Al Green don’t got nothing on my remix.

In two days, one of my best friends in life is about to make that wonderful declaration before God, that he shall be faithful and all that good stuff to his intended.

Yes, my boy is getting married.

And I couldn’t be happier for him. Truthfully, I’m as excited to just have fun at a huge event (again). This summer has been chock full of nuptials and love. And though it is officially Fall, I’m still considering this summer as a wedding will then have both started and ended my summer.

My boy…what can I say about my boy? (Yes, this is a tribute of sorts.)

This particular cat is one of the reasons I’m doing a lot of the stuff I’m doing. You see, I believe that everything that happens in life has a direct impact on the next move that occurs. Now, is everything pre-ordained and ordered? Perhaps in some divine theory…however I believe that we have free will. So if I freely decide to make a very bad decision tomorrow (say I meet an ugly woman and decide to engage her in a little foofy foofy), then everything from that day forward occurs in some way because of that decision.

Or not.

But let’s assume that what a decision that I made 10 years ago is damn near directly responsible for the reason I’m writing this right now.

Back in the beginnings of all of our senior year in high school, everybody spends so much time stressing over where they’re going to go to college. And being as that I was in all the nerdy classes, EVERYBODY was freaking out about acceptance letters and the like.

Me? I was chillin. I wasn’t too concerned for whatever reason. Stress sucks. So I figure, why stress.

I had laid out a few schools for consideration: Howard University, the University of Michigan, Georgia Tech, Tuskegee, and the University of Alabama. I wasn’t really worried about paying for it. I figured somebody was going to pay me to go to school. I’m young, black, with a high GPA and all of the necessary honor societies, and good test scores. Fuck worrying.

Well, me and my boy, JK, were both sitting in our AP Calculus class (as you can see, I’ve known him for something like 11 years now) told me he was going to Morehouse and that I should go and we could be roommates. He even got a scholarship. He gave me a little Morehouse spiel. Granted, I knew Dr. Martin Luther Tha King went there, but I didn’t know much else.

Me??

I just said, ok.

I went home, requested some material. It came in the mail. I applied. Got accepted. Got a scholarship. End game.

Thanks for playing.

It was the best decision of my life. And I owe it to my boy.

Thanks pimpin’.

I’m really proud of him, ya know. For one, he’s actually getting married…and really wants too. I have to give it to him, he’s one of the few people I know that you can count on really making any and everything happen that he says will happen.

If he decides it, it will come.

The list is of his accomplishments is too long for me to name, besides, he hates when folks know all of his business, but this cat is that dude.

While I was out there running the streets and missing whole weeks of class (!) our Freshman year, he was studying (and on the phone with his then girlfriend). This cat?? Phi Beta Kappa? Me…I graduated AND kept my scholarship. That was my goal. Stay on scholarship.

I remember when he first met his future wife. Actually, it wasn’t much of a meeting. He saw her at Spelman one day and was caught off guard. Developed a crush if you will. Now that blows considering he had a girlfriend, but its okay to look and not touch right?

Survey says? Yes.

Who’d a thunk that about 4 years later they’d meet at a party in New York City and blaze a trail for marriage. He sure as hell didn’t think that.

But here we are, two days away, and he’s about to marry the girl that made him stop and say, “damn” so many years ago.

You know, there has only been one woman who caught me SO offguard by her fineness one day to cause me to utter the words “damn”. You know you’re hot when that’s the only thing a man can think of. Anywho…

This shit is scattered isn’ it?

So yeah, I’m proud of my boy for manning up and taking that leap. And for doing what he said he was going to do. And choosing a beautiful woman with so much going for herself. I’m not sure why I’m so happy but I love my boys, I really do. I want the best for them in any given circumstance. So it makes me happy to know that they’re happy and that life isn’t just beating the hell out of us.

And trust me, life does beat the hell out of us…some of us don’t make it. Some of us dangle along the edge trying to grasp for anything…

But on Saturday, I get to see my boy, one of my best friends in life, and somebody who knows me as well as (if not better than) members of my family. My brother is getting married. And all of our boys will be there, front and center to watch.

I kind of wonder if this will be the point where all of us start preparing for that leap. I’m not really ready to be married at this point, so the kid won’t be jumping any brooms any time soon. But I’m not afraid of this point in life anymore. It’s coming whether we all like it or not.

Marriage. Who’d a thunk it?

To my boy, JK, I’m proud of you pimpin’. Happy nuptials. And happy pre-nuptials shots of Patron because that’s what’s going to be happening. Can’t get him drunk, but that ninja is going to take one shot for the rest of us and one shot for the rest of his life.

Two shots of Patron.

Speaking of which, I took two shots of Patron last night. You know, it goes really well with a rum and coke chaser. Word life.

To his wife, take care of my boy, Lord knows he’ll need it.

I’d like to extend a toast to my boy…

…JK, congratulations…do this for love, happiness, and all that other shit.

And for strippers…we can’t not do it for strippers…

…but mostly love.

If you will, please congratulate my boy on his pending nuptials. Congratulations are in order, y’all….

…a Black man WANTS to get married!!!!

As a fan of all types of music, I’ve learned that different types of music require different types of listening. Good or bad, facts are facts.

For instance, when listening to some rap music, you have to more or less suspend reality and realize that these ninjas haven’t killed nearly as many people as they claim. They give themselves way too much of a curve. If you listen to a 50 Cent album, he must murder well over 100 people per album and I just refuse to believe he’s responsible for that many. Perhaps 2 or 3, but 100 is just too many.

When listening to rock, one must realize that listening while using LSD just might increase the experience. Not that I have any experience in that or anything, I’m just saying.

When listening to a lot of emo-punk shit, I often listen with the understanding that I won’t know what in the shit these groups are talking about. And more often than not, I’m proven right. It is with this understanding that I realize that either I’m not very deep, or these bastards are saying a whole lot of everything and a whole lot of nothing at the exact same time.

The problem with this is that I’ve always fashioned myself to be a thinker; a problem-solving, puzzle buster, if you will. So when I do actually get around to listening to the words of songs (which for me might come a cool year after initially hearing something), I’m confronted with the self-awareness that I am, indeed, not deep.

I’m not deep because I believe a person who was deep would be able to find some greater meaning in the lyrics that are sung and said lyrics would provide said deep person with some insight into the world or their personal life causing them to potentially consider suicide or perhaps consider Tae-Bo or something…

The bottom line is that, a deep person would hear the words to these types of song and be able to attach something to the words that would allow the words to make sense. I was gifted in life with the ability to read, yet how come when I read the words to some of my favorite songs, I have no Earthly idea what in the shit they are talking about?

Or perhaps, I’m not meant too. But if that’s the case, how is it that so many people gain meaning from Nirvana songs when I know full damn well that Kurt Cobain couldn’t have seriously had any meaning behind some of his lyrics. And I’m a Nirvana fan. You know, that just might be how you know you’ve made it in life. If you ever get to the point where you can spit pure gibberish, and it moves an entire generation, well, you’ve made it.

I will say though, and I’ve stood by this assertion for quite some time now, I believe that the keys to the Universe are trapped inside of Nirvana’s lyrics. If you can crack that code…well, you just might become the most powerful person in the Universe. Word to Powder.

You might be asking yourself, what brought on this randomnation?

Even if you aren’t asking yourself, but are merely ruminating on something…or marinating, then I shall share because as we all know, sharing is caring.

You know what else is caring? Carebears. Now, I’ve seen Carebears II: The Movie, but it didn’t really seem as if it was much of a sequel, but more of a prequel to the sequel, which almost seems to skip a step, now doesn’t it?

