[***Be sure to tune in tomorrow as The Champ and I unveil the Final Four of October Madness 2006 on our way to voting for our champion, our Queen To Be, if you will, on, Monday,. And yes, I overused commas on purpose in that last sentence. I'm sexxy like that. ***]

And yes, this will be long.

You know, I wasn’t going to write about what went down at Homecoming this year. Hell, I can barely remember what went down this year to tell the truth. Let’s just say that there were a whole lot of drunken moments and shenanigans, some of which I remember, most of which I don’t. But I’ve gotten quite a few emails from people that went something like this:

“Panama, where the fuck is the homecoming writeup?? You come back writing about why you love HBCU’s and shit but don’t even tell us about what went down for homecoming?? The fuck is up with that?? Spill it bitch!”

Okay, they didn’t all go exactly like that (or like that at all), but enough people have hit me up to force me, Mike Tyson style, to write up homecoming. Besides, I suppose that I’d like to be able to actually remember what the hell happened 20 years from now, you know, assuming I’m not in a Turkish prison somewhere for trying to take out Starbucks. Plus, my friends who were there always have fun fact checking these things, assuming they were actually sober enough to remember any of it. Because I’m lazy, I shall tell you all what I learned this year as I’m not feeling creative enough this morning to drum up some new and innovative way to tell you about the shit that goes down at a Morehouse/Spelman Homecoming courtesy of KD, Panama The Most Muhfuckin’.

Going Back To The A: Things One Might Learn at a Morehouse or Spelman Homecoming - The 2006 Edition

“We Fly High” is not only a terrible song, but that damn Balllin’ saying gets old after a while.

At nearly every event me and my friends go to, we adopt some song, unintentionally, as our theme song. At my boy’s wedding back in September, Baby and Lil Wayne’s “Stuntin’ Like My Daddy” was the theme, and quite appropriately so. Well, I’ll be damned if EVERYBODY in Atlanta wasn’t running around yellin’ fuckin’ “baaaaaalllinnnnnnn”. My folks included. Which begs the question, has anybody actually listened to that shit? That song is fuckin’ terrible. In the pantheon of shitastic songs, it has to be at least in the top 20. But much like syphillis and HIV, these songs are catchy causing everybody to run around yelling these things or mouthing the words. Laffy Taffy anyone?

I’m actually gonna get back to this song a little bit later.

I liked the movie Idlewild, but drinkin’ that Idlewild might kill you.

Me and my boy Frank White got into Hartsfield-Jackson-Robinson-Jackson-Jordan-Luscious Atlanta International Airport at the same time and were both staying with my folks Barry and Kanika. I wrote about their wedding back in May. Good times. Let me tell you…these two are a lot of damn fun. True party people and always down for a good time so it only makes sense to stay with them during homecoming. Well, they ALSO like to drink. So we get there on Thursday night and this nigga Barry pulls out this drink that will forever be known as “Idlewild”. In fact, Barry put tape over the label on the bottle (so nobody but those of us there that night actually know what it really is) and wrote the word “Idlewild” on it. All weekend we were fuckin’ folks up on that Idlewild. However…

…that shit just might kill you. It is hands down the nastiest damn whiskey I’ve ever had. In fact, this is how potent it was. I drank a few glasses of it, ya know, to prove my gangsta. I swear my liver started hurting. No lie…the kid was in pain. Even Barry was like to hell with that. Frank Whyte…naw, he just had to keep drinking it. Then again, this is the same ninja who likes Cisco and Nightrain. Seriously.

And of course, a few days later, my dumb ass starts drinking it…again. No pain that time, luckily I had had enough other shit to drink…in fact…fuck it.

This is already a fact, but if I have a good meal before I start drinking, I can really drink a lot.

Remember how much fun I said Barry and Kanika are? Well, on Friday, Barry had to go to work so it was me, Frank White, Kanika, and my boy Cool Breeze hanging out. Oh yeah, this nigga CB calls me on Thursday night after I get into Atlanta telling me what time he gets in on Friday morning (830am). Normally nobody’d give a shit except…THIS NIGGA NEVER TOLD ANYBODY HE WAS COMING. Nobody knew. Everybody got a good laugh at that one. Some ninjas just show up all haphazardly with no notice. Which can only add to the fun.

So, there is this happy hour planned by some AKA’s (not sure they’re all AKA’s) from 5-9 at Atlantic Station. We’re hungry at 2pm so we just go to Atlantic Station to eat and start drinking. Being the lushes we are, me, Frank, and CB order a few drinks. Kanika is taking it easy…I think.

*I need to interrupt this program right here to tell you that from here on out, shit gets REALLY blurry as this was the point we started drinking, for real for real, and we didn’t stop until the weekend was over…literally, ninjas were faded at the airport. I might leave some things out. *

I know a few Long Islands were had…fuck it.

Let’s just get to the damn Happy Hour, mmkay?

If I’m drinking, it will become imperative to me that you do too.

