It's Halloween: fear, foolery, and Fred Phelps

Given the looming holiday [shivers at scary word], I've been thinking about what I fear or what spooks me (Did you know that "spook" was (still is with some backwoods peeps) a hateful term used to describe negroes? The More You Know...[NBC fanfare with the little star plays]. I miss my Saturday morning commercials and "Saved By the Bell." Ya'll remember "California Dreams?" Oh,when life was simple. All I needed to be happy was a bowl of Fruit Loops (or his generic cousin Fruity O's who still tasted the bomb...depending on the grocery check that month) and my Saturday cartoons. But, I digress...like I always do. Anyhoo, on thinking about what I fear, I reaffirmed my own thoughts about myself...I IS Craaaaaaaazy. I don't fear the big things like Death ("Everybody's doing it"...eventually...the one time peer pressure is okay to yield to) or being broke (I'll be provided for...either by my own doing or because I'm finally going to let the world know that I'm Oprah's lovechild) or aging harshly (Good Black don't crack. Crack is wack! LOL! My paternal fam lives to be like three hundred years old. "They call him Moses!" I IS a trip! LOL!). My fears are ri-dic-u-LOUS!

1). I fear being fat. I don't wanna be a biggun'. I remember my days as a chunky husky little boy (who was still cute). It wasn't fun. Ironically, peeps didn't make fun of my bootyliciousness (dang, Beyonce...did you have to make up such a long word?). The rough boys on the playground tried to make me feel bad for being what the ol' folks call "soft." However, it really didn't (or couldn't) deter me from being ultra fabo and chillin' with all the cute girls (Times haven't changed. Fellas...take notes: I don't have to knock your girl's boots to be her boo.) Let me stop before some insecure, crotch-grabbin' little boy starts posting hate mail, tombout he got beef. It doesn't matter a bit to me, because I'm not a fan of the red meat. So, unless you planning on chillin' with some Hamburger Helper, you and your cow can be up and out. Peace. But, really. I refuse to be fat. I work out more than a ho' at a pimp convention. I am on my grind. And no, I am not a treadmill ho'. I can stop when I want to; it's just that he love me and he only beat me when I don't put in enough time. "Trick betta' have my calories!" [In fact, I was pimp slapped yesterday cause I didn't stretch like I should have, so I had to work overtime today to get in that extra couple of calories. Shoot, I can't have Cal Money (my treadmill/pimp's name) mad at me.]. Whatever the case, I am scared of being the size of Oprah's pocketbook!

2). I fear losing creativity. Creativity is like air to me. In fact, I think it is my air because when I'm working for Cal Money I can go for hours as long as I'm thinking about dancing or writing or performing or thinking of witty things to tell the people in my head (we chill with each other like everyday) and you (my always in tune readers). I don't ever want to see the day when I'm not contributing something creative and positive to the world. Plus, creativity is what makes the world go round...which is really my wardrobe if anybody asks. If you've seen me leave my closet (yes, people the one with clothes in it...not the one where the kids live), it definitely takes some creative sparks to keep me on top of even my worst days. Even my pajama game is on point. Beyonce holla back. I'm lookin' for the "Get Me Bodied (pajama remix)." LOL! But, yes. I don't ever want to be uncreative. That life would be boring and angry. Exhibit A: Most of the people on my job and their respective spouses. Exhibit B: Most of the people on my job and their friends. Exhibit C: I won't be here long enough to have an exhibit C.

3). I fear not being able to dream. Not dreams like Langston's deferred ones; but, dreams that you have at night. I love waking up and feeling like I've had a conversation or experience in some other realm outside of this reality...which for me is not really reality anyway because my instincts have allowed me to exist in a world all to my own. Dreams make sleep so much more fulfilling.

4). I fear being mean. I am not without faults (yeah, right...ya'll know I'm perfect and stuff...LOL!). I do however know that I make a conscious effort to be a postive contagion and make the place I inhabit as freeing as possible. I love making people smile (even to a fault). I am a jovial person. SIDNOTE: Doesn't jovial make me sound like I'm like 388 pounds and eating a donut right now? Maybe I should use another word that means happy or enjoyable. I'm thinking of one that starts with a G and ends in AY. Duh. I am a gay person. Wow. Who'da thunk it? So, I don't ever want to be in a place in my heart where or when I am being mean or negative. Don't get me wrong, I can wreck shop and throw some evil eyes if need be; but, that's only in extreme cases where my smile and normally demure demeanor is jeopardized. Mean is so not in this season...wait, the the black church just called in: it is in when it comes to a portion of their community that isn't decent in their eyes.

5). And here's the big one: I fear another BUSH in the white house. I don't even have to talk about this one. "Why?" you ask. Well, my friends, it's apparent if you watch the news (b/t the latest in the Britney Spears controversy and which presidential candidate can dance...has it really come to this? Another topic for another time...).

I guess I don't really have fears as much as preferences for my future.

In other news, a young not-so-black male and his other not-so-black male friends were discussing 2008 presidential nominees. When they got to BakBama, the young not-so-black male wanted to say he didn't like the colored candidate, but he saw me--a young black male that looked liked he might know a bit about politics--so he refrained from causing a scene (P.S. If you don't care for a candidate, I don't care as long as your reason is warranted and based on the fact that you don't agree with his/her take on issues of interest or their overall campaign. But, to assume that I would be upset that you don't like the negro nominee because I'm black is very much that "R" word we don't like to talk about...and I ain't talkin' about R.Kelly and his "let me piss on you self.") . No one and nothing is scared of me. TRUST. I am a skinny, yellow-bone BAGM with fashion sense. Do I look like I'm dangerous? No. I can take care of myself on that physical tip; but, at a glance, if my dangerous quotient was in the Jackson 5...I'd be Randy. You can't see it. LOL! BUT, maybe my not-so-black friends had information of which I was not yet aware.

I found out today that gays are the cause for the war in Iraq. Our troops are dying because of gays in America (I know the War on Terrorism has had so many names, but I'm not aware of it being called The Gay Civil War). I know the LGBT community is the bomb, but I didn't know we were THE BOMB. I've been a weapon of mass destruction all this time and didn't know. I should really thank that Christian fundamentalist group that pickets fallen soldiers' funerals with signs like "GOD HATES AMERICA." (Click here for more Fred Phelps bullsh.. theology)


If I were God, I'd be pissed,too. She gave us all this space to play with and all these great toys, and because we're too immature and selfish to share, we fight and call each other names. Sibling rivalry sucks. I wonder what He takes for migraines? She or He or the purple cow with blue polka-dots. When you see what God looks like and are able to relay the info, let a brotha' know. God is Love. That's what I know.

Here's a preview of the new play I'm working on: "Sibling Rivalry"

HETERO MAN CHILD #1: "I got married first."

HOMO CHILD #2: "But I wanna get married."

HETERO MAN CHILD #1: "You can't. Marriage is mine."

WOMAN CHILD #1: "Fine. I want to be paid the same as you since we do the same job."

HETERO MAN CHILD #1: "No. I was paid this much first."

WOMAN CHILD, HOMO CHILD, NOT-SO-WHITE MALE CHILD (in unison): "I want to be treated with respect."

HETERO MAN CHILD #1: "No, only I can be respected. I had respect first. It's mine."

[Yelling and pinching and name-calling--an all-out war--ensues. Blackout.]

And scene. I'm on the phone now with Tyler Perry. He says if I add some gospel music it'll be a hit. Must've been the same advice he gave BakBama bout asking Donnie Mac to be a part of his campaign concert. "Why did I get married?" To Be Continued...we still can't yet.

It's all love.
the envy of the world.

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More Office Randomness!

More office randomness. We got a new employee today that is of the female persuasion: LET THE DI** MEASURING CONTEST BEGIN! I am knowledgeable of the mating rituals of the hettys but I always question whether or not they know how they look...especially the menses. I am not oblivious to the alpha male trying to lay claim (among other things) to unchartered territory; but, when do they grow out of it or realize how ridiculous it sounds to tell a woman for the nth time about your new gun, car, steriod supplement? The fun bit of this is that Ms. Newbie wasn't goin' for any of it. She let it be known that her stats were better if not the best of all of the hounds that were sniffing around her space. And the best part is that she is really quite beautiful so there was a lil' bit of salt added to the wound of my male counterparts' egos. Why am I lavashing in their ego bursting?
Because prior to today, these boys were tombout how they could score her first. They made it apparent that if she wasn't on that America's Next Top Model tip (circa Eva Pigford) then they would not help or befriend her as an employee. SEXISM is still all up in the spot, grabbing his overstated Oscar Meyer knockoff and chuckling 'bout how it's a man's world. SICK. This is another reason why my present job situation is so ti-RED. I am not blind to the ways of our sexist society; but, given that I am supposedly working with a group of people that are about representing and being the greater good, I just expect that the greater good would include treating women with respect and the occasional compliement is cool, too (when it's not sullied by sexual agendas and lustful misperceptions). The fam is no different. Horny, sex addicts and just plain ol' ignorant mofos are everywhere trying to bust for a buck. Well, I'm NOT GOIN'. This is one BAGM that is not with selling my goals short for some quick tussle in the sheets or backseat action that will most like be owned by Enterprise or our friends at Rent-A-Car. LOL! What was the catalyst of such a rant, you ask? Why, my friend, I am realizing that a "friendship" is going to take some rethinking next time around. Plus, I am bored with myself. There are only so many games I can enjoy with the guys in my head (crazy moment #156). Also, [enough with the questions already!] why have I suddenly become interested in pursing friends? Because I am a wise sixty-year old in a youthful very nice-looking twenty-something body who is ready to try out my mind games on some helpless and engaging soul. NO, I am not a player of sorts...simply an analyst of socio-mental and emotional happenings i.e. this is just a nice way to say I am not looking for the commitment thing, but rather some individuals that could help with my research. LOL! I am crazy...and that's why you love me (if you don't or this is not the reason, please don't comment because most of my self and life perceptions are based on the belief that I am lovable).


It's all love.
the envy of the world

P.S. If you find yourself reading this blog and wondering why I am so up and down (one minute I'm all in a tizzy about the ailments of the black community or the lack of love and support shown to the fam or the perpetual degradation of black women and the next minute I am all about some "where is my sanity?" ish...it's because I am a not easily defined or stationed. I am a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. Plus, if I say that I'm really just a regular guy with hopes and dreams for my and my community's future...you probably won't read what I have to say. SO, for all practical purposes, I am complex and mysterious. Got it? [nod your head or place your right hand on your screen right now and be amazed]







JUST LIKE I THOUGHT: YOU ARE CRAZY TOO! This is not Billy Graham speaking to you. You will not be healed. Whew! And I thought I was crazy. Lawdamercy! Get this chile some tylenol and maalox. I don't know what this combo does, but surely it'll fix you up.

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Is this as funny as I think it is? (Not funny haha, but this is absurd)

The jokes write themselves people. Superhead and Louis Farrakhan. What do they have in common? A million men...[rimshot] "I'm here all week, folks." Farrakhan probably trying to send the Nation after me. Welp...if so, they'll be turned away. I'm an ailment to their agenda.

PLUS...excerpts from Dr. Huxtable's new book "The Path from Victims to Victors"

On what it takes:
“What will it take to pull our people out of poverty? What will get us to contemplate a life with brighter dreams? What will inspire us to pursue the future as if it mattered? How will we learn to respect ourselves and help each other? What will it take for us to become entrepreneurs and to run businesses that will serve the community, not destroy it? We ask these questions only because we think there are answers, real ones, attainable ones.”

On criticism:
“Certain people tell us that we are picking on the poor. Many of those who accuse us are scholars and intellectuals, upset that we are not blaming everything on white people as they do. Well, only blaming the system keeps certain black people in the limelight but it also keeps the black poor wallowing in victimhood.”

On raising children:
“All black parents can do right by their children, and all black children can succeed. There is no reason why not.”

“Use standard English when you have your kids together, not Black English. They’ll hear enough of that in the streets…Watch the movie My Fair Lady. All cultures discriminate against people who have not mastered the standard language, and when race is involved, it is all that much harder for a nonstandard speaker to feel competent or even at home in the culture.”

On the media:
“Some of the most negative images of African Americans on TV and in the movies seem to be the most popular among young people—black and white. With both good and bad media out there, you have to help select media for kids that will support their successes and suppress their urge to give up or drop out.”

On black men:
“Gangsta rap makes our young people tough, but not so tough they can walk through prison walls. It can jazz them about sex, but it can’t begin to make them a good father. No matter how often, or how publicly they grab their crotches, crotch-grabbing isn’t even going to get them a bus ride downtown.”

On “victimhood”:
“Sometimes people with a victim mentality feel hopeless and do self-destructive things that make their lives even worse. It is time to redirect that energy. It is time to think positively and act positively. Black communities and families must provide our youth with the love and guidance that keeps them strong and on that positive path. Blaming white people can be a way for some black people to feel better about themselves but it doesn’t pay the electric bills.”

Chapter 1

WHAT’ S GOING ON WITH BLACK MEN?
For the last generation or two, as our communities dissolved and our parenting skills broke down, no one has suffered more than our young black men.

Your authors have been around long enough, and traveled widely enough, to think we understand something about the problem. And we’re hopeful enough—or desperate enough—to think that with all of us working together we might find our way to a solution. Let’s start with one very basic fact. Back in 1950, before Brown v. Board of Education, before the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act, when Rosa Parks was still sitting in the back of her Montgomery bus, when the NBA was just about all white, back in those troubled times, black boys were born into a different world than they are today. Obviously, many civil rights leaders had hoped that with the demise in the 1960s of officially sanctioned forms of segregation and discrimination, black males would have greater access to the mainstream of American society. They had fully expected that these young men would be in a better position in every way—financially, psychologically, legally—to sustain viable marriages and families. Instead, the overall situation has continued to go downhill among the poor who are mostly shut out from the mainstream of success.