By the way, The Wire is still the best show on television. Oh, and Grey’s Anatomy is my shit. And my new shit is Studio 60 on Sunset Strip.

What’s the reason for all of that information? Remember, I care. Therefore I share.

*hugs*

I was listening to one of my favorite songs the other day, “Leave Me Here” by a group called Hem. The song is on their debut album Rabbit Songs. Par chance, you may have heard of them but you didn’t realize it. One of their songs, “Half Acre” is being featured in a Liberty Mutual Insurance commercial right now. The song featured in the commercial is bananas. I said the shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

I’m a sucker for pianos. Always have been. It’s my favorite instrument and is probably why I’m such a huge fan of The Fray. Well, this song “Leave Me Here” is a piano heavy song. Piano’s and strings…so the song tugged at my heart strings. I’m a softy and I like emotive songs.

It’s beautiful music. And I love beautiful music. And that feelin’ music. Early.

*hugs*

Well, just the other day, I really started listening to the song. Mostly because of one of the lyrics which states, “he took me to heaven and left me there…”

I was like, man…that’s deep.

Deep.

Un-shallow.

You know I hate Starbucks with everything that is my being, right? And I really do think Starbucks is “the man”. Like, for real.

But that damn commercial they’re running where everybody is in the streets damn near line dancing and singing “you da man, you da man”…

…yeah, I love that shit. It entertains me.

So, as I finally sat and listened to the words of the song, I realized that my brain just might be quick enough to both listen and process the lyrics. So I did what any able-bodied, debonaire, sexxy, pimpnificent, light-skinneded, left-hand-slappin’, right-hand-dappin’ black man would do.

I hit up the Internet for the lyrics.

Because I care, I shall share the lyrics with you.

I should wake up this town
my heart’s on fire
main road and no one’s around
as the flames climb higher
i have been here before
and i know the way
but love seemed sweeter and sure
in the light of the day

so as i rise, i will reach for the livin’
and i’ll say no prayer
cause tonight love feels nothing like heaven
don’t leave me here

I was told to just treat the lyrics like a free-verse poem (read: all subject to interpretation), but for some reason that just didn’t sit well with me. Clearly, the song is about love (or is it?). But I can’t tell if its good love or if it’s ungood love…which would be bad love…which would be everything that Flavor of Love seems to be.

Flavor Flaaaaaaav.

I mean, is it good, is it bad? Tonight, he took you to Heaven, but tonight feels nothing like Heaven. Potentially, he has her on an emotional rollercoaster (word to Vivian Green…where is she, by the way?). Or perhaps, the same love that makes her feel so high is the same love that brings her down. Which could put this square in the realm of marriage. Or perhaps (you know, I really like the word perhaps…not as much as the word, supple, but a lot), this song merely stands as her thoughts on the confusion and despair she’s fallen too. The fact that she’s been here before, but now she’s lost…

That could signify that perhaps they used to throw darts together, but he wants to throw no more darts with her. But they’re standing at the dartboard.

In essence, they’re together like normal, but something just isn’t right.

Maybe, it’s just about love lost. And the longing for it to return. Or the being left to be in love all by yourself…hence the same person that took you there, is the person that left you there.

Like parents.

Do you know, that after writing this, I feel like I have a more clear idea of what the song is about?

Or maybe I don’t.

Because you see, tonight, these lyrics took me to Vegas…and they left me there.

Or maybe they didn’t leave me there. Because tonight, DC feels nothing like Vegas…and I’d rather that you didn’t leave me here.

Do you see my dilemma?

It is all quite possible that I’m just a follower and this is all my fault because I want the lyrics to this and other songs that aren’t crystal clear to be, crystal clear (as opposed to Crystal Light), instead of commanding thought. Maybe this is the reason that I don’t like abstact art as much as I do a picture where I can figure out exactly what’s going on.

Somehow, I could never find Waldo…he was just never right there. The ability to think and reason and interpret things how we see them shouldn’t be lost on me, now should it?

Word to the Bible.

Or…

Maybe I read too much.

Or maybe I don’t read enough.

Whatever the case, don’t leave me here.

I’m Black.

It’s a song. It’s a notion. It’s a culture. It’s a physical trait.

It’s apparently also a reason to act up on a whim. Or at least that’s the thought behind so many stupid ass solutions to problems that arise in public establishments.

Probably thought up by other Black people.

Hence, the AEB: The Anti-Ethnicity Brigade.

What is the AEB? It is the braintrust that comes together to determine how best to prevent shit from occurring when ninjas are involved. You’ve probably dealt with the AEB on more occasions than you realize, you just paid it no mind. You see, the AEB looks at a problem and says, “that problem occurred because ninjas were involved. If we remove the catalyst for ninja-like behavior, we shall have a much safer environment.”

Common sense be damned.

Allow me to example-ize the AEB for you.

Recently, my boy The Doc and I went out to eat for a little late night dinner. We ventured to a Ruby Tuesday’s in Washington, DC’s Gallery Place-Chinatown district. As of late, this area is a hot spot after years of being the not spot.

Well, the Doc and I are drinkers. And as is usually the case, when we chose a restaurant to patronize, we make sure that spirits are available. I usually order Long Island Iced Teas. I like them.

The Doc ordered a Hennessey and Coke. This conversation ensued:

Waiter: Sorry dog, we don’t have Henny or Yac (slangustic for Cognac).

The Doc: Umm…why?

Waiter: We had a brawl in her you know and ninjas were acting up so we don’t sell that anymore.

Me and The Doc look at eachother in puzzled look…then look at the waiter…

Me: But you still sell other liquor right? So you all assume that just because you DON’T give ninjas Henny, they’ll act right? Perhaps we’ll just get souped up on vodka instead then fuck some shit up…Vodka style. Um…that’s dumb.

What you have just witnessed is complete idiocy in practice.

Somebody thought that it would be a good idea to stop serving ninjas Henny because apparently when full of Henny or Yac do we act a fool. I beg to differ. I believe we act a fool with or without liquor.

As we all know, pride is the number one killer of Black males between the ages of birth and death.

Liquor just makes the brawls bigger seeing as how a bunch of drunk ninjas aren’t going to be as accurate or careful as to not hurt themselves as a bunch of sober ninjas would. And even that’s being liberal as a bunch of ninjas in a brawl don’t really care what they damage, drunk or not.

But really, they still sell shots. They still sell vodka and whiskey. I STILL got a Long Island Iced Tea and my boy, The Doc? Just ordered a Jack and Coke.

Have you ever had Jack Daniels? There are white men in Tennessee fighting RIGHT now because they have too much Jack in their system. Oh yes, and Alabama and Mississippi too.

Verse 2, sippin’ on some OE brew…

…so there is an Applebee’s in Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn now. My boy, The Most Shady, lives in Bed-Stuy. When it opened, we both decided that we had to get in there on a Friday night because you KNOW that ninjas in the Stuy don’t know how to act already, so just imagine what could go down at Applebee’s!

Yes, ignorance and trees grow in Brooklyn.

Well, we haven’t made it here on a Friday night, but we did go on a Saturday afternoon. There were 4 of us going, and all three of the males had on hats. We get to the door and the bouncer (yes, a freakin’ bouncer) informs me that I have to remove my hat.

STOP.

Have you been to Applebee’s before? Not to say that it isn’t fine dining, but it’s not fine dining. Shit, I should be able to walk in there with a cut off t-shirt that says “I smack monkeys around like Ike got Tina”. Oh, right, apparently I can as long as I’m not wearing a hat. Now for some reason, this ri-damn-diculous policy made sense to my boys. Which makes no sense to me. It’s fuckin’ Applebee’s. They’re logic was that we’re in Bed-Stuy, which I can only take to mean that potentially you want to stop ninjas from being facially invisible in the attempt that some shit goes down. Fair enough, but no.

