From that title up there, you’d think that I was either talking about the recreational use of drugs or #$%^ing.

Today, I’m talking about #$%^ing.

According to a report conducted by the Guttmacher Institute–a private New York-based think tank that studies sexual and reproductive issues–at least 95 percent of Americans have engaged in premarital sex.

Including people from decades where we assumed sexual freedom and experimentation wasn’t as high, i.e. the 1940s and 1950s.

Um…wrong.

More than nine out of 10 Americans, men and women alike, have had premarital sex, according to a new study. The high rates extend even to women born in the 1940s, challenging perceptions that people were more chaste in the past.

According to (Lqwrence )Finer’s (research director of the Guttmacher Institute) analysis, 99 percent of the respondents had had sex by age 44, and 95 percent had done so before marriage.

Well if this isn’t good news I don’t know what is. This report basically tells us two things:

1. Women are definitely putting out and if you are a man and can’t get some, it’s you. Totally…you.

2. All of this mumbo jumbo about teen fucking has been an issue since like, forever. Only difference is the media coverage of such a thing. Out of sight out of mind.

And to think, we’ve been throwing millions and millions of dollars at programs and initiatives to promote abstinence amongst the youth. I think in the back of our minds everybody knew that was some non-sense but parents kind of hoped that their kids would wait.

Unlike them. Interesting isn’t it. I know I’ll probably have this dilemma. We want all of our kids to not do the same shit that we did. Do as I say, not as I do. Yet, history proves that they’re going to do a lot of the same shit that we do around the same time.

Hell, I knew there was a reason why my father said to me, in high school, in FRONT of me and my girlfriend:

Dad: “Don’t bring no babies around here!”

My Mom: “(pop’s name), stop that”

Dad: “Woman, I know they ain’t always together because they like talking to eachother.”

And boy was he right, she was so not the conversationalist. But a gymnast, you bet your ass she was.

The more you know!

*ding*

“It would be more effective,” Finer said, “to provide young people with the skills and information they need to be safe once they become sexually active — which nearly everyone eventually will.”

Amen. Why pretend that kids aren’t shellacking one another, why not teach them to be more responsible? I know its a tough road to hoe (*snicker*), but still, numbers don’t lie. Okay that’s not completely true either, you can pretty make numbers say what you want them too. However, how far fetched is this?

Not very.

I have to say here, that I must wonder about applaud people who wait until marriage to get their jollies off. With all of the temptation walking around here it’s amazing that anybody can wait.

Hell, I knew people in middle school schlumping one another. And by high school…either everybody was lying or I went to a very hormonious high school. It was also a Blue Ribbon School for Academic Excellence.

What with the number of pregnant girls walking around the two things my school was good at was math and fucking.

We believed in excelling!

I actually still know some virgins and with all of the sex that society is peddling, I’m often surprised by this. And they’re like real virgins. Not the fake chick ones who do “everything, but…”

Honestly, I hate those women…with the passion of Mel Gibson’s last two movies. And a soda on the side.

In fact, any woman who praises that mantra should be shipped to Saskatchewan with only Slim Jims and re-runs of Oprah, the fat years, at their disposal.

So essentially, I wrote all of this to say: Strap up America…she’s LYING!!!! And if he says he’s a virgin, you KNOW he’s lying.

Unless he has a pair of glasses with tape on them in which case he probably still lives at home with a bushel of duct-tape and KY Jelly…in which case he doesn’t have a shot in hell anyway.

And always remember this motto, it just might save your life–Lifestyles: Say YES! to pregnancy.

That Lauryn Hill, what a prophet.

Today’s post is being brought to you by the good people of Jackson G. Tickle Enterprises and the letter W.

Followed by the letter T. And not so far behind, the letter F.

Put it together class and what do you get?? WTF.

As in the what the fuck was Fantasia thinking when she wrote some of the shit that is on her newest album, the self-titled Fantasia?

Despite that question, I find myself feeling warmed by her album.

Do you know why I appreciate artists like Fantasia (and similarly people like Jagged Edge or Mary J. Blige, during the Great Crackskapades of the early to mid 90s)? I love them because they do not run away from their inner-ghetto. You see, so many of us el Negroes try to hide from the fact that we do indeed possess ghetto bones.

I have some. Do you? It’s okay. In fact, anybody with ghetto bones, please, with a show of hands…show yourself!

*hands a-waving*

Ahh…the smell of truth.

