swarth and loathing part deux

Oil and Water

2008-11-22T12:36:00.000-08:00

I wonder if anyone reads this blog anymore? Kind of like that lost intergalactic tugboat in Alien that just floats through the nebula, crew asleep, there but who cares? I come back here every once in a while when I want to reminisce over the glorious rambling wreck my life has been up to this point. I gave up facebook a few days ago. Just too bloody old, you know? And I'm an addictive sort of personality, so I would spend time I should be studying or planning my future dicking around chatting with people or playing poker (which I've managed to become somewhat decent at.) I actually went back and looked over swarthandloathing today because of something else. I was going through my papers from 2005 as I have some unfinished business with the IRS to clear up (don't ask), and I found a printout of an email from 3/3/2005. I must have hidden it from myself, because I knew that one day I would try to destroy all vestiges of this person from my life in some sort of ex-post attempt to separate my heart from my mind. And of course, I did. I threw out the pictures, I erased the emails, and just generally tried to push her out of my mind. Not in anger or bitterness, just wanted to clear out the vestiges of holding on to something that amounts to nothing. Healthy thing to do, right? Live for today, not in the past, yeah? Well, that's going how it's going. Probably like a drug addict that was forced into rehab. And maybe it just stuck because their drug dealer wouldn't sell to them anymore. Of course, maybe the drug dealer was really just being kind. But who knows. I'm glad I found the email though. The art of letter writing is oft lamented as dead, and this was a really good one. It's funny and witty, a little sad, but mostly full of celebration of what was. People always tell me I should have been a writer. Maybe she should have too. The references are ones only we would understand, there's a healthy degree of narcissism, (it took me like 8 tries trying to spell narcissism without spellcheck lighting up like the traction control warning on an AMG Mercedes), and there's a great fluidity to it. I think I've had a pretty good adult life, to tell you the truth. The highs I've felt far outnumbered in quality and quantity the lows. (Not that I haven't had more than my fair share, but I'm a glass half full kind of guy). There aren't a whole slew of things I really stay up at night wishing they'd gone differently. And maybe this is one of them. It's the kind of wonder that ranges from regret and longing to fond acceptance. It's a weird kind of thing.I don't know that either of us could have done that much independently to make it different or that even if we had the outcome would have been any different. But I wonder. Just can't help myself. I wonder if she regrets the very end sometimes. I almost regret it for her, because the way it transpired was something I still feel was eminently fucked up. Not necessarily the outcome, but how it was done. I have little family, and sometimes fractured relationships with them. So I put a great deal into my friendships. And I think that really kind of compromised the friendship because it was at the end of the day, intentionally or not, mean. And it put me in the position of wondering whether there was ever a real friendship there or not. Maybe no, maybe so, I don't know. But it left a bad taste in my mouth I wish wasn't there. So as I read through it, It reminded me of a time before that, and it was uncomplex and nice. The thesis was the same, but I walked away from that feeling happy instead of sad. Maybe we should have quit while we were ahead.

Fuck Imus, Fuck Sharpton, and Fuck Black Leadership

2007-04-11T06:45:00.000-07:00

Fuck em both. And Fuck Michael Richards and Paris Hilton as well. Fuck Don Imus for basically making an offensive personal attack against a Rutgers team that did absolutely nothing wrong to him. Fuck Al Sharpton for using what at the end of the day is a minor slight to further his own agenda. And Fuck Black Leadership because it doesn't exist. Whether Imus recognizes it or not, the characterization of the word "nappy" as being specifically black, and thus unattractive is one of the lasting legacies of white superiority and basically an affirmation that if you don't have straiht hair and white skin, you are inferior. Black people have curly, kinky hair. To use the word nappy is to buy into that belief. Touse the word ho, well, I don't even have to go down the history of that. And now for part 2. Fuck al Sharpton and the vacuum of Black Leadership. Were Imus's comments offensive? Yes. Do they do one iota of harm or good to the black race outside of personal offense? Not a chance. This is another example of Sharpton's reclkess opportunism and insistence on fighting this fight of mock outrage and weakness. Sharpton and his ilk love to see black people "victimized" so they can yell, feign indignance and outrage, and draw attention to themselves. The reality of the situation is that the problem is not that white people say racist things and (probably a much higher percentage) hold racist views. The problem is the core weakness of the black community. We are unacceptably susceptible and sensitive to this type of shit because we have no real power. And for the most part, our lack of power (economic, political, moral) stems from our own failings. The greatest gain that black people could achieve would not come from white people ceasing to make racist comments, it would come from us improving ourselves. Where's the outrage at the 21% 4-year graduation rate for Detroit Public high schools? Or the 50% unemployment rate of black men in New York? Or the incarceration rate of blacks nationwide? The fact that we as a community accept these travesties is the real outrage. Do you really think Asians or Jews would accept this? These are the problems that keep us as a people downtrodden. And as long as our "leaders"' energy is focused on being outraged at external slights, they're not going to be focused on the internal problems that no one else but us is going to fix. Why isn't Sharpton out campaigning to get working class and middle class blacks to contribute to political campaigns, especially when a Black man has a decent shot at president? Why isn't he going after the people who use the most anti-black slurs and commit the most anti-black hate crimes? That would be other blacks. Unfortunately, the vestiges of the civil rights movement refuse to let go of the wrongs that others do to us and concentrate on what really ails us. Which is the wrongs we do to each other. So, yes, fuck Don Imus. But until we stop fucking ourselves, he's just the tail end of the gangbang.

New Black College Movie Idea!

2007-01-16T14:33:00.001-08:00

So wth the success of "Stomp the yard, " debuting at no. 1 this weekend, I see the potential in the Black College Movie genre. I mean first, Drumline, and now this movie have phenomenal success. Hmmmmmm. Anyone else smell money? So here's my pitch. tell me what you think!

"Throw Some D's on That Bitch!: The Movie"

A retarded brother named Flavell from the southside of Birmingham (Jaleel White) becomes the first member of his family to go to college after he spills chicken grease all over the test, getting all the right answers! When retard-hating Dean Watts (Samuel L. Jackson) cancels Flavell's scholarship, he and his weed-smoking midget roommate Shroom (midget from Road Trip) go on a road trip to steal the world's first set of 40" spinners, and turn Shroom's Caprice into a donk fresh enough to win the $100,000 Car Show King Competition and stay in school. And get the girl (Christinia Milian)! But will local hoodlum Black Mike (Rick Ross) get to them first?

Come on, you know you like it! It's got everything you could want in a black movie: Urkel, a retard, a midget, Christina Milian, some sort of ethnic competition, rappers turned actors, and cool cars. Who wouldn't want to see this movie!??

New Black College Movie Idea!

2007-01-16T14:33:00.000-08:00

What does Grown and Sexy mean?

2007-01-15T14:48:00.000-08:00

So since Jay-Z came out with "Excuse Me Miss," The term "Grown and Sexy" has been thrown around more than Karrine Stephens backstage at the BET awards. If you're throwing a party, it's for the Grown and Sexy. If you got a car that's a sedan but not a lowrider or a Donk, it's grown and sexy. You went and bought a shirt that's not a XXXXXLT whit tee, you guessed it, grown and sexy. Grown and Sexy has kind of turned into our generation's "Whoomp, there it is." Ironically enough, the most frequent overusers of this phrase seem to be 23 year olds whose parents still pay their car insurance. When I go to these grown and sexy parties, all I see are people in overdone tacky outfits who are trying to look too hard like they're balling. So since I clearly don't understand the accepted social definition of Grown and Sexy, I'll provide my own list of Grown man shit:

1. I don't have to drink Moet out of the bottle at the club. I don't even like Moet. It's too sweet for my taste. And I don't feel the need to pay triple the liquor store rate to do what looked cool in rap videos in '93. As a High school Sophomore, that looked like the life, now the shit looks ridiculous. Especially, if you drive away from the club in a Kia. Get a table, get some pretty girls, and you usually don't have to pay extra to get some glasses. If I'm going to drink out of the bottle, it'll be at home with some Veuve Cliquot and I'll be pouring the rest down the small of some cute girl's back.

2. I reserve the right to slap the shit out of people who think they're being cultured by calling Moet "Mo-way." That's not how it's pronounced. I know words in French ending in -et typically are pronounced "ay" This is an exception. You sound so stupid, it's not funny.

3. I've learned how to bribe people. I don't have to stand outside milling around the entrance of some spot trying to lie to the doorman about who I know and how much I'm going to spend inside the club. I'm not going to get pissed when there are a hundred other people waiting for the valet to return their car. I just slip the appropriate bill in dude's hand in some kind of convoluted dap as I quietly mention that I'll take care of him. I can always make more money. I don't want one more second of my life than neccesary wasted waiting for some shit.

4. If you don't want to talk to me, I'm not gonna get mad. My little display of "fuck you bitch" or "You ain't that cute anyway" I realize is not going to get me any closer to what I want, so I'll just refrain. I don't know why you're not interested. Frankly, I don't care that much. Whatever the reason, that reason might have vanished or been locked up for a few months next time I see you, so I'm not going to cut down my success ratio with you and the rest of the girls who are watching by showing my ass.

5. If after I buy you a drink, you try to order one for your homegirl too, I'm not gonna get mad and call you a gold-digger. I'm just going to motion to my bartender that you're not on my tab, and keep it moving. I do reserve the right to talk about your triflin' ass to whoever will listen, however.

6. If the shit says black tie, I'll wear a black tie. Not one of them extra short, fat-knotted pink and yellow Murakami Louis Vuitton ones. Save that shit for the BET awards. This is not reflective of minority events however, because at an African American black tie event, you're almost guaranteed never to be the worst dressed person there. I once went to a BET holiday party and I shit you not, one dude had a leather tuxedo and a rhinestone tie on.

7. I still sag my shit, but if I lift my shirt all the way, you shouldn't be able to see any leg-skin between my drawers and my belt loop. That's just ridiculous.

8. I don't wear sunglasses on inside unless I'm high. That shit looks stupid.

9. I'm not gonna spend a lot of time talking shit and bucking up because one of us brushed past the other a litle too hard. Either one of us should apologize and the other accept it, or someone needs to take a swing. All them words are wasted energy that could be used toward finding a threesome to cap off the night.

10. I tip appropriately. I might want to come back one day

11. I find out the bartender's name early in the evening and hook them up a little extra up front. A lot easier to grab a drink that way then by pounding on the counter and yelling, "Slim, what's up wit my Hennessy."

12. I ain't paying sixty to get in. That could go to my Scottrade account or a good steak. I'll just come back next week with my little "get in free before 11:00" email printout and party with the same exact people for the freesky.

13. More than three buttons on a suit is never appropriate. A square toe two inches wide with a suit is never appropriate. If Slim Thug has a blue Impala the same color as that suit and shoe combination, it's not appropriate.

14. I don't yell "Balllin'" and do the little jump shot dance because I got table service. Warren Buffett is ballin'. I'm just paying a little extra for the convenience of not having to fight through the crowd to get a drink from the bar every time I want one.

