Jackson G. Tickle Enterprises Presents…Panama’s Propositions

That title up there was a one-day title of the album I’ve been infrequently working on for the past two years. For one whole day I thought it was a good idea. I got over that really quickly.

Why am I sharing this? Because sharing is caring.

The more you know. *ding*

So I think I’ve officially decided to start blogging again. You may be asking yourself, “Self, why would Panama decide to start blogging again?”

Now, that would be a strange question to ask yourself considering that you’d probably have no idea why Panama would indeed decide to start blogging again, further, why in tarnation would you even think that you’d think you’d know why Panama would decide to start blogging again?

I mean really people, there’s only room for one narcissistic sexxy bastard in everybody rear view and it ain’t Kanye.

Speaking of Kanye, have you heard his new single, “Can’t Tell Me Nothing”? That one song has me completely anticipating his album. I can’t wait to hear what else he’s got cooked up. It’s so far left field from what he normally does. Sure he isn’t breaking any new ground lyrically, but I’ll be damned if it just ain’t a hell of a way to say, “I’m Kanye and I can do most shit better than the rest of you fucks out there.”

Kanye just might be my role model. Between him and Usher, its no wonder I have an inflated sense of self. Not to say that it isn’t a completely warranted and deserved inflated sense of self, I’m just saying that I’m humble and I do what nobody else can do.

That last sentence was sponsored by Kanye West and Usher Raymond. You have to love anybody who says things like that out loud and actually believes it despite the sheer ridiculousness of those statements.

*cough*iamhov*cough*

And further speaking of Jay-Z, it pains me to say this, but he REALLY should have just saved that horseshit verse he threw on Rihanna’s song, “Umbrella”. I love that damn song but man does his verse suck. He adds nothing to the song and doesn’t even ride the beat well with that damn “in anticipation for precipitation…” rehashed line.

For the first time in history, I wish Jay wouldn’t have jumped on a song. Can we please have a moment of silence, Jerry Falwell killed hip-hop.

So…after all that randomness, the reason I decided to come back to blogging is twofold.

1) We The Voices has returned and I realize that after you’ve taken a break from writing, it’s very easy to never want to write shit again. I need to get back into a continuous flow of writing. Since We The Voices was my baby, it serves me only write that I should probably be the most prolific writer on there, however, as of yet, I haven’t felt like writing shit. So I need to get back in the saddle and ride that puppy reckless.

After re-reading that last sentence, I’d like to apologize to PETA. And yes, that was a ‘spicious sentence. I’m currently wearing a pink shirt.

Besides, part of the audience from We The Voices came directly from my own blog site. Makes no sense to re-launch something with no actual audience or platform for an audience. Back in the saddle, bitches.

Plus, there needs to be some reason for me to actually wear my, “Tell a friend to google Panama Jackson” t-shirt.

By the way, why are there dandelions in the parking garage?

2) There is just way to much stupid shit going on in the world right now for me not to comment on it. I mean seriously. Despite the fact that about 4 people might read this, you simply must head over to this story:

Dumb Niggas Shoot Eachother Because That’s What Dumb Niggas Do

Okay, that’s not the real title but it should have been. And if I was the Editor-In-Chief of a magazine or a Black-run media outlet I’d have let that shit slide.

Oh…wait.

Dammit.

Anyway, these two niggas had one of their friends (oh, and despite the fact that I’ve asked msyelf to curb my use of the word “nigga” in writing, somehow it just seems quite appropos here), shoot them in the legs so that they could avoid being hazed by the frat that they had been accepted to pledge.

Hmm…correct me if I’m wrong here, but when you signed up for the shit, you knew what you were doing bucko. Man up, bitches. As was pointed out by the officers in the story, there were SO many other means they could have come up with if it was THAT bad that they wanted to avoid the hazing. And um, to the campus spokesperson who says that hazing doesn’t exist anymore…

…I pooh-pooh on your assetion.

I’m compelled to ask a question in resonse to this, “who fuckin’ does that??”

Oh right, I already answered this, “dumb niggas”. Hmmm, think about this too…wouldn’t you be a little bit suspicious of your friend who ACTUALLY pulled the trigger…on both of you? I’ll just give him a flier on this and say that he just wasn’t thinking of the potential of murder part of the attempted-assisted-suicide murder that his pussy boys asked him to commit. Just gives me pause that some cat would be okay with it.