How is that possible?

There is one statistic that captures the bleakness. In 1950, five out of every six black children were born into a two-parent home. Today, that number is less than two out of six. In poor communities, that number is lower still. There are whole blocks with scarcely a married couple, whole blocks without responsible males to watch out for wayward boys, whole neighborhoods in which little girls and boys come of age without seeing up close a committed partnership and perhaps never having attended a wedding.


**As I am posting this, my coworkers are discussing how they agree with Mr. Cosby.**

Co-Worker #1: "Don't take offense to this (indicating that I, the lone black person, am in for a treat), but, I agree with Cosby's philosophy about life. He made a comment about blacks bringing it upon themselves. Why can't blacks just be normal productive citizens?

Co-Worker #2: "Yeah. I used to have like a lot of his video tapes. But, I agree. It's absurd that they butcher the English language. They even had the nerve to complain that the the Public Service Announcements heard on television and radio be offered in Ebonics. If they'd speak normal, people wouldn't look at them differently. See you tomorrow!"

Co-Worker #1 and Co-Worker #2 leave the office, ignorantly blissful. Oblivious to black life and their own hand in perpetuating the virus known as cultural insensitivity.

And yet, no one can put their finger on why blacks are angry. I need more time with this one, Heathcliff. You're making some valid points; BUT, some of your insights are clouded and distorted by your upper class, celebrity status with its benefits and communal disconnect. Your effort is notable; but, the message may not be as uplifting as you see it. But, again...I will revisit this on the morrow. I need a lil' time to let your words of discouragement support digest.

LASTLY...I don't know about BakBama. Dancing with one of the fam (who recently suffered the loss of a dog...yes I am still pissed). Why didn't he invite Donnie Mac and MaryMary on to sing some songs of togetherness and love? Um...Yeah.



It's all love.
the envy of the world

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Intimate Portrait...a revelation of sorts

**Dim the lights. Put on some Chaka or Jill Scott or the new Eric Roberson. Veg out with some healthy junk food. And let's get personal**
I don't use the blog to really post much about myself (I'm only interesting to the world in my head...and those in my fanclub); however, your emails have and the past couple of weeks have moved me to do so. So, here goes. I'm anxious and depressed over my current (temporary) job situation. It's not at all fulfilling and...well, I don't like it. The pay is comfortable, but money is not the key to real happiness (just look at our celebrities these days). I know that I'll be up and out in a couple of months but the wait is driving me crazy...literally. The other night I was standing on my nightstand @ 1:30 in the am tombout how much different the world (or rather my room) looked from up here. The people I work with are good people (from what I've gathered); but we AIN'T got nothin' in common except for our job. Office convo is usually as follows:

Co-Worker #1: "Well, I think that Indians shouldn't complain about being called Indians because that's what they are?

Me: [Silent for the time being because this ignorance is rampant nowadays. I hold my tongue so as to not go off on CW and tell him that there are West Indians and other middle eastern peoples that care not to be lumped into a category that doesn't better identify them and their history.

Co-Worker #2: "Women are so sensitive. It must be her time of the month."

Me: [Still silent and holding my tongue so as to not tell CW2 that any human that can bear his stupidity for nine months and then another 18 @ least is not sensitive, but strong. Furthermore, my mother and her mother are women, and I don't appreciate you generalizing their struggle and triumph simply because your ego is too fragile to acknowledge your own weaknesses which you mask with big trucks, big guns, and tepid bravado that my teenage cousin can see through.]

Co-Worker #3: Affirmative action is wrong. It's reverse racism. I grew up across the street from the projects and the bus system would pick up the black kids and take them to school; while I had to have my mom take me to school. I couldn't ride the bus because affirmative action said my household made too much money."

Me: "Affirmative is a tool by which minorities e.g. Black Americans can at least guarantee some sense of job security and benefits outside of domestic custodial technician (maid); domestic youth care provider (mammy); and spiritual propogandist (preachologist). I am sorry that you and your siblings could not suffer the humiliation of being bused to white schools that did not want or acknowledge your presence. But because of affirmative action you and others like you have a reason to make ignorant comments like, this day in and day out, so as to stay in fashion. For we all know Ignorance is in this season. And as for affirmative action being reverse racism: I'm sure Clarence Thomas would agree with you. What out-for-himself individual wouldn't agree. Also, I am glad that your rose-colored glasses have allowed you to actually believe that jobs in this country actually go to the "best man for the job": a highly educated good ol' boy who hates strongly dislikes the gays and appreciates the place of a woman (in his bed and kitchen...in that order). But, I digress. Affirmative action is reverse racism, and slavery was a great institution. (um...yeah)

[It goes without saying that convo in the office usually sticks to staples and reports whenever I'm in the vicinity. "Damn negroes with minds. Should never have gave them books without pictures." LOL!]

Also, I had a revelation about my love like life. The last year has been the residue of my last "friendship" (wasn't no relations, kids). I really liked and lusted and kind of almost loved a young but older than me guy who was a learning experience to say the least. It has taken me the better half of 2007 to realize that I have made a lot of decisions running away from the hurt HE caused (mostly because I allowed him to...but, also because it's easier to blame him and flat out...HE IS TO BLAME). As the gays can attest to, it's somewhat difficult to be celibate and date in our community, sooooo I choose to have "friendships" that are on a one to five numeric ratings continuum:
you're just something to pass the time (1); you make me laugh...not just because you look funny (2); i like you (3); you can touch me now...not like that you horndog (4);strong like a/k/a i really like you a/k/a i don't know what love is...yet, so you're doing pretty good to be at this point, buster(5).
**Please feel free to use this chart. It's been useful for me the past two decades or so.**
But, yeah. So, said guy was only moonlighting. I know you're saying that I've already met my stupidity quotient with this one...but, I had hope and that whole naivete thing going on back in the day when I was young...I'm not a kid anymore (that was my jam in '94). But, I digress. I realized, while writing in my journal (cause boys don't have diaries) and doing really poetic things like doodles illustrating my state of mind (It's scary...but it's kinda true.), that whatever hodgepodge of emotion we experienced in the time I knew him really took a toll on me. I uprooted myself in a lot of ways trying to subconciously run the hurt away. My present job is a result of it! But, I can't give him all the credit. Part of my job choice was also because I found my previous existence suffocating. All in all, this revelation has only helped me realize why I took this job and stepped away from my old life.

Speaking of my old life, I miss it like mainstream media totally missed the foul comparisons of Katrina and the Cali fires (They ain't the same, folks. FEMA shut up and sit down). Period.
Then there is the on-going back and forth preferred-blindness of my family who "doesn't know" that I like the menses. Really, folks. I haven't dated anyone of the female persuasion since I was fourteen. I still have tons of sistafriends, but we exist on the premise that our loveship is not "like that." (love my BAPS!) I think it's more frustating than anything else, because it's that pink elephant in the room that they ask around...yes, around (hinting). I don't feel it's fair to simply give people information that, to me, seems small in comparison to the totality of who I am. They don't say to me, "Hi. I am blah, and I am heterosexual." So, why should I be all like, "Hi. I am _____, and I like the menses." Maybe this is immature...but, not. Making such an assumption about my sexuality (that I'm a straighty) is not fair. I could just as easily assume that everyone is part of the fam. I know I should give everyone time to let this part of me marinate with them, but I don't have time for the nth conversation about the "wife" I'm going to marry or the "girlfriend" I need to help me enjoy life outside of my career. BOY STOP. Not GOIN. I love who I love and how I love with no apologies and I refuse to be made to feel less than because of something that brings me joy and the occasional good conversation.
Well, in ending, I hope you enjoyed a more intimate look inside the mind of yours truly. It was good to release all of this. I'll be back with some news issues later. Till then,
It's all love.
the envy of the world

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Once Upon Wednesday: Noose Edition

California is burning, unfortunately. I have been watching the news coverage on the fires and the people (notice that I said people...unlike the Katrina refugees). This ain't Katrina. So, I wish the media would stop painting this situation as an invitation for FEMA to redeem itself. Why would we need another situation from which to gain redemption when the original situation is still present? There are still "refugees" scouting the streets of New Orleans, homeless, and abroad. Bush hasn't visited Cali yet, but he probably will. While there, I'm sure he'll offer a lame speech and pass around the collection plate for the "building fund"--the war in Iraq. In Bombs We Trust. He will then say this is a time to come together and show our patriotism (um...yeah), followed by some hatefully ignorant Southern church goer who will say that the fires are punishment for all them homosexuals the Golden State is hosting. Gays also are the cause for the sky being overcast, obesity, and the loss of Iggy. If the gays are so powerful, why wouldn't we save ourselves the trouble and just takeover the country? Surely we could drop bombs and spend billions of dollars reworking another country's sense of protection and values. It'd definitely be cheaper if we did it. Ask the cast of Queer Eye...or Kimora Lee Simmons in all of her fabulosity (ain't a word). But this is not part of today's musings; so, I'll just say that I hope Cali residents get help and return to their lives safely and with little to no trauma.
Now for today's topics.



The Hollywood Welcome Committee that is Superhead is on the cover of "Today's Black Woman" December Issue. Now, TBW ain't Essence or even Ebony for that matter; but, surely they see why having someone who has made a living explicitly confessing and promoting her sexscapades is problematic. If this is an example of today's black woman, there are some women whom I know who choose not to live in the present. Since when did being a 'ho speak to the women of today. Wait: our entertainment promotes such an image and rewards such actions. I hope that she is not supposed to be representing today's black woman. If she is, we are in trouble because this is the black womb that we are endangering. Little Rasheed wants to be basketball/rapper with a shoe deal and mixtapes. Little Vontisha wants to be like Superhead when the bumps on her chest begin to grow. Why? Because we are showing our children that it pays to be pimps and hoes. We are raising a community of pimps and hoes that think this culture is perfectly normal because they have no sense of the history of our people in America and abroad and why such images are problematic. Why aren't we boycotting Superhead's book? Or holding a black women's outreach conference to encourage our daughters, mothers, and wives to be the powerful beautiul strong humans that they are? Why haven't we marched on Hollywood or held vigils for the demise of the "Black Is Beautiful" movement? Lemme move on. I don't get US sometime.

Superhead recently made some comments on Jamie Foxx’s radio show:
I am a highly educated woman who knows how to tap into my nigger side...
...I suck everything well. (Source)

Highly educated? Um...yeah. I'm on the line with Alex Trebek. Not only does he want you as a contestant on the show; but, he also wants to use you as a category: "I'll take nihlistic sex addicts for 500." When your done, he'd like to know what he needs to do to be in one of your books. Got Progress? Hardly.

Aunt Halle made a Jew joke on the Leno show and is sorry. Is anyone aware that Nooses are being found everywhere nowadays. I don't think she meant any malice in saying it; but, at this tense time in our country, it's best not to just start mentioning other races/ethnicities or perpetuating sterotypes. (duh.) I don't think this will hurt Halle's career; but, it'll probably take up two of JENA's four-minute segement on the news. Sorry Mychal Bell. You are old news.

Tupac is hanged! Well...kind of. The statue of the gunned-down rapper was vandalized and--the new star this fall--A. Noose--was placed around his neck. This ish is ridiculous. Anita Noose is making her rounds like any good 'ho would. She's been spotted in some of this year's hottest spots: Jena, Louisiana; Palmdale, California; even tried to get her study on at University of Maryland; and now she's kickin' it with "dead" rappers (Tupac ain't dead).


Kat Williams girl is on the move...and around the neck of everyone nowadays. I'm sure she'll have a mixtape and shoe deal coming soon. Maybe she'll get up on that Beyonce tip and get a phone and clothing line. Noose Courture, anyone? Let me stop. Seriously, this seems like such a conspiracy...and I don't really believe in conspiracies. Except for the conspiracy to remove Martin and Malcolm and Medger and John and Bobby and Tupac from public view...I really don't believe in conspiracies. There has to be a group of pointy-headed individuals that are behind A. Noose's marketing campaign. We thought she'd fell off...guess she was just resting and doing a lot of work on her image and her sound. She still looks the same to me; and she seems to be singing the same ol' song: "My Nigger Racism." I'm sure her sponsors are not very happy with the reception she's getting. I mean she really can't compete with Britney's nth car accident; Pamela Anderson's latest marriage; and that damn dog. Personally, I've never been a fan of A. Noose. She ain't really appealing to me. But that's just my opinion as a black man in America whose community has seen first hand the damage she can do.

Jezebel. This is really still a question with answers I'm still seeking. Why is the Jezebel the only way our black female entertainers can get noticed. Alicia Keys new image? Not slutty...but, the need to make her sexy is ridiculous. Give her a mic and a piano and let her sing. She has talent. She doesn't need wind-blowing in her hair, hip-hugging courture dresses and bedroom eyes. Ciara. I was so uncomfortable watching her lust for No Cent in her "Can't Leave'em Alone" video. Yes, these artists are growing up and being women. But when did woman = sex? I dunno. Like I said I'm still looking for answers to this one. I'm sure we'll be discussing this on in the future.

Sorry...no short story scenes today.

It's all love.
the envy of the world

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Hump Day...literally!

Up Next:

Superhead is "Today's Black Woman." (like hell...she ain't nothin' like my mama)

Halle B is racist...kind of...maybe...I dunno?

Tupac is hanged...his home vandalized...the NOOSE is here!

Summoning your inner Jezebel: a look at black female entertainers...must all our women be whores for the media in order to succeed or to be relevant?

All this and more... Just not now...sorry! Check 4 me later. It's all love.
the envy of the world

Read more...

Patch Tuesdays (kind of); Obama, and more!