Being the ghetto queen that Fantasia apparently is (down to the inordinate education), she has decided that she was going to make an album for her people. What people would that be? The same people who actually found her song “B.A.B.Y.M.A.M.A.” to be a rallying cry and an endearing, honorable tribute to the single, un-wed mother.

Not that there is anything wrong with being a single, un-wed mother. Then again, there is a hell of a difference between being a babymama and a single mother. Color me ignorant, but it seems that Fantasia made it okay (once again, to her fans) to aspire to be a baby mama whereas a single mother would usually rather not be in that situation. But once again, color me ignorant.

And then color me bad. Ohhh…beeeeeeeehave.

On her newest magnum opus, Fantasia has a song entitled “Uneligible”.

I’d like to take a quick smokebreak, so please re-read that last sentence as many times as you need.

*smokebreak*

If you’re anything like me, you probably looked at that word a few times before calmly asking yourself, “is that a word?”

Then, I briskly walked to my dictionary to check. Nope…in fact, I’m about to go look at my office dictionary right now.

Hold, please.

*holding*

Nope, not in my office dictionary. It goes from unedited to unemotional. But you know what I did find?

Ineligible.

A one letter variance, but a signficant one nonetheless. Which begs the question…two questions actually: why not just use the word ineligible?; and why doesn’t she have any friends who tell her better?

Oh, she answers that on the album’s last song, “Bump What Ya Friends Say”.

Well, okay then.

You’ve really got to love songs like that don’t you? The song “Uneligible” is about the good men who all seem to be “uneligible.” Ooh, ooh, I have a question!!!

Since she refers to her men as uneligible, does that actually make them uneligible? Perhaps there is some subtle distinction between ineligible and uneligible…perhaps her men just ain’t available (hence, uneligible) whereas ineligible men are just not qualified!!!

Perhaps Fantasia is the smart one. She’s done gone and created a new word, probably by accident since I don’t actually respect her mind. Sad, I know.

But until she can read one of my posts I stand by my statement.

Ouch.

What I do appreciate about her new album is that she really holds nothing back. For instance, here are some of the song titles: “I Nominate U” (c’mon, don’t we all really want to be nominated for something??), “Baby Makin’ Hips” (you laugh, but I love me a woman with baby makin’ hips), “Two Weeks Notice” (not sure how this really applies to her people since most of them are probably fans of being babymamas and probably work at places that a two week notice probably ain’t all that necessary, let alone a two minute notice).

Ouch again.

I’m mean.

Then there’s that guaranteed hot shit, “Bore Me (Yawn)”. I actually have to give Fantasia a lot of credit here. People often give you song titles, but when was the last time people gave you the intransitive verb to go with their song title?

Did Babyface? How much better is this song title: “Every Time I Close My Eyes (Blink)”?

Or “There She Goes (Point)”?

Clearly, he’s not as forward thinking as Fantasia.

And the entire album makes sense because her first single is “Hood Boy”, a sort of double entendre since clearly she needs a hood boy, and it’s also apparently who she mad the album for, the “hood, boy”.

Deep. Perhaps I do respect her mind. A broke clock may be right only twice a day, but when it’s right, it’s right.

Mind you, a lot of this stuff is actually pretty good, music-wise, and she can sing despite the fact that I pretty much don’t like her voice at all. What’s really funny is that for every person I’ve mentioned that she has as song called “Uneligible”, every body thinks its okay because Fantasia apparently isn’t the scholar we all pray for.

And she can’t read, though I’m inclined to believe that she’s probably made headway in that deparment since her admission. Which if I’m not mistaken was during the “writing” of her book. Dictaphone never had it so good!

All in all, I appreciate Fantasia for what she brings to the table. Unapologetic ignorance. She exists to make me realize that people like us do have a place in the world. For me, it’s at the table with lawmakers and hookers, for her it’s at the library, but there is a place nonetheless.

Irregardless of what we may all think, Fantasia is finna do things her way. And through her, we are all connectededed.

She is us and we are her.

Thank you Fantasia for keeping it real and damn you to Hell for causing a whole new generation of little ninjas who will undoubtedly think that the word “uneligible” is actually real and okay since it’s a song that I think women who can’t find a good man will be drawn towards.

Thank you Fantasia, for not crossing over but bringing the suburbs to the ‘hood.