Another idea that was thrown out was that it was no different than the club where they have a dress code. Um, bullshit. It’s a fuckin’ restaurant, and not a top shelf one at that. A club has a certain reputation it may be trying to uphold. And that logic MIGHT work at Applebee’s if the waitresses perhaps weren’t tatted up like 50 Cent or gold-chained down like Run-DMC, or weren’t hair weaved up like any ghetto chick.

Further, it’s not a chainwide policy, it’s just that particular Applebee’s. Most likely due to location.

Maybe if they had a dress code as a whole, I’d look at it differently. No hats is not a dress code. I stand by that. Seems like another case of the AEB to me. Trying to say that if we remove hats from ninjas that either 1) we can see the criminals if they try to rob us (which is dumb…who the fuck robs restaurants? but it is Bed-Stuy I suppose anything is possible), or 2) they will act right…

…which we ALL know is just farcical. I could deal with a full dress code better than just removing my hat. Make me take out my removable grill. Or take off the limo-tint sunglasses I’m wearing…or perhaps the Tech-9 that I have under my jacket.

Maybe I’m just optimistic, but I believe that if a ninja wants to act up, he will. We have that kind of spirit. If I want to rob you, then by jove, I’m going to rob you, not because I will be successful, but because I believe in myself and my abilities.

It’s more of a glass half full approach.

I’m well aware that at times one must take the proper precautions to make sure that if you let certain people in, your establishment has at least a 51 percent chance of remaining intact once they leave. Then again, you never know what might set a person off or that the measures you take are actually going to work.

Here’s a straight forward analogy for you: Not serving Hennessey or Cognac in a restaurant in hopes of pre-empting ninja-like behavior while STILL serving all the other spirits (including Tequila and shit), is like using Saran Wrap to give a woman head but then having sex with her without a condom. In 2006.

It was written.

Pat Buchanan was on Bill Maher’s show yesterday (or whenever it was taped) speaking about immigration and the emergency that America faces if we don’t do something to shore up our immigration policy.

Now, I usually don’t find myself agreeing with Pat Buchanan but perhaps I was feeling “patriotic” or something yesterday because he was making some good points and had me believing that if we don’t close up the border that aliens will come into our great nation and evaporate all of our resources.

Okay, that’s not true at all and I’m still not sure how I feel about immigration but he did make some compelling arguments against illegal immigration.

And since I’m a direct product of immigration, I tend to pay attention at times.

One of Buchanan’s points was that 1 in 12 of these 12 million illegal immigrants (that’s a lot) are criminals and succumb to a rap culture and a violent culture, hence causing them to commit more crimes.

Woe is me, there we go with the blame game again. And for the first time I wasn’t even mad about it. Rap culture is everything that’s wrong with American society as it encompases all the other wrongs. You need prostitution? Rap game has it. Gunplay? Rap game has it. Oversexxed black males? Rap game has it.

So fuck it, blame rap for everything. Cool.

As long as from here on out, I get to blame all of rap’s problems on slavery and white people.

Yep, fuckin’ right.

And let’s be real, when white people blame rap music, they’re really blaming Black culture. Argue that if you want. You’re thesis will be rejected.

The next time I hear somebody blame anything on rap music, I’m going to turn right back around and say its all white people’s fault for enslaving a bunch of ninjas so many years ago and making us have to rap.

Stupid? Definitely. Clearly we don’t have to rap. But fuck it. We do. But its also stupid to blame all social ills on rap and rappers, like Tupac made somebody rob you. Being broke mad that ninja rob you, Tupac just gave him the theme music to do so.

It’s gotten so easy and cliche to blame shit on rap music that it sounds like an automatic response. Politicians, pastors, teachers, researchers, etc…they all have managed to find some way to blame rap for whatever ill of society occurs this week. There have been shoddy “scientific” studies that say people who listen to rap music are more violent, have sex more, use drugs more, blah blah blah.

Okay.

Slavery.

Yep, that even includes white folks because there can’t be slaves without slaveowners. My argument is that the descendents of slaveowners who were out there sneaking to rape black women secretly love Black shit so those are the ones who get so caught up in Black culture now. Which would include, this violent, misogynistic rap culture that promotes the same values that the slaveowners exacted into their slaves so long ago.

Yep.

Slavery.

I remember once that I was walking around southwest DC and these two white boys who quite obviously only listen to rap music drove by blasting their terrible rap music loud as the fuck. It was like 1pm on a Tuesday. I saw a bunch of white folks (and black folks actually) looking with disgust as these two fuckers serenaded the entire working district with their overworked subwoofers.

I got to thinking, “I wonder if these white folks think this is all Black people’s fault because of rap music?”

I’d wager yes.

However, had they said anything about it out loud, I would have been well within my right mind to say, “you can blame the rap music and us ninjas, but it’s your fault for putting us in a position to be status hogs and have to wear our success on our sleeves since you took everything we ever had back in the 16, 17, and 1800’s. Oh yes, let’s not forget the 1900’s either since we just STARTED to be ABLE to be integrated into white society. Though I do love how racism has managed to erase itself from the American psyche in such a short amount of time, don’t you?”

Word to Bob Jones University.

I love how this country is so quick to pretend like slavery was such a thing of the past and that what was started back then stopped in 1865 when slavery was “abolished”. If you bring up slavery, white folks (some, not all, let me be very clear on that) are quick to tell you that it wasn’t them so they shouldn’t be held accountable for the actions of their ancestors. Fair point.

But if motherfuckers can still be rich off cotton money, then why is it that other motherfuckers can’t still be poor because of it?

So yes, the next time somebody wants to blame Curtis Jackson, I’m blaming Stonewall Jackson.

God Bless America.

Once upon a time, a little black boy, with the help of his homey, decided to undertake an undertaking.

It was undertaking that was intended to be all about fun and knowledge…you may call it knowledgeable fun.

One KRS-One referred to it as edutainment.

That was our chosen specialty. Drop a little bit of knowledge, and then in the great words of one illustrious Lauryn Hill circa 1996:

“…then I add a motherfucker so you ignant niggas hear me…” ~ “Zealots”, The Score

Truer words have never been uttered. Or spoken. Or perhaps they are one and the same.

So it is with that inane introduction I bring to you the return of an online magazine, an e-zine if you will, whose sole purpose is providing edutainment and also doing it like we’re doing it for television.

Allow me to reintroduce the undertaking that had a serious run well over a year ago for a good 3 months:

We The Voices

It’s a subsidiary of Jackson G. Tickle Enterprises, LLC. And you thought it was a game, didn’t ya?

You know, originally, we had a lot of fun doing the site and a lot of great writers were involved. We had a strong run going and a readership. And a dandelion in the parking garage. But at some point it got to be a whole lot less fun than it started out as. It started to feel like a real job. So it’s run ended.

Well, the streets is watching, and as soon as I took it offline (or just stopped updating it), I got a whole heap of emails telling me how I was disappointing my fan base and how could I just let something like that fall to the side.

For fuck’s sake, Panama, what’s your problem?

Between those emails, and the random emails that come even still asking me what happened to it, and my friends who were both involved and just readers asking me what was up with We The Voices, myself and my partner in write decided to go on ahead and bring it back. Plus, we actually liked it. It’s hard work, but its hard work for a purpose.

Oh…and why are there dandelions in the parking garage?

So with that in mind, We The Voices is making its phoenix like return from the ashes very soon. We have a launch date and I’d tell you but then you’d expect me to actually MAKE that launch date causing me to have to kill you.