I know your saying, "Why is he doing the Monday Weekend ReCap on Tuesday? He's so ____________. [Rolls eyes, and clicks] Welp, since WTF! I had to take time to rework & rethink and that other "r" word...refresh...myself. Though, you can trust that ya' boy was definitely still making observations and taking pictures (the mental kind) to share with you. So, here goes.
WARNING: This one is definitely on some deep ish, so please forgive me if I lose you; I'm sure these issues will resurface in some form or another in other posts in smaller, more digestable pieces.

I don't blame you...I just say "WHAT and EV." I am working to bring you some new insights amidst a very difficult situation: my LIFE! I'll be posting soon, boos. It's all love.

***INTERMISSION***

Question #1: "Can I effectively speak for my community?" I was reading________, a book that speaks of the struggle within today's black community with black youth at its core. It makes references to generation's past, but the focus is the kids...not those kids, silly;). I appreciate any sincere work done to present the lives of my not-so-fortunate peers. However, in reading this book and other works like it, I have been haunted by a question, one that I think arises from ignorance, inexperience/inexposure, fear, and pride. It seems always that the exception tries to explain the not so exceptional. I take issue with this effort because so often the exception has only experienced the exceptional and thus uses this point of reference to delve into the nuances of the have-nots. Again when it's sincere, I only question the lens used to decipher the code; but, when I can readily see it's just another case of Clarence-itis ("I can do it, so SHOULD you."), I am turned off from any solutions the author/speaker makes. In the past month I have read three books that examine urban youth. Each time it was done so by an intelligent, university-bred, black man. Not to say that these authors claims aren't truthful, but each writer presented their work and the people in their work as the outsiders of a community to which they (the authors) assimilated. I am not faulting the authors life paths; I am questioning whether the people they are presenting are effectively portrayed and portrayed fairly. SO, how am I a part of all this? It's just this: I am the exception. I have studied in the best of schools, traveled the country, met modern-day staples in Academia (both black and not-so-black), enjoyed the envy and friendship of my white peers--never knowing but always aware of something that lurked in the shadows of myself: the question of my purpose/responsibility for a community that seemed to welcome what I symbolized, but despised my totality. I am "young, gifted, and black." However, I don't fit into the black mold...at least this is what I assumed at an early age. I suffered an inferiority complex that stemmed from my identifying with the black kids on the playground and identifying with my white counterparts in the classroom. I didn't know why life was so then, but I have since questioned my education experience, inside and outside the classroom. Before I write my dissertation/memoir here, I will end this here (for now): My identity though seen oftentimes as not "black" or a hybrid of our hip-hop and civil rights generations is still vital to the sustaining and perpetuation of the black community. I have since refused to feel guilty for having both parents in my home who love--still--each other hard and happily and providing me and my sister with a nurturing childhood...with it's bumps and bruises, of course; educational opportunities that taught me to educate myself because faces and voices and pain like mine wasn't in my English Literature and History 101 course books; and people that are not-so-black that have shown me that a revolution isn't always physical, but mental and emotional. I have learned that I have a stake in the black community, in my community. Although, my opportunities yielded positive results (at least in regard to my career path), it doesn't mean that racism and homophobia haven't stopped being the bill collectors they are, coming to collect my self-esteem, pride, and self-love. They call and knock on my door. I don't answer. Even when they have faces like mine. Have histories like mine. Have blood like mine. In ending, I want to say that I try to check myself when commenting on and creating the news and insights I offer on the site. I don't know what it's like to be a thug, but I do know what it's like to be labeled lost or no good because of my identity and my life. We are both rebels, except we don't always see how alike we are. I know not what it means to be a woman, though I know what it's like to be considered weak and my feelings and well-being looked over because of a "real" man's agenda for our community and abroad. We, too, share a space that we often overlook because if we have someone else that is more of an outsider than ourselves then we aren't so much outside as they are. What we fail to realize is that the porch, the front steps, and the backyard are all outside regardless of their proximity to the "real" man's threshold.


Question #2: Am I a fan of Barack Obama because he's black or because I really think he is the man for the job? I have been following Barack Obama's campaign this year mostly because I really want to know why I don't connect with him on some level; and why I still feel the need to consider him as a contender for my 2008 vote when he doesn't seem tangibly human (?). He has a large following of white voters thus far and he has somewhat secured black rural-ites (Southern Protestants). He is against homophobia. He's for AIDS/HIV prevention and research. He is a positive role model for blacks, young and old. However, I have no take on him as a person. His humanity is lacking for me. But, you can gauge that for yourself. Click Here. Again, an example of the exception. Also, he seems to pacify both sides of a split community. He's hosting a black gospel concert series called "Embrace the Change! Gospel Concert Series." On the surface this seems harmless and a good way to rally blacks...cause we all know all black people love us some gospel (um...yeah). However, platinum sister gospel duo Mary Mary has signed on and ex-gay gospel singer Donnie McClurkin, as well. I want to examine this line-up as purely a political move; though, both artists' beliefs are in line with their religious affiliations. God loves the sinner not the sin.

“I feel how God feels about it, um… but I still love them.
You know what I mean? I don't agree with the lifestyle, but I love them. They
can come to the concert; I'm going to hug them just like I hug everybody else.
They have issues and need somebody to encourage them like everybody else - just
like the murderer, just like the one full of pride, just like the prostitute,
everybody needs God. What your struggle is may not be what my struggle is, but
we all need Him. So, that's what our music is about: giving and God. Not to
condone the lifestyle or to say, Oh it's okay, but not to bash - but just to
give them God. I mean, I'm appreciative of all of our supporters and fans.
Hopefully what their hearing and saying in our music is my love for God.”--Mary Mary’s Erica Campbell, VIBE Magazine, March 2007.

(Um...yeah. Gays and murders and prostitutes are definitely the same.)

If Obama is seeking as many votes as possible--which if I were running for president, this would be one of my many concerns--why would he, like most of black America, exclude the black lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered community, as it is still BLACK, by hosting two acts that have openly stated that they don't care to engage in the equality of all of their brothers and sisters in Christ or otherwise? BakBama issued a statement saying he didn't agree with the acts views on homophobia...but he would sho' preciate er'body's vote and money. Invite T.D. JangALang and you got yourself a great ol' time. Woman Thou Art Loosed...you others are lost.

NEXT>

Question # 3: I also question the effect of the color-complex working in BakBama's favor. Yellow brahs (myself included) are not scary or militant...looking (TRUST). White America finds us approachable more articulate and non-threatening because we are, in hue, closer to them. I don't think BakBama is using this tool, though I do think that in his early campaign commericails, the media white-washed him. Took some of his flavor...if he had any. I hope he does. It's sad when Mother Nature forgets to give one our own a little bit of that umph that we wear so well. But, I digress. He is definitely an approachable public figure; but, where is his story? I think I may be on my way to answering my other question. His humanity, I have assumed because he is black, can only manifest in struggle. My bad. His bio on his campaign website is sans a struggle. Maybe he is marketing himself as such as to not be the "black victim." He also may not see it as relevant to offer. His white counterparts don't offer their life struggles until they need to be the "good ol' boy/girl" that understands er'body's problems. Like hell you do. I respect Obama's angle. I just hope it doesn't leave voters asking if they know him come the 2008 election.


Also, anyone remember the Obama girl? I didn't hear or see much objection to the cute little diddy she did for BakBama's YouTube campaign (really...if only Gore knew about this invention, we'd have had folks all over YouTube tombout why the Flo needed to recount them ballots). I don't know if BakBama's camp set this up or if she did the video and he and the camp saw the good reception it raked in and decided to sign her on as THE OBAMA GIRL. Whatever the case, if his camp set this up and thought that a not-so-us girl gushing bout him on the internet was the best route to take, then I am disappointed. It's needed in any public campaign to extend yourself (not be enveloped in) to mainstream America, but you could easily have found one of our women that was willing to get her Bama on. Hell, we all know that video hoes girls all lined up around the corner (while working it!) just waiting for the next 50KanyeR.KellyNelly "Up In Da Club" remix featuring T-Pain and Lil' Wayne...cause they featured on er'body's tracks these days. But, I digress. If THE GIRL did it on her own, and then was scooped up by the BakBama camp, it was good publicity for her and I hope that she actually did read his book and is following his campaign as tight as those T-shirts fit her real chest. All in all, I will continue to follow BakBama and his path to the White House...maybe.

NEXT>

Question #4: I am often in contact with white youth who are infatuated with hip-hop culture. I am often put off by not so much their appreciation of the culture, but their lack of knowledge of the situations and histories that bring about such music, and artists for that matter. They rock the gear, bump the music in their cars and from the subwoofers in their trucks. They even attempt to use the slang and participate in a dialogue which is obviously nothing more than "what the cool people do" incentives. I am happy that our creativity (though sometimes unsavory) is being attributed to us for one of the few times in our nations history. However, it upsets me that Jacob and Billy White Kid can blast Yung Joc and Jay-Z and Lil' Wayne, saying "nigga dis, and nigga dat," "bitch this, and bitch that," ho' this, and ho' that" with no inkling to whom they are speaking/rapping. They don't understand there really are people that are selling crack and shooting one another and sexing anything with a hole and taking what they want by any means unnecessary. Again, if they consciously knew our history and why hip-hop is hip-hop and why black youth are the way we are, then I would have reason to at least believe that they know what they are saying when they say it. I would be uncomfortable, if not down right pissed if my white friends were blasting and reciting the gospel of Lil'Wayne and all he's saying is "I'mma shoot a nigga, I'mma steal your bitch, I'mma real ass nigga." And then they look at me like I'm supposed to be enjoying the music. Like hell. I don't take being called nigga by blacks or not-so-blacks. My sister is not a ho'. My mama ain't a bitch. My daddy ain't a pimp. So why would you think, I'd want to go chill in Abercrombie & Fitch-ville and relax with my white boos while er'y word is "nigga get this money," "suck my dick," and the list goes on? Back when grandmama and grandpa were young and Abercrombie & Fitch-ville was the Banana Republic (without the yellow peel), white folks sayin' nigger was not an invitation for tea and lemon tarts. Again, let me stop before Cornel West calls and says he got beef with me cause I'm writing dissertations er'day. In ending, I know that I get angered that white youth recite stories that they know nothing about; I'm just not sure if all this emotion is warranted. I'll look into it.

NEXT>

The Jesse & Al lynching flyers. I posted the newscast on yesterday. You can find it here if you haven't seen it. Is it the KKK in Cali or is it deceitful black activists acting out and trying to incite another race riot (hardly)? If the latter is true, Jesse & Al might need to watch their backs cause this is ridiculous. Why would you think you'd be helping your community by doing what your not-so-black counterparts did/are doing? Utter stuipidity if this is true. Also, I didn't know Cali had a KKK. But, in this McDonalized country, anything is possible. Al Sharpton (see...I'm coming around...barely...I used his name:) is scheduled to rally the troops in Palmdale against The MAN. The story of the Palmdale 4 is another case of racism in effect in the education system. I'm waiting for the story to develop...and we all know when it comes to news about us, if we ain't in jail or on the most wanted list, mainstream media will be on that CP time. I have read some articles on the case, but some issues are still open. This aside, why is ery'body trying get down with the noose? They are everywhere! AmeriKKKa? I am so angry that Ellen is having a breakdown over a dog. Britney is a poor mother. Paris is going to Africa. Marie Osmond is fainting...probably because of that ugly dress...but, I digress. And the JENA 6 case is a once-every-three days, four minute segment! But you can bet your mama's good wig (wait...don't do that cause when she beat ya' and kick ya' out, I ain't got nowhere for you to stay. Ain't no more room in the inn, Mary.) that the T.I. case will be followed to high hell and back...at least until another black athlete screws up or a black actor calls someone a six-letter word. I am through with this.

NEXT>

The "Call to Action: 10,000 Men, It's a New Day" campaign! Yes. Black men (in Philadelphia) saying that we want better for ourselves (what's new?) and our community. (NEWSFLASH: This includes women and the gays...in case you forgot...or refuse to acknowledge such a claim...but, I digress) What little news I could find on this states that this call to action is based on the premise that black youth organizations and mentoring programs will be the focal point for safer streets and a more nurturing environment. I pray for the best for our men who want to help save their communities and their children.

NEXT>

Richard Pryor's movie The Toy. I had never seen this movie till this past weekend. I thought it would be a harmless movie that would help me not think. I WAS WRONG! A noose, Pryor a slave toy for a little white boy, a white jezebel who tempts Pryor, and a monkey. I'll keep it short: They say a remake is in the works. JESSE AND AL, buddy, pal, friend: STOP THIS FOOLISHNESS before I have to be the seventh member of the new hip-hop group THE JENA 6!

NEXT>

I hope they enjoyed themselves at the BET Awards. Tell Mychal Bell I said hi and I hope those bars are as comfortable as you seem to be.

[Rober Bailey Jr.] (below), posted pictures of himself rolling in dollar bills
and putting them in his mouth, all monies that he received from cash donations
that were sent to them for their legal defense fund.--A Hot Mess, Oct. 2007

Um...yeah. Black power, freedom, and hip-hop is the shiz. I mean, I'm like racism ain't my nigga at all. J-J-J-J-J-J-JENA 6! We gon' be like G-Unit, except we got a message.

Got Progress?

Um...yeah. Mixtape coming to a bootlegger near you. Where are their crying parents who had us all up in arms and wearing black in the heat of summer? SAY WE. Cause if it's them...it's all of US.

So, I know you're all like, "It's Patch Tuesdays, where is the poem post?" Well, I'm saving it for next Tuesday...or maybe later this week because this is a realllllllly long post. But, if you want it, post a comment and I'll see what I can muster up.

Till then...

It's all love.

the envy of the world

Read more...

Up Next...Monday Weekend Recap & More

The Palmadale 4...yet, another instance of racism at a school (check out the video)

PLUS: Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton are hanged! (well, not exactly...time for that apology?