15. That .75 carats of flawed fucked up ice in your watch bezel ain't fooling no one. Either save up for the real shit or just get a moderatley priced tasteful watch. All your ass is doing is contributing to the misery of one more African in Sierra Leone.

16. My business has revenues, a tax ID, and a business plan. You ain't the CEO of shit if all you have is a cool un-trademarked name and a website with "coming soon" plastered all over it.

17. I give money to my alma mater, savings account, and candidate that I want to win. Money talks, bullshit walks. And complaining about how bad politicians are or how they need to build some new dorms is bullshit. Do your part to make it better.

18. I don't try and act sophisticated by telling people that you should eat red wine with meat and white with fish. Drink whatever the hell you like.

19. If no one's paying y'all to appear in their ads, magazines, fashion shows, etc., I will not refer to you or your homegirls as models. You're recreational picture-takers. If someone is paying you, I give you all the credit in the world because most girls never even get close.

20. I don't have to lie to get ass. I'll show you what I got and you make up your own mind. If I tell you what's what and you're not down, cool. Saves me the stalker experience two months from now. My tires are twenty-inch Z-rated Run-flat Goodyears. I do not know how much they cost and I do not plan to prematurely find out because I fooled you into fucking and now you're vindictive. And handy with a boxcutter.

2006-01-04T21:51:00.000-08:00

So’s I didn’t really have any plans for New Year’s, so I says to myself, Why not go to Miami? I’ve never been, I like the beach, and oh yeah, my favorite sports team in the whole freakin’ world is playing in a bowl game. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I went to South Beach not to hang out with Celebrities at Jamie Foxx’s Delano party (though I did go to a karaoke party he was hosting. I didn’t see anyone famous there but there were gold-digger galore there.), or to check out the naked ladies sunbathing on Nikki beach, or even to get a tan. I went to go to the Orange bowl. Those of you that know me know that I have been obsessed with the Florida State football team since I was knee-high to mini-me. I don’t play with anyone else on NCAA 2000-2006 for Playstation 2. My Saturdays September through December are reserved for TV time for me and my Noles. I’m not entirely sure why, I mean I didn’t go to Florida state, I don’t even really know anyone that went to Florida State. Hell, I’d never even been to Florida before last year. but I have my suspicions. I think it has to do firsthand with the uniquely African-American brand of football they play. By that, I do mean mad niggerish.I mean trick plays, juking defenders out of their socks and going five wide on fourth down. Second is their unique cast of characters both on the field and on the sidelines. Think Deion Sanders, Bobby Bowden, Laveurnaeus Coles, and of course, Peter “I’m fina Sco’” Warrick. There’s Adrian Washington, who waas booted off the team for cashing fraudulent checks. There was the Peter Warrick shopping spree fiasco. There was Coles beating up his stepmother. There’s an air of criminality and recklessness which you just gotta love about the noles. Deion Sanders played with a jheri curl. Bobby Bowden is just a redneck. Listen to the man talk But what I really love about the Noles is the frustration. The heartbreaking Wide Rights, the miscues and bad calls which snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. And then there’s the pageantry. There’s Chief Osceola ramming his flaming spear into the midfield emblem to start the game. There’s the tomahawk chop. And there’s that infuriating fight song. You know, Oh oh oh-oh-oh! Oh-oh-oh oh oh-oh-oh! Even the real Indians are into it. That’s like the one team the actual tribes seemed to take pride in being associated with. Unlike the Redskins. The game was everything I ever dreamed of from a Florida State Bowl Championship game. First, there was the arrival. My friend, KK, who was staying at an extremely frou-frou hotel, managed to procure the service of such hotel’s Bentley for the game. Now I’ve been accused of being a little flashy in the past. Kids, this one takes the cake. We pulled up to the stadium in a Cobalt Blue Bentley Arnage with Florida State flags flying from the window. You want to see your team’s fans go crazy. Do that shit just once. The epitome of class mixed with the mark of unabashed readnecked niggerdom. Then there was the game itself. There were the flashes of breakout athleticism: A Willie Reid touchdown kickoff return and a 57-yard Lorenzo Booker reception. There were consistent and pointless penalties and undiscipleined play: I swear to you there was not one offensive series in which a yellow flag did not fly. There was stupidity: A missed point after and a safety caused by an intentional grounding call. There was praying. I did a lot of it, and I gotta give God credit, he answered all of them but one. And I knew that last one was a stretch, so I’m not even mad. I tomahawk chopped after a Willie Reid touchdown return. I sang that aggredious song along with the rest of the quarter of the stadium that were also clad in Garnet and gold. You could hear that goddamn song from a mile away from ?Joe Robbe stadium after he kickoff return. I see why the rest of the world hates Florida state fans. Unfortunately, somehow, we only made up about ¼ of the stadium. Don’t ask me how this happened, but 75% of that stadium must have been Penn /State fans. Now I ain’t no big city geographer, but it would occur to me that Tallahassee, Florida, is closer to Miami, Florida than is State College, PA. But then, maybe the folks from the tally-ho knew what would happen. We didn’t know how long it would take but we knew how. Know how long it took? 5 hours. A three overtime game. Never seen it, and damn sure never seen anything like it live. If you haven’t been to a top 25 NCAA football matchup, I suggest you try it. It was so much fun, so dramatic, and so emotional, I accepted the fact that we lost. It was as God intended, a mighty and heroic game to be decided by a missed field goal. Not wide right, not wide left, but slam into the upright. And as we walked down the circular exits, winding like twisted ribbons, we saw the Cobalt Bentley waiting for us. There were no flags flying. Our chauffeur had taken them off to give to me to keep as a token of the game. And so we left, the dignified retreat of the vanquished, and not the glorious parade of the victors. But win or lose, goddamn did we have a good time.

Cigarettes with Alec Baldwin

2005-12-07T07:32:00.000-08:00

So Monkey the Grouch and I ventured off to the Kennedy Center the other night to attend the annual Kennedy Center Honors. For those of you who may not be familiar with the Kennedy Center honors, it is a very important event, and if you go to it, you must be very important. This year, they honored Tina Turner, Robert Redford, Tony Bennett, Julia Harris, and Suzanne Pharell. Just going to the event envelops you with the fine veneer of tasteful wealth and you begin to smell of leather bound books and fine mahogany wood paneling. As I am still very much the unwashed underclass, I'm sure I still smelled of budweiser, menthol cigarettes and Drakkar Noir. As it were, the Grouch was there to cover the event for the NY Times so I got to bask in the glow of being quasi-media. Since she only had event tickets for one, I was given the honor of hanging out in the green room. As it was sold to me, I would be relaxing in the green room, enjoying witty repartee with Paul Newman, while Beyonce made sly come-hither glances from the fully stocked open bar, while we watched the proceedings on a thousand-inch plasma and sipped coctails of Louis XIII mixed with Dodo blood. in poit of fact, I was actually relegated to the "teal" room, which was something of a glorified hallway between the green room and the entrance to the main hall. The walls were stark white and dirty. The overcrammed chairs were of the plastic folding variety, not the rich alligator leather I had envisioned. There was no open bar. Only a cooler of budweiser and diet coke and some cheap Cabernet. There were no celebrities in the teal room. only sweating hack string wrtiters from crap like the Washington Times and some city's Picayune. We ate cheetos out of plastic cups and watched the proceedings on a 13 inch TV with rabbit ears. The scent of desparation and peasantry was everywhere. On the plus side, Tom Brokaw stopped trhough and was very gracious. Glenn Close stood in the back and watched the screen with us for quite a while. at a certain point, I'd had enough of being crammed in to this white slavers' Amistad and went outside to indulge my second favorite passion, nicotine. Who should come out to join me but Alec Baldwin. see , for the point of this story, Alec and I had a cigarette together. The truth of the matter is we did not speak or acknowledge each other, but when I tell my grankids this shit, I'll make it see as if we got along famously. Alec was the big swinging dick of the foyer until Paul Newman came along, at which point, even the glorious Baldwin turned into a fawning sycophant. Paul Newman's funny as shit by the way. I hope to be half as cool when I'm 80. So, here are some excerpts of conversationsd I would have liked to have that night but didn't get the chance or the opportunity:

Me: Hey
John Kerry: Hey
Me: So, um, yeah, sucks about the whole election thing. I supported you, you know.
JK: Yeah? Thanks. That means a lot to me. Your people don't usually vote.
Me: Excuse me?
JK: Well, I mean, they don't.
Me; What? How dare you...
JK: Did you vote?
Me: Hunh?
JK: Like I figured.
Me: Look here, nigga, I live in DC. Ain't but three republicans there. I gave your campaign 50 dollars. And y'all wasted 25 of it sending me mail to give more.
JK: 50 dollars? 50 dollars? I wipe my ass with 50 dollar bills. Get your weight up, dog.
Me: I'm saying, can I have it back?
JK: What?
Me: Nigga, you lost. I want my money back.
JK: Git the hell on. Theresa, you hear what this motherfucker said?
Me: so that's a no?
JK: Yep
Me: so what I gotta do to get a table at the DNC national convention
JK: Like 30 to 40 grand, cocksucker. Beat it.

Me: Hi
Tina Knowles: Well, hey sugar!
Me: Um, you look very nice, ma'am.
TK: Oh, thank you, baby. Look at you with your little Tuxedo. Just a perfect gentlemen!
Me: (sheepishly) Gee. Thanks.
TK: Is that a clip-on bow tie?
Me: uhh, huh?
TK: That is a clip-on bow tie.
Me, uh, well...
TK: Shit, boy, get yo'self together. Jay-Z wouldn't wear no clip-on bow tie. Now he's a real man. Clip-on. what are you, twelve, nigga?
Me: Well, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. (edging closer) Look, I don't mean to hate, but you know old boy used to sell crack, right? I'm just saying, I don't know if that's the kind of guy you want your daughter associating with.

awkward silence

Me: I mean I'm not trying to throw salt in nobody's game here. I'm just saying, I ain't never sold no crack.
TK: you know I have another daughter who might work for you. She's not as pretty and she already got a kid. She might like a fucknigga like you.
Me: Um, I thought Solange was married.
TK: Nigga please. You know that shit only worked that way out cause Matthew put a Desert Eagle in that nigga's mouth. I told my babies not to go raw, I told them.
Me: By the way your tits look great.
TK: Oh, thank you , baby. They're real and they're spectacular.
Me: Yes they are.
TK: Lookit here, boy. I got a couple of minutes and there's an empty changing room over there. What it do?
Me: Sheeit. what it don't?
TK: Cool. You lick ass?
Me: I can get one of Beyonce's used thongs?
TK: You do it right, I'll get you the one she's wearing now.
Me: Well homey that's all you had to say.