Not. A. Good. Look.

We’ve got a lot of the puzzle pieced back together, but I’m still looking for more writers. Which means that this little ad that I’m writing right now might show up at least once more. So here’s the spiel:

Are you an aspiring writer? Do you come to this website and perhaps laugh or snicker and think to yourself…you know, I think the same stuff? Do you believe in love and happiness?

If you answered yes to any of those questions and you’re interested in doing freelance writing for an upstart e-zine that has every intention of becoming a huge presence on the net (mostly because it’s a goal of ours…I want to be rich beeyotch) and potentially in the future in print, and you believe in edutainment and good-natured ignorance, please email me at:

panama@wethevoices.com

[***Sidenote: You see what gets written here. I'm not easily offended nor do I take myself too seriously unless the situation calls for it. I like to have fun basically. Don't come at me with no shit. I like to laugh and learn at the same time. I like edutainment. If you can provide that, hit me up.***]

I’m the HNIC and the Editor-In-Chief, and as such, I feel the need to let you know that if you so decide that you’d be interested in writing for We The Voices (and we’d love to have you), there are certain rights you have reserved. Follow me:

1. You reserve the right to be rejected.
2. I reserve the right to reject you.
3. You reserve the right not to take it personal.
4. I reserve the right to not give a shit if you forgo your previously reserved right.
5. You reserve the right to realize its business, not personal.
6. I reserve the right to reinforce that age old mantra.
7. You reserve the right to have fun with this…
8. I reserve the right to have more fun than you! I’m the HNIC!!!

We have interests in any and everything under the sun, from music, to social commentary, to health, whatever. So if you’re interested in anything from music to poetry, etc, feel free to holla at a playa. Remember though, you’re fuckin’ with a family man. We’re having fun, but we’re serious too. As in seriously trying to pop this off…like whatever the replacement is for Cristal!!!

From editorials to music reviews; from social commentary to advice columns; from pimpin’ to the penitentiary (I’m sure I stole that from somewhere), We The Voices is that shit.

We like crack in the ’80s.

So once again, if you’re interested in doing some freelance writing for an upstart e-zine, please email me. I’ll return all emails, unless you go asking me strange shit, in which case, I’ll call the proper authorities and then send out a Drop Squad on that ass.

The email address, one more time, is: panama@wethevoices.com

This has been a shameless-self promotion courtesy of the sexxiest man a live, Panama D. Jackson, HNIC, CEO, Editor-In-Chief

We The Voices…back like Lionel Richie!

[***This is some Panama-length shit right here. What can I say? We had a good time and I had a lot to say. Get it right, two step, and let your shoulder lean. I also broke this into 4 completely non-sensical parts for those who like to read in spurts and need chapters. ***]

Part I: Some Say The End Is The Beginning

As I wrote yesterday in the pseudo-advertisement for the weekly Wednesday night Stock 13 Open Mic joint at Bohemian Caverns, last night was my last time hosting so I wanted to go out with a bang.

Umm…damn.

Bang.

Let me tell you something. Esther Phillips has has an album and a song called “What a Diff’rence a Day Makes”. Dude, what a difference a designated driver makes! So for real…I’m slightly hungover at work right now typing this.

Shoutouts to the bartenders and waitresses at Bohemian Caverns on Wednesday nights. Rum and cokes and shots of tequila make Panama a very sleepy sexxy muhfucka.

That’s how we get down at the Caverns.

What if I started calling myself Panama F. Sexxy, please say the Sexxy? How dumb would that be? And how is it that Lil Wayne can say that and its like the coolest shit ever? Inquiring minds would like to know. I mean you can’t tell me he’s cooler than me…right?

Right?!?

*hanging head in shame at attempts to raise my own self esteem…hold me*

Now I’m not quitting the hosting gig. Nothing like that at all. Hell, I love doing it. For real. The format is changing to a comedy showcase and since I’m neither a comedian or a showcase…nor a tall white man named Jim, a different host is coming in who specializes in comedy. And he’s supposed to be well worth his weight in gold. But that’s a different talk show. Somebody call Oprah.

Speaking of Oprah, did you all hear about Bobby and Whitney getting a divorce? Apparently, Whitney’s name is not Susan so she filed for divorce. From here on out, every little step Bobby Brown takes will be away from the fortunes of Whitney. Sure hope she had a pre-nup. That ninja shouldn’t have been humping around. Though I suppose, if you’re going to be humping around, you might as well do it with the person who’s been made famous because of it. Word to Paris Hilton.

And is it me, or does anybody ELSE wonder why Superhead didn’t opt to change her name at some point? I understand that being super at anything is worthy of note. Superman comes to mind. Perhaps super sleuth, even. But Superhead? Then again, Wonderhead doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. And this of course assumes that you simply must have the word “head” in your title. People need to go through a nickname verification and certification at some point in their life.

Then again, this is coming from a cat who has a different name for every day of the week to include both a stripper name and a porn star name (Gemini Peters) and who actually likes referring to himself as Mr. Oh So Sexxy.

Chuuch. So back to the point.

You know who else is worth their weight in gold? The ELs. That’s the house band that has been there the last two weeks. Last week, they didn’t really get a chance to show what they could do due to a scheduling glitch in the Jada Pinkett, but alas, this week…they showed their asses.

When I tell you they were rocking from the moment they started until they started packing up…well, I guess that would be me telling you they were rocking from the mome…

Hell, you get the point. They played old school classics, rap, soul…they even hit Jay-Z’s “Public Service Announcement” which sparked an impromptu freestyle session between me and two other cats at the front door. No lie. We took ‘em to college with that one. But we’ll get back to the freestyling in a minute. I don’t think any of them even know that I have this blog, but in the event that they come thru…

…word life? They rocked that shit. I’d pay money to see these brothas play and back some folks.

The ELs, y’all. No diggety.

Part II: This Is The Second Part

So let’s get into the proceedings.

One of the most important facets of putting together this little shindig is getting the vibe and energy right. Russ, the promoter, is a stickler for this. He doesn’t like slow energy and really isn’t so big on the spoken word poetry shit. Not because he can’t appreciate it, but because he wants the energy to be vibrant and vivverent (or whatever the fuck Q-Tip called it). Folks doing shit with the band is how he wants it so that even if the folks blow ass, the audience can still jive with the band.

So what would Jesus do? He’d hit that shit.

Oops.

What would Panama do?

Put a chick up who does spoken word poetry without the band.

*scratching head*

Yeah. Oops. Luckily, she was good. Goes by the name Drisona. I don’t even remember what the first one was about but the second one started with this statement: “This is for my soon to be ex-husband.”

Ears perked. I always love bitter love tales. Seriously. Not because I don’t believe in love, I just like the emotions that ninjas have when they really got some shit on their hearts and minds.

Since there’s no good time to do this, let me go ahead and tell you that last night was like a damn blogger’s reunion and shit. Oh, and I’d like to go ahead and nominate myself for: Ninja Who Could Have Gotten The Most SkyMiles If I Combined All Of My Guests Travel Miles To Be In DC Last Night.

Or NWCHGTMSIICAOMGTMTBIDCLN.

Let me run down right quick the bloggers that were there. Well you have Panama F. Sexxy (please say the sexxy), Brutha Code, Xquizzyt1, The After Party Hostess, and Honest. I haven’t seen some of them in quite some time so it was REALLY good to see them in the hizzouse. Fa shizzle dizzle.

I actually have a friend who calls me Dizzle.