Look…I honestly can’t tell you how many drinks were had at the happy hour. I can ONLY remember one Long Island I had and taking one shot of Patron with some chick that I didn’t know but apparently knew everybody I knew. However, I do remember seeing people and ordering drinks (or in some cases giving folks money) to buy drinks. Now this is where it gets funny. I only REMEMBER one drink. I was TOLD that folks saw me with at least 6 other drinks and apparently I took 2 or more shots. Now, I don’t do shots alone…that makes you a drunk. So I was clearly taking shots with other folks. Whoever you are…stay drankin’!!!

Oh, and according to one of my boys who wasn’t there but talked to one of his homegirls that was there, I introduced myself to one chick FIVE times the EXACT same way at the Happy Hour. I probably said some very stupid shit as well but apparently I was drunk enough and harmless enough where nobody slapped me or called the police.

I can’t tell you who or why, but what happened and how is a mystery…and when sucks too.

This chick that we know from undergrad who was heralded as one of the baddest skinny chicks due to her overzealous and robust derriere has FUCKIN’ LOST IT. It’s gone?!!?!!! Poof, vamoose son of a bitch!!! Dude, I might have had a drink for her ass on principle alone. We tried to determine the level of tragedy that, I think we settled upon cataclysmic event.

I’m getting sad just thinking about it.

Damn.

My friends are the fuckin’ greatest.

Now before I was drunk off of my ass, we get to the Happy Hour spot early and cordon off this HUGE ass table. It seats like 10 people or something. Well, me and my folks have this unwritten policy that states: If one person decides he will have a drink, the others must follow suit UNLESS he is under the full understanding that another drink might cause sickness.

It’s law.

When folks started arriving for the Happy hour they all went to the back of the Fox Sports Grill and our table was in the front. But for real, we were having a lot of fun on our own anyway. As I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that homecoming becomes way more about seeing your real friends than it does the folks you never talk too. That became a running theme of the weekend.

Now…that’s not to say we weren’t back there with our Morehouse and Spelman compadres. Hell, that’s how I ended up meeting my new drinking partner who goes to school down in Augusta, GA. I’m not sure WHY we ended up taking shots together (I probably requested it), but we did and I made a new friend…as usual. I’m one of them folks who will usually just go talk to any and everybody…especially when I’m drinking. You meet more Peruvian prostitutes that way, I swear.

Current events and world history always remain on my mind and heart.

All I can say here is that if I meet a woman named Katrina (again)…I will start calling her hurricane (again).

If you can holler at a chick at an airport, you SHOULD holler at a chick at an airport.

Courtesy of my boy Frank White (have you noticed I spelled White differently damn near everytime?). Pimpin’ calls me in the airport when we first get in and tells me he fumbled because this hot chick asked him about his locs. You know, he’s one of them huge ass ninjas with locs that women all want to touch and shit. Fuckin’ man of the year and shit. Anyway, we’re on the phone and he’s telling me that she was hot then he says: “oh shit…i didn’t blow it…CLICK”

Aww naw, big Frank Dog, pulled this chick who ended up coming to the Happy Hour. And you know what, she was hot, and had a hot friend with her and them ninjas were fuckin’ fun. And……….

…boy were THEY the subject of numerous conversations during the weekend. Our boy Trey was the inside man on them two chicks and apparently Young Dro knew what the fuck he was talking about:

“my girl got a girlfriend…”

That is the new goal in the crew. We must all now attain a woman who has a girlfriend. Before we die.

I mean, I probably don’t need to say anymore, but hot G-O-G action that beckons you to be involved????

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

Also…I must now also find and procure a hot chick at the airport. Why, you ask? Because Frank did and I’m trying to keep up.

Chuuuch.

Do you notice how little of any of this shit actually has to do with Morehouse or Spelman??

If the DJ sucks, you should slap him.

So let me get this right…the two biggest songs out right now are Jim Jones “We Fly High” and “Stuntin’ Like My Daddy”…and the DJ DOESN’T play them????

The fuck?

It’s already bad enough that the club we went to was something like some shit aesthetically (I’m getting old, I pay attention to these things now), but a bad DJ too??? Luckily, so many folks we knew were in there which is always cool. Though for the most part, I didn’t really care about most of them. However…

…this chick that I used to have the MOST major crush on was there…with her man…who is somebody I know. It’s always funny when I see this chick because she remembers me and I remember her. We always end up locking eyes for a few at least then go on about life. We’ve met before in the strangest of circumstances but when I tell you it seems like two folks are gonna be connected for life, it’s me and this chick.

Oh yeah…and I saw Hurricane again. And I called her Hurricane again. And yes I was drinking again.

Seriously, I wonder how many gallons of liquor me and my friends consumed over the course of the weekend. Hell…speaking of gallons…

Uncle Ricky’s Punch is that crack.

My boy The Doc was there of course and he made the annual batch of crack called, Uncle Ricky’s Punch. Just to kind of give you a reference point for this shit. Me and Trey purchased a 70 dollar bottle of Grey Goose, you know, one of the huge ass bottles.

We used the whole thing in the punch.

The whole thing.

And you couldn’t taste the vodka at all. Like at all.

I don’t think you hear me. When I tell you this is a drink that will fuck you up??? Believe in me like my last name started with a C.