Me: So yeah.
W: Yeah.
Me: You know you fucking up right?
W: Yeah.
Me: Why you always gotta lie, dog?
W: Sometimes for the superfication of our great nation, some falsity is required.
Me: What the fuck you just say?
W: It's important we get the terrorists abroad before they come to our homeland.
Me: Do you even believe that shit? What's up with my gas, dude? That shit is like 60 to fill my tank.
W: All Americans will have to make sacrifices in the war on terror.
Me: I hate you.
W: I know.
Me: Hit this shit, nigga.
W: cough, cough, choke. What is this? It's splentastic
Me: That's that yurple, nigga. Jenna gave it ot me.
W: She's a fine American
Me: That bitch gave me the clap too, dog. That shid wudn't cool.
W: I apologize for her diseasery.
Me: It's cool. Ain't you gotta roll out?
W: Yeah, let me hit that shit one more time.
Me: Keep it. You need it more than I do.
W: You're a patriot.
Me: Whatever dog. Get the fuck outta here.
W: I won't forget your kindheartedhood. There'll be a lucrative oil contract in your mailbox on Monday.

Me: Hi
Paul Newman: Hi there
Me: Sir, you make an outstanding salad dressing
Paul Newman: Thanks. Every batch is made with at least two ounces of my toenail shavings.
Me: That's fucking disgusting
PN: Maybe so, but it's tangy and delicious. How you like a little Newman in your mouth, bitch? Want to know what I put in my Newman's Own Alfredo Sauce?
Me: Security!

The Sun will Rise Tomorrow

2005-12-02T20:59:00.000-08:00

I enjoy waking up to the smell of a fresh brewed pot of Starbucks Kenyan coffee. Or head. Good head in the morning is a great way to meet the sunrise. Maybe even a fine terry cloth robe and some orange juice. And The New York Times, of course. Such a fine paper. And such wonderful people who work there (wink wink). What I don't neccesarily enjoy being woken up bu is a six-foot two fireman storming through my door at 6:45 AM. But I suppose that's just the type of day it was meant to be. Lately, my life has been so insane that it almost seemed like a fitting start to the morn.

As some of you already know, I quit my job a couple days before Thanksgiving. I'd been thinking about it for a while, and finally, I guess I'd just had enough. I'm sure they had too, so it all worked out. I didn't really have anything else to do or anthing lined up. Most of my cash is tied up in various investments or wastes of money, depending on how you look at them. But, as it stands, right now, I'm "technically" unemployed. Not a bad place to be, all things said. When I actually did resign, I did so with a cocktail of euphoric freedom and mind-numbing fear. Much more the former, to be sure, but small bouts of the latter. After all, I do have a crushing mortgage, an unfinished final unit, and I just bought an automotive conveyance that's thirstier than a Morehouse freshman during registration week. Her name is Beulah. Big-Butt Black Beulah Beauxchamps. From Biloxi. Some people insist on calling her Bertha, but this is of no consequence.

Right about the same time I acquired Beulah, I also acquired a new friend. Well, not really a new new friend but kind of. This was someone whom I'd had brief contact wih on that vast cesspool of chicanery and filth, the internet, and then had the strange fortune to run into her as she viewed one of the apartments I had for rent. Months pass, and out of the blue, she invites me out for drinks. And here we stand, two weeks later, madly in something. I know I love her, but I don't know exactly how I love her. I know she loves me and I constantly worry that I'll let her down. But maybe I should let that burden go and let it do what it do. Baby.

About the same time as I began my whirlwind courtship of Monkey the Grouch, I found out that my tenants were purchasing a co-op, and so as not to break their lease, I let them find subletters. They found them, and they seem like very nice people. They're two young ladies with two very fat cats. Actually, let me restate. One's a young lady (I believe). And the other's a he-she. Now I don't have a problem with this per se. If you feel that gender reassignment is for you, who am I to take money out of your plastic surgeon's pocket? And he (she) is very nice and polite. Nonetheless, it is a very disconcerting sight to see a former man moving a couch up the stairs, both buffed arms and Double D tits profusely sweating. especially when they espouse their desire for some popeye's chicken and a beer after all that exertion.

It was their apartment that was the cause of the six fire truck parade pulling up outside my building this morning and Fireman Joe barging into my home. Their antiquated boiler had apparently caught on fire and burned itself to a nice little crisp. Fortunately, it didn't do any damage to my wonderful designer kitchen, but they're out of heat, hot water, and a stove until this gets fixed, so this should be an interesting test of their patience. Firemen, it seems, lilke cops, are social people, and enjoy doing everything in great numbers, including inspecting stuff, and generally hanging out in apartments after there are fires. I was againforced to laugh when they asked if the landlord was available. The girls (hell, why not, I'm sure it makes them feel great) sent them over to my unit, which is right across. Of course, chief fireman Pat asks if I can get the landlord. When I informed him that I was the landlord, he seemed mildly surprised. Not as surprised as I was to see him at 6:45 in the morning, but surprised nonetheless.

I think this might be God's way of saying that i should stop being stubborn and take that job I'm being offered with its huge increase in salary. I'd been fighting it for a while, but hey, i can always resign if it doesn't work out, right? Either way, the sun'll rise tomorrow.Hopefully without Fireman Joe's delightful presence.

Homecoming Redux

2005-10-24T19:13:00.000-07:00

Now that was a good time, well wudn't it? My memory of Thursday- Octobr 20 to the early morning of Sunday, October 22nd is hazy at best. Saturday evening particularly somewhat escapes me. From waht i still recall through the fog of the weekend, here are some of the highlights.

1. The Inter-Continental Buckhead. Which just eclipsed the Westin downtown as my new favorite place to stay in Atlanta. There was alligator skin on the walls, people. Alligator. Plus, the restaurant is open 24 hours a day and serves breakfast anytime. A nice step up from Waffle House.

2. Shelton's overindulgence. Nothing better than kicking a man when he's down. Except kicking him when he's down and drunk and people are taking pictures. It'll be interesting to see what daddy Shelton tells his kids about drinking. "Now, chirren, drinking to excess is a very bad thing and I would be very upset if I found out that y'all was...Sheltasha! What the?! Stop going through Daddy's photo album. That picture, was, ah, well, Daddy had a heat stroke, that's what that was."

3. Corey made it through the entire weekend unslapped. A small victory perhaps, but a victory nonetheless.

4. No rap stars were shot outside any of our homecoming parties. Howard University, can you say the same?

5. Waffle House. Where Mexican transvestite prostitutes, throwback-wearing Morehouse Freshman, and white frat boys are equals in the eyes of the bleary-eyed waittress.

6. THE tent. Not A. Not one of. Not a contender amongst. THE motherfucking tent. I don't know how we're going to outdo that next year. The happy juice was rated number one in a direct comparison by Benny Walk. The Yellow-tail Tuna, Salmon, and Shrimp were the best at the tailgate. The best and the brightest of our great institutions mingled with the lowest and the meanest under the warm sun. Of course they were also the only at the tailgate, so what difference does it make.

7. E Brooks' T-shirt. If George Bush were as upfront about his past, we wouldn't be in this mess in Iraq, now would we?

8. Wifebeaters. Male or Female, accept no substitute at the tailgate.

9. Free Bombay Sapphire. Thanks to those lackadaisical homosexual gentlemen at Max Lager, I managed to walk away with about three bottles of the stuff to share with friend and stranger alike. Cheers to you and your complete lack of pride in your jobs, fellas.

10. Married people. Between Jen and Scott, Kosi and Helynn, Erica and Ramone, T and Antoy, and TJ and his wife, it was really good to see people making it official. Pretty soon, it'll be the babies coming too. Getting old, folks. Getting old.

Anyway, it was good seeing all of you. I don't remember exactly who I saw, but since I haven't heard any reports of me fighting anybody or cursing them out, I'll assume our interaction was pleasant, and filled with the jolly tipsy spirit of homecoming. It was great being reunited once again. If anyone has pictures, please forward them to me.

Weird people in strange places

2005-10-01T13:17:00.000-07:00

So I'm having dinner the other night at Aquaknox in the Venetian where I stayed in Vegas this week. I'm trying to crack a crab claw without squirting crab juice all up in my dinner companion's eye, when she kind of nods to someone over my shoulder who was walking in. I turned around and I see a fat white guy in a kind of cream colored suit with the most outlandish shoes I've ever seen in my life. I mean the kind that Bishop Don "Magic" Juan would find tacky. All I remember is purple leather, orange snakeskin, and I believe some peacock feathers, but then I went blind so I don't know what other endangered species old boy had killed to festoon his feet. I assumed she was pointing at him because of all the wildlife protection violations on his feet, but as he passes by, I realize who it is. It's goddamn Robin Leach! Eating at the same restaurant I'm in. Do you realize that if the year were 1987, that fact alone would have made me an instant semi-celebrity?

Me: So yeah, I'd just parked my DeLorean, you know, pulled out my stereo, and I go into the restaurant. You know, I got my Armani on, jacket sleeves pulled up, no socks like you guys taught me, and who the fuck is there?
Sonny: Who?
Rico: Yeah, man, who?
Sonny: Was it Mendoza? Did he have the yayo?
Me: No. Robin Fucking Leach.
Sonny: Get the fuck outta here.
Rico: You had dinner with Robin Leach? DY-NO-MITE!
Sonny: Uh, Tubbs, that's JJ's line
Rico: Huh? what do you mean?
Sonny: That's JJ Walker's line. That's a different show. You can't use another Black actor's tagline. He owns that phrase. Every time someone says Dy-No-Mite!, you have to pay him 35 cents.
Rico: Whutchutalkingbout, sonny?
Sonny: Um, that's Arnold Jackson's line?
Rico: Huh?
Sonny: You know, Arnold Jackson, Diff'rent Strokes? "Now the world don't move to the beat of just one...goddamn it, Tubbs, you know what I mean.
Rico: Oh, the short mutherfucker.
Sonny: Yeah.
Rico: I pity the fool!
Sonny: Goddamn it, Rico. What did I just tell you?!
Rico: Hey fuck you cracka! Let me have something! You get to drive around in a white Ferrari and have a pet alligator
and all I get is this piece of shit Cadillac and a lifetime supply of Soul-Glo activator!
Sonny: Now, Rico...
Rico: Now nothing, bitch! I'm sick of this shit. I'm sick of it. I want to drive a goddamn Ferrari and have sex with white women!
Me: Guys, guys! Hey, I had dinner with Robin fucking Leach!
Rico: Fresh
Sonny: Stupid Fresh
Me: You guys want to do some coke?
Sonny and Rico: Hell yeah!

Cue Jan Hammer music and montage of sports cars, polo, speedboats and bikini models.

Anyway, a couple days after this, I'm at this tattoo parlor, and this guy who's getting this humongous Angel done on his back is talking about how he's going to be on Oprah and then The View. He had mentioned something about a group and that he was performing tonight, and so I asked him if he was in a band. He said, yeah, but that's not why he was going on Oprah. He then proceeds to tell me that he was on that VH1 show Stripsearch, about those male strippers competing to be in a Vegas show. Small world, eh. Anyweay, I'm going to the airport, and who do I see on a 300 foot tall Billboard, but angel tattoo guy, greased up and looking gay as hell. He was a real nice guy, though, so good luck to him.