Now if we carry the 1, and you include the folks that I had in there and their skymiles, you had Brutha Code in there from Japan. I had two of my friends in there from the Dominican Republic and one of them is leaving for Chile. And for you geographically challenged and ignant bastards out there…it’s not Chile as in “oooh chile, he shole is ugly.” It’s Chile like chili, only its a country in South America.

Don’t act like somebody didn’t know that.

*wagging finger and the dog*

Back to the lecture at hand. My man Joe Young The Jyant came through and laced the crowd with a rap jam. Dude, when was the last time you actually heard somebody say rap jam? Never you say? Whatever you say.

I must issue a formal apology here. The dude Komplex got up next and straight KILLED it. If you from the hood I know you feel me (keep going…). So in what can only be entitled the Great Miscommunication of 2006, I gave Kom a signal to keep going. Only, my dumb ass apparently gave the universal sign for wrap it up. Now I usually point to my watch when I want folks to wrap it up, so I’m thinking on my own terms. Well, after murdering it, he gets off stage and I’m confused because like I said, I thought I told him to keep going…oy vey…

Let’s just say, if you need anybody to umpire your kids baseball game, in game 5 of a best of 5 series to determine the area championship…I will inevitably blow a call or two. And be the subject of much ire.

Komplex…I apologize (believe me I do).

Well, Komplex brought two of his boys with him and the first cat Lamont, got up there and did a spoken word joint. Fair enough. But he ALSO brought this dude named One Wise African. I assume I’m spelling that right but you know how black folks get with their spelling of their names and shit. Well, this ninja gets up there in a tuxedo.

I swear, I didn’t even see him before this or I might have had to put the kabosh on that shit. Or AT LEAST…did a much better intro. A tuxedo provides so much fodder for…hell, clownage. I wish I could tell you if he was good or not but I can’t. He had on a tux. That’s all I saw. And heard. The jacket was white.

What’s that you say? You’re wondering if he came from somewhere that required a tuxedo?

Call me Mr. Me Too.

At least he rocked with the band.

Part III : Rounding 3rd Base

Speaking of rocking with the band. I was feeling it last night. Not feeling it as in, I’m drunk (that didn’t come until later) but the band hit that Dr. Dre “Xplosive” joint and in the crowd I see my mans and ‘nem Rashad and Sekani yelling “freestyle”.

So what does Panama do?

Says fuck it and just started freestyling. Now let me tell you something about his Royal Highness Panama. Me + Freestyle does not equal success. Or at least not in the technical sense. You’ll have fun watching me have fun on the microphone. If it’s one thing I can do…its finger roll.

You see, I have very little shame. It takes very little prodding to get me to sing or dance or do anything fun. In fact, invite me out to go karaoke-ing with you. We’ll have fun.

So I busted some raps and shit. I’m sexxy like that.

Well, we had this cat coming through named Manrock. He’s from New Jersey. Small world because he’s knows a chick I know from Spelman. Apparently its his cousin. Small world. Small world.

Well RIGHT before he gets up there, I straight DEBO Sekani into getting up on stage to freestyle. Talk about bullshitting for a second but he got up there and freestyled for a second.

And I appreciate that. Funny shit about that is, it seems like more people in there wanted him to get up and freestyle than see anything else. Everybody broke cameras out. Good times.

And good damn job Sekani. Where’s my CD ninja!!?!?!?!

By the way, Sekani is one of the guys who helps Russ put the event on as well. You can listen to a few of his songs (he’s a black dude so he’s a rapper/artist on the main page for the entire shebang, Stockholm 180). He’s one of the mans behind the man. And in today’s day and age that is a very gay statement so I’d like to add a big no brokeback (not that there’s anything wrong with that) to that entire sentence.

Manrock came and showed out…bling and all. He was feeling the energy or something because not only did he keep going for longer than he was supposed to, as soon as he got off stage he was talking about coming back next week.

Comedy.

If you get the pun that just occurred and you have breasts and look good outside of a club, I will marry you.

The highlight for me was that Asheru came through again. For those that don’t know who he is, if you’ve ever watched an episode of The Boondocks, you’ve heard him. He does the theme song. Either way…he put on a good show. I was happy.

I am Panama F. Sexxy.

You know, I’m really still tipsy at work right now and shit. This could very well be a problem.

We had two comedians come through and provide jokes. Sean Gabbert and Eric Meyer. Both were funny. People laughed. Not much more that I can say there.

Part IV: 44 Fours

I came I saw I conquered…from record sales to sold out concerts.

As usual, DJ Scientific and Grap Luva (who was AWOL for a good 10 minutes requiring me to be the hype man for the afterparty for a few…which I actually really liked doing for some reason…that was fun), get on and lead the afterparty into the wee hours.

But let me say something else right quick and do a shout out to some of my folks in the blogworld. Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of Tupac’s passing so I made sure to add to the September 13th Thug Awareness Day movement started by the homies OJ and Killacal. I even made sure that folks knew to go and Hug-A-Thug. Hell, I even wore my West Coast attire complete with bandana, Dickies, and Chucks.

Shit, ’twasn’t nothing but a gangsta party.

Well, do you know I had to REQUEST Tupac records?? For fuck’s sake, it’s his death anniversary (word to Nas). DJ Scientific is my homey but he’s clearly not a Tupac fan…EVIDENCED by the fact that this cat wore his Biggie shirt. I’m a black man and hereby paranoid so I assumed he did that on purpose.

Real talk…two people actually told me they were leaving because of that slight. Now, I take my rappers seriously but there’s one thing you do not mess with Southern Negroes about…and that’s Tupac. The dudes that left? Southern Negroes. Word life.

The afterparty was hot. I got my dance on…a lot. More liquor consumption occurred and the people were looking good in there last night. I hope they put the pictures up on the site (www.stock13.net) for this joint soon. Or at least that they put them up at some point. From what I saw…there were some very good pictures taken.

So what does it all mean?

It means a good time was had by all.

It means that we took the last Open Mic segment out on a good note.

It means that The ELs are that shit.

It means that Panama F. Sexxy enjoyed himself and met some nice new people.

And it means that on Wednesday’s at the Stock 13 joint…meet me at Bohemian Caverns…

…its going down.

I know you see it.

…which is something like a manic Monday, only not at all.

-Today, September 13, 2006, marks the 10th anniversary of the death of Tupac Amaru Shakur. I’m a huge fan of Pac. I have the books, the DVDs, the albums. Not that I’d be out there stalking him if he was alive or anything, but he’s just one of the most interesting characters in Black history. He singlehandedly managed to make every Black man feel insecure.

Pac managed to be every Black man at the exact same time. From the thug to the educated. His story is the blueprint that so many of our favorite rappers wish they had. Just real and unapologetic in every sense of the word. Reckless with heart. Angered compassion. He could take you from revenge to heartfelt in a matter of minutes.

And to this day he is STILL the only rapper to make a song about his mother that I don’t find to be somewhat contrived and ubergay.

Back to the insecure thing, Tupac died at age 25. 25!! It seems like he accomplished enough for two lifetimes when he died. And that number often makes me feel like I haven’t done as much as I should have by this point in life. I know, its kind of dumb to compare myself to Tupac, but I feel like he epitomized making the most out of your time here and I don’t think I have. Pac had major reach and his death made him legendary. Perhaps I should set up my death by 29 or something to make sure that I can cement me a spot in recorded history.

Of course, that would require me to make some indelible mark on mankind by then. Dammit, I suppose I should get started, huh?

RIP Tupac.

Oh and he’s a Gemini like yours truly and nearly every other great mind in rap history: Biggie, Andre 3000, Kanye…apparently my greatness is in the stars.

Sadatay bitches, sadatay.

Wow that was long.