“Yo, Jerome, after you find my mirror, can you shoot me?”

“Yeah, no problem, give me like 2 minutes…I’ll be right there.”

Oh yeah, and the dumb niggas left the gun IN THE CAR that they drove to the hospital in.

Seriously though, if you ever ask me to shoot you to get out of something, I’m calling the police myself. You need Jesus. And the person who you get to actually go through with the shooting might help you find him. Accidentally.

Dumb niggas. They’re even dumber because not only can they NOT plege that frat anymore, they can’t release any rap albums because the streets teach us that shooting one’s self to get out of some shit is the most pussy form of self-defense. You get no street cred for those bullets. And as their parents, I’d disown them.

Anyway, stuff like that makes me want to blog again, so I shall.

I’m back bitches.

I can’t leave blogging alone the game needs me.

It was written.

It’s been 4 months and some days since I last wrote something here. Truthfully, I couldn’t be happier. Sometimes I wonder how folks continue to blog so much despite all of the work that has to go into it.

Hell, just coming up with topics daily can be a nappy-headed ho bitch and a half.

Anyway, I’m more or less making sure this thing still works. Perhaps I’ll be back to write more, perhaps I won’t. I don’t even know. Hell, I’m only writing this for myself as a matter of fact just to take up space and because I’m bored at work. On the offchance that anybody does actually come by and read this I have but one question:

You must really like me, huh?

Okay, that was a bit presumptuous of me. But fuck you anyway, I’m sexxy enough to be presumptuous and possibly misspell it twice. Spellchecker be damned.

Panama is still dead. Or at least in a coma. Or maybe I’m just P-Hova and waiting to come back from the dead to save the world from itself.

See, I’m still sacrilegious. Certified sinner.

Heathen to the stars.

Stay looking up at the stars because I’m amongst them.

Bitches.

Well Nas said it and every gotdamn body is talking about him again despite a piss-poorly executed album.

Well, at least they were before everybody got their hands on it. Now nobody seems to care.

Nasir Jones, this is your life.

Oh yeah, and he didn’t even prove hip-hop was dead.

“…i’m tangled in my chord, huh? bored…”

I’ve managed to bore the living shit out of myself as a blogger. And it’s not that I don’t think I can still write. I mean, Hey God, it’s me Panama…let’s get real. You don’t get as sexxy as I am without understanding one’s capabilities.

Dr. Strangejazz…that’s one.

Everyday I just go about life without even thinking of updating I come here to write something and despite the myriad ideas floating around this educated sphere of mine, I opt to leave nothing. I half decided to just leave blogging in 2006 — let 2007 be about bringing one of my real projects to fruition.

And then I got yelled at. Have you ever been yelled at thru an Instant Messenger? No? Who’d a thunk that it would be effective?

Not I says papa bear.

Anyway, I suppose this serves as my temporary adios of sorts. Perhaps I’ll get the itch to start writing something tomorrow. Perhaps not. Maybe one day I’ll decide that I’ve got the spirit and I’ll start writing in spurts.

Or perhaps not.

Supple…ya know, for old time’s sake.

Plus, it’s not like I can really let this blog go. Do you realize how many things I’ve done because of this blog?

Here’s a short list of things directly impacted by merely deciding to blog 2.5 years ago:

- I entered, enjoyed, and ended a long-term long distance relationship with a woman I met thru this here site. She’s fine too if not a little bit off (relax, I know I am too). And yes, she will read this. And yes, I will pay for that statement. Though she has determined that I’m not allowed to call her an ex, since unbeknownst to damn near all of you, at one point, I was seriously considering marrying her. She contends that puts her at a level above an ex. That’s a debate if I’ve ever had one.

- Been offered more random backwater ass writing jobs than I’d know what to do with. I’ve been offered mostly hip-hop writing jobs, something I’d never really want to do. I think to much to focus on hip-hop so much. Plus, I get bored with all the goings-ons of rap all the time.

- Written for Allhiphop.com a few times. I kind of have an open invitation there to write some shit.

- I’m actually a registered songwriter for ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers) and had one of my songs played on the radio.

- Met some of the best damn folks ever, two of which could even be considered two of my best friends. Mostly because they know all of my shit. Like ALL of it.

- Actually, I’ve met quite a few people on this thing you all call the Internet that know all of my shit.

- Began and have damn near finished a book project.

