, & I'm tellin' all y'all he ain't sh*t!" If it weren't for Twitter, that kind of banter would have only been heard by her numerous, manless gf's, before making it's way into the Globe or Page Six or her next song. Now, society is so "plugged-in", that all she had to do was type less than 145 characters to put all of their business on Front Street. Bet she wouldn't have done that if she was married to Chris Brown. Milkshakes in the emergency room, indeed.
I never have understood the whole marriage thing. On many levels, it appears to be as pointless as it is beneficial & I assume there was an aspect of actual love at one point in history, but now, it just seems like a good business deal. Tax-wise, health insurance purposes, minimizing living expenses, in-house sex, round-the-clock child supervision; at first glance it's a veritable win-win. Throw love & respect in the mix & the phrase "happily ever after" just materializes on it's own. Problem is, people do it for the wrong reasons, then sit perplexed when it all falls down.
Sans any corniness, I got married out of love, & assuming my wife did the same, this could very well be why our almost 7 year marriage is still in full swing. Now, don't get me wrong, we've had our share of ups 'n' downs. & I've done my share of really, really stupid things, but I was a different, less compassionate person those many years ago. I've long since cleaned up my act, & the fact that she rode that rollercoaster with me is a testimony to her feelings regarding me. I can't rightly speak for her, but the fact that I've never gotten cut or caught hot grits to the face says we have a pretty solid marriage, built on a stern foundation. As opposed to just getting hitched for our son's sake.
The fact that NaS & Kelis were married for almost two years before she became pregnant dispels the "married for our kid" mantra. They had some time to learn each other's personas, with breastfeeding or diaper changing interruptions. I also heard they dated for quite awhile before the wedding, as opposed to meeting at the club & (him) moving in (to her aaprtment), like the story usually goes. I was surprised too; I thought "dating" was just for White folks nowadays.
You'd have to figure, NaS is approaching mid-30's. This is usually around the time where a dude has had all his fun, broad-wise. Now would be the time to enjoy the spoils of conquest. Been there, done that, as they say. Its not like Kelis is a bad looking lady, although the grass is always greener, especially if you continue to look over the fence, without watering your own. Realistically, NaS probably has more than enough groupies willing to drop trou at a moments notice, but so do I. So, there's no excuse for how strong the weakness of the flesh is.
More importantly, in the grand scheme, it's not that serious. A sack toss, that couldn't have lasted all that long, unless he's like Diddy, caused all this commotion in his life. Now, the rhetorical question of the day; Was it worth it? Maybe it was to him, but to me, only few things can bring the level of happiness that a family can. Plus, it's going to be real embarrasing when NaS tells his son that his parents divorced because he couldn't turn down some trim.
I'm just saying. If you're going to go through all the trouble, might as well make the most out of it. Life is too short to make commitments to people (& God) that you either can't or won't keep. True, none of us are perfect, but we all want happiness. Said happiness is closer than you think. Usually, to get it, you have to sacrifice something. That's kind of how God designed the whole gratification thing.
Good luck.
*Editor's note: Sorry for the lack of Milkshake jokes....*
Actually, this has nothing to do with Twitter; that's like the dude's on "Cheaters" who blame Joey Greco for bringing the wife to the other woman's jacuzzi party, only to catch her man on the down stroke of another chick's upside. Twitter was as much an innocent bystander to the melodrama as the couple's unborn son.
Simply put, the pair fell victim to statistics. Most couples do, so there's no reason fame & "fortune" would exclude them from the club. I've heard that it had to do with a sex tape Kelis had floating around, but that's never been proven, per se. If anyone has it though, please provide link, for research & things. I've also heard that NaS cheated, which I can totally believe. That's one of the things men do; cheat, move heavy furniture & kill spiders.
Kelis' tweet was something to the effect of "I hate cheaters", or "I hate the sluts who participate", but whatever it was, the thousands of folks that read it got her insinuation. Hell hath no fury like a (black) woman scorned. I can read between the lines, it really said "Yeah, that n*gga cheated, & I'm tellin' all y'all he ain't sh*t!" If it weren't for Twitter, that kind of banter would have only been heard by her numerous, manless gf's, before making it's way into the Globe or Page Six or her next song. Now, society is so "plugged-in", that all she had to do was type less than 145 characters to put all of their business on Front Street. Bet she wouldn't have done that if she was married to Chris Brown. Milkshakes in the emergency room, indeed.
I never have understood the whole marriage thing. On many levels, it appears to be as pointless as it is beneficial & I assume there was an aspect of actual love at one point in history, but now, it just seems like a good business deal. Tax-wise, health insurance purposes, minimizing living expenses, in-house sex, round-the-clock child supervision; at first glance it's a veritable win-win. Throw love & respect in the mix & the phrase "happily ever after" just materializes on it's own. Problem is, people do it for the wrong reasons, then sit perplexed when it all falls down.
Sans any corniness, I got married out of love, & assuming my wife did the same, this could very well be why our almost 7 year marriage is still in full swing. Now, don't get me wrong, we've had our share of ups 'n' downs. & I've done my share of really, really stupid things, but I was a different, less compassionate person those many years ago. I've long since cleaned up my act, & the fact that she rode that rollercoaster with me is a testimony to her feelings regarding me. I can't rightly speak for her, but the fact that I've never gotten cut or caught hot grits to the face says we have a pretty solid marriage, built on a stern foundation. As opposed to just getting hitched for our son's sake.