-As spotted over at Ummah Park and KillaCal’s site, the Council of Negroes Who Care About Thugs hereby name September 13 as Thug Awareness Day. Check out Ummah Park for more details. For real.

-I like pop music. But I only like pop music that doesn’t attempt to fool me with its integrity or attempts at bringing something of substance to the table. Nope, I like my pop music geared for radio and television and with minimal redeemable value. In fact, if I don’t initially feel a twinge of guilt for liking it, then I have to let it go. Such is the case with The Pussycat Dolls. I, Panama, am a fan of the Pussycat Dolls. If they’re good enough for Snoop and Busta, then by George Michael, they’re good enough for me.

Such is ALSO the case with Fergie. Her new album, The Dutchess, is coming out in stores on September 19th. And let me tell you, this is a good pop album. But it’s weird in that its also…genuine. I don’t get the feeling when I’m listening to it that its just an album for album’s sake. It seems like Fergie and Will.I.Am of the Black Eyed Peas had a focus and hit their target head on. This might sound a little weird, but she sounds a little like Esthero when she’s singing.

Now if we could just do something about the uber-corniness of some of the BEP’s music and have them just put out stuff like Fergie’s album then they’d be alright.

And I’m calling it right here, the song “Glamorous featuring Ludacris”?? Certified fuckin’ smash hit. I predict that with the proper marketing, this album should do ridiculously well.

In fact, I guarantee you that you will like this album if you procure it, either from legal or illegal sources.

Put some stank on it!

-What the hell, I like Omarion too.

-Yesterday, I went to McDonald’s. A man paid for his entire order with pennies. I think I hate him. Pennies. The fucker pulled out a bag and everything. I think that if you’re going to do this, you should tell somebody ahead of time so they can open a special “Assholes ‘R Us” line. I know the shit is currency but for real, there’s a reason people chuck pennies in fountains across the nation.

Because it’s a fuckin’ penny and if you pay for a meal with a bunch of them it’s going to take a while to count out the 600 or so pennies you are going to need. Toss the fuckers and use bills, bitch.

-I love celebrities, I swear I do. You know who I love more? Pseudo-celebrities like Lupe Fiasco. Apparently he’s not a big enough celebrity yet to realize that going tit-for-tat with a nigga with nothing to lose and a forum that thousands of muhfuckas love to sound off on is not a good look for his manhood. Yes, I’m saying it, Lupe is a pussy. A well-intentioned one who’s feelings were hurt by one Byron Crawford, but sheesh. You see, XXL Magazine has a site where Byron is a columnist. Most bloggers have heard of him in some form of fashion. Cool cat as far as I’m concerned. Shit he’s a blogger. We all say what the fuck we feel when we feel it, right or wrong. Facts and fiction often straddle the same line. It’s a blog, not the New York Times.

Oh, right.

Well, apparently Lupe took issue with some of Byron’s comments that Lupe need calm the fuck down about his album being leaked early and that maybe he did it himself to drum up publicity.

First off, in today’s day and age, a leaked album is just the order of the day. If you manage to keep your album under wraps until the Friday before its official release a la T.I.’s King, you’ve managed to do something right. Hell, I get albums weeks ahead of time. And don’t give a shit who takes issue with it. Fuck ‘em.

Well, big Lupe dog, went on a rant on his guest blog over at XXL taking shots at Byron similar to how DJ “Gangsta but thin skinned Grills” Drama used to go at him. It’s really quite entertaining in a trainwreck kind of way. These niggas (Lupe and DJ Drama) are paid entertainers and take full issue with some shit niggas say on their blogs. Trust me, the pen is mightier than the sword.

But umm…Lupe, IT’S A FUCKIN’ BLOG. Get over yourself and focus on making sure your album doesn’t brick. I hate folks who get their panties all in a tiff when anybody says anything about them that makes them look less than stellar. Bitches.

How are you going to be in the entertainment industry with thin skin?

Why do I need ID to get ID?

-How come I’ve never heard of this group The Postal Service before? It’s some electronica stuff from some cats from the West Coast somewhere. I went to my local crack house yesterday, CD Depot in College Park, MD, and they were playing their CD in the store. Needless to say, much coppage was made.

-Parallel parking while both tired and slightly (slightly) inebriated poses much more difficulty than one might imagine, or so I’ve heard.

-I’m really wondering at what age do people stop making completely stupid life decisions. Over the past few weeks, I’ve come across a few folks who have done some uberfuckin’ stupid things under the guise of, I didn’t know any better…and they’re damn near 30.

Somebody needs to get to writing a Life Handbook stat.

-The Atlanta Braves are officially out of the playoff picture for the first time in since 1990. Woe is me. Except I don’t give a shit about baseball. But the Falcon’s beat Carolina’s ass on Sunday. Straight up pimp, if you want me you can find me in…

…DC.

But I’d rather you could find me in the A…A…A…A.

-For my folks in DC, tonight is going to be the last time we do the Stock13 Event at Bohemian Caverns in its current format. Yes, tonight might be the last night I host for quite some time. I will still be involved with how we do things, just behind the scenes. Yes, my sexxy will not be front and center anymore. Tonight we have comedian Cocoa Brown coming through. She’s quite the celebrated comedian so you might want to come through for that. And the most famous words in the English language…and simulataneously the most popular words…

OPEN BAR UNTIL 7PM.

Bohemian Caverns at the corner of 11th and U Streets, NW. The new format will still consist of an afterparty so you can always come party with the kid whenever your in town on a Wednesday…but alas, I might have to act a fool tonight just for history’s sake.

And just for the Hell of it…WE WANT EAZY!!!!

I love election season. Here, in the Washington, DC, area, thousands and thousands of front yards and random street corners are filled with placards endorsing a wide array of candidates for a wide array of elected positions.

And aside from the complete waste of resources and urban blight it creates, it really is quite entertaining, if not altogether ludicrous.

For instance, I was driving down Georgia Avenue, on the Montgomery County, Maryland, side one day and I noticed a huge billboard for Steven Silverman, County Executive hopeful for Montgomery County. On this billboard he asked the question of all drivers, “Are you tired of traffic? If so, vote Silverman”, or some such other non-sense. I looked at his website and sure enough, traffic congestion is one of his main issue areas that he plans to take care of if elected.

Be still my beating heart, a candidate who cares about something I care about.

To bad I live in District because I sure would love to benefit from less congestion.

For those not in the DC area, there are two means for doing this: 1) the Inter-County Connector, a much needed highway connecting northern parts of Montgomery County with Prince George’s County somewhere; and 2) the much ballyhooed Purple Line on the Metro (Washington’s subway system), which will eliminate some of the complete unnecessary time travel created by the forefathers of Metro due to its sometimes non-sensical routes.

There are two parts of this that strike me as odd. For one, both of those projects have been in the works for quite some time. It’s not like he’s going to come into office and suddently they are the top priority. If you live in Washington, traffic is a top priority for everybody.

And secondly, dude, you’re totally not going to eradicate traffic congestion.

Not gonna happen. Traffic is a function of people. Washington area? Yep, we got lots of people. But at least he’s saying he’ll do it.

Or take a candidate for County Exec. in Prince George’s County, Rushern Baker. For the first time last night I saw his ad where he plans to change PG County, Maryland around. He says, “imagine a PG County that’s first in education and last in crime…”

Well, yeah, you’re definitely going to have to imagine that because as far as I can tell, in the DC area, it’s last in education and definitely giving DC-proper a run for its money at being first in crime.

But at least, he has the right spirit.

And all of the politicians vying for office say the exact same thing and make all of the same promises that will rarely see the light of day. Anthony Williams, for all of his faults, at least made a change in DC.