So we did the standard empty out 32 oz Gatorade bottles and fill them with Uncle Ricky’s punch and the following will ensue at the Tailgate:

-embarass my boy’s little sister’s boyfriend b/c I don’t know this nigga and he’s got his arm around my proxy-little sister;

-will be told that folks have been hearing how drunk you are but that you’re drinking that hot shit to come by and get some;

-will (of course) make a gang of new female friends that you apparently know by face but can’t remember who they are for the life of you;

-will become extremely loud but overly complimentary (not that I was lying, but I get really nice when I get drunk. If I think you (women) look nice, I will make sure to tell you so you know how nice you look or how nice I think you are…I’m like sweet and shit);

-will tell somebody that there’s no need for me to get their number since I won’t call anyway, but it’s really nice to see them;

-will get jumped on the the one and only Got Damn Diva who seems to have gotten a head start from somewhere and pounced on my ass in the middle of the street, which is fine with me, that’s my homey like that…plus she aint ugly.

If an ugly broad pounces on me, it’s gonna be a problem. And I’m so not lying. I might be offended, seriously.

Also offensive is niggas taking bites of books. Yeah, there’s an inside joke there.

You know…I don’t actually remember LEAVING the tailgating at the school. I just realized that. But you know what’s really funny????

Drunk professionalism is harder than chinese arithmetic.

A gang of us decide to go to TGI Friday’s on Peachtree. There are like 20 of us but we didn’t call ahead so the folks are bullshittin’ talking about they cant seat us. So, I decide to negotiate with the manager to try to get us some tables. Mind you, I’m fuckin’ drunk off my ass at this point, so I’m trying to have real conversations with her without saying, “ma’am, you look like Toadstool…but a cute one…but Toadstool none the less”. It took something like 20 minutes but I negotiated the Iraq-Ninja With Tables Treaty and were seated at 3 tables close enough to one another.

Oh, and we were loud as the fuck. Now, what’s REALLY funny about all of this is that we’re Black. You know, I was going to go somewhere with that statement but I decided against it…AND…I’m so gully, I won’t even erase that sentence.

I am Panama…bitches.

It’s also around this time that Cool AC and her friend show up. I think I offended her friend but I’m not 100 percent on that…d’oh well.

Too many parties is a bad thing.

The worst thing that can happen at Homecoming is picking the wrong party to go too. However, if EVERYBODY is having a party (upwards of 10 parties going on Saturday night) they will ALL be the wrong party. So what did Panama and his crew of drunk asses do??

Well, me and my cohort ended up back at my boy Barry’s house drinking a little bit of Idlewild and then waking up at 4am on the floor trying to figure out what the fuck happened. The problem with falling asleep is that EVERYBODY was trying to figure out where we were going. Not like we’re AllStars or anything, but we tend to have a damn time and folks know this. I woke up to 12 text messages from folks ranging from: “where are you all headed?” to “fuck you nigga for not texting me back”.

Two things happened here though: 1) apparently all the parties sucked as I got a few texts from folks telling me that the parties they attended sucked more ass than Heather Hunter; and 2) I was dubbed The Party Train in my sleep.

There’s a story behind that but I was asleep so I can’t tell the story.

Maaaaaaaaaaan…this is long ain’t it?

Let’s just get to the meat and potatoes of Sunday…

I have the best friends…and I know I already said that.

Barry and Kanika had a house party on Sunday night. Much, much, much drinking ensued. Between the Henny and Cokes, shots of Captain Morgan, Xquizzyt (who came thru with everybody’s favorite Wise Diva) sitting on my lap and fuckin’ FEEDING me a Dorito MUCH to the chagrin of one of the other women that was there…

Hmm…let me tell you about funny.

Xquizzyt, you know I love you, but damn girl…you REALLY made your presence known. This one woman that was there was trying to figure out who X was because she came in, gave me like 6 kisses on my cheek, told everybody that we were getting married, etc. I think she made a few enemies…no lie. Which is why I love her so much.

X, my internet fiancee.

And umm…I don’t remember them leaving either.

Sunday night just made me realize, once again, that the best time you can have at Homecoming is with all of your friends around you. To hell with everybody else, everybody that was there over the weekend chillin’ is exactly who I’d want to hang with. I don’t know what I’d do without my friends, my boys, my homegirls, my peoples. Even the friends of friends. I can have just as much fun with my people as I can have at any club.

And throw in some liquor and its a wrap.

Last lesson from this homecoming that I’ll share….

Don’t go to work drunk.

That shit sucks ass…trust me. Especially when in order to go to work drunk you have to travel from Atlanta, GA, to Washington, DC, and actually GET to work and attempt to look focused. Not. A. Good. Look.

I don’t know how much of this makes sense because I’m not gonna go proofread, but for real…we had a damn good time. To my twin brother Frank White…one more for the books and we got a few more in the pipeline.

Oh…AND…check it. This is why I love Morehouse. I purchased a shirt that says:

HARVARD: The Morehouse of The North.

And fuck you if you don’t get it. We’re arrogant like that…bitches.

Chuuuuch.

Thank you and good night.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 7th, 2006 at 9:45 am and is filed under A Life In The Day of Panama..., Panama's Travels. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.