- Envisioned, founded, started, and editor-in-chiefed a web-based e-zine that should be returning SOMETIME in the near future. Ask me not for I know not when it shall return like the Prodigal Son.

- Became a cast member of a cutting-room-floored BET television show, Homiez, loosely based on the television show Friends.

Speaking of BET, isn’t the American Gangster series just downright great? I’ve learned so much about Blacks penchant for crime that I find myself feeling slightly guilty about rooting for the bad guys. I have to give BET credit as well. There is no praising going on. If anything, they’re very clear in their intent to not heap any praise on these criminals, but explain how they’ve managed to destroy their own communities. For once, I can actually say Kudos! to BET.

Hold. Me.

- I’m convinced I almost took out Starbucks. Evidence to prove this is nowhere to be found. But I do know that I’m responsible for more people’s cessation of Starbucks intakeage than I’m actually aware of. It takes a village, people.

- Created, and then saw TVOne take an idea I came up with and run with it, though I’m sure it won’t be NEARLY as good as my original idea.

- Was accused of being the online alter-ego of Aaron McGruder (of Boondocks fame). No lie, I got an email from somebody who accused me of being Aaron McGruder and I’m convinced didn’t initially believe me when I said I wasn’t. That was a high-point.

- Hosted a weekly open-mic night in Washington, DC. That shit was fun beyond imagination. And I met SO many people doing that. Lots of chicks too. It’s always good to meet women.

Supple.

- Made beaucoup contacts and offended some folks — always a high point in life. You’re never really doing your job unless somebody is offended.

- Just had a good damn time shooting the shit. I’ve also upped my Hell points in tremendous order.

As you can see (and this is by no means an exhaustive list), I’ve managed to do a lot of shit as a result of this blog so I’d be crazy to fold it altogether. However, for the right now, meantime between time, unless I get an email from somebody telling me that they’ll cut out my entrails and feed them to my been-dead-for-10 years dog Bruno if I don’t post something in the next few days…

…I’m gone. And I don’t know if that means for a week or a year. Or forever in this form.

Me and Common are trying to find forever…except I’m way less gay than he is.

But you know you can always seem in DC with my man Frank White running up in something.

Holla at a playa when you see me in the street…or just holla at a playa period.

Signed, sealed, delivered.

Goodnight and goodluck.

To everybody who’s been reading and has at the very least enjoyed themselves here, thanks for sleepwalking…for real. I appreciate it like you wouldn’t believe. I’d buy you something, except that would cause me to spend my money. I’ll holla back at you when I get some corporate sponsorship for my left foot.

Sincerely,

Panama Jackson Is Dead

“…whether its next year, 10 years, or 20 years from now, you won’t be able to say that this brother lied to you, jack…”

My first attempt at a post using WordPress and it ALREADY ate my first post.

This is not a good sign. I up and leave Movable Type because of the ignorant amounts of spam I was getting and this is what happens. They must be exacting their revenge.

Fuck you Thanks Movable Type!

Anyway, welcome to the new temporary digs and whatnot. Same jam time, same jam channel. I got a new attitude.

I’ve got some new sponsors in the Black hand side (not actually sure that that means), Fantasia’s English teacher (ouch!) and Frederick Douglass’ hairstylist (probably some cat named Eustis or something).

Real talk, what the hell does the Black hand side mean? I do know that it sounds way better to say I bitchslapped him with the Black hand side. It’s like the difference between muhf*cka and motherf*cker. A few letters makes a world of difference.

Hmm, I’d better not see that slogan on television for UPS in their competition with USPS.

Why do people do that?

Do what?

That.

You know, use symbols and characters so as to not “use” a word but use it at the same time. Like ni&&a. Or a$$. Or f*ck. I still know what the word is.

So anyway, enjoy. Hopefully at some point in the future a new layout will be envisioned, but for now, I’m cool. The links aren’t all updated yet or anything so I’m still working. Okay, I’m not actually doing it. My ace boon coon is really doing all of this for me.

I heart her.

So welcome to version 3 of the intellectual arrogance ignorance that is Jackson G. Tickle Enterprises.

Panama’s Propositions – the Michael Eric Dyson people can actually understand.

In this world, there are a few things you just do not fuck with a Black man about.

2) His momma. Since most of our fathers are absentee at worst and total dickheads at best, our mothers become our sanctuary; our sole source of true inspiration and largely the one and only woman we have unfettered trust in.