He got lots of black folks out and brought a lot of white folks in. I didn’t say it was a good or bad change, but its a change nonetheless.

And he got us a stadium deal that will bleed a city dry that needs all the money it can to stop crime. But hey, we need baseball in DC. Plus, it might kick up my property values.

Oh yeah, I don’t have any property because DC costs an arm and a leg to live in. There are houses going on my block for over $600,000. I saw a prostitute in my neighborhood last week, and if this one woman asks me if I’m “holding” one more time, I just might run over her with my car.

Granted, I live in DC’s up-and-coming Bloomingdale neighborhood, but good googly moogly, that’s a lot of money for a house and a ho.

But you know what, the Mayoral candidates have all addressed that as well as both Adrian Fenty and Linda Cropp, and hell probably Vincent Orange, have all made affordable housing a priority. Glory day.

You know what, elected officials are like the worst relationships you’ve ever had magnified. They tell you everything you need to hear to feel better about keeping them around while they screw you behind closed doors. Then when they get caught, they blame things on prior administrations (previous boyfriends/girlfriends) and constraints they have and never quite tell you the total truth. They tell you what they think you want or need to hear in order to feel better about yourself which will make you feel better about them.

Usually while doing as much as possible to do as little as possible.

Gosh I love politics.

I sound jaded I know. But if you worked where I worked and did what I did and saw what I saw you’d be the most cynical bastard on Earth too.

Let’s just say, I handle the money. And lots of it. For the people who get to decide how you, me, him, and her, would be best served by it.

Politics.

Thing is, you have to vote for somebody. There’s no reason not to vote. I’m a firm believer in the old adage that if you don’t vote you have no right to complain. And for all of the non-sensical campaign promises that we all know will never come to fruition or the non-sensical photo-ops where its painstakingly clear that they’d rather be somewhere else, at least they put on a good front. And that’s what politics are all about, the permanent campaign. Always smiling for the cameras and always making sure that you feel better about your decisions to vote for who you voted for.

Are the city’s coffers being drained unnecessarily? Maybe so, but hey, at least that Mayor cares about people. Hell, Marion Barry, who’s gathered quite the rap sheet in the past few years is still one of the most beloved politicians amongst Black people in Washington.

Today in the Washington area are the primaries and soon the nation will be electing new or incumbent Senators and Congressman, undoubtedly all people who will at least do us the courtesy of making us believe in them. And I for one appreciate that.

Smile and screw.

At least they’ll give you a kiss when they’re done…if you ask.

Even prostitutes don’t do that.

The second oldest profession wins out every time.

A house and a ho, a smile and a screw.

Man, I love politics.

“…something ain’t right, it’s the strobelite…” - Dres of Black Sheep, “Strobelite Honey” A Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing

Has this ever happened to you?

You go to the club and meet a woman who looks like Nia Long in the club and when you see her in broad daylight she looks like the broad side of a barn? Or have you met a man in the club who looked like Brad Pitt and when you go out in a well-lit, high traffic and visible, public place, he looks like Michael Chertoff?

By the way, if you have no idea who Michael Chertoff is, you really need to read more. At least crack a newspaper or something.

If this has ever happened to you, then you have become a victim of club goggles. What are club goggles?

Club Goggles. noun. the view that one gets while in a place of hedonistic joy of an object of interest that is skewed by the lighting that might render said object of interest as being more attractive than God has intended them to be. Synonyms: beer goggles, work goggles.

Club goggles are an epidemic in this country. They are the reason that so many first dates go down in flames. You can’t be happy when you get your mind ready for filet mignon and you get steakums. Or you have your soul ready for 2 spicy chicken sandwiches from Checker’s and you get home and they’ve not only only given you one sandwich, but its a daggone fish filet sandwich…AND YOU DON’T EAT FISH.

You see, club goggles are a menace to society. Similar to O’Dog. You see club goggles show no mercy and will shoot anybody. Club goggles, just don’t give a fuck. They come in and swoop your sensibilities and parade your souped up version of a busted person before you numerous times throughout the night and then cause you to hold onto this false image until you go out on a date or something.

As an aside, I’ll bet that if we really tried, and if we took certain interpretation liberties, that we could find a way for all of the 10 commandments to be broken in the club.

Not that I’m a heathen or anything. I just know how to rack up Hell points is all.

So…

Seriously, I’ve been a victim of club goggles on more than one occasion. Luckily, my hesitation at seriously trying to holler at one of the chicks proved correct when I saw the little minion strolling the mean streets of DC a few days later and she looked like a gargoyle.

No lie. What followed was a quick laugh, a longer prayer, and me victoriously throwing my hands in the sky, pointing and saying “You da MAN!!!!”

Chuuch.

Since I’m such a nice fellow, I realize that people need to be aware that club goggles are out there lurking and that with just a little bit of thought, you can avoid waking up next to a woman who looks like Jabba The Hut. Of course, if that’s your thing, then hey, by all means, do you. Or her.

Thing is, you don’t have to be a victim. Here, I’ve comprised 3 simple rules that you can follow to ensure that the person you meet in the club is still the same person you see a few days later. Me, I don’t downward spiraling surprises. If you don’t either, then just follow along.

1. You don’t have to get the number at the spot you meet, you can wait until you have better light.

Think about it. You’re in the club. It’s dark. Your vision had to adjust to being in a dark space. You should realize that if your vision had to adjust, then potentially its adjusted to your interests face as well. Perhaps, finding a more lit part, which will uncoincidentally be better for conversation since we all like to be in the darkest parts of the club t get our inner-perv on, will enable you to actually see what in the hell you are considering adding to your cellphone.

Speaking of cellphones, fuck it, take a picture and look at it in the bathroom. Also, notice if you’re the ONLY dude trying to holler. In this case, numbers don’t lie.

According to Shakira, the hips don’t lie either, but trust me, don’t believe that shit at all.

2. Make sure you leave when she leaves so you can see her outside.

You know, this happened to me recently. I wasn’t actually trying to holler at her anyway, but inside this woman seemed so hot. Outside, she seemed so not. Seeing her outside…

…not a good look. Went from a Darkness 8 to a Lightness 6. I’m talking in under 10 minutes too. That’s the difference in bragging about what you’re bringing home to meet he parents and not even telling your boys about meeting her.

“We don’t date 6’s” 3. A.C.A.F.

It’s a simple acronym that more people should be aware of, even if just for safety reasons. Who knew it would be helpful in the club as well. You’d never believe how a simple technological innovation would be able to keep you from knocking up a busted ass woman, or sleeping with a man who looks like the ugly version of an ugly person. Which is actually possible. In fact, I know this chick from undergrad who is recognized as being quite the unattractive woman. In what can only be described as a glitch in the ugly matrix, I found the unattractive version of the busted chick.

It was a dark day. Which is funny since we’re speaking of club goggles and its usually caused due to darkened conditions in the club.

What was I talking about again? Ah yes…A.C.A.F.

Quite simple actually and will solve all your problems.

Always Carry A Flashlight.

That, mi compadres, will solve all your problems.

If you put any group of able bodied, nubile, young to “professional” (which is my catch all for not quite 30 but older than 24 and able to read and more than likely pre-marriage/family) adults of mixed gender in a room together, two conversations will undoubtedly arise: sex and relationships.

It’s written in the DNA of every newborn that around the early to mid-twenties, all of us have to discuss these things. If it’s a group of black “professionals”, then the conversation will go to how much black men suck and how there are no good black men out there causing some poor misguided male soul to utter “well that’s why we date white women” causing a ruckus and lots of hissing and if not contained properly will result in objects being thrown about leading to the ultimate demise of that one antique item that has been passed down from generation to generation in somebody’s family causing further dismay, becuase it’s an antique and shit, forcing folks to get kicked out Martin style (wzup!).