Probably not. But...we'll see)

Black men in America doing something positive...and there is little to no media coverage (um...yeah)

Richard Pryor's "The Toy"...weekend movie bin (I was bored...then amazed/dumbfounded/upset?)

ALL this and more!

Read more...

"WHAT THE FRIDAY!"

Today marks the first official What the Fridays! (WTF) post. Each Friday I'll rehash issues and items that have me sayin',
"What the F---riday?"

Here goes...

1). Ellen DeGeneres wants her dog back. Jena 6's Mychal Bell is still in jail.



A dog is stuck in a custody battle (barely) and has incited DeGeneres' fans to send out death threats to the dog adoption agency that removed Iggy from the home of the TV host's hairdresser's home. I guess this is the equivalent to my mama's daddy's friend's cousin's uncle's chile. But, I digress. SIDENOTE: Letter to News Media.

Dear Mr. CNNNBCABCFOX,

I know that Ellen's tears are sincere and it's sad to see an upstanding, acceptable, positive, harmless famous white lesbian be in pain (um...yeah); but, isn't it ridiculous that you hosted an hour special with Ellen on one of your important showbiz news shows to talk about a dog, a cute one, but nonetheless, a dog; and none of you are interested in hosting more than a 3-minute segment on the black youth from JENA, Louisiana. Iggy is a dog and I know his/her name. Knew it days after Ellen shed tears. Though you didn't tell me its sex. That's important. I want to make sure that this animal with feelings is respected.
The JENA 6 are six people (or "black youth" as you call them...which is comical because they were being charged as adults). I say again: the JENA 6 are people much like humans a form heretofore known as homo sapiens (not homosexuals...though if they were you wouldn't report that either). But, I digress. Contrary to popular belief, there is no black hotline that I can call or text and be in-the-know about my community (though it is an idea I think warrants research...but who am I?). There was a television channel...but you bought it and like any good 'ho, it spread its legs and let you rape away its pride and beauty. So, you must see why it is vital that you report this injustice for the greater society. But you don't. Probably won't. It's sad. Lower than a dog...again.

Thanks for listening.

2). Bill Cosby's new book "Come On, People: On the Path from Victims to Victor" Is he educating or playa-hating? Or both?

I haven't read the book, yet. But, I am all for black celebrities/social-lites calling us ALL into question. Being upset with someone who wants to encourage and influence and expose the greatness in us and refine the not-so-great should never be faulted. Though, we should always question and know for ourselves our own definition of greatness. I'm sure that we'll probably march and have a protest vigil for this book because Dr. Huxtable is airing our dirty draws on the public clothing line:TV. We sho' get upset when one of our own calls us out. We considered them traitors (though we happily except their money), while there is still Clarence Thomas and his legacy. When those-not-like-us call us out, we run after it and grab it like it's grandmama's cookin' or Yung Lil'No School's new CD. SAY WE. **If I get my hands on the book, I'll be sure to let you know my thoughts on Pops Cosby.

3). Rapper T.I.'s record company Atlantic Records offers to post $1 million dollars to prove the rapper is not a flight risk.



SOHH. com posted this:

[E]veryone came out to show the judge how much the community loves the pint
sized MC. What was very intriguing to me wasn’t the 3.5 million dollars that was
originally offered by the defense. But that top executives like Lyor Cohen,
Kevin Lyles and others were willing to each pony up one hundred thousand dollars
each of their own money to assist in the bond proceedings. That’s major y’all!!
Atlantic Records was also willing to put up one million dollars to show to the
judge that T.I. wasn’t a flight risk or a threat to the community.

Why is it that all this money is available to prove that T.I. is safe and not a threat ("to his community"...BOY STOP. His community ain't afraid of him. It's our not-so-us friends that are leary of what he's packin')? Why weren't his executives willing to shell out this cash and sign up there beloved song and dance man up for some celebrity training courses: "INTRO TO CELEBRITY", "HOW TO BE BLACK IN HOLLYWOOD", and "HOW TO SPEND THAT MONEY YOU RAP ABOUT" to name a few. $300,000 dollars could make a beautiful minority scholarship fund (look at Dr. Roxanne Shante!). But now, T.I. is in OUR house. SIDENOTE: With reparations nowhere in sight, America was nice enough to build the BLACK HOUSE a/k/a the Prison system. We have presidents, congressmen (not Clarence) and congresswomen, and various other committees on Capital Punishment Hill.

Public Service Announcement:

Support your local congressperson by showing up at the poles...the metal ones called bars AND the ones called ballot boxes.

I pray T.I. gets the help he needs and that mainstream media doesn't try to sully his image. I kinda like dude. (wink wink)

4). Comedian/actor/rapper(?)Katt Williams with a noose around his neck on the red carpet.



I've spoke about this foolishness in other recent posts, so I'll keep it short. Katt's decision to aid in the demise of BET is evidence that our community has a lot of educating and re-educating to do.

5). Angie Stone's "The Art of Love and War"




Now for something that makes me say WTF! on that good tip. Singer Angie Stone's long-awaited album "The Art of Love and War" is filled with pure love songs ("These Are the Reasons") inciteful tales of personal trials and triumphs ("Baby" and "Go Back to Your Life"), and songs of communal pride and self-love ("My People" is my favorite!). Check it out! Ms. Stone is healthy and happy in all the right places. I am proud of this new project and hope that you will support someone who is using her talents to uplift and not degrade our people.


Well, this wraps up WTF!

It's all love.

the envy of the world

P.S. In case you don't think that ignorance in our own community can influence white America.

Read this:

James Watson, the Nobel Prize-winning scientist who co-discovered the structure
of DNA, has been suspended from his administrative duties as chancellor for the
Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory.
The move comes after Watson's suggestion that
African natives were less intelligent than people in the West ran in a British
newspaper.
The comments provoked uproar in Britain, prompting Watson to
cancel a book tour there and return to the United States. (NPR.org)

He's a Nobel Prize winner, people! Novelist Toni Morrison and Bishop Desmond Tutu are Nobel Prize winners. And yet their peer can make suggestions like this. Are we the lesser in any respect? No. But our low-communal/self-esteem is saying otherwise. I'm tellin' you, we just don't get it. Or do we?

Read more...

UP Next...Bill Cosby & my maybe apology (maybe)

Bill Cosby's new book "Come On, People: On the Path from Victims to Victor"

Is Daddy Huxtable hating on his community or is he right...again?

Am I being too hard on Big Perm and Messy Jess? Are there reasons for me to apologize for being upset with there socio-political tactics (and their fame game)?

Doubt it...but, I'm gonna look into it.

This and more UP Next!

PLUS: More on rapper T.I.'s court case

It's all love.

the envy of the world

Read more...

Ketchup...but not really.

Visitor's Message:

"You've Reached_______. I am not available at the moment, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank You. Good day."

Ya'll, I am real busy in the office today. I apologize for not posting. I'll make it up to you soon...and you know I will. This will give both of us a minute to catch up. The past week has seen some lengthy posts...so read or re-read to see if I missed something. Feel free to leave me a message in the "Say Hi!" shoutbox to the right-->. I think this one is easier to use and more visible than the other model I was using. Check it out.

Wish I had a joke for you or a nice little insight with quips and giggles, but I am a tired lil' man.


It's all love.

the envy of the world

Read more...

QUESTION

Ellen DeGeneres wants her dog back. Jena 6's Mychal Bell is still in jail. Who is getting more publicity?

Britney Spears doesn't have her kids, but has her freedom. And Jena 6's Mychal Bell is still in jail. Who is getting more publicity?

Is there something I'm not getting or is this ridiculous?

Read more...

FOOLERY

So...yeah...well I am always full of thoughts and the past few days have been full of happenings. I'll get to the condoms, rapper T.I., and black apathy vs. black faith in a min. BUT first I need to let out some foolishness. I have been very appreciative of the love and support I have received thus far in regards to "Once Upon a Man". I want to say thank you for all of you who read my two cents (and then some) and I am equally, if not more, grateful for you all who spread the word of what's happening here on the site. I am one man offering insight to how I see the world we live in and the collective community to which I belong. [Tears, sighs, holds his heart and does his best Oscar award winning performance of gratitude and then poses like Beyonce..."snap for the kids"]. But seriously, thank you. Also, I am about to protest the local grocery store where I pick up my prescription. I need my medicine and they just upped the price $.30! Now I am rich in spirit, but not in pocket. I have a condition called "Black Man with a Purpose". My condition requires that I take medication: licorice. I know it's a bit unconventional but my panel of doctors (me, myself, and I...also the title of my girl Sista Toldja's site...check the "BlogRoll"...but I digress) feel this is the best medication for my ticks and stress. So, I walked into ________ and went to aisle six where they keep the shelves stacked with my medication (they keep a lot in stock...though, I question their reasoning because ain't nobody (yep, ain't) buying it, which sadly proves my point that there aren't too many with my condition). I picked up my meds like I always do; stopped to chat with the nice Vietnamese lady whose name I cannot pronounce; and proceeded to the checkout--where Miss Bubbly Blond Pony Tail and her girl Miss Too Many Crest Whitening Strips told me that my total was $1.30! Absurd! I am organizing a march and vigil for this weekend. I'll be chillin' on BET by Sunday. LOL! Let me stop. But seriously, I was kind of down by this. I love my Twizzlers! Maybe I need to boycott and start supporting my people by eating Resse's Peanut Butter Cups. (George Washington Carver discovered the use of the peanut, people. Know your history...then you might be able to get my joke...this lesson has been brought to you by the letter "L" and the number "2". LOL! Let me stop before Mya starts trying to sing and dance for me like she did that puppet show a couple of weeks ago. Poor chile ain't never gonna put out her album. Oh well, she is making a lot of money by gracing the cover of KING magazine--bout naked--every other week. Some lil' boy is losing all his allowance money.) Then on top of all this foolishness, some brotha thought that he could make me use all my daytime minutes (joke for my facebook chirren) with some tired line. Let me re-enact the scene for you, being the thespian I am (in my head).
Brotha: "Did anyone ever tell you that you are what I'm looking for?"

Me: "Did anyone ever tell you that STDs are up 8 percent since this time last year?"

Brotha: "What does that have to do with anything?"

Me: "It has to do with everything. You stated a fact: I am cute...and I am. I offered you another fact. And here's one more: If you keep coming at me with tired lines, like Gonorrhea and her friend The Clap, you will get burned."

LOL! I am ridiculous I know. But he seemed triflin' and wasn't tombout nothing.

Now, let's get to bitness! [Sits up straight. Drinks some mineral water. Puts on his glasses. Clears his throat. Thinks thoughts of Toni Morrison, Nikki Giovanni, and Bryant Gumbel (?). ]

So, first off, I want to dish on the allegations (big word) against rapper T.I. aka Clifford Harris, Jr. (baby do have a daddy...that's good to know). Synopsis: Your boy was in possession of Weapons of Mass Destruction! Somebody call G-Dub and let him know that once again black people are doing The MAN's job. BOY STOP. My question however is "why did T and I need all this ammo?" Are aliens coming back, and did he get a tip (pun intended...this is too fun) we don't know about yet? I don't understand why a black man in America with opportunities and hardships would be so afraid that he'd risk jail time...wait, I do understand. Fear can bring out the worst in us all. Ask The MAN. (He should really re-name himself. Diddy did and look what it did for his career...um, yeah.) Time is the operative word. Time away from his kids (four or five) and his longtime girlfriend, Tiny, of 90's girl group Xscape fame.

I don't understand how our rappers/singers can let every other word out of their mouth be "dolla, dolla, bills" (sounds like many a preachologist I know: T. D. MegaChurchBookDeal and Creflo and 'nem, and Mrs. Ms. Bynum and her Ike-ish ex-husband),-- though we both know that "ho bitch nigga pimp" ain't far behind"--and yet they are making a conscious effort to be enthralled in their former lifestyle (however, everybody ain't been shot thrity-leven times like No Cent...but I digress). I don't know anything about being a celebrity (wait...I do...ya'll just don't know it yet). It is never easy to totally separate oneself from your past (though many of us try so very hard with our enhanced hair (weave, youngins) and light makeup), especially when your new situation is in stark contrast to the hard knock life you lived before. There should be a "Black Celebrity 101" course held after you sign your Hollywood papers. (Grab at this Jess and Al...Diddy/Russell Simmons?) T.I.'s poor judgement is a by-product of the "Black Folks Get Money and Don't Know How to Handle It" stereotype. One would think that with as much boasting we do in our songs, somebody would be learning what to do with it after the world has 2-stepped for the nth time. Scholarship Funds, 401ks, mutual fonds, stocks and bonds...a savings account that's not labeled "The Jail Fund"? We don't invest in "Finance 101" courses like our Donald Trump white counterparts. And when we do acquire such knowledge, we care not to share it for fear that our individual self will no longer be on top. Anybody for a game of "Crabs in a Bucket"? Bill Cosby gave Marvin Van Peebles money to shoot one of the greatest anti-establishment movies of the 20th century: Sweet SweetBack's Baadasssss Song (1971). A film that would later influence rap/hip-hop artists (Public Enemy and rapper turned filmaker Ice Cube).



Berry Gordy and Quincy Jones ain't got beef. Aretha and Diana ain't trying steal each other's man. The Temptations, The Impressions, The Four Tops don't give a hot damn that they all wearing the same suits and doing the same shuffle on stage. Even Jessy and Al working towards some foolishness. So, why can't we help each other without fear of being less than? We are sportin' this inferiority complex like a Phat Farm jumpsuit. My girl Logic, who is not a man like most straight men think...but, who is a strong intelligent black woman who loves the fam, told me that there is room enough at the top for us all and that it's better to be at the top with family rather than people who ain't (yep, ain't). So, T.I., I really hope that your homies/brahs/niggas (and their respective bitches and ho's) are supporting you in your time of struggle, cause we both know that you about to be "That Rapper".