Talking about a Black man’s mother just might get you fucked up. But even that can be forgiven because as is usual, most people always go straight for the momma when trying to instigate.

And then we have this…

1) His money. This just might get you killed. Period. Point blank.

“…fuck that, exclamation, comma, quotation, i love drama, period…” ~ Jay-Z “Trouble” Kingdom Come (in stores tomorrow)

You do not, I repeat, do not, fuck with a Black man’s money. You can talk about my momma, but do not fuck with my money.

And yet, in the past few weeks, folks have been fucking with my money and being a little bit too easy-going about it. Allow me to share a little bit about my adventures…follow me.

Panama Get’s His Car Fixed

Washington, DC, has some of the absofuckinlutely stupidest laws known to man when it comes to getting your car registered. Without going into too much detail, in order to get your car registered in DC, you must pass a safety inspection and in order to pass inspection you cannot have you windows tinted despite the fact that in Washington, DC, it is legal to have your windows tinted.

Common sense, be damned.

Anywho, I had to remove my tints and in the process, the folks that removed my tints fucked up my car stereo.

Umm, yeah, because THAT makes sense.

Well, in order to get my stereo back online, I have a security code I punch in. Well, a long long time ago, I had my stereo replaced by my dealer (car not crack) and they never gave me the new security codes. I didn’t realize that. So my stereo fuckin’ locked up and shut down. I take it back to the dealer and they charge me 100 bucks to find out the codes DESPITE it being their fault that I didn’t have the right one in the first place.

As you can imagine, I went into that bitch in Ether mode. I was ready to burn the place down over my 100 dollars since it was THEIR fault in the first place. What made it even worse was this:

[This is the transcript of an actual conversation that I had]

Pissed Panama: When I had my stereo repaced, by you all, the guy didn’t give me the new codes. I mean, why would I lock up my own stereo with the WRONG codes if I KNEW they were wrong in the first place? Either I didn’t know I had the wrong one, which would be your fault, or I had the wrong codes, which again, would be your fault. How am I being held liable when this is your dealership’s fault?

Service Manager: Well, I just talked to my top manager who informed me that since we can’t prove that he didn’t give you the codes we can’t do anything about the price.

Pissed Panama: Excuse me???? Because you can’t prove he didn’t??!?!?? Which also means that you can’t prove that he did?????!!!!! Right?!! Right?!?!!!

SM: Well, yes…

PP: Can I speak to your manager???

I spoke with the manager and he fixed my shit and I got my money back. But seriously, what the FUCK kind of logic is that??

Score: Panama 1 Moneyfuckers 0

Panama Get’s His Car Insured

When switching one’s car over to a new jurisdiction, one must get one’s car insured in one’s new district…one.

I did just that. I had my insurance transferred over. I’ve been leary of doing this for years for a few reasons. For one, I live in Washington, DC, and not in a neighborhood known for its upstanding citizenry. That is changing and you can walk down the street safely and it is changing into a white neighborhood actually.

I mean, white people walk their dogs at 3am without any fear. Amazing, isn’t it? Fuck Starbucks, THAT’S how you know your neighborhood is changing.

For two, I currently park on the street in a neighborhood where the kids actually spray paint cars of folks that don’t live there. No lie. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I was floored. These kids literally went car by car and skipped over the cars of people they knew lived in the neighborhood.

For three, where my car was previously registered was a veritable car utopia compared to where I live now. People used to park there and leave windows down and cars unlocked. I’m not saying they should, I’m just saying they did.

I get my car insured and I’m given a quote that I can live with. It sounds a little bit too good to be true but whatever. The lady assures me that it’s my rate quote. So imagine my surprise (and chagrin) when I start getting my paperwork in the mail and my once benign and pleasant quote has somehow managed to inflate itself by 100 dollars. No longer benign, it has become malignant. It has chafed my hide.

So I do what any self-respecting sexxy and debonair Negro would do, I call my insurance agent where I am informed that my initial quote was the product of A FUCKING MISTAKE ON HER PART. She placed me in the wrong class which resulted in my lower quote. Apparently, she had me listed (through no fault of my own…my paper work merely transferred offices so all of my information was available for her in front of her very eyes) as an over 30 married man. And seeing as how I’ve neither reached 30 nor have I been enslaved into marriage, my rate was wrong.