The fact that NaS & Kelis were married for almost two years before she became pregnant dispels the "married for our kid" mantra. They had some time to learn each other's personas, with breastfeeding or diaper changing interruptions. I also heard they dated for quite awhile before the wedding, as opposed to meeting at the club & (him) moving in (to her aaprtment), like the story usually goes. I was surprised too; I thought "dating" was just for White folks nowadays.
You'd have to figure, NaS is approaching mid-30's. This is usually around the time where a dude has had all his fun, broad-wise. Now would be the time to enjoy the spoils of conquest. Been there, done that, as they say. Its not like Kelis is a bad looking lady, although the grass is always greener, especially if you continue to look over the fence, without watering your own. Realistically, NaS probably has more than enough groupies willing to drop trou at a moments notice, but so do I. So, there's no excuse for how strong the weakness of the flesh is.
More importantly, in the grand scheme, it's not that serious. A sack toss, that couldn't have lasted all that long, unless he's like Diddy, caused all this commotion in his life. Now, the rhetorical question of the day; Was it worth it? Maybe it was to him, but to me, only few things can bring the level of happiness that a family can. Plus, it's going to be real embarrasing when NaS tells his son that his parents divorced because he couldn't turn down some trim.
I'm just saying. If you're going to go through all the trouble, might as well make the most out of it. Life is too short to make commitments to people (& God) that you either can't or won't keep. True, none of us are perfect, but we all want happiness. Said happiness is closer than you think. Usually, to get it, you have to sacrifice something. That's kind of how God designed the whole gratification thing.
Good luck.
*Editor's note: Sorry for the lack of Milkshake jokes....*
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Wasn't the First, Won't Be the Last.
There's this rapper named Dolla who got shot & killed last week. He wasn't the first MC to be murdered, wasn't the first young person, wasn't the first Black kid. Technically, the only difference between him & the thousands of guys like him gunned down in the street daily is that the media took some sort of interest in him. Probably because his uncle told the people there that he was a rapper. Unfortunately, the fame he was chasing was ascertained the moment his heart stopped beating.
God bless his family & may his soul find peace.
I'm not quite sure what the exact story was behind his death, but it was undoubtedly the same as most unnecessary murders. You don't find too many young, black guys dying for political causes nowadays. Whatever the cause, at some point, it could have been quelled; that's just a matter of mathematic properties. The science of murder, if you will. The equation can only balance out when the proper formula of variables is executed, no pun intended. The sum is, well, I'm sure you catch my drift.
All the stories focus on the young man who was murdered. But, I think the real story lies in the life of the murderer. As Jay-Z says (& many an ignorant dude has repeated), "respect the shooter". My take on that is, what made this guy in particular feel the need to destroy what God built? In broad daylight, with the proverbial world watching, he made the decision to undo a hundred blessings & trade the remainder of his life for that young mans, but not in a noble way.
Did this Aubrey guy have a Dad? A Mom? Was he abused as a kid? Did he watch too many violent movies &/or listen to all the wrong rap songs? Unlike manslaughter, murder is something the courts view as premeditated. Using this story as an example, getting into an altercation in Atlanta, "running" into one another in L.A, & being killed at a crowded, popular shopping place is as far from accidental as abortion is from miscarriage.
It seems, to me at least, that at some point, that group of people that finds cures & solves World issues would take up a certain amount of concern with these scenarios. They happen way too often to ignore (pardon my cliche). I would be tempted to even put senseless violence in the same category as sex, in terms of addressing it on a public school level. Maybe anger management should be taught following Physical Education. Mental Education, as it were.
I would hate to think that the only possible solution to all the madness is genocide. Or suicide, depending on your vantage point.
God can't possibly be happy with all of this, but I guess know one cares. That's sad in itself, because Judgment Day is coming. Like, for real.
God bless his family & may his soul find peace.
I'm not quite sure what the exact story was behind his death, but it was undoubtedly the same as most unnecessary murders. You don't find too many young, black guys dying for political causes nowadays. Whatever the cause, at some point, it could have been quelled; that's just a matter of mathematic properties. The science of murder, if you will. The equation can only balance out when the proper formula of variables is executed, no pun intended. The sum is, well, I'm sure you catch my drift.
All the stories focus on the young man who was murdered. But, I think the real story lies in the life of the murderer. As Jay-Z says (& many an ignorant dude has repeated), "respect the shooter". My take on that is, what made this guy in particular feel the need to destroy what God built? In broad daylight, with the proverbial world watching, he made the decision to undo a hundred blessings & trade the remainder of his life for that young mans, but not in a noble way.
Did this Aubrey guy have a Dad? A Mom? Was he abused as a kid? Did he watch too many violent movies &/or listen to all the wrong rap songs? Unlike manslaughter, murder is something the courts view as premeditated. Using this story as an example, getting into an altercation in Atlanta, "running" into one another in L.A, & being killed at a crowded, popular shopping place is as far from accidental as abortion is from miscarriage.
It seems, to me at least, that at some point, that group of people that finds cures & solves World issues would take up a certain amount of concern with these scenarios. They happen way too often to ignore (pardon my cliche). I would be tempted to even put senseless violence in the same category as sex, in terms of addressing it on a public school level. Maybe anger management should be taught following Physical Education. Mental Education, as it were.
I would hate to think that the only possible solution to all the madness is genocide. Or suicide, depending on your vantage point.
God can't possibly be happy with all of this, but I guess know one cares. That's sad in itself, because Judgment Day is coming. Like, for real.
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