This is actually a good segue into Black Apathy vs. Black Faith. Now all black people been to church (even if they don't go anymore). All black people eat chicken, watermelon, and dance, too. **SideNote: If you take offense to this, it is a satiric comment, one of which hateful and hurtful history I am aware. But I point out non-sense...and truth. For my not so black friends, if you feel it further cements your notions of black people, don't go around sayin' it to black people because you will get murked.** Anyhoo, spirituality and faith are important...though I don't agree with people who think that their spirit and u and ality are the here, now, and forever. But, I digress. We need to start on a more tangible level in order to build up ourselves. Once all of us can reach out and touch (Sings: "somebody's hand, make this world a better place...") some food, clothing, shelter, finances, health benefits, safe/protected/inhabitable living environments--then we can begin to deal with our less than fortunate brothas and sistas on a higher level. Black apathy can then be overcome (or at least recognized as the virus it is) because our lower income/less amenity-having family will be able to reach out (not steal, kill, and cheat) and touch what is not seen but is still here...if you can pick up what I'm puttin' down. Black apathy (a lack of knowledge about black America before we were born and capitalism are not far behind) is one of the key ingredients in the self-hate, self-prostitution stew we are so content to have brewing in our kitchen. Well, like grandmama say: "If it's to hot..." you know what to do. Some of us are trying...but our community is so busy being fooled into believing that it is going to starve that we can't see how rich and plentiful our cubbard is. You can call your higher power what you will, but if your brotha and sista's lower power ain't even in the equation, they can't look up and see beyond the pennies and crumbs they are scraping together for life's bare necessities. A penny for your thoughts could feed a nation, a nickel bag will not.

As for passing condoms out in school...I am all for having open and honest educational discourse with our children about why the music, film, tv, and magazines they read make their "happy place"...well...happy. LOL! It is my happy place. But, I digress. I am not saying tell them that with this piece of latex you are invincible (you ain't...just ask Diddy and his babymamas). I am saying that if we believe in freedom of speech and creative (often times sloppy and distasteful) expression, then surely we can educate and engage our youth in the conversation concerning what they are mentally ingesting. Our children are wondering why they are having wet dreams after checkin' out the latest videos and listening to their new CD, and they are only nine. Black people, stop waiting for Tryesha and Hakeem to come crying to you tombout they don't know what happened and now Tryesha is pregnant and Hakeem is looking for stage left. Honestly, they probably don't know what happened. They were listening to Pretty Ricky's "Get You Wet" and thirty seconds later (Tryesha told me five...I am a trip!), Tryesha looked disappointed and scared. Hakeem zipped up and sent text messages to his boys with his new B'phone (though Hakeem having a B'phone kinda makes him suspect..."HOW YOU DOIN?") tombout how he just wore Esha out. So, black folks, what we gonna do? Wait for more eleven year-old mama's or tell BET that the Rap-It-Up campaign don't even work for Diddy so how is it gonna work for us not-on-tv-celebrities? SAY WE. Cause even though Diddy is doin' it (pun intended), it is still all of us that it affects. Amen.

Benediction.

Well, as stated somewhere waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay above, it is time for the Once Upon Wednesday prose/short story post. Here it is.

It's all love.

Ya' brah,

the envy of the world

Enjoy!

Excerpt from Gilded Lily

“Daddy…I look pretty today? Huh, Daddy?”
Sophie stood before her father, gushing over with excitement about her new hair-bow. It had cost her three weeks allowance: ten cents.
“Daddy. It’s red and white, and the man behind the counter at Miller’s said that I looked grown up--like a lady. Well, he didn’t say a lady. But, I know that’s what he wanted to say because he just grinned and grinned when he helped me put it in my hair. And he ain’t have no trouble clipping it in my hair, put it right above my part. Just like Momma used to do. She’d love this bow. She’d tell me that I looked like an African princess because she was an African queen. And pretty princesses one day become beautiful queens. I miss her so much. Daddy...?”

Sophie’s father, Sammy, hadn’t spoke much about his late wife. In fact, he hadn’t said much about anything since the sheriff had stepped onto their front porch and told him that the boys could not find Lily. They had searched for eight days straight. Sammy’s eyes didn’t close for eight days after the first eight days. He hadn’t bathed or eaten since the night he found Lily’s left sandal, a new bag of cornmeal that she’d just bought from Boone’s Market, the receipt showing that they owed $1.50 on their in-store tab (the highest tab for a Negro family in all of Rayburn county), and tufts of her hair. That night, Sammy washed Sophie’s face, plaited her hair as best he knew how, his long anxious fingers tangling his daughters dusty brown hair, and walked her over to Aunt B’s eerily spacious wooden home. Sophie’s head ached three nights in a row. Her Aunt B washed and re-washed her tangled hair, finally unraveling it revealing its shoulder-length. Sophie thought her father would never come back for her. Aunt B was Grandma Hattie’s sister that lived up the road from Sophie, Sammy and Lily, on the only piece of Negro owned land in town. Aunt B lost both of her sons to the men in sheets the summer that the sun practically lived on top of their tin roofs, spoiling meat in the icebox, making it unbearable to speak too much, and swelling ankles and knees and elbows. Her husband died shortly thereafter from grief and visions.

Sammy kissed his little girl on her left cheek right below her eye where her birthmark lived. And it did live. Lily knew that her baby was marked. Special. Often when Lily would travel into town on Tuesdays as usual to pick up groceries and Sammy’s work supplies, she’d notice how they’d stare at her baby, at her mark. Lily would politely, but sternly, tell them that it was her "angel mark." Lily had prayed for her darling Sophie every morning before Sammy arose for his breakfast before he headed out to work the fields that they sharecropped with Mr. Hewitt; at noon when Grandma Hattie would stop by with flowers she’d picked on her way through the cotton field near Parsons Creek; and every night before she plaited her hair, long and full of life. When Lily’s hair blew in the wind, it had much to say. Stories. Secrets. Many nights, Sophie wished that Lily’s hair would call out to her. Sammy had tied Lily’s lost tufts with white ribbon that he didn’t charge to his tab. He’d paid Mr. Miller the very same day. He kept the bound hair in his left shirt pocket, sewed in tight so that it wouldn’t fall out as he bent down to work the earth each day.

Read more...

Up Next...

Contraceptives in School

Rapper T.I. denied bail for gun charges...what is this foolishness?

Black apathy vs. Black Faith


SideNote": Don't expect disserations, peeps. Just a few extended thoughts on the above issues.

PLUS: "Once Upon Wednesdays" short-story/prose post!

All this & more...coming soon as I blow this popsicle stand I call a job.

It's all love.

the envy of the world

Read more...

As I promised: Don Imus, Marion Jones, marriage, the photo, and Patch Tuesdays!

Hey there! Hope that all is well in your neck of the woods. I am feeling a little icky today, but I figured a good post or two would pick me up. It always does. Well, yesterday I promised to discuss Don Imus, trackstar Marion Jones, marriage, and the ignorant noose photo of comedian Katt Williams. Plus, I have today's Patch Tuesdays poem.



Don Imus. The ABC network has hired Don Imus to work for them; the same channel that fired actor Isaiah Washington for calling his cast mate a faggot. Apparently, homophobia trumps racism nowadays. This was before Jena 6 was widely covered in the media and there was no fear of us marching on Selma. I am upset that Imus would be allowed to return to a highly public media outlet after calling our women "nappy headed ho's"; but, I also believe the issue is bigger than Don. (SideNote:Don and I are on a first name basis; anyone who can call my sister a ho must know me and obviously NOT my sister...he probably thought he was a rapper or that we were boys and that it was cool to use such a disparaging term...he did have enough heart to not call them niggers...word has it that he thought it, but refrained because it was offensive...he's such a giver...**I am rolling my eyes and giving my BOY STOP lips**) Why would we run to protest a white man losing his job for disrespecting our women, when we do so everyday? Why isn't Michael Eric Dyson sitting across the table from 50 Cent, Snoop, and any number of other hip-hop/r&b mainstays who want ho's and bitches by their side, excusing it as the culture that they live in? If our men can say that calling our sisters and mothers bitches and ho's is our reality, who is to say that in Don and his folks reality our women aren't "nappy headed ho's"? I'm not looking to support Donny, I am looking at the hypocrisy our community is justifying with racism. Don't exploit the "ism". It is being prostituted for the sake of saving face in our community. We need to check our misdirected anger. Be mad at ourselves. Hell, we know that we have a racially charged history with white America. No surprise. It isn't losing its shock appeal; but, self-hate (nihlism) in our community is taking a backseat to an issue we know to exist--racism. We can't demand love/respect from our white counterparts if we don't demand it from ourselves. SAY WE. I cannot understand for the life of me why we are still surprised that THE Man doesn't respect us when we let him see, quite openly, that we don't respect ourselves. Then we have the nerve to get on CNN, NBC, 20/20 and reprimand him for doing something that we do to ourselves. This is exactly what we do with the N-word. "We can say it, but you can't." Puhleeeze. I am through with this one.



Marion Jones. Trackstar Marion Jones was made to return her Olympic medals earlier this month and forfeit prizes from the 2000 Olympic Games. Now if you know me, you know I don't much care for or know about sports, let alone sports stars...except the ones that try to rap or go to court. (I know you're asking: "What sports star isn't in one of these categories?"...many, but the media would never let us say different.) My question is about how she is being portrayed by the media. Would we really be whipping her, throwing words like "betrayal" and "disappointment" around if she was a man? Furthermore, why don't we make our athletes and entertainers relingquish sponsors and shoe deals (Michael Vick, Kobe Bryant), give up Grammys and MTV awards when they are incarcerated (Snoop Dogg, Lil' Kim, T.I.) or unsavory allegations are brought up about them more than once (R.Kelly and Michael Jackson)? R. Kelly is touring this fall. His trial date was put on hold so he could perform. Since when did the court want to prosecute a person when it was convenient for the defendant. Supposedly his council is with child or was due to deliver/had delivered around the original date of the trial. Yay for him and his groupies. We are going after Marion Jones like she was hiding weapons of mass destruction or had "relations" with the Cheif of Staff. She pleaded guilty to using steriods. Surely, probation from the games or training would suffice. But maybe the way she is being treated has truth in Don Imus's infamous comment. Maybe America does see our women as "nappy headed ho's" and this reality is not simply the masterwork of Donny boy but his folks. This reality does not justify his ignorance and blatant cultural insensitivy, but it does shed light on why comments like his are far from being over. Marion Jones is a successful black woman, three words that are frightening to our society. Any chance to make her appear weak and unworthy is a dream for the white-supremacist patriarchal system in which we exist. This ain't a hate white people thing; it's a hate the instution that just so happens to be established and predominantly exercised by whites thing. TRUST. There are some blacks that love to operate within the confounds of this maze we call the American pipe Dream. But this is not time for name calling. I just find it upsetting that no one is running at the chance to examine Jones' identity in regards to how she was being portrayed in media in regards to this case. Also, why did the media not report her case and investigation until it was close to finished? We followed Michael Vick and Kobe Bryant from sun up to sun down. If they coughed wrong, it was reported. Marion Jones was in the margin of many a paper and she definitely had the shortest news spots before the newscaster would spring to more late breaking news in the demise of BritneyAnnaNicoleLindsayLohanParisHiltonSpears (she knows where Usama is...I am sure of it). I am not saying that Jones shouldn't be reprimanded, but allowing football players to negotiate their play status after being convicted of a crime and helping men who allegedly have sex with young girls continue to sell records is not fair to Jones and her career. Maybe she can put out a mixtape of how she did it...of course she'll have to find some weave and some booty shorts and matching stillettos.

Marriage. National Coming OUT Day was last week (Oct. 11) and I didn't post anything for my same gender loving boos. Well, their is new legislation that is going before Congress concerning sexual orientation in the office. The Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA) is causing issue within the LGBT community because this legislation does not include transgendered men and women. These men and women of our community would be made to fight there own fight and write up their own legislation that would definitely cause some non-needed division in our community. Though I am sure that the GOP would love to use our division against us. So, what does marriage have to do with any of this? For me, I believe that if we pass this legislation for only a portion of our community, then we are at risk of passing legislation like the gay marriage legislation for only a portion of us who could more easily assimilate into mainstream society. LGBT are letters placed together for a reason: because we are one family, who is not willing to bastardize one of our own for another groups benefit.

P.S. Go see Tyler Perry's movie "Why Did I Get Married?". Love Mr. Perry and the trailers and press I've seen thus far are great. As far as further musings on the topic of marriage...they will have to wait for a day when I am not busier than bubbles at a car wash.

The Ignorant photo. BET caught comedian/actor/rapper (?) Katt Williams with a noose around his neck on the red carpet. It makes no sense to me why he would sport such a trend; but, for the Jena 6 students to be present (looking very BET chic...and Mychal Bell-less...but present nonetheless) and so many racially charged NOOSE incidents to be in play within the past few months, I thought it was in poor taste to say the least. Maybe he's being controversial and putting the white supremacist agenda out where they can see it. Maybe he's taking back the noose like we took back nigger (what and ev). Whatever the case, I hope there was more thought behind it than "I'm gonna get my picture taken cause I'm being controversial." My suspicions tell me that it was just poor judgement on his part trying to be funny and further his career. But, we are a creative and mindful people at our core...maybe he was using his core when he made the decision to be photographed as such.

And now for Patch Tuesdays poem post! Poems are to give glimpses of life as it is lived and as it is hoped it to be. These glimpses, or patches, are part of a greater framework or quilt that I, the poet, contributes to...one patch at a time. Thus, the title of my Tuesday poem post segment: Patch Tuesdays. From here on out, Tuesdays will include a work of poetry by yours truly. I hope for the poetry to reflect the issues that I discuss on the given day. But it may not always hold true. Though, today it does. This one is for my LGBT boos.