You know mistakes happen, but what pissed me off is that when I called and she immediately picked out the error she seemed awfully cavalier about it, like my 100 dollars doesn’t matter. She just kind of said, “oops” and called it a day. Needless to say, with inept fucks like that working at this particular insurance agency…I’m beginning my search for insurance elsewhere. The key to good customer service is to not make your client feel as if you DON’T CARE that you just fucked them and didn’t even give them a kiss on the cheek when you left in the middle of the night.

Score :Panama 1 Moneyfuckers 1

Other Side of The Story: I must say, I kind of deserve this one though. You see, when I was looking for an agent, I came across a site that listed all of the agents in my neighborhood and had pictures. I went straight for the most attractive agent. Plus she was a Delta and went to Howard. I figured I can’t lose, right?? Wrong. Word to the wise: Never trust a fine Delta from Howard…she just might fuck you out of your money and not even kiss you on the cheek afterwards.

Panama And His Paycheck

I haven’t gotten to the bottom of this one yet, but apparently my current employer has decided to come light with my money this pay period. Either I’m being fired and don’t know it, or somebody made a boo-boo that needs some correcting. And it isn’t even a huge amount, it’s just the principle. Actually, it’s my motherfucking money so it is a big deal and it is a principle issue and I’m a Black man.

All I know is that if this shit doesn’t add up, there just may be some major changes ’round these parts one of these days.

Plus, how you gonna fuck somebody over during the Christmas season? That’s just cruel.

Score: Panama 1 Moneyfuckers 1

But we don’t know how this last one will turn out.

AND IT’S ONLY MONDAY!! And Michigan lost to Ohio State for the THIRD straight year though luckily they’re still ranked #2 in the BCS.

I never talk about it on here, but I’m a diehard Michigan fan. Hell, I used to live in Ann Arbor and I still remember getting my shots at the University of Michigan hospital. They used to give me Snoopy band-aids.

I can’t wait to see what Tuesday has in store…

[***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.

“…I can’t believe, today was a good day…” ~ Ice Cube, “It Was A Good Day”, The Predator

My life is better today, because of what happened in my life yesterday. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t share this lovely and inspiring news. In fact, it’s not just news, it’s a story. A story of hopes and dreams. It’s a story about belief.

Aside from the fact that we’re all going to die one day, it would be the never-ending story. Only without the big floppy eared flying dragon dog or any random white kids named Atreyu.

Thing is, despite the fact that we’re all going to die one day, and that is usually depressing news in and of itself, I just may now die in peace.

First, I must tell you a story.

Actually, first I must tell you to make sure that you are voting in the 2nd Annual October Madness (2006) tournament being sponsored by both Jackson G. Tickle Enterprises and The Royal Youngs. Those are household names. And similarly tune in tomorrow as we unveil the next two brackets with our expert analysis and scientific meandering. Hmm…I think I like that term, scientific meandering.

Yes, methinks me likes it much.

Back to the story that was never begun. I can honestly say that I had a good youth. I could read at a very young age. I only almost killed myself once (or three) times in bicycle incidents. I was only picked up by the police for shoplifting one time (when I was 6 and it wasn’t my fault…well, not completely). As you can see, I learned a few lessons the hard way but I have no complaints. Well, as I got older those lessons became easier and easier for me to learn.

And do you know why? You probably don’t. Which is why you’re wondering why I just asked you if you knew why. Thing is, you probably weren’t even wondering and just recognize it as one of those rhetorical speech-like phrases that people use when they’re about to make some seemingly valid point.

The reason why learning those lessons became easier for me is because Family Matters, yes the television show, was always one of my favorite shows. Perhaps it’s because in my youth I could so easily identify with Steve Urkel. Believe it or not, I was quite the little nerd growing up. True, I was the coolest nerd on the block and managed to win Best Dressed Male every year I was in middle school, but underneath my thuglike, debonair exterior, festered a nerd who really just wanted to read Encyclopedia’s and play with his calculator.

If you watched Family Matters every week, you were provided with some lesson and you always knew when the lesson was coming because that cheesy music would start playing to let you know that somebody was finna get learned something. I used to love that actually. There’d always be some conflict of sorts, then some speech of apology or of understanding, cue music, cue hugs, then voila…everybody loves eachother again.

Well, except Laura Winslow. That damn Laura. She just wouldn’t give poor Steve the time of day. Well, not until Stephon Ur-Kel showed up. You know, the cool version of Steven Q. Urkel.