Also, I post new pictures every so often at http://www.myspace.com/5wide

Back in Black

2005-09-21T21:10:00.000-07:00

Been a while since I've posted. Sorry, I've been traveling. Boston was nice, save for the lack of Black People, and Providence was also quite nice. Vegas next week. I'm excited. The key to Vegas is Stay nice, play shitty. Stay in the Bellagio or the Venetian, but gamble at Denny'ss or O'Shea's. Yeah, it's kinda tough to live out your James bond fantasies when you're at a five dollar blackjack table between an obese local alcoholic woman and a mullet-wearing, yellow wifebeater clad yokel from L.A. (Lower Alabama), but it beats the hell out of losing all your money in the first five minutes at one of those nice casinos. Last time I played at O'Shea's, my only tablemate was a guy so hungover, he couldn't even cut the cards. He was playing $500 hands, so I guess he was what one might call a professional sportsman.

In any case, after the last bitchfest of a blog, I'm happy to announce your boy has his nuts back. I'm like Maverick at the end of Top gun when he got back in the fight and saved Ice's ass. I just needed a moment to sift though all the baggage, what with realizing that Goose is gone for good and all. But I threw his dog tags over the side of the ship, so all is well. I'll see y'all at Homecoming.

I'm on NPR intern edition

2005-08-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to Christian Nwachukwu for this one. He interviewed me for a piece on entrepreneurs and business majors. I hate my voice so I haven't even listened to it yet, but I did like the transcript.

http://www.npr.org/about/nextgen/internedition/sum05/index.php?x=show

I Loved and I Lost

2005-08-21T20:50:00.000-07:00

So I got an email the other day. I had been waiting for the email for a while. Frankly, I wasn’t sure it was going to come. I had almost resigned myself to never knowing the answers to the questions I’d asked. The email itself was actually a reply-to to an earlier email I’d sent, the body of which basically read as a late twenties version of the “do you like me? Check yes or no” note, but slightly more complicated. Most “do you like me? Check yes or no” notes, of course, are directed at people with whom one does not have a romantic relationship, the idea being to explore the feasibility of beginning just such a splendid partnership. This particular note I sent was more along the lines of “I know you like me and I know I like you, but where are we going with this and how come when I came to town, you didn’t call me and please tell me you haven’t started seeing someone else.” In my heart, I knew why, obviously. As human beings, we’re all born with this amazing intuitive sense. It’s what tells a baby it’s safe to suckle at his mother’s breast, what tells a toddler they might want to run away from a sabre-toothed monkey, and what tells a full grown man that a woman he loves so much it hurts is slipping away from him. It’s just intuition, and sometimes it’s wrong, but not often. Not often at all, my friend. And it wasn’t this time either. As some of you may know, I am very much in love with a woman who happens to live in another town who I’ve known for quite a while now. She is, to me, the most beautiful woman in the world of course. Every inch of her is perfection defined, especially her imperfections. When I see her, a feeling washes over me that doesn’t happen with any other woman. Beyonce could walk by me, tongue-kissing Christina Milian and if SHE was in the room, I wouldn’t even notice. Lest my descriptions get a little long-winded, just refer to either “Prototype” or “First, Jen and Brad break up.” To make a long story short, SHE and I went on a small vacation together not too long ago. It was an absolute blast. We had the greatest time. Just being in her company refreshed me. It let me shake the wear and the cobwebs and the rust off. It was a beginning of what I guess I hoped would be a process of taking something that was good and making it great. The next weekend, she came up this way, and we spent more time together. I was in a town SHE lives in a couple weeks ago and I extended an invitation to dinner. I heard nothing back. I made another invitation. I heard nothing back. So I went to her town. I went out to a place. I had a drink. I met up with old friends. But there was something missing, and it knawed at me, because even then I knew. There are few oversights in life. Most things are done by design. After all, if she were to come to my town, would I not reschedule my dinner with the Pope to spend time with her? I would. Granted, I’m not Catholic, but you get the point. So I went to my place, I drank my drink, I dapped and hugged my friends. I got in my car. I drove a while. I smoked some cigarettes. I thought. The thoughts you have when you know something’s amiss are a scattered and conflicted lot. They run everywhere, but nowhere; they race forward and they stop short.

When I checked my email, and saw the subject header, my heart pumped a little bit harder. An answer. An answer I know I don’t want but that I need to know. I’ll spare you the exact details. Suffice it to say it’s not her, it’s me. There’s a barrier that she can’t break down within herself that keeps her from giving herself entirely to me. And the reason that barrier exists is because of me. It’s a part of who I am intrinsically that’s either scary or repulsive or just perplexing to her. It’s almost ingrained in my personality. It’s not a part of me that I like or that many people like, honestly. But it’s there. I mean, I try really hard to work on it and be a better person and all, but some things just take time. There’s nothing that hits you harder in your stomach than knowing that it’s you. It’s not like when someone’s done something fucked up to you and you can feel vindictive. Or if they’re just not in the right place, and then maybe you just feel resigned to accept it. When someone simply wants to be apart from you because of how you are, there aren’t words that express the sense of defeat, of unworthiness and self-loathing they elicit. When it’s someone like SHE, it’s unbearable. And yes, there’s a new guy. Of course, there’s always a fucking new guy. It’s like part of the package. “I love you but I can’t be with you. Oh by the way, I’m kissing, fucking, hugging, consoling, and loving someone else.” Only $13,995 with the GM Employee Discount!!! That’s right, act now, and not only do you get the new 2006 Rejexon package, you’ll get a brand new 2006 Replaysment thrown in for free!! Call now before this offer’s gone! When you have something with someone, it drives you up the wall like a mental patient to think that they could possibly ever have the same thing with someone else. For some reason it also seems to affect your Ipod shuffle settings. Mike Jones, Paul Wall, and the Yin Yang Twins? Nowhere to be found. You get shit like this here scenario.

Menu, Shuffle, Play.

Sinead O’Connor, Nothing Compares to you. Fuck. Skip

Incubus, I Wish You Were Here. Fuck. Skip.

N Sync, Gone. OK this is getting fucking ridiculous.

Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions, I Loved and I Lost. Dammit. No, wait. I’ll let this one play.

I loved and I lost
It happens to the best
So I loved and I lost
And I might as well confess

She was so beautiful
Like flowers full bloom in May
Her kiss was like the roaring wind
It left me speechless with nothing to say.

I loved and I lost
The fire would not ignite
So I loved and I lost
And I wish her back with all of my might.

Pieces of Flair

2005-07-27T16:19:00.000-07:00

This is a ost I started in mid-July. I'm just now getting back to it. No wonder I gets no traffic these days.

So last night, I was tooling around my apartment, fixing things, breaking things, and painting the broken things so they looked fixed, and I flip on the old boob tube. And what should be on American Movie Classics, but Office Space. How fucking ironic. For those of you who aren't dorks like me, and don't know, Office Space is one of the great movies of our time. I mean GREAT. I'm talking Coming to America, New Jack City, Road House great. It's basically just a parody of how stupid corporate American life is. I say it's ironic, because 1. I don't really know what the word means and it's proper usage, and 2. because no matter how nasty Alanis Morisette looked in that naked video, we'll always love the four of her singing in their hoopty on the way to Minnetonka, or wherever the fuck she was going. Wherever it was, I guarantee you it wasn't a whole lot of black folks up that way. But a free ride, when you've already paid? Damn right that's ironic. Yes I do think. Back to the point. I just came off a somewhat well-deserved 7-day vacation. Actually, more like 14 if you consider I haven't been in my office since sometime in late July. I spent my whole vacation basically working. I laid some sod, got a new tenant, and created a wonderful wood-paneled wall with frosted glass and aluminum accents. I think I might have missed my calling as an interior designer. But it's not too late. Because I think about the time, energy, and enjoyment that i get and give to my little apartment building. And it's far more fulfilling and enjoyable than the crap I do at the old day job. Granted, I enjoy certain parts of it, and I haven't yet considered walking from cube to cube with a short barrel AR-15 gas-powered carbine assault rifle pumping round after round into coworker and supervisor alike. But there's quite a bit of my average workday I think I'm wasting my time. I mean, what do I really accomplish for myself or for my fellow man? If I stopped doing what I do, what would change? Would not some other monkey in a suit step in and make a seamless transition? Maybe even do my job better than I can? Matter of fact, probably do my job better than I can. Which brings us back to Office Space. That movie explored the dynamics of working life at a completely dysfunctional, irrational office. Mine is a well-run and efficient Fortune 100 corporation. So the question being, if I'm uncomfortable at one of the "100 best companies to work for", according to Fortune or Smart Money or some other Republican rag, where do I go from here? If I'm in the top percentile of corporate environments, is there even room to move up? Or is this as good as big corporate life gets? I'm beginning to think the latter. In any case, I don't know that I want to go to corporate again. I really am thinking about The Big Break. After all, what better time to start a business? I already have a business technically. I've been quite successful at those ventures I've been involved with. I have no wife and kids to worry about supporting. Tough questions, kid.

Boom

2005-07-07T19:03:00.000-07:00

My condolences to those who lost loved ones today in London, and those injured, my prayers are with you. to those millions of Africans, whose issues were finqally at the table, my condolences for you, for your moment in the light of international interest has been destroyed and usurped by those cowardly enough to attack public transportation riders. Once again, money and effort that could go towartd the humanitarian crisis on the continent of our forefathers will be spent waging an endless war against a faceless enemy for useless benefit. To those that did this sickening act, may you one day truly know terror.

Dear Summer...

2005-07-06T17:37:00.000-07:00

It's been a while, faithful fans. I apologize but I've been busy. This past couple of days have been strange. Not strange good or strange bad, but strange enough that I took some time to reflect on things. Sunday, I went out with some friends and my very recent ex to a couple places over by the waterfront. We had a good time. I got in some trouble with the law. Things happen. I finally got approval to turn my apartments into condos. God Willing, the inspector doesn't laugh me off my own land. Then yesterday, one of my tenants calls me, in a very pleasant manner, to inform me that her bathroom ceiling has pretty much caved in. So I went down and checked it out. Sho nuff, the bitch had caved on in. I mean drywall, sheetrock, everything. The wood support beams were barely holding on. Apparently, the trap pipe underneath my old unit's bathtub had been leaking enough to force the cave-in. Unfortunate. Anyway, God knows how much this will cost me. So, this morning, I get up, call one of my contractors, and, since I figure I'm not going in to work today, I start working on the backyard. I bought some lovely flagstones from Home Depot, and I figure on making a little path to my newly created parking area. I also bought some sod, as I have mad patches of brown interspersed with a couple strands of weeds currently. So, I'm checking my blackberry, which we've just been forced to go to to keep our employees constantly enslaved, and I see an urgent message from the 28 million dollar man (See still tippin' on G4's). Apparently, he wants to play basketball. And one of our interns, who is the brother of one of my support people went ahead and signed me up without notifying me. I make ten. I get this message around 10:47. Tip-off is at 12:00. To give you some background: When you get a message from the 28-million dollar man, you pay attention like it's Defcon 3. If he says that he wants to play basketball on the basketball court he had installed on the parking deck of the building he built, and you make ten, trust me, you don't want to be somewhere else if they only have nine guys. So, covered with dirt and sweat, I now realize, I have to make it to the office (about an hour's drive) get some clothes on, pack a duffel bag, and figure out what the hell is going on with these collapsing-ass ceilings. There's a scene, oft repeated and also oft-ridiculed in The Fast and the Furious where Vin Diesel says: "I live my life a quarter mile at a time." It's a fatuous statement, bereft of meaning or intelligence, but it's a mantra, and thus must be respected. I have a similar mantra. "I live my life on the thin line between greatness and disaster."