OPERATION GAY DESTRUCTION
Gay men have sex
Unprotected
AIDS some methamphetamines
die.
Lesbians continue to hate men
Corral your straight sisters
Refuse sex...with men
No births
die.
Bisexuals--now here's where it gets tricky
(as so many of you are)
Marry each other
Trade syphilis
die.
Transgendered folk don't exist because
you don't have a pronoun
(Shim or her/him?)
no name
no history
no life
die.

Wrest in Pieces...in your dark whole.

For
Crime
Racism
Poverty
Hunger
War and sexual frustraton
will continue on in your absence.

(Only now it is easier for the real men to see who's fucking whom.)

Sexism and Homophobia
Ride happily off into the sunset
Satisfied that they are no longer exploited in
the fight to divide
Communities of people already
on the periphery.

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NO WORDS.

**Please excuse the graphic photographs.**

The photos have been submitted to show the parallel between them. Not because they are the same; but, because both are a product of ignorance, hate (self-hate in the case of the latter), and the gap in history between the two photographs, that eerily find a way to comment on one another.

Still Fashionable?

-in response to this picture taken at the Black Ignorance Convention aka 2007 BET Awards

White children regurgitate our music without knowing the history of the words and stories we tell. White children play dress up and don the latest trends by their favorite athlete/rapper. White male children are the highest consumers of hip-hop music. Do you see why this is not all white right?

Read more...

Up Next...

Don Imus finds employment and Isaiah Washington builds a school
(the connection?)


"Why Did I Get Married?" (I didn't and I can't in most states in this free country and have no desire to do so anytime soon but would appreciate the option one day) not so much about the movie, but marriage in the black communinty is a topic I wanna dig into


Trackstar Marion Jones' Fall (athletes vs. entertainers, women vs. men) I am amazed at the way she is being portrayed in media.




And this ignorance here:

PLUS: Patch Tuesday's poetry post!!!

Musings on Imus, marriage in our community, Marion Jones, the noose pic, my Tuesday poetry post and more on tomorrow!

yours truly,

the envy of the world

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SAY WE.

I am sick. All I can do is SAY WE. Why the hell are Jena 6 students (Bryant Purvis and Carwin Jones) chillin' on the red carpet at the BET Awards like they about to drop a "Jena 6 mixtape"...wait, I probably just gave'em an idea. Jena 6 Album, reality show, shoe deal, etc. I'm sure the Little Rock 9 were chillin' with The Supremes and Berry Gordy sippin' that henny all up in da' club. We are so sad. A month ago we were rocking black tees and lighting candles singing "We Shall 2 step" featuring Mos Def, Messy Jess, and Big Perm Al Sharpton. This past weekend we just helped white America understand why we don't want progress. They ain't even trying (yeah, I said ain't) to rock some "Free Mychal Bell" t-shirts or "Racism is Alive" hoodies. Maybe I'm being too hard on two young men for whom I signed a petition and contacted the Louisiana congressional office demanding their freedom. No they don't owe me or the other thousands of people who marched and signed petitions and called city hall and contacted local media for their freedom. I am not discouraged to continue to fight injustice within and without our community; I am just more aware of how temporal our society has become. Yeah...checkin' for T.I. and various other pimps and ho's (their words, not mine) at the BET Awards aka Black Ignorance Convention is definitely more up our alley. I'm glad we can get flashy and fine when we want to pat each other on the back for a job well paid (job well done @ this point is obviously too much to ask for). Getting together to talk about issues that effect us: food, clothing, shelter, finances--Oh wait! Our music is talking about it...Souljah's "Crank Dat," Jay-Z's "Blue Magic," and the always relevant pied- pisser -piper R. Kelly's "RockStar." I miss the days when all we had to worry about was the police, Madonna, and who was suing Michael Jackson.

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Monday Weekend ReCap

Rapper Nas has confirmed that his new album will be titled "NIGGA" (didn't we bury this word somewhere in Texas...I smell a poem for this one coming); rapper Jay-Z boasts selling crack...cause that's what cool people do...at least the ones that make money; rapper/mogul Diddy argues with and assaults a club-goer over a woman cause he doesn't have enough video ho's and baby mamas ; rapper T.I. was arrested on gun charges cause you need glocks and machine guns in Hollywood...probably for all the bad acting . Got Progress? Well peeps, obviously the rest of the world is not reading my blog...yet. BUT, surely there have to be some of us out there that are not lacking the mental capacity to say,"We Should/Could Do Better." Guess not...but like Whitney's comeback, I still have hope. P.S. "Crack is Whack." Her words, not mine.

More importantly, I picked up Nelson George's "Buppies, B-Boys, Baps, and Bohos". The book comments on the state of black culture through a entertainment industry lense. I'm really excited about reading all 400+ pages (geek alert). I think the most appealing part of reading this book for me is that it was published in 1994 when rap/hip-hop/r&b was fresh and creative and we loved something in ourselves that has obviously dried up and died like one of Langston's dreams. The book is still relevant because it offers what George thinks hip-hop/rap will become. No word yet on if I think his hope for black music/entertainment is romanticized or on point. I'll let you know in my Read-A-Book section that I am starting (Lord knows BET and Lil'Jon ain't making good use of these three words). I also picked up a collection of Nikki Giovanni poetry and I am really feeling the anger and creativity she presents in her earlier work. It's a shame we have so much to be angry about but we choose to settle for sharecropping crumbs in exchange for the always popular DJ Keep It Real Ignorant and his self-hating video hoochie who has a fashion line coming out this spring. I can tell our priorities are on lock. More like locked up with no key in sight. Shackles are obviously in this millenia. Some one call Louis Vuitton and Gucci let them know about Slave Couture. I'm sure Beyonce's House of DeWrong will capatilize on this, not to mention Jay-I-use-to-sell-crack-and-think-that-it's-still-cool-to-rap-about-Z will be happy to design some Rocawear chains and yet another "inspired" concept album. BOY STOP. I have said it before, and I will say it again and again and sadly again, we are in trouble.

m.

Read more...

I'm Back.

So it's Saturday. Thursday and Friday I didn't post because I was sick (as the poem states on Wednesday's post http://onceuponaman.blogspot.com/2007/10/sick.html) and I had appointments and people to handle so the site was not updated with new material for two days. I know you're saying I'm such a slacker...blahblahblah.
I apologize for the delay but ya' boy was ti-RED!

However, the past week has been good for the creative juices (ugh! I hate using that word, but it is what it is). I was able to talk with some very intelligent and beautiful and powerful black princesses about the state of the black community in America and moreso, black American youth. Some of the issues that were discussed were: Hip-hop and its pro-male/anti-woman, anti-gay/pro-ho' outlook; the color complex; black men choosing (settling) for white women because black women are too "picky, hard-on-us, etc."; and the seemingly invisible black LGBT community. We also discussed the need for something I am very excited about--THE NEW BLACK ARTS MOVEMENT! The first Black Arts Movement in the 1960s yielded beautiful poetry, art, music and a togetherness among blacks that we know not to exist today. We spoke about the state of black identity: what is blackness? One topic that really fascinated me was black men/black women relationships, intimate or otherwise. Now, I suppose that my take on this issue is somewhat unique (though saying that it is "unique" may not be the right word).

Where to start?

The state of the black community. Black people wake up! It makes no sense that we are so set on helping mainstream media and the greater white majority perpetuate the stereotypes and hateful, downright ignorant and hurtful images that the Civil Rights Movement/Black Power Movement was enthralled in circumventing. (Love my white fam! You know who you are, and why you are my fam. No need to justify our love for others ignorance. That being said...we are all at fault. But I can only save one race at a time. Starting at home first.) The only movement we have nowadays is the I'm gonna be a Rapper Movement. And anybody with Youtube and a casio keyboard is liable to show up with ringtones, a shoe deal, clothing line, movie based on how they made it out of the struggle (yet, the irony is that they still perpetuate the ailments of their struggle claiming to be "keepin' it real"), and a poor cd that has one good single and numerous video ho's (and yes, ladies I will save this issue for another day...whew! too much in one post!). Or the I'mma play Ball Movement. Athletes have long been hailed as black saviors, but this foolishness has got to stop. Every athlete today wants to be a rapper. I am all for creative expression, but I also have proof that we can do more that rap and play sports. It's also upsetting to me that black male athletes are so excited to sport a white girl or an almost-white-looking girl and then when the media reports that she is claiming you raped her or she's coming after your money, my brothas are dumbfounded and looking for Al Sharpton or Messy Jesse to rally the troops, say a few prayers, yell "racism," and then go home for a big bucket of KFC like it's all in a good days work. NO. Yes, black people, racism is alive and well (Jena 6, most recently) but our ignorance and self-hatred has to be checked and managed by us. Not CNN, ABC, NBC, and definitely not BET (again, another issue for another day). Then there is my favorite movement of all. The I'mma Victim Movement. Too much has been done and black people have more opportunities now than ever. Yes, we may have to work doubly hard as our white counterparts, but we have the strength, power, intelligence, and style (my favorite) to beat the odds without breaking a sweat or at least our backs like our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had to do. It's in our genes. Next, why is it that we can gather and support each other when THE Man is against us; but, when we hurt each other, vigils are not held. Press conferences are not held. We wouldn't dare picket or petition one of our own. But, if we as black people are able to decipher the wrongs of mainstream white America and the holes in the American dream; why is it too much to ask for us to correct ourselves? Affirmative action works if we work with it (yeah...maybe not so much). You cannot expect to be Diddy or Jay-Z or 50 Cent by sitting at home studying Black 101 brought to you by our friends at BET. These men are successful in most respects, but they are the exception. Plus, I find it puzzling that we look to black musicians/socialites/celebrities for advice as to what is successful. Heaven forbid that black doctors, lawyers, teachers, and black professionals in general that we interact with everyday and who are saving lives and contributing positive things to the world be considered successful. Black media is only concerned when the next Lil' Wayne album is dropping, who is Diddy's new baby mama, and the next Snoop Dogg court case. SAY WE. And yet we are rallying in Jena, Louisiana, to say that it's wrong for our black youth to be in jail for standing up for themselves. We should have been rallying and wearing black t-shirts, lighting candles, singing "We Shall Overcome" while marching on Selma, Jena, Little Rock, hell---anywhere--before the Jena 6 incident. It's pretty hard to convince an all-white jury that standing up for ourselves and fighting racism is not wrong when we give mainstream society magaizines, music, movies, and television shows that state differently. I love black creative expression; but, there must be a balance between what we offer and consume. We cannot love ourselves and each other while calling your brotha a nigga, your sister a ho, your mama a bitch, and your daddy a pimp. What is this saying to our youth and those outside of black America?; because the numbers show that hip-hop entertainment is purchased and absorbed (and controlled) by none other than white (teenage) males...the future presidents and congressman of this country if we don't get ourselves together. Creativity is to create, whether it be positive or negative. Why would you want to create more negativity when America has shown that she in her infinite wisdom knows that negativity causes confusion which causes division which causes the demise of a people. Telling your story is one thing. Relishing in the hurt and ignorance of your situation is not excusable. Too many slaves refused slavery and demanded freedom for us to do this to ourselves and each other. Too many men were lynched and emasculated for us to do this to ourselves and each other. Too many women have worked numerous jobs, attended school, went to church, and raised our youth (while expecting...and sadly getting...nothing in return) for us to do this to ourselves and each other. SAY WE. I could talk about this for awhile, but I'll move on. I think you get my point.

Hip-Hop. I'll leave this one alone because I think I have a poem that can better state how I feel at the moment about black music (b/c today's media thinks all black music is hip-hop...and we think we have to make all black music hip-hop.)

The Color Complex. Now I have heard and read about the "Paper-Bag test" from back in the day; I've seen skin bleaching creams; and I've experienced Michael Jackson, Lil' Kim, Vivica A. Fox, and Beyonce and various other black socialites/celebrites/walking confusion. American beauty is white beauty and until we start to love ourselves and each other, we will continue to find our women cutting up their faces for more angular (white) features, starving their curves, and burning their naturally coarse hair with peroxide in order to "make it" in broader American society. Black men we play a big part in this confusion by placing exotic/tanned white girls/other-than-black women in our media outlets (videos, movies, t.v., magazines). Kanye West loves "mutts," multi-racial, exotic women. Black music producer Polow Da Don is the "king of white chicks." He has stated on occasion that white women are easier to handle than black women. NEWSFLASH: His mother is black. Black athletes and rappers are the most visible black figures we have today in the media (minus the black mugshots we catch on the news everyday of our black brothas who are usually hurting each other). Messy Jesse and Big Perm Al Sharpton should use their fame game to jump-start a black male intiative in Black Hollywood because unfortunately ordinary black men cannot think for ourselves and decide to take cue from what we catch on television or whoever is helping us dance and not go to work. SAY WE. I love my 2-step just as much as the next man, but D-A-M-N what do we do after we leave the club and wake up Monday morning with bills to pay? Is Lil' Jon sending paychecks to every person who buys new album because if so, I must not be on the mailing list. The color complex kills our pride and self-esteem. Why can we not love those of us who are darker or just plain dark? Black is beautiful. Period. Unfortunately, all shades of black are not created equally. It starts at home. I always wanted to be my sister's chocolate brown skin tone. It was the same as my father's and it was cool. I talked to her the other night about a horrid argument where I dissed (yes, even I am at fault) her skin tone. I, then, was envious, confused, and unaware of my own beauty. Sidenote: A brotha' knows he can turn a few heads. TRUST. I'm a lite-brite yellow black man. My tone supposedly went out amongst our community in the 1980s when DeBarge was cool, so why is BeyonceCiaraAliciaCassieRihanna lighter with every record they sell? Now the fun comes in with the men. Darker skinned black men are cool, aggressive, sexy, scary. There is literature on the black masculinity and skin tone on AMAZON.com. Cool Pose is one that I'm checking out now. Imagine how many records 50 Cent would sell (not this latest BS he has out...but before when he actually tried to rap) if he was light-skinned? Or how effective would Lil' Wayne's ignorance be if he were light-skinned? Light-skinned black men are considered harmless or not as dangerous as our darker-skinned brothas. We are written off because in an age when the black community boasts control, power, money--success--we need to maintain and protect our newfound trinkets as best we can. Why do you think white America is supporting Obama? Sidenote: Did anyone say a word that the "Obama girl" on Youtube is white and not a sista? But, I digress. I'll move on. This one will definitely be brought up again.