This is just my interpretation, of the situation.

And for good measure, now who else wanna fuck with Hollywood Court?

But before the melee and after the hors d’ouevres (because us young urban professionals always have hors d’ouevres, though if you come to my house it’s chips and maybe some Cheez-Its), one question always arises as well:

Can men and women truly be just friends?

Oh yes, the old platonic friends question is sure to come up at some point. Me and my boy Johnny Kwest argue about this all the time. I contend that it is possible for men and women to be just friends, even at this age. He thinks otherwise.

I use myself and my female friends as examples.

He uses me and my female friends as examples.

*scratching head*

Needless to say, I often lose these arguments. I mean, how can you really win an argument when you’re being used against yourself…and you’re your best defense???

Somebody’s going to have to re-read that a few times. It’s okay, we’ll work on colors tomorrow.

Well I’m not going to discuss whether or not men and women can be platonic friends or not. I have platonic female friends but my boy has made some very compelling arguments as to why these platonic relationships exist. Doesn’t make them any less platonic, but I do understand that a lot of these relationships exist as they do due to circumstance.

But fuck that, Panama has platonic female friends.

However, having platonic female friends SHOULD mean that all rules of overly-intimate contact and the like are in place and nothing of romantic or overly flirtatious nature SHOULD exist.

Well, I’ll be the first to tell you that, umm, very seldom is that the case. In fact, I’m probably part of a group of Platonic Friends ‘R Us that could be a considered a habitual over the line-stepper. And it’s not usually me…well not always anyway. Apparently, just because you are just-friends, doesn’t mean that flirting and playful touchyfeely is out of bounds.

Then again, it never happens with folks you don’t find attractive (if you can help it). Which begs the question, if you find somebody attractive (but aren’t necessarily attracted to them), and you are friends…does anybody hear it?

Oops…I mean, are they platonic?

And this is what I’d like to delve into. Certain behaviors, anyway. I remember when I was in elementary and middle school, we used to have the D.A.R.E. officers come through and tell us about the dangers of drug use. D.A.R.E. to keep our kids off drugs, they’d say.

Do you remember McGruff the Crime Dog? Take a bite out of crime. He must have retired, because crime is up in DC.

Well, do you also remember the Department of Transportation’s drunk driving campaign? Friends Don’t Let Friends Drive Drunk?

Well, I think we need to discuss, in the realm of platonic friends, things that friends don’t let other friends do…

AND YOU SAY HE’S JUST A FRIEND: THINGS THAT FRIENDS DON’T LET OTHER FRIENDS DO, EVEN WHILE WATCHING FRIENDS

1. Friends don’t let friends give eachother backrubs.

This has been a point of discussion for me and some friends over the past few weeks. Sides have been drawn, arguments have been made, and policy decisions have been completely disregarded. It’s like the Bush Administration all over again. Let’s be frank here, by a show of hands, how many people have ever had an innocent backrub from a person of the opposite sex, that wasn’t paid for using cash or a credit card??

*crickets*

Shit how many people would ask a “random” person that they wouldn’t think of in an impure manner, to put their hands all over their body in hopes of easing some tension or releasing some stress?

Hell, who doesn’t think of sex when they think of easing tension or releasing stress????

Skin-on-skin (basically hand to back) backrubs are purposeful. It’s just like the book, Purpose Driven Life. Backrubs? Purpose Driven Action. It’s too sensual and the back is a very sensual place. You get to rubbing and shit and who ISN’T going to get all randy? I remember a long time ago, I was talking to this chick and anytime we’d be at her home and she needed a way to say, “hey Panama, I’d like some right now…what do you think?”, she’d just ask me for a “back-rub”.

Now, if you give folks a backrub and you don’t go up under their shirt…well you’re clearly not trying to start anything and that’s “safe”.

Here’s a simple rule of thumb. If your sister/brother can’t do it, then maybe it isn’t so…”friend-friendly”.

I’m just saying, back-rubs are treading dangerous territory.

2. Friends don’t let friends kiss on the lips.

You’d THINK this would be self-explanatory. Hell, Europeans, who are all kissyface, at least kiss on the cheeks. But do you know I know some folks who consider themselves to be platonic friends actually kiss on the lips.

Platonic friends my ass.

I know you see it…I know you see it…

Lip-to-lip action, just doesn’t make any sense to me, if you’re just friends. If you get the pleasure of touching my lips, you’d probably get the pleasure of some NFL kick-off action. *wink**wink* Know what I mean??

Speaking of the NFL, Nick Saban, head coach of the Miami Dolphins, is an idiot. Thank you.

And since we’re talking about idiotic things…

3. Friends don’t let friends sleep with eachother.

Oy vey!

We can add, or touch people in their special places to that as well.

Fellas…if you EVER meet a woman who tells you she can have sex with you with no strings attached…throw something at her and run like hell. She’s lying. No matter how much she tries to convine you she can, she’s a liar.

LIAR. Only a select few women can do this, and you know what? They’ll probably have your ass sprung. Yessir, she will turn you into a woman.

I just don’t think you can be a platonic friend and sleep with your friends. It just doesn’t make sense. Sure, we all have our moments of weakness, but you have them with folks you’ve thought about in vertical terms. If you go to thinking about your friends in vertical terms, it seems counterintuitive to think that they’re actual platonic friends. Sure, you may make strides to keep the relationship platonic by going out of your way to respect the rules of space, time, and Soul Train, but in all truth…when it comes to mental sexnastics, if you think it, you will drink it.

Kool-Aid that is.

And yes, I just wanted to say that.

Do it. Do it.

Just don’t sleep with your friends, mmkay.

Live and learn. Call me Joe Public.

4. Friends don’t let friends hold eachother while sleeping.

Now this one gets tricky. I believe that a man and a woman can sleep in a bed together and not touch eachother and it be all good. Hell, I’ve done it. It’s easier than it sounds. But if one person goes all cuddling up to the other one in the middle of the night and wants to be held and shit, I’m raising a red flag. Holding and being all up under folks is a prime way for feelings to develop. And you wouldn’t just snuggle up to Ray-Ray from 18th Street, now would you? Nope, somebody you truly trust and care about…and if you truly trust and care about them and are all arm locked and wake up and look into eachother’s eyes and smile and then discuss going to the zoo to look at furry and fuzzy animals or God forbid, go feed ducks together…well, your platonicity is at stake, pimpin’.

It was written.

Besides, that cuddling shit leads to sex. See #3.

5. Friends don’t let friends hate on other love interests and relationships.

If you are truly platonic friends, you’ll be happy when your friend meets somebody new that they are really interested in.

We’ve all seen it happen. Some dynamic due of platonicity hangs tough and swears that there’s nothing going on until one of them meets somebody else. All of a sudden they can’t stop talking about how fucked up it is that things are going the way they are…then somebody throws around the, “they should have known I liked them, even though we never talked about it…”

Basically, the non-sense and bullshit starts flying like black folks with reparations checks.

If you got beef, then clearly you need to re-evaluate their place in your life. If your friend tells you that they met somebody at the mall and you automatically call her a ho, you just might not be platonic. If you meet somebody at a library, and you tell your “friend” and he calls the new dude a pussy for reading…you just might not be platonic.

If you both meet somebody new and then fight? Just might not be platonic and you probably broke rule #3.

Which means you aren’t platonic anyway, because…the bottom line is…

Friends don’t let friends break friend rules.

It was written.