You’re probably wondering where all of this is heading. Hell, me too.

As much as I’d like to say that I watched Family Matters for the lessons and the cheesy less cool Cosby-esque nature of the show, the real reason I watched…every season…religiously…was…

…Laura Winslow nee Kellie Shanynge Williams.

Hands down, my crush on her trumped any crush I’ve ever had on Christina Milian. I was in love with her. I thought she was so fine.

Oh yes, and to hell with you if you are currently snickering.

I just knew that I’d find Laura out there slipping one day and I’d make her mine. Hell, I wanted to marry Laura. My family can actually attest to this. Two of my sisters are very familiar with my love for Laura and used to tease me about it. You see, it was a genuine and pure love. Mary J. Blige might even refer to it as “real love”.

She was pretty, had a big heart, nice, had a nice smile, and just seemed like an all around good person. Basically, she had me from hello. She always seemed (to me…and yes during my formative years) as the kind of girlfriend or woman who would be good to have in your life. And because I’m impressionable, I transfer all of those characteristics drummed up by writers into who the actual person really is. I don’t think you can pull of great person unless you have some semblance of great person inside of you. So yes, I was in love.

I just need to make that clear, for the entire duration of Family Matters, I was in love with Laura Winslow, thought she was the bee’s knees and was so extremely fine.

Hmmm…does all of that actually make me Urkel?

Allow me to switch gears for a second. If you remember, I used to host a weekly Open Mic event in Washington, DC, at the historic Bohemian Caverns. Nice spot. I don’t host anymore but I do any number of other things behind the scene from running the door to coordinating the performances, etc. Just call me the intern. Last night we had a comedian that many folks have heard of before, Red Grant, come through. He’s originally from DC and he’s an extremely funny dude.

While he’s up there performing, or right when he’s about to get off stage, he does this shout out to his people that came with him.

And who but who came there to support him?

KELLIE WILLIAMS AKA LAURA WINSLOW!!!

Can I tell you that when he said that, time stopped?

Actually, I suppose I just did.

What makes this even more crazy is that I let them all into the door together and because I was on the phone and working the guest list at the same time, I didn’t even notice her when she came in. Just said, go on in.

When he shouted her out, my radar got to working. I knew exactly where they were sitting and GEORGE MICHEAL! There she was.

I almost fainted.

Okay, that’s not true at all.

But I couldn’t believe it.

Well, she and, I presume, her sister (girl looked just like her, but not really) walked out and I went outside because I was going to speak to her, which I did.

We talked for a short minute. I told her how much of a fan I was of both her and the show and that I’d been in love with Laura Winslow for years, yada yada yada. She told me that she’d moved back to DC and was running a non-profit focused on the arts. I found out its called the Kellie Williams Programs. Then, I probably reiterated how much I used to love her. I’m fun like that. It was a quick little, all-smiles, conversation. I mean I wasn’t trying to holler or anything…just because the love of your life shows up doesn’t mean you have to try to holler at them does it?

Anyway, in the midst of our short conversation she says to me, probably after I told her that my heart dropped when her and Stephon got married (even though that never officially happened on the show as the show was cancelled before they showed the actual wedding)…

…”you’re sweet.”

I’m officially done.

You can’t tell me jack. I’m officially on cloud nine. And yes, she didn’t really say anything to me that would make me think she’ll ever remember me.

Then again, I’m Panama. I’m kind of hard to forget.

Plus, I’m sexxy.

Either way, even if I never see her again (though she did tell me about some event she was having next weekend, too bad I’ll be out of town), my life is better because I got to meet Laura Winslow aka Kellie Williams in person.

And believe you me, she’s STILL fine. Good gracious. I think I’m still in love. Okay, that may not be true, but good googly moogly is she hot. I have no idea how great a person she is or anything, or if she’s anything like Laura Winslow, but truthfully, the girl’s alright with me…you know, the girl’s alright. In fact, I take it back, I think I do still have a crush on her. Yep, I’m still crushing on Laura Winslow.

But it’s okay, because I met her.

I called my sister and told her right after I met her and she just laughed at me because she knew I must have been on cloud nine. And I was…

…and still am.

Like I said, I may now die in peace.

Goodnight and goodluck.

*Remember to vote in the October Madness tourney if you haven’t already, both here and over at The Champ’s site. *

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.

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!