Black Men and Black Women Relationships. Now I am a black male in America who loves men . This is how I identify myself. You can call me what you need to in order for my essence to be categorized in your cabinet of thoughts: gay, same gender loving, homosexual, what and ev. My point here is that my relationship to black women, and black men for that matter, is unique. I love my sistas because my mom and my sister and the rest of the strong beautiful intelligent powerful black queens and princesses I have been around all my life love me long and hard and black love is like no other. I am hurt that my black sistafriends are hurting and angry and confused. I have been recently overcome with discourses concerning black men. We are not stepping in when and as we should in the lives of our women. I as a black man who loves men do not physically make love with black women, but we can make love in the sense that I can see black women for more than sex. Black women and black girls need that nowadays, because we are more than the hyper-sexed drugged out ignorant violent animals the media says we are...though it is sad that so many of us are willing to take the allegation lying down (pun intended). I may not know how to be a woman, let alone a black woman, but I have experienced marginalization within and without our patriarchal society. I don't know what it is like to carry a man-child for nine months, birth him, raise him (often times alone), only for him to grow up and hate you...because that is what we as black men do when we call our women bitch, ho, and freak. I don't know what it is like to carry a woman-child for nine months, birth her, raise her (still often times alone), only for her to grow up and hate herself. I do know what it is like to be a black man in America. Who I love doesn't change the color of my skin; though, sometimes, it is easier to hide. I do know what it is like to want to make daddy proud and continue the family name and to not understand why my masculinity is so scary and exotic and exciting for mainstream America. I know that the black lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgendered (LGBT) community is here to offer support and fight the good black fight, and ignoring us is only hurting the black community. Yes, the black church is the cornerstone of our community and I am not asking anyone to spare their religious convictions (a discussion for another time) but purposefully not acknowledging a part of our community only divides us and makes it easier for white patriarchy to continue to tell us the who, when, where, and why of our people. No--black non-heterosexuals cannot/do not always bear children, but we have plenty of black youth who need homes and want love and affection and a home. The black LGBT community can adopt them (and birth our own). Black non-heterosexuals are doing great and positive things in our community and abroad, regardless of if we are acknowledged or not. Do not forget: Harriet Tubman, W.E.B. DuBois, Malcolm, Rosa, and Martin...hell, even Beyonce and Jay-Z...are part of the black LGBT legacy, too. Black blood is not only black heterosexual blood. What warms your veins warms mine,too. It is not a time to be picky about helping each other. No--all of the black community may not condone, understand, care about lives unlike theirs; but, the fact remains that such lives are like theirs because they are still black lives. And until we all can say "I accept myself, I accept you," our collective community will continue to hurt and bleed, literally and figuratively.

What is Blackness? The hell if I know. Our skin is a big part of it; but, really, this subject is worth twelve dissertations by Cornel West. He ain't (yes this educated brotha said ain't) wrote'em yet. I ain't read'em yet. So, we'll leave this to another day. I love discussing it and reading about it; but nothing I have come across (yet) says, "Blackness is...". My hope is that Webster is not the first to make such a discovery.

THE BLACK ARTS MOVEMENT! I am so excited to be discussing the topic. I was born in the wrong decade. I am definitely a sixties baby. Black Panthers, Civil Rights, Black Arts. All I know is that I would be looking FINE in all black and pumping my fist with Stokely Carmichael...though I am sure homophobia and sexism was running rampant even in such a powerful and progressive organization. I would definitely be listening for Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr. on my radio instead of my iPod. And the African prints would really be FIYAH on campus or at a rally against the war in Vietnam (or Iraq). Now I know that I'm romanticizing the movement right now...but don't pay me any attention because I am reading alot of poetry and literature from that era. I am so moved by the wealth of beauty and knowledge and angst in the writing of the time. Where did our flava go? SAY WE. I will be posting a separate post about THE BLACK ARTS MOVEMENT, and my hopes for a Neo-Black Arts Movement. Basically, I really think such a movement could be the catalyst for bettering the black community as creativity is synonomous with black. At least it is in my thesaurus. Check DAT! LOL.

In closing, I want to say that all of the issues in this post will be brought about again and again and again. And they need to be because nothing is changing. We are at risk of becoming stagnant if we have not already become so. I want to be a part of the uplifting of all of our people: light/dark/darker/heterosexual/lesbian,gay,bi, transgendered/poor/rich/thug/professional/single/couple. ALL of us.

It's all love.
m.

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UPDATE!!!

I have added a shoutbox at the bottom of the page called "@ the Beep".

It's easy to use. Enter your name or what you are going by today (u can be whoever you want to be as long as you ain't killin' nobody), and then enter your message to me.

Anything you wish to say can be said here in the shoutbox or in the "Comment" link under each blog post.

Choices, choices.

Enjoy.
m.

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A Talk With MY boo boo

So, yesterday I was sick as a dog with no bone. Today I am pretending not to feel the aches and goosebumps because I have my doc's appointment tomorrow and I need to be able to make it to see him. Had I gone to the doc today, the clinic would have put me on bed rest and I have rested enough for three lifetimes. But something...or rather someone lifted my spirits: My booboo! My sister and I spoke on Monday night and then today we emailed back and forth something fierce. I have no doubt in my mind that she is not maturing and becoming the beautiful queen she is so destined to be. I am grateful for her and all of our stupid corny mean trifilin' sad funny ridiculous memories and conversations. She is my breath of fresh air. We both remember less than two arguments that we've had (though we know more existed...we were young), but we both do remember more than enough good times. It is seldom that I have not a poem or story to go along with my daily postings; but today is one. Not for lack of material, but because my booboo deserves a poem that I can stew over for a minute. But trust, it is coming and it will come hard.
I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE U GURL!

P.S. My booboo has my back. Haters beware. And if those of you skirting around her doorstep:Watch out. Cause I know how to use a M-16...once I find my instructions. LOL! Anyhoo, if you got a booboo that loves you no matter how crazy life gets or how crazy you get, let them know how much you appreciate them. You never know when you'll be able to return the favor.

This may pertain to today's short story post after all.

We'll See.

Enjoy.
m.

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Blackbirds Are Telling...

Mama works six days a week. Monday is her Sabbath. She don’t have much time for us now, so my sister Pearl watches after Lenny and me. My name is Esther Lee, and I like me. Everything about me is quite alright, at least that’s what my Daddy Bo would tell me every morning before school: “Esther baby, you quite alright in the morning noon and night.” I miss him. But mama say he sho’ don’t miss us. Don’t know why he left. All I remember in my head is Mama telling Daddy Bo that she was fine right here, and that if he couldn’t breathe then he had better open a window and fly away. All I kept thinking was that she should help him breathe. Just help him breathe. Lenny and I decided that Mama is a witch. She cast a spell on Daddy Bo and made him a bird and sent him on his way just like Ragrum the witch in Lenny’s storybook. Ragrum cast a spell on her husband Dufroc and turned him into a crow. Sometimes when me and Lenny sit beneath Daddy Bo’s thinking tree, we dream about what kind of bird Mama turned Daddy into. Lenny thinks Daddy is an eagle or a crane. But I know that daddy is a bluebird. Blue is his favorite color and I know that deep down inside Mama loved him too much to keep him away from it too long. I can see him gliding on the breeze, his chest full of pride and happiness and maybe even a picture of me in his head. Daddy Bo is a bluebird that flies in the brave blue sky. I know this to be true because he has a nest in his thinking tree. Lenny and I climbed up one of the low branches (Lenny fell and skinned his knee his first couple of times and Pearl wiped it with aloe) and took down the nest and looked at it real close one day while Daddy was out. It had hair and grass and hay from Mr. Howell’s farm, and pieces of paper from our trash. And this is how I know it’s Daddy: he has a piece of my homework right in the middle of his nest. It was one of my math assignments from last year in the fourth grade, Mrs. Clingle’s class. I worked so hard on my multiplication tables and I got an A+. He has a piece of the plus sign and all of the A. It’s Daddy Bo for sure.

To Be Continued...

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SICK

My head is heavy...not just because I was born with a lot on my mind.
My body aches...not just from lonliness and boredom or that other thing.
My eyes are bloodshot...and it ain't cause I'm tired.
I am sick. That is all.

My tongue is dry...not because I don't have something to say.
My nose is peeling...not because I've been sniffing your shit.
My ears are pounding with your approval...or the lack thereof.
I am sick. That is all.

Maybe I need a prescription
From a doctor
who knows I am sick
because I tell him
I am sick.
Or
Maybe I just need to
stand on one leg
hold my breath
cross my eyes
while humming
the national anthem
(the black one)
Or
Maybe I just need you
to tell me it's going to be
all right
or
all left
behind
or past
or passed
or gone
with the wind
though I didn't much care for Scarlet
or women like Scarlet
and the Scarlet Letter had a point:
people like categories for things and people and animals or people that they...you...treat like animals that frighten and confuse and arouse them...you.
People like the alphabet
when it's warm and nurturing and contained in a broth of lies
spoon-fed
just like the soup I'm eating.
I am sick.
And that is all.

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Site UPDATE!!!

So, as you can see, I am slowly but surely updating the website and adding tools that will make the blog more interactive between myself and the site users. Once Upon A Man is still a work in progress. Check out the side tabs I've added. There are news tabs (NewsReal, Nation in Review, EURWeb.com (black and urban entertainment news), SOHH.com (Hip-Hop/Urban entertainment news) and Bossip.com (my guilty pleasure...black/urban celebrity gossip). **Who I Check For** is a list of sites/blogs that I contact and correspond with about issues concerning black America @ large. Hope that you enjoy the updates and there will be more to come.

Enjoy.
m.

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It's Friday. No Exclamation Point.

My rhythm is off today. I woke up with that "I'm in strong dislike" feeling. It's not a place of hate or anger, but rather a place of "I need not be near people and agitation". Usually the people are the agitation and that idea alone should bring some solace because if I get away from the people then I would logically get away from the agitation. Killing two birds with one stone; however, life is not logical. It's really one of those "unpretty" days (formerly known as a "bad hair day"). I am looking forward to this evening when I'll feed the little pig inside me and curl up with James Baldwin or Nikki Giovanni or a DVD with subtitles. I've been wound up lately. I'm ansy because I'm not really utilizing all of my energy, if any in the work that I am doing. It's a job and I hate being in that place, being one of those people that are at work to work because they have to work. That doesn't make any sense. I get that way sometimes. I hope that I can just slide back into my skin like that favorite pair of jeans or old tennis shoes or college football sweater that sit in your closet waiting for your not-so-good days. Days that aren't so bad, just not so good. A haircut will make me smile. Twizzlers will make me laugh. A good candle will comfort me. My playlist will help me find my song.

It's Friday. No exclamation point.

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Honeysuckle Rose

Here's another Short story post. Tentative.

Enjoy.
m.

P.S. Today was busier than a hoe at a car convention...so a brotha' was Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiizzzzzzy. Period. Glad I got that out. In other news, I am feeding the pig this week. Bare with me.

NOW WHAT YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR:


Tattered screams filled the room as the furnace heaved heat and dust. Cinders glowed and the wind outside moaned secrets of times past and times yet to come. Upstairs Charlee sat in the corner of his kitchen warming his swollen hands near the stove. Buck’s heavy head lay atop his master’s feet, hoping to soothe the many hours of milking cows, cleaning coops, slopping hogs, and delivering feed to Mr. Naughvelle’s place before dusk. Charlee and Buck woke at 3am every morning; they’d pray for strength, mercy, peace of mind, and then give thanks for flapjacks, bacon, biscuits with jam, hard boiled eggs, hash browns, fried apples, and rice--all before Moses crowed, promising a new day’s journey.
Buck would accompany Charlee during his morning duties occasionally breaking away to scout a mole hill or rummage through bush treasures: ladybugs, mushrooms, and squirrels. Sometimes they’d steal away to their hidden honeysuckle patch. Buck should have been named Chimney because his lean frame was covered in ash and soot, gray with black spots. His left ear stayed erect. It stood guard while his lazy right draped itself along side his gnat and tic worn head. Charlee knew what it was like to be tired. Tired of listening to them every night, waiting for them to show up. Sometimes they’d appear like apparitions, only for a moment to leave chills and cold sweats. Other times they’d make their presence known with flames and burning stakes, shot guns and shouts. Buck knew them and their flames. He knew their laugh. Worse of all he knew their voices. Voices that he heard each day and each night. Charlee found Buck dragging his weak, heat worn body early one morning, fighting death. The mutt had tried to escape the falling flames, but stubbornness and loyalty kept his paws planted in the steady, red soil. He barked and howled and then he cried, at least for what is considered crying for a dog. He cried for Clifton and Mary and Baby Ham. They shot Clifton right through his chest. The father fell to his knees, his arms outstretched pleading with life and gravity for his son. Mary’s tears flowed down her cheeks, off her chin onto her chest heaving, pulling, pounding. She tried to scream; but, her fear and despair and pain tied her words in knots and with each shot, each flame, each white mask that passed before her and her child’s eyes, her throat tightened until it closed. Her eyes bulged from the pressure building inside her. She clutched her son to her still chest and sent him down her river of tears. Mama loves you.
They taunted Buck with sticks of fire. He watched as Clifton’s body was pulled over rocks and bark, his bloody flesh etching his fate in stone. They took his limp body and threaded his head through their makeshift needle. Inch by oak inch they tugged and hoisted him up into the night, darkness cloaking him, carrying him home. A knot was tied to hold him steady.