I don't know exactly when this happened, but somewhere along the way, I became someone for whom any given moment could either make me or break me. I don't know exactly how to feel about it, because I think it's just an is. That's how I'm built, that's the way it's going to be. And I have suffered for it as often as I have rejoiced from it. If not more often. I was really depressed on Monday. something happened to me on Sunday which could very well jeopardize a lot of things in my life. I'm running out of money since I spent so much renovating this bloody place and there's no end in sight. I have three cars but I slept on the floor of one of my other apartments the other night because the one I'm living in didn't have air conditioning. This was a day after I test drove an M3. Not because I needed (another) car. Or becuase I have so much money, I can afford the payment. I just felt like buying an M3. and had the sales guy come back with a better price, I would have bought it. I know I would have. that's the kind of insanity that seems to rule my life day in and day out. I ran into my friend yesterday at the gym. She told me she was going into detox. Then she bought me a belated birthday smoothie and we went out and smoked cigarettes. But that's about where I am. I feel like I need to detox. Mentally, physically, financially. It's not that I'm not in a good place. Things in general are going well for me. But on that thin line, I don't know which side I'm veering off to. This didn't use to scare me, but I guess as I get older and the opportunities to rebuild from calamity come fewer and fararther between, I feel less and less inspired to dip too close to the disaster edge. Who knows, I might already be past it and not know it.

It's been a good summer so far. I love it when it's hot, and girls wear white pants. I love drinking a beer on the waterfront and having sex in public places. I love the too-cold feeling of air conditioning at night, when you have to throw an extra blankie on in July. I love driving with the windows down blaring obnoxious music. I love the smell of charcoal getting ready to get grilled on. I love gas stations in the summer night. That enhanced smell of gasoline, that feeling of going somewhere. It's intoxicating. Yeah, I know, it's a little strange, but we all have to get soft and gooey aboust something and I like white pants on fat booty girls and gas stations on summer nights. What are you gonna do. I'll try to not make it as long until the next installment.

Countdown

2005-05-15T18:02:00.000-07:00

So I was on one of my little sojourns between two horse towns (Panama City, FL this time) and as I slogged to my seat on ASA airways (a subsidiary of Delta, on whom I have enough frequent flyer miles to go to the moon) and as I sat in seat 17-D (something of a misnomer, since there were only three seats across), I noticed there was a magazine in the seat pocket. What's that, you sau, there's always a magazine in the seat? Well, yes, but this was not your run of the mill Delta Flyer magazine , with its inane list of "cool" restaurants ande its sycophantic interviews with Kirsten Dunst, as well as its ridiculous letter for the president, a page long shitfest of lies encouraging traveling pension fund managers not to dump their remaining interest in Delta's shares, further tanking the airline closer to chapter Seven. No friends, this was Vanity Fair. On its cover was a stunning Angelina Jolie. In its pages, pictures of the aforementioned Jolie with her adorable adopted oriental son, Maddox, a story on the gaylord who reinvented himself as a hard-right news reporter who asked Bush a question, a brilliant article on Frank Sinatra's ties to the mob, and my personal favorite: a ride-along with the Gumball 3000 rally. The gumball 3000. For those that are unfamiliar is the ultimate proof that when it comes to stunting, white people are king. We blacka are but pretenders to the throne. Basically, 150-odd people race their cars through Europe, into Morocco, and back to Europe again. Sounds kind of like when RJ, the Nigerian, and myself used to race down 85 in college, right. Same basic idea, but the field of cars at the Gumball Rally included 28 Lamboirghinis, 68 Ferrarris, 34 Porsches, and a number of Bentleys. The winner of the race was Adrian Brody. Sign me the fuck up, dude. I mean, can I live? My favorite rallyers were the four English Gentlemen in matching linen trousers and tweed blazers who were piloting a Bentley with the Union Jack (British flag) painted on top. What's more exciting than the stuntery of the hardware itself is the utter ignorance with which these people conducted themselves. The first night, an executive of a well-known financial firm defaced a piece of art at a five star hotel. There was a rolling entourage of groupies and prostitutes. People openly played porn on the screens in their $300,00 cars doing a buck eighty hydroplaning. A man bet two women racers that he would beat them both. They won, they get half a million pounds each (about $1.1m). He won, they had to have a threesome with him. Who makes that bet? I'm trying to scrape together enough to pay the light bill this month. Geez. In any case, back to reality, one of my tenants is moving out the end of the month so I've been working doubel time to get the place in shape so I can get that good premium rent. I'm going to start a new blog detailing the progress. Stay tuned.

Live the Dream

2005-04-17T21:19:00.000-07:00

What a good today was. I threw a a barbeque and lots of my friends came. It was really nice. TK came and Don and Taz, and big D CC, and even Jimmy and Crnell from out of town.I have a liutlle wood picnic area, which I have designated "Poolside at the Delano." Ain't no pool, but it sure is nice in the warm weather. It was pretty country, since we parked our cars on my lawn, but I frankly love that shit. I don't have a boombox as yet, so I just opened my car doors and let the screw play. Ghetto, yes. Unwarranted, yes. Will, I do it again, fuck yes. K brought potato salad and my cousin Cathy brought this really good mac and cheese. K's potato salad was ridiculous. Almost as good as my Aunt sis's. Only black people have relatives with two relational nomenclatures, but such is negro life. A whole bunch of people toured the new spot and gave their advice about what should go where, which is nice. I probably won't take too much of it, but only because I've entered agreements with local colleges for them to pimp out their students to work for me for free. K's titty popped out, which created quite a commotion and I think Cornesll got a picture. They're not big, but they're nice, so I see why his batteries went dead. Also, I bought a Corvette. don't ask me why. Goddamn Ebay. I'll let you know how that one works out. If anyone knows where I can get a good 454 Chevy engine or some side pipes, do let me know. Decatur, I'm looking in your direction.

break up to make up

2005-04-03T19:32:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't been posting lately. learning to deal with tenants, strip paint, do my taxes, and handle the busiest time of year at my day job will kinda squeeze your time. But I'm back. And since I've been dumped by two of my favorite girls that I was dating, I'll have buckets of time on my haands. more time to let the noxious fumes of the paint thinner soak into my veins and make me feel all warm and tingly. Maybe I should open a window after all. In any case, the subject of this brief post is the subject of man's greatest thinking since yon before man even thought great thoughts, when his loftiest aspirations were to slay the largest saber toothed monkey and to eat the children of his enemies in their midst to prove his alpha maleness. The subject of course, is women. As a quick peruse through this post will let you know, i recently became "entirely" single, even though I was "technically" single beforehand, but oy and i both, gentle reader, know that had I so much as gone on a date with a woman other than the one with whom I spent the majority of my time, all bloody fucking hell would have broken loose and someone would have probably got slapped with a skillet. (If you didn't get the jopke, ask someone about that party out in Austell in '98. If you're looking for a really funny story, ask about that other party in Austell in 98. Caution, it involves doo-doo.) But since I've been let free, I've been on a dating tear. It's been fun, but now's about the point in time where women start to relate to me that they're "not really into the causal thing", or they don't know if they can keep seeing me if I'm not going to commit. Which, if I was a few years younger, would send me into a fit of outrage dedicated to questioning why women are so stupid, and why can't they be more like us, and what the fuck is wrong with chicks, etc., etc. But I've just pretty much learned to accept it. One in particulart, who lives out of state, I really sympathize with.i mean, she has to make a four hour trek to see me, and since I need most of my weekends to be here to do housy stuff, I can't really escape away to see her right now. Maybe after I get my new (hopefully white or asian) tenants in, I'll have time to take a breather, but for now, not likely. I mean, it's not an unfair thing to want someone you're giving your body, food, and time to exclusively to want them to do the same. And since they made up theirt minds to make me the exclusive recipient of these delightful treats (although the food has just been ok. None of them are really outstanding cooks), I of my own free will feel comfortable letting them know that that's just not the place I'm in right now. So, I find myself without a repeat dater in my repertoire right now, and I'm completely fine with it. To be honest, i have a pretty fast internet connection, and what with the plethora of porn out there, and my hectic schedule, I don't really need to date that much right noe. so, I'm going on a fast of dating for a little while. Not a long-ass type thingo or anything, just a little time for myself and to attend to my business affairs. I'll update you on how long it lasts. Any wagers? By the way, fuck everyone in the world who ever painted over something held together by screws. Do you realize what an annoyance it is to strip that shit off, and then unscrew a piece of rusted metal trapped in by caked onn paint? Cockfag. Mask that shit off, asshole.

Grown man shit

2005-03-21T13:45:00.000-08:00

So, as of Tuesday, March 15, at or about 4:53 PM, I became a homeowner. Actually, more of a landowner. Or baron. I prefer Baron. For those of you that weren’t kept in the loop, and I tried to keep it as quiet as possible until it actually went through. I bought a 4-unit building up in the Petworth area of DC. How did I, being of little means, and even less brains, get this particular peach of a property, you might ask. The good people at NACA: www.naca.com. If you’re looking to buy a house, and you don’t currently have a title interest in another property, I encourage you to take a look. Now everyone knows that I give recommendations about as frequently as I give compliments, so take that for what it’s worth. And now, after that brief commercial break, let’s get back to our regularly scheduled program. I went to Howard School of Medicine’s cloaking and I saw my homeboy from Morehouse. Well, a nigga I knew, but we’ve already discussed this in one of the last chapters. In any case, his now wife was getting cloaked. She went to Spelman too and graduated about the same time my monkey ass should have left school. She was pregnant as hell. So yes. Pregnant. Wife. Property. Husband. Lawyer. Doctor. We’re fucking old, y’all. The jig is up. We might as well have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. So I spent the weekend moving the few possessions I have into my new place. As it were, the vast majority were clothes and shoes. I’m planning on converting the second bedroom in my unit into a walk-in closet. That’s a shame. But hey, I am what I am. I also got a sofa delivered. I’ve never paid someone to deliver something for me, which is another sign I’m getting over the hill. Not but a couple of years ago, I’d have called one of my homeboys with an engineering degree and we’d have figured a way to cram that goddamn couch into a four-door sedan if it took us all night. Now, I just pay to have shit like that done. Old. Tired. Over the hill. I did have a great conversation with the deliveryman (I believe Charlie Murphy’s cousin on his mother’s side) about the possibilities of the matching couch he was delivering to someone else falling off the truck somehow. We’ll see how that works out, cause ain’t nothing I love more than dueling sofas. I spent some time with the previously mentioned light-skinned married couple who are always having those high-yellow only parties at their crib. They’re fun, but they definitely let you know you’re getting old as well. They have crystal decanters for their Hennessy and not just paper cups. Fancy. And this time a dark-skinned dude came, so they’re really getting more progressive. Also, on a funny note, my tenants are scared shitless of me because they’re afraid I’m going to jack up the rent and put them out. I’m considering having a sound system wired so that every time I come home, the Darth Vader theme music starts playing. Or if that’s too expensive just play Flight of the Valkyries really loud on my car stereo Apocalypse Now-style every time I turn the corner onto my street. I love the smell of Napalm in the morning. Smells like….Victory.