To be continued...

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Sunny Days

We used to live by the crack of the whip
now we sell crack for whips.
It used to be Black Power
now we just lack power
We wanna get it back
but
we worried 'bout the green stack and
the glock and
time still beat the clock.
Not much longer before the tick tock stops and
we
the legacy
grieve a
dead memory
fading like high-tops from back in the day.
Days that shined so bright with our generations greatness
and strength
and promise that
we needed shades.
Damn I miss those days.


Don't get it twisted. Black people are doing amazing things and being and becoming amazing people; however, because of a lack of integrity and self-love and self-respect in the lives of those who control mass media (and even more importantly, black media), we are left many times looking like sex-crazed, drugged-out fools. Which is why I present this poem:we had it. Where did it go?

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BLACK PEOPLE PLEASE...SAY WE.

At a time when our nation is looking for excuses for black progress to be put on hold (or stopped altogether), our celebrities (and I use the term loosely because I know that nowadays anyone with Youtube or a Casio keyboard and a recorder can be a celebrity) are using their 15 minutes of fame to perpetuate sad, hurtful, ignorant, and hypersexual images of black people. It's a shame that at a time when blacks have as many opportunities as we do now (though we still have farther to go) to have our voices heard, we are only interested in talking about bitches, hoes, cars, clothes, and bling. As far as the black female this post is about, it would be alot easier to sell her book as a "how to": "Whoring for Dummies" or "Dumb Whores" or something of that nature. If she wants to be a whore, then she should call a duck a duck and be out. I believe in freedom of speech and artistic expression, but self-respect and the need for such a virtue should be factored into the equation.



The "HO Diaries"
Posted by Bossip Staff

The “Ho of all Hoes” is at it again putting all her dumb cats that smashed her ho ass on blast. Here are some excerpts from her new book “The Vixen Diaries” which she dedicates to
Bill Maher:
Jamie Foxx: “When Jamie Foxx offers to massage your body at four in the morning, after a bottle of Champagne and two shots of Patron, it’s hard to say no,” she writes. However, Jamie soon figured out she was “that Karrine.” Foxx ran in the other direction, leaving the author “depressed. Jamie had no idea that he made me cry all the way home and in the days that followed.”
Bill Maher: “In January of 2006, Bill and I split. Three days later, I suffered an emotional breakdown and was sent to the hospital for psychiatric observation. I cut my wrists and started drinking myself into an emotional tailspin. At the end of the night, the love of my life was gone and so was my son, Naiim,” taken away by Child Services.

Via NY Daily News:
Mike Tyson, she writes, “loves the same way he fights: hard and rough. His kisses are like uppercuts, and his lovemaking is like a title match. And as he proved against Evander Holyfield, Mike Tyson is a biter. His passion manifested through pain as … I endured the extreme force of his 200-pound frame colliding into mine, he kissed, sucked and bit me overzealously. I was in excruciating pain as we continued in this manner for several hours. At the end, I was covered in bruises and bite marks and vowed to never have sex with him again.”
She also went a round with boxer Antonio Tarver shortly before his marriage. As she watched Antonio kiss his new wife, Steffans muses, “I recalled his face and lips [exploring my body] … I wondered how I tasted to her.
She was revolted by one “A-list name-above-the-title” Oscar winner who invited her to his Beverly Hills mansion. “I wanted to tell him that I … no longer wanted to be around him. I never got the chance. The next thing I knew, he was on all fours and naked on the bed. I don’t have a strong enough stomach to describe what happened in the hours that followed” — except to say that, for him, it was more like a colonoscopy.
She denounces those vicious rumors that she came between Eric Benet and Halle Berry, and Chris and Malaak Rock. She also maintains she didn’t have sex with Whitney Houston’s husband, Bobby Brown, though she says, “I kept Bobby close to my heart.” Meeting after a time apart, “he embraced me as I whispered, ‘I love you,’ and he returned, ‘I love you, too.’” But she says Brown later told “me I had done nothing for him, while he was sleeping in my home, eating my food, driving my car and spending my money.” After a tryst with Ray J, she told Brown that the rapper claimed he’d added Whitney’s name to his bedpost. “I could hardly wait to get the news out, to tear [Bobby’s] heart apart and hurt him the way he hurt me, I wanted him to go to bed that night with the image of his wife with another man.”

http://ahotmess.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/superhead-on-anal-sex-with-eddie-winslow/
http://www.bossip.com/6204/the-ho-diaries/ (THE PICTURES ARE EXPLICIT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.)

**This info is from blogs that I visit A Hot Mess! and Bossip.com.**

Also, with the Jena 6 case and other blatant acts of racism and violence towards blacks on university and school campuses and abroad, black people should be trying to limit the amount of tastelessness and ignorance we broadcast to the majority. However, this is not the case. Our community is sick. Do we really want to look this foolish? BLACK PEOPLE PLEASE...tell me what is up.

ALSO, racism is still alive and kickin', must we contribute to this ridiculousness. BLACK PEOPLE PLEASE...SAY WE. Cause regardless, these people are still black, so it's still us, which means we,too, must answer for their ridiculousness.

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A Scene from GAVE

This is my first short story post on this blog. It's a scene from a larger work that I'm working on tentatively called GAVE. It's still a W.I.P. I'm having fun writing it.

Enjoy.
m.



“Chile, where is Hevelyn? I know she reverend’s wife, but this here don’t make no sense,” announced Mrs. Merline Jacobs-Higgins (of the Fayetteville Jacobs) to her fellow Sisters in Fellowship. “ I don’t know how she think we gone further our mission being late all the time”
“Now, Merline,” chimed Essie Mae Fulbright, the eldest of the Sisters and head of the Senior Usher Board. “You know this ain’t like Hevelyn. I’m sure she’ll be here directly.”
“Ain’t like Hevelyn? Directly? That’s a direct lie. She been traipsing into these here meetings late as Moses, and you sittin’ talking like it ain’t happened none. Essie you too forgiving, and sometimes too naive for your own good.”
“You ain’t lied there, heh!” chirped Mable Moss-Samson.
“You find somewhere and sit down Ms. Moss-Samson. You best remember who it was washin’ yo’ dirty face when your widower daddy needed a woman’s touch to help with his too fast, high-tail, mouthy lil’ girl. Some thangs, I guess, you can’t change," lessoned Ms. Fulbright.
“Umph,” answered the forty-something recently inducted into the Sisters in Fellowship.
“Umph is right. Now, ya’ll know Hevelyn is wife to the Reverend, mother to Jon Jon, and President-Sister of this here organization--this fellowship as we is called, Mable (eyeing her directly)--as well as the first lady of the church...so just let us all be patient with her. The chile ain’t but a sneeze away from thirty-five.
“All I know is,” stated Mable, “is that Sister Hevelyn been late to these meetings and ain’t offered but “sorry” for her lateness. Who is she?”

By now Mrs. Mable Moss-Samson knew exactly who Hevelyn Anne Polk was, and who she had been.
Growing up in a motherless home, Mable’s widowed father would send her to her Aunt and Uncle‘s farm down in Stamps during the summer. These times for Mable were freeing and wholesome--dreamlike. Aunt Sadie-Anne and Uncle Joe Ray were her family three months each year. She envied her cousins Lina and Jacob Roy for their having a mother, and not Essie Mae Fulbright. Aunt Sadie taught Mable and Lina how to sew, the art of hot-combing (grease the edges first!), the reasons why stupid boys became stupid beloved married men who could be trained to be better men. She taught Mable about the precious power she carried betwixt her thighs, how to walk like a lady and still make a man stutter. Aunt Sadie loved Mable like her own and for three months each year Mable was Sadie’s own, her own until Mable’s last summer at the farm.
That summer, Stamps’ Purple Hull Pea Festival was to be the biggest and most elaborate the townsfolk had seen which meant instead of the local favorite: Lou Mann and the Singin’ Songbirds. Stamps would be fortunate enough to host one of Mississippi’s finest: the Dooby Jackson Revue. Stamps youth saved their allowances, happenstance shiny pennies found in dirt and ditches, cashed in IOU’s, took on extra chores, and even stayed awake in church--even through Reverend Massey’s nth retelling of how Eve was to blame for everything from man’s exile from paradise to slavery to Jim Crow. Amen.
Mable and Lina were not to be left out. The fourteen-year-old cousins had had Aunt Sadie Anne rework a pair of baby pink sundresses that they could wear to the dance after the award ceremony and fireworks display (no one would have ever guessed that Henry Hobbs would win that year!). James Lightfoot and his brother Jerry would be meeting the two pretty-in-pink young Moss girls.
Uncle Joe Ray had worked hard on his pea crop that year and the family knew that this was his summer, his festival to win. It was not. After the disappointing trophy show, Joe ray left Sadie Ann back at their home o rest her aching feet before he left going down to Booie Pond to think, a flask of bathtub brew sat in his pocket to aid him in the matter.
Lina and James seemed to be having a wonderful time; a stark contrast to Jerry’s hot breath, fast hands, fumbling feet and impromptu gyrations. Mable had decided that she had a headache when the band’s feverish tempo slowed to an easy two-step. She would tell him she had to go.
“I think I better go. It’s getting late and we have sunrise service tomorrow at church,” said Mable as if she really enjoyed waking up at 5:30 A.M. and arriving at church at seven.
“Huh? What? Naw, baby...baby girl, naw. We still got an hour before the dance is over, Sugah Shoes. You know you still gotta’ lil’ left for me in those hips.” Jerry’s tongue slid across his words like the snake that he was.
“I just gotta’ go.”
Lina stopped James somewhere in the paradise they’d made on dance floor that doubled as the children’s eating grounds during the school year. She was jolted by the discomfort found across the patio in her cousin’s eyes.
“Is there a problem?” asked James only after being prompted to do so by Lina and the threat of never again necking with that war butternut lavender-fresh neck of hers.
Mable looked up and said no, but her dull brown eyes were definitely grateful that James had come to see about her and his wily brother.
“Naw, ain’t no problem, Jimmy. I’m just trynna’ find out why Mable here wants to leave the floor tonight. She sayin’ she gotta’ leave cause of sunrise service tomorrow mornin’”
“Why Mable,” said Lina slightly distracted from Jerry’s unsteady gyrations. “You know sunrise service is ev’ry third Sunday and tomorrow is the fourth. Gurl, wha’s the really ‘a matter?” she asked, never comprehending her cousin’s uneasiness.

Mable hated that her cousin was so naive; Mable envied her innocence. Lina was untouched. Mable, though, knew how to lie, really lie. Not little white lies that kids and old folk tell, but true blue lies. Lies that had seen life and lived. Mable knew how to call a man with her taut youthful stride. She knew how to send her soft soprano whispers into his ear. Just like he wanted her to. Just like he told her to. She knew the give and take of love. He said he loved her. He entered her bedroom each night that summer and placed himself on her, in her. By now, the guilt and shame were only an afterthought. Mable remembered the fear and pain and tears and seat and stench and hot, suffocating breath--the blood--and confusion. Now, mostly, it was guilt, but that of a different kind. She used to feel guilty for the warm shivers she felt when his motion slowed and he held her weak, grasping hands behind her head until she wept. Honey tears is what he called them.
Now she felt guilty because she knew that her Aunt Sadie could never do for him as she could she could not love him like Mable could. Uncle Joe Ray loved Mable as a daughter--as a woman, his lover.

“I’m just a little tired that’s all,” said Mable. “I’ll walk myself back home. The moon is bright enough. I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine.”

Lina offered to leave with her, but she again mistook Mable’s unsettled eyes for “fine.”
Mable walked from the dance floor with her periwinkle Daisy-Fay sweater wrapped over her left arm. Her father had bought it home for her the day before she left for her Aunt Sadie Anne’s that summer. Her father had begun this tradition the summer after her mother passed. It was a way for Mable to have him with her while they were apart. She had acquired over the past five summers a blue teddy bear (whose right eye was now falling out), a copy of Aesop’s Fables (with colored pictures...Brer Rabbit was her favorite!), a music box that was made of pure oak wood that encased a diamond-shaped mirror and a tiny African princess that danced in a space that Mable imagined too beautiful to really exist, a sterling silver hair pin that held her initials MLM, and, finally, a periwinkle Daisy-Fay sweater that he’d bought at Bernice’s, the most distinguished clothing store in the lower Arkansas area for black and white folks alike.
He told her that this summer she was a young lady. She was mature, and he was so proud of her. His pride weighed heavy on her shoulders. How could she tell him that she had been a lady for the past four summers? How could she tell him that she understood the sounds that came from her father’s room that were not Lettie DuPont talking in her sleep, but his and her muffled groans as he fought to please himself and forget his deceased wife. Mable could not tell him. And she did not.

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Monday Blues

It's Monday: the beginning of yet another week. I woke up with Chaka Khan on my mind today. She has a new album FUNK THIS and I really like it. I have been chillin' with Minnie Ripperton and Jill Scott while I read James Baldwin's Just Above My Head. The book is 600 pages but I'm a booknut so it is worth my time. I'll be posting a book review once I finish it. Anyhoo, so back to my Monday. Well, I had music on my mind so I decided to cut out of the office a bit early and go to the gym so that I could commune with Music while burning off some weekend stress. Today's poem is a little taste of my relationship with the radio.

Enjoy.


Radio

When you're not here
I
turn the radio on
up real loud
let the sound
feel the spaces
you do
when you're here.
Sometimes I sing
or hum... off
key
giggle when my hips sway to the beat
cause sometimes I trip but no one's here watching me
'cept the angels.
I twist the knob and
find the frequency
a slight infidelity
between the DJ
and
me.

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