Negores are inferior

2005-03-06T18:36:00.000-08:00

At least, that's what I can conclude from "Be Cool", which I saw on Friday with my fun and smart new date (who's a little weird, but that's kinda how I like them). In addition to being a fairly badly written movie with trite dialogue and poor performances as well as several pointless cameo appearances, the movie was ridiculously racist. Not racist in the sense that I felt like the movie was actively trying to spread negative stereotypes about blacks, and specifically black men, but racist in the fact that they kind of almost took these steretypes for granted as being true. And it was directed by F. Gary Gray, a black director. Let's examine some of the characters:

1. Raji(Vince Vaugn): The jewish guy who "wants to be black." And by black, I mean a coon. Dude wears these ridiculous Gucci-printed sweatsuits and speaks as ignorantly as possible, disrespects women, is a coward, wants to be hard, and is stupid as fuck. This is what acting black is really supposed to mean. When you say a white person wants to be black, from now on, just say he wants to be a fucking moron. That's what you mean. Sad as it is to say, that really is most people's idea of black people: that we are like that. so to act "black", you want to try and debase yourself as much as possible

2. Dabu (Andre 3000): A violent niggerish buffoon who's always waving a gun at someone, slurping food, gritting on someone, or otherwise showing his ass. And he's a bad shot, to boot. Dabu is the leader of the DubMD's, a ridiculously overmuscled posse of gun-toting goons eho alre always hopping out of a trio of black hummers with the rims still spinning. Dabu is also ignorant as shit, save for that one part when he breaks down the use of Bob Dylan's "Knocking on heaven's door" in some spaghetti western movie, and we, the audience are supposed to be shocked by the fact that he said anything even mildly intelligent.

3. The DubMD's: The less said about these cats, the better. They don't even look like gangstas. They looklike some out of work bodybuilders from muscle beach. Fortunately most of them don't speak, they just wave guns and folks and give mean looks. and swagger. Lots of swaggering.

4. Elliott Wilhelm (the Rock): I understand you want toplay out of character, dog, but must it be some smiling, dancing faggot who does a monolgue from "Bring it on?" (No offense to smiling, dancing faggots or anything). I mean it's bad enough that the only black(?) character in the movie who's in the least bit sympathertic is ridiculously feminized, and it's not like we don't see the outrageous, you-go-girl, black gay enough at Lennox and on Jerry Springer. Nothing against the gay folk for real, but you know and we know that's another horrible stereotyp to play into.

5. Sin LaSalle (Cedric the entertainer): Granted, all I had to say was Cedric the Entertainer, and well, that's good enough. His character is apparently harvard educated or something, drives around in a Maybach, but is still a nigga at heart, with a diamond encrusted pistol and a penchant for violence. The ridiculous thing is how we're made to look so out of place among people with money, or white people in general. The scene where we actually meet the character, e's making breakfast for his daughter, walks her outside, and then starts talking to his white lady neighbor. He talks to her in this stupid, stilted tone, that just completely insinuates that we have to completely change ourselves around to fit in to non-nigger culture. Like it's just so unnatural for us to have a conversation with a white upper-class neighbor, that we have to use this monkey-ass English accent and a dumb-ass chuckle. Then when he finally delivers this two-minute long speech about the effects of Black culture and the contributions of Black artists to white culture, he didn't even asay some shit like "Always bet on black!" or "Looks like it's black o the future for you, Ivan!" before shooting someone.

6. Linda Moon (Christina Milian): did not show an inch of nudity the entire movie. Unacceptable! If Halle Berry can expose her midgets, Little Miss Nick Cannon, there is no reason I should pay $9.25 for a movie ticket and not see your mini-me's.

And let's not forget about the pointlessly racist russian mobsters. Why is every foreign villain in every movie a goddamn racist? Why? I mean what does it really add to the plotline? Can't we just be disliked for being ourselves rather than have it always be some swarthy, chest-hair encrusted fucker calling us nigger? That shit's annoying. What's funny is, it seems to me like most foreigners are less racist than americans. Anyway, this movie was fucking terrible, and I'm going to stick my diamond-encrusted .45 in the producer's mouth as soon as I get the chance.

Prototype part deux: the Production model

2005-03-06T17:38:00.000-08:00

So I've been thinking a little more about this whole prototype deal. You'll excuse me if this blog is starting to sound more and more like Minnie Driver's radio show from Grosse Pointe Blank (A fine movie and proof that Dan Akroyd is right up there with Melyssa Ford and Terrence and Phillip as one of Canada's greatest exports). I've received a couple of emails which have also colored the conversation slightly. So here's the gist of it. We all get the idea of the prototype: It's the ideal, the fantasy, the perfect yin to our yang. But for one thing: It's not production ready. The prototype
at its essence is designed to be something we yearn for but can't have. It's what completes our fantasy life of eating Dodo bird nuggets dipped in truffle oil at our weekend house in the South of France. But it's not reality
, which is a much more realistic, practical approach. I mean, really, who could live with those ridiculous swing-up doors and that tacky paint job? Would you really want to run to CVS to get your hemmerhoid creme in that? So, if we've had the prototype, took it for a test drive, let's say, and absolutely adored it, what then? Do we hold it as a fond memory of what could have been, and just enjoy the pleasant thoughts? Or do we realize that everything we've had before and after hasn't measured up, so even though it's not ready for the showroom floor, it's worth bribing someone at the DOT to overlook the noncompliance with emissions standards and its general unroadworthiness and get a title and a liccense plate for it? With option A, I mean something else will come along. The production version isn't THAT bad. It's pretty nice actually. It just doesn't bring out the heart-pounding desire the prototype does. But I bet it hauls the dog and the laundry a lot better and is more reliable. In the end, it's kind of a fucked if you do, fucked if you don't situation. Abandon the possibility of retaking the best thing you've had, or cut yourself off from finding the best thing you'll ever have. Which might be better or might be worse. The devil you know versus the devil you don't know, eh? I tell you what, once in a while, though there is a real life

production model that actually beats the dream of the prototype. Which doesn't mean I won't head down to the Range Rover factory one last time and give the Prototype a private spin around the track again.

Prototype

2005-02-28T19:07:00.000-08:00

So I was watching VH1 Soul, which has become the high point of my life of late (along with VH1's Race-o-Rama, which has to be the most poignantly funny and honest show in America) and what do I see but Andre 3000 in white suit with some pointy ears running around a field singing what may be my favorite quasi-love song of all time. I know I'm like a year late, but that should tell you how good a song it really is that after playing it 5 million times in a rented Grand Marquis driving between ATL; Birmingham, Alabama, and Orangeburg, South Carolina (the chitlin' circuit as it's known), I not only can still stand to hear the song, I sometimes put it on repeat. Because it is such a great piece of work, both musically and lyrically, I can almost forgive 3000 for his self-indulgently horrible video treatment. There's a reason people pay Hype Williams good money, 3000. It's so we don't have to be subjected to your weird-ass fantasies about impregnating aliens in your little white tent you stole from Macy Gray's first video.

But I digress. I guess I got to thinking back on my prototype(s). Two really stick out in mind, (one much more so than the other) and I suppose, now that I am completely free to seek out whatever I want, I'm examining them to see what it was that makes them stick out in my mind so much. I also find myself examining what went wrong so that the next prototype that comes around, I can choose more wisely. As with all prototypes, the decision to part wasn't mine. That's why they're prototypes, because they dump you. Otherwise they're just "bitches a nigga used to kick it with." See the subtle difference? I'll explain next post.

Great moments at the Candle

2005-02-22T19:41:00.000-08:00

As many of you may know, I retired to the sunny climes of the A-town this past weekend to spend more company dough at the annual Candle in the Dark Gala. Here are some highlights, for those of you who missed it and those of you who were merely too intoxicated to remember

1. Saida's Breasts.Or the great moons of Endor, as I shall heretoforth refer to them. While she was technically not an attendee, I don't believe, she was in the vicinity and that's good enough for this list. I gave her my card, specifically so she could email me and I could reply with the link to this very weblog. In return, she reached in her bra, to get what I assumed would be a card of her own. No, in fact; She pulled out a Dell Desktop with a Pentium V and began to data-enter my information into an Outlook file. What's more impressive than the breasts themselves, however, is her complete lack of self-consciousness about them which is cooler than Andre 3000's socks. So cheers to you, Saida. And yes, I still am a masochist pig.

2. George's Outfit. George Peters continues to shock not only me but the world with his splendid combinations. The pink cravate with the ultra-traditional black suit was a touch of pure class and pizzazz. He's like Cary Grant, only black as shit.

3. Dr. Massey's slightly slurred demeanor. Doctor, when you took the stage, staggering ever so slightly, and speaking just a little bit slower than you usually do, few of us could tell that you had gotten just right enough. Those of us that have seen those golden fields salute you. It made me feel proud to be aMorehouse man to seemy president lookig good, standing tall, and slightly thowed. The fact that you pulled it off so effortlessly and assuredly only adds to your legend. Cheers to you, Dr. Massey, and yet anopther round on me.

4. Old Schools. Everywhere. Slammin' Cadillac Do's and still Hollin' at young hoes. I saw more clean old ass men than I have in years. Motherfuckers that graduated in '65, who'd forgotten about more money in their lives than your young ass done ever seen, boy! Drunk as a skunk, and who the hell was going to tell them not to be? Not me, cause I love to hear an old man talk some shit. Cause an old man knows everything, and us young bucks are just here to soak up the wisdom and see how a real playa plays. Right on to you, Old School, cause you can still talk that jive.

5. Geoff's incoherence. If Li'l Jon keeps a level of crunk at 10 at all times, that nigga Geoff was at eleventy-two. Usually such an upstanding octaroon, that boy was showing his ass. I'm not sure if it was the spirited dramatic recreation of the fight he'd recently been in or the almost B-Ceezy like energy on the dance floor. It might even have been his Tony Llama's. All I know is I want to see more of that.

6. My cufflinks. The only things bigger and rounder than Saida's breasts were those War-crest festooned metal frisbees adorning each of my wrists. They were spectacular, and in case a spear fight broke out, were more than adequate to do double duty as a shields.

7. That girl in the black dress. It seems like it would be oxymoronic to use that description at a black tie event. But ask any straight man within a mile of the Hyatt about "that girl in the black dress" and he'll know exactly of what you speak. He might even shed a tear of joy that something so fine and pure came into his life, if just for that fleeting moment.

8. The niggas with gold teeth running security at the afterparty. "We's running a bidniss here, y'unnastand! If you ain't fi'na pay, git tha hell on!" Well said, you king of Afro-American class, well said. Now pardon me while I slip past you without paying because you're too busy feeling important that for once in your life you have power over people with college educations and other uppity negroes.

9. Breakfast. At said afterparty, I took the opportunity to slipout the back door with an absolutely splendid young Spelman Senior and I'm glad I did. We went to R. Thomas, home of numerous late night memories and even more numerous health code violations. I took my glass from the club with me, and she happily sipped from it. We talked about stuff and enjoyed French toast. It was one of those perfect impromptu jaunts, so good that it didn't even lose an ounce of its goodness that I did not get head in the whip. however, next time, I will be ponying up that extra 15 for the Navigator. Hartsfield Jackson Atlanta Hertz. They'll always take care fo you.

10. Georgian Terrace Brunch. What can I say. I knew it was going to be a fine day when I was walking toward the hotel and who should stop in mid-traffic, but my good brother Decatur. SPence was there and so was Joe, and even lovely Raevonne of the Atlanta bird team. We even sta next to the president of Spelman. And the chicken breast was delicious, perfectly seasoned and smoked to perfection. What better way to end a perfect weekend.

Estranged

2005-02-22T19:19:00.000-08:00

The worst part about not being around someone when you're used to being around someone is not being around them. Which was probably a more circular turn of phrase than the Daytona 500 earlier this week, but it's the truth. Like something funny happens, and your first instinct is to call them and tell them, but wait, you realize, shit is fucked up between us. Or it's raining, and you think to call them to see if you want them to pick you up from work so they don't have to take the train, and then you realize, oh, shit is fucked up between us. Or worse, you just want to see that person and be around them, but then you realize, oh, shit is fucked up between us. I guess that's the hard part, but it's what you wanted, isn't it, self? The good part is that it's not destroying me in the way the end of past relationships have. Maybe because it wasn't as sudden, and I knew the end was coming sooner or later. Or maybe because in addition to being handsome, I'm prescient. Like Negrodamus on Dave Chapelle. In some way, I do feel liberated because I feel like I'm free to pursue that which will bring me even more joy. It's like when you get fired, and the sheer power you feel at ripping off your tie. And then your shirt. And then your pants as you squat over your boss's Porsche and turn Metallic Arena Red into turd brown. "You can take them TPS reports and shove them up your ass, Neidermeyer!" Of course, I would never do anythjing like that. And I don't want to minimize or disrespect the memory of the relationship. I enjoyed our time together, I loved the Sunday mornings, and I thank her for the laughs and the hugs and the sweet kisses goodbye. That said, I don't look back in anger, only in fondness. It really had some good points, and it was one of the longer in the rather flash and dash romantic history of mine. The ground war has never been something I've been that interested in fighting. I'm much more of a blitzkrieg, scorched earth kind of guy. And I have Panzers at the ready, lined up next to the Polish border with Hans and Gunther gunning the engines as we speak. There's a certain bartender of interesting origin and even more interesting pointof view who I've set my conquesting sights on. So for the glory of der Fatherland, I leave you, gentle readers.

Sir, could you stand next to this brown paper bag..

2005-01-30T18:05:00.000-08:00

So, the other day, my homegirl comes in town. Well, not really my homegirl cause we actually never really kicked it like that before, but she's really cool with oneof my other homegirls who really is my homegirl, so good enough for me. And as I have begun to realize, the longer you're out of college, the less it matters what your relationship was like with a person in college; It only matters that you went to college with the motherfucker. That alone is excuse enough to buy the person a drink, become homies, and attend their wedding. You might have hated this person in college, and they might have hated you. But now that you're a grown-up (as much as can reasonably be expected at least), just having the same alma mater is good enough to forge a friendship. Doesn't even have to be the same alma mater, it's good enough if it was across the street or down the way. Sheeit, I've become friends with people who went to Morehead State just because them shits sound similar. It can make conversation kinda awkward though.

Me: "Dog, you remember when we used to go down to Nakoma's Coney Island, high as shit, and then that nigga Mark got kidnapped!? Oh, man, those were the times!"
Him: "No."
(Uncomfortable silence)
Him: Well what about the time we all dressed up in blackface for Halloween and pretended to be Omega negroes, what with the barking and acting like monkeys? Heavens, that was a gas! Or wait, wait, that one time when all the Tri-Omicron brothers and I left nooses on the doors of all the colored students?! Hazah, what a good show!"
(Uncomfortable Silence)
Me: I'm gonna slit your throat when we leave the club. You want another Corona 'fore I close out my tab?

In any case, old girl comes in town for her birthday cause her family and best friend and such are here, and I run into her and her homegirl at Ozio's, one of our preferred Friday destinations here in the DC metro area. So, I proceed to further them down the road of intoxication, which at that point, was a short trip, and we all kick it and such. Later, I go to grab some Ethiopian food and head back to the house, cause I'm exhausted. I love Ethipian food. It's great. But somehow, in my rush to order, the lady thought that I wanted my Gored Gored (a kind of beef stew) raw. Now I'm cool with eating raw meat. I can eat anything. I once ate a hand grenade and I felt fine. I was shitting shrapnel for a couple days, but the explosion didn't even faze me. I love kitfo, which is another Ethiopian dish that consists of coursely ground raw beef, spiced butter and cottage cheese, with a spicy dipping powder. Delish. But here are these big ass cubes of uncooked meat staring at me, and I'm like, not tonight, so I go home, empty the contents of the styrofoam container into a skileet, and get to cooking. So old girl calls me in the morning and invites me to her friend's place for a birthday get together. I brought jerk wings and a handle of Bacardi, which was overkill. Now, I know they said that it was gonna be a small gathering, but no one told me everyone was gonna be married. I mean everyone. Except forme, the birthday homegirl and the dude birthday homegirl met when she was drunk. And besides being married, everyone was light. I'm talking beyond pale. I shit you not when I say I felt like Mekhi Phifer in that motherfucker. And this from a dude who has frequently been refferred to as piss colored. It was very pleasant and all, and everyone was successful and doctoral. Except for the token white dude who was in the Military, but he was decent-ranking so...Even he had a light chick. She was cute too, Dominican or Haitian or some shit. Looked like Rachel from BET. We miss you, Rachel. You have no idea. But I had to ask: Where are my dark-skinned brothers and sisters? Were they purposefully excluded or was this just the luck of the draw that I ended up at a party with more yellow fever than a Pirate ship? Were they secretly trying to haze me into their ligh-skinned fraternity. Was I going to only be allowed in the winter, and shunned when I darken up in the warmer months. If I sojourned to Miami for a couple of days, would I be persona non grata? I was beginning to get paranoid. And the white dude's girl was about to get me in trouble. So I left. I heard later on that the lightest-skinned wife at the party got tore upand started embarrassing herself and her husband. That's the thing about them red girls, boy, they're some drunkards. Something about that octaroon blood. Probably that one gene of Seminole they all got in them.

First Brad and Jen break up...

2005-01-26T19:45:00.000-08:00

...and every time I wake up, some other couple's doing the same. And I might be going the same road. Not that I'm in a couple or anything. But you know how it iuh. Brutha got sitchuashuns, y'unnastan! (If you didn't unnastan, please look up that ignorant ass nigga with the S-Curl that was on American Idol the other day. But that's another blog. Matter of fact, that gold toothed, crip-walking motherfucka's a whole other book. See Nigger Stain, Bigsby, C., or perhaps Nigger Book, Bigsby, C.) See, the thing is, I empathize with Brad completely. And not just because we're both brutally handsome and talented. Plus, we both smoke, so an early and grisly death at the hands of Emphysema is not unlikely. But we're in kind ofa similar situation. He's with a woman who 99% of the world would break their own arm off and shove up their ass if it meant that she would pay them the slightest attention. Everybody looks at them as this example of what a great relationship should be and shit. And she's a great girl. She cares about you and likes you a ton and is good to you. From the outside looking it, it's like, "Dog, you done came up." But then you go and do a movie and you meet Angelina Jolie. And she's one of the baddest motherfuckers of all time. One of the best looking motherfuckers, one of the best singers you'll ever...you get the point. And all of a sudden, this gilded little cage you've built for yourself becomes a lot less appealing. But you've put in time with your woman and you love her and feel a responsibility for her happiness. So you're kind of fucked. I guess it's like the guy who goes and buys the most expensive Benz he can afford, and it's great. It's solid, it's respectable, looks great, drives great. All the neighborhood kids point and say: that's my car! And then one day, you're at the light, and a motherfucker pulls up beside you in a fire-engine red Ferrari. With Mike Jones screwed and chopped beating out the trunk. And you just realize that there's something more out there. So I guess you have to decide: Do you sell the benz? Cause then you're out of a ride, and you lost all that money in depreciation. And who knows, you might never even get that Ferrari. The safe bet would be to stay with the good thing you've got. You can still have some really good times in that Benz. You can wash it on Sundays, and smile as it gleams in the sun. You can throw some nice rims on it and commit to maintaining and loving it. But I guess the thing is, every now and again, you'd see that Ferrari, and you'd know that there was something better out there. Not better for other people or what other people want. But something just for you. Imola red with the black Daytona seats and the ceramic brakes with the Tubi exhaust. I haven't driven my Ferrari yet. But I know it's out there. Now what to do with this Benz?

Men are from Mars, Women are retards

2005-01-19T17:27:00.000-08:00

So I'm having this conversation with a female friend of mine the other day. And by friend, I mean I have never shoved my penis in any of her various orifices. I was talking about a situation I had bennn in wherein I was dating a woman, who was pretty much the main one, but dating other people. I had made it clear to this woman that she was not the only one in no uncertain terms. In any case, my female friend begins telling me how wrong I was, etc. and I'm sitting there incredulous, like how am I wrong? If I didn't tell old girl, I'd be wrong, but since I did, I mean, come on. Her response is that "You know women are crazy. You know she's gonna hang around hoping you'll come around and fall in love with her, and you'll break her heart." Thus, I am supposed to be responsible for someone else's misguiding themselves despite my clear warning to the contrary. Fuck kind of shit is that? I think my problem is I was raised by and around women as a child, who didn't take a lot of shit. I never really was exposed to the idea that women were irrational and idiotic until I got to college. And I still never bought it because I knew enough women who were emotionally mature enought that I didn't have to patronize them with bullshit. My view is: we're both adults. If I communicate with you from a good-faith perspective, I've done as much as I'm willing to do frankly. The ball's in your court at that point. In any case, now I think my friend is stupid. As for the last situation, I started dating someone else, and wouldn't you know it, we kind of peterd out, and yes, she was hurt and somewhatangry, but I think she's over it. We still talk on the phone and are col and stuff. But it's better that we let it die a natural death than me trying to force a situation that didn't work for me. That's just my opinion. Also, given that I received two comments on my last posting, I have decided that I am a black figurehead, and a becon of moral authprity in the community. Thus, I will be accepting contributions on behalf of different political parties to help spread their message. Thanks for the bright idea, Armstrong!

Live and let die...

2005-01-17T17:29:00.000-08:00

So today being Martin Luther King (or the King, depending on what zone or ward of whatever little town it is you call home)'s birthday, I thought it would be nice to wish you all a lovely day off and a peaceful day. I found out a couple days ago that a guy a knew in high school was killed on I belive Dec. 28th. He didn't even make it to see '05. The details of his death haven't really been made clear to me as this is second-hand information anyway, but one thing's for sure: He's dead. Dead as a doorknob, dead as polka dot silk shirts, pushing up daisies. Apparently he was killed in a parking lot outside of some mall in Virginia. Which probably means he died over some bullshit. I always wonder when I hear about people getting killed: How do you actually kill someone? Obviously, you pull a trigger, or twist a knife, or throw a motherfucker out of a moving plane with noparachute, that's not my point. How do you actually in your mind decide you are going to end someone's life? I can see if you're in Fallujah, and all of a sudden, you hear Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la! If that's me ducked down behind those welded on armor plates in those transport trucks, I'm poppoing up and I'm blowing every moving thing I see to bits. But just out in the parking lot at a mall, what can someone say or do to you that prompts you to have their mother singing on Saturday and a neighborhood wearing RIP t-shirts for a couple of weeks. How do you keep that one on your conscience. I guess whoever pulled the trigger of the gun that killed King probably had thought about it for a while. There was something there, a hatred, or a passion, or a fear, or even a political end, which in his mind justified what was an assassination. I actually understand that far more than I do what happened to Jimmy. Given a grassy knoll, a 30-06 carbine, and a clear sight of target, I don't think I'd lose a moment's sleep taking out whoever is leading the Arab militia that's running through Sudan killing and raping black Africans. Given a short shiv and some time alone with Mr. Bin Ladin, I might leave the room with a little of the blood from his amateur unelective kidney surgery staining my shirt. But I still don't understand how you kill a guy in a parking lot in a shopping mall in suburban America. Here's hoping you know better than I do, Jimmy. And I hope you're not mad at me for writing this. You were a decent guy, and I wouldn't want you to be upset with me.

Still Tippin' On G4's

2005-01-09T08:48:00.000-08:00

Thursday, January 6, 2005: Key West, Florida

El Jefe: Hey (Johnny_Utah)
Special Agent Utah: Jefe, how's it going?
El Jefe: Great. Say, when are you leaving?
Special Agent Utah: Oh, tomorrow at 1.
El Jefe: Are you going back to Virginia?
Special Agent Utah: Yes, actually.
El Jefe: Why don't you fly back with us? Talk to Moneypenny and she'll order you dinner.
Special Agent Utah: (Gulp)! Oh, thank you, excellency! You are benevolent and merciful! I shall tell my children in years to come of your kindness and munificence. You honor me! (Bowing and Scraping)

Friday, January 7, 2005: Elevation: 42,000 feet, airspeed 620 mph, somewhereover North Carolina.

Ladies and Gentlemen, let me assure you that the G4 private jet is in fact the only way to travel. How do I, a lowly corporate slave know this? Well, read the transcript above. For reason or another, and I have no idea why frankly, the COO of our company, who clears $28,000,000 a year in salary alone, decided to invite me to fly back from our sales conference in Florida on the company jet. Now, to be honest, I don't know if it was a G4. Frankly, it could have been a G.5 and I wouldn't have given a shit. I still felt like Lyor Cohen in that one episode of MTV's Diary.

I could go on and on about how nice the plane was, all the woodgrain, DVD players and screens everywhere, etc., but this is of little concern. Merely trust that it was a far superior air travel experience than being herded like cattle into the belly of a delapidated Southwest 727, flanked on one side by a vomiting, crying baby, and on the other by an obese sweating white woman from South Carolina who enjoys nothing more than regaling you with tales of how she makes pickles in her bathtub while periodically farting. I think the more interesting moral of the story here is once again, my ambivalent relationship with corporate America. On the one hand, I am very sure that I have no intention of padding someone else's bottom line for the rest of my life. On the other hand, private jets are really, really nice. It's funny, because for the rest of the conference, I tried to keep the invitation real real low, so as not to inspire the ire of my coworkers. When people asked when I was leaving, I got real fucking vague.

Special Agent Montana: Hey, Utah, when ya leaving?
Special Agent Utah: er, um, I dunno, this afternoon.
Special Agent Montana: No shit. What flight ya taking?
Special Agent Utah: Uh, one of them.
Special Agent Montana: Yeah, but which airline? There are only two flights out and I know you must be..
Special Agent Utah: Sir, I bid you good day!
Special Agent Montana: Sir?! I'm a woman. Look,I'm pregna..
Special Agent Utah: Sir, I have bid you good day!

In any case, one of my coworkers did get wind of this. Apparently, he was talking with Moneypenny and El Jefe and El Jefe was informing him of their (our) travel plans and says, Oh yeah, Utah's coming back with us. This co-worer, who has a similar position to mine, but has been there far longer and is much older, then shit a brick, according to Moneypenny (our support specialist). She described there being an uncomfortable silence after that.

Moneypenny: So yeah, I should get going
Special Agent Dakota: It took me two fucking years to get on that plane.
Moneypenny: Yeaaah. Um, I have to go file my corns.
Special Agent Dakota: sigh

To give you some background, I've been at the company about five months and change. But actually, I know why El Jefe invited me. Two reasons really. One, we both play basketball. He's pretty good, actually, and like most exective officers, ridiculously competitive. His team has won the annual Vegas three-on-three tournament three years running. Defeating him in games of skill or chance is considered a CLM (Career Limiting Move). In any case, my three-on three team met his in the finals, and we played a hard fought game in the freezing dead of winter outside which he won 16-15. I posted him up frequently and scored many times on him. He got me a few times as well above the key, so it pretty much evened out. This was the best possible outcome, because the boss gets to win and we come off as competitive, hard driving guys. There's no other good outcome. You beat him,he fires you. He blows you out, he thinks you're a bunch of pansies. And then he fires you. Of course, what he seems to remember most about the game, and will bring this up in any conversation, is how I elbowed him a bunch of times. While normally, this would be a very bad move, I think he's taken this as a sign that I'm competitive like he is, and he's taken a shine to this attribute of my personality.

Reason two is that Moneypenny and I get along really well, and he used to coach her basketball team (see a pattern here) along with his daughter back in their hometown. So friends of friends make friends. But the real moral of the story here is that I like private jets, and I want one for myself. And El Jefe is a pretty great guy. I see why the whole organization has so much respect for him. I want to be like him when I grow up.

Sweet Home Alabama

2005-01-05T13:33:00.000-08:00

I was reading an article in the Washington Post the other day (link not available) which talked about a recent vote which was about concurrent with the presidential vote. The general gist of the article is that the good people of the great state of Alabama voted (by a somehwat narrow margin of 13oo odd votes) not to guarantee a right to public education, not to eliminate the right to charge poll taxes (remember those little fees they used to charge negroes to vote?), and not to change language in the state constitution which mandates seperate schools for white and colored children. Now, you can ask JC Love himself(AKA alabama Porch Monkey), and no one has more respect and admiration for the people of the great state of Alabama than myself (sarcasm), but this really made me sick. It didn't particularly upset me that this was widely a Republican led effort (expected), or that they justified the vote by hiding behind the spectre of raising taxes (again, expected), or even that proponents of the legislation argued that it made no difference on the ground because federal law trumps state law. It does not shock me in the least that Alabama Christian Coalition President John Giles opposed changing the Alabama constititution. After all, States' rights, taxes, and God have always been great reasons to opress and degrade black people in the South. What makes my blood boil so hard you could add baking soda and make Crack is that there were not 1300 Black people in the entire cousin-fucking state of Alabama that had enough pride, self-esteem, or respect for themselves to get off their porch, jump in their '87 Regal on vogues, and vote. Where the fuck was the NAACP or the Urban League, or just one good pastor going door to door, getting people to vote? As far as I'm concerned, the jungle bunnies deserve what they get. Here again is the problem with Black people. We don't do shit for ourselves, and then complain about what is being done to us. Imagine for a second if New York mandated separate schools for Jews and gentiles. The city would shut down and everybody who voted for that legislation would be a paraiah. But you can still walk all over the Southern Negro any way you please and he won't do nothing but scratch his head and sing a spiritual. Sorry Spike, I disagree. Niggas ain't a beautiful thing.

Welcome back to the trap...

2005-01-03T22:17:00.000-08:00

With another heavy Chevy, beating Dope boys at craps..

Well, it's a new year. Mid-decade. Funny, it seems like yesterday the idea of 2000 was hard to fathom. Fuck were we we gonna call the decade: The double- O's? The zero's? 2k-whatever? Didn't quite have the same ring as the nine-tre, which was truly the last year with exceptional nomenclature. As it were, I find myself once again posting on the internet as a half-assed attempt to fulfill my new year's resolution to start writing again. I shut down my last blog a couple years ago. While Swarth and Loathing Episode I was short-lived, it had a rabid following. Unfortunately, it was a little too honest, and my dumb ass used my real name as my screen name, thus allowing anyone who googled me to learn of my hidden secrets and desires. I didn't really realize anyone gave enough of a shit to google me, but judging by the emails I received people who I know only peripherally, my kool-aid was becoming such that everyone was in it. This time around, perhaps a small bit of discretion. Or maybe not. That Wonkette girl that ran around having buttsex with everyone got a six-figure book deal, so maybe she was just the opening salvo in an Al-Zarqawi like mortar salvo of D.C. area talent to go from blogging to screenwriting. So, no mo 04'! (Kiss the internal rhyme, bitches, kiss the rhyme!) It's almost a shame, because, looking back, '04 was a pretty damn good year. I finally made the middle class. I dated the same girl (and am still going strong) for five months, eclipsing my previous record of two weeks set back in the late nineties. I'm a stone's throw away from buying a respectable house in one of the strongest real estate markets in the country. George Clooney took me to the hole in a game of hoops. Overall, not bad. Not perfect, mind you, but not bad. Certainly not as depressing as Killa Cal's (http://www.killacal.net/weblog/). For those of you that don'tknow, Killa is the man that actually introduced me to blogging and one of my friends from the old neighborhood (that being the Maroon Tiger office on the scenic campus of one Morehouse college in Atlanta,GA). I have to fly to Key West tomorrow, soI'll keep this short, but yes, 04 was a fine year. and '05 stands to be even better. This might finally be the year that I buy a '72 Chevelle ragtop and throw some 22"s under it. But we'll see how the bonuses look come spring.

...Besides imagery, the finest form of flattery
but now it's time to welcome back the nigga niggas rather see..
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back!