[***DISCLAIMER: This post might offend some of you single, well-to-do, upwardly mobile, black women out there who complain about the lack of equally yokeded black men in the population. I just figured I'd let you know upfront and ahead of time. And in case you want to spit venom my way, find your way over to www.idontgiveas***.com ***]

On Sunday, the Washington Post ran an article entitled “Singled Out: In Seeking a Mate, Men and Women Find Delicate Imbalance”. It’s a good article about a young 31 year old woman who has been trying to find a suitable black man to date in the Washington area and the sometimes trials and tribulations that go along with that task. You see, in DC (and surely in every other city across this vast nation of ours), a black woman is at a disadvantage when it comes to finding a black man who is on her “level” to date and eventually marry.

For shame.

In fact, the article points out some very disturbing statistics. Take a gander:

“…31-year-old black woman seeking to marry a black man, which lands her in the heart of the most uncoupled demographic in the United States. For every 100 single black women, there are 70 single black men, according to recent U.S. Census Bureau figures, a number that does not take into account the prison population or men living in group homes. In the Washington area, there are 83 single black men for every 100 single black women.”

Egads! As the article states, it would seem like a dating smorgasboard for me in Washington, DC.

And I suppose that on paper, that would be the case. Hell, I’m a single, educated, sexxy (back), Black man in DC. Technically speaking, I should be tired as hell from all of the women running amok looking for a man. Oh, AND, I’d like to get married (well, for this week anyway).

But there are a few things this article fails to mention. Aside from the obvious fact that there are just more women, especially Black women graduating and getting those well-paying jobs, etc….there is one little facet of human nature that all of these articles totally gloss over.

Let me lay something on the table for you, upfront: women are better people than men are. I will always believe that. I get proof of this fact on damn near a daily basis. I know lots of great men, but I know loads of great women. I see the evil that men do and the Hell that a lot of us put women through.

[***DISCLAIMER #2: This is not to say that women aren't full of shit evil bastards, either. Let's be real, just because it seems that more men are on that non-sense, there are tons of chicks who aren't shit and believe that the crap they do isn't really that problematic either. I just wanted to go on record with that one. Plus, when women decide to be evil, I think they tend to trump anything a dude can think of...youbettaknowdat. ***]

The point to be made about women being better people than men is this: men are more shallow.

Hi, my name is Panama, and I am a shallow fucker. It’s true.

Oh yeah, it’s true.

Thing is, I’m not apologetic about it either. For one, I’m not old enough to not be shallow, and b) I don’t think being shallow is a problem.

Which is where a lot of these problems come in. Allow me to make one significantly fucked up statement that I might actually dispell before I’m done writing this:

All of these single women running around here complaining about not being able to find a man aren’t exactly hot.

As in, a lot of them are unfine.

Being a shallow man, I can attest to this fact.

[***DISCLAIMER #3: Yes, I know that a lot of the women running around single are indeed fine. In fact, I'm often surprised by some of the women I come across who are manless. Which leads me to believe that some women are just as picky as they claim we are. Sure it might not be in looks, but it for damn sure is picky in other areas, like the ability to read. I hear that's a big one. ***]

Let’s be honest here. Just because there is a single man and a single woman out there who have the same levels of education, etc. Fuck it, just because you have two ninjas who are equally yoked does not mean that there should be a connection made. Ideally, it would be nice.

Unfortunately God gifted the majority of us with the ability to see. Sometimes that is a detriment to the dating process. Being the shallow bastard that I am, I’m well aware that there are some women out there who would make great girlfriends, hell, even wives…but I saw them first, which precluded me ever actually wanting to find out anything about them.

Sheesh. In all honestly, how many Hell points do you think I could get for that last paragraph alone?

My guess is beaucoup.

Plus if you throw in the chemistry factor, you’re looking at even less connectivity. We’re talking T-Mobile here…not Cingular.

I’ll use myself as an example. Since 2001, there have been three women in my life who have utterly captured my attention (they were all fine by the way…remember, I’m shallow, I refuse to fall in love with an ugly woman…and the Hell points keep coming). Interestingly, they all taught me things about myself. The first one taught me what I didn’t want in a woman, the second one taught me what I did want and showed me that there are some characteristics I just can’t deal with even if everything else is right, and the third one showed me that what I thought was impossible does actually exist…it just didn’t work out.

However, there have been a gazillion chicks in and around those women who for whatever reason just didn’t quite jive with what I wanted.

All fine. Tastefully nude, but all fine.

I always found it funny though, that nearly all of those women were ready to settle down and be with me for the long haul. Of course, this was my first experience with women really being worried about not finding a man seeing as they pretty much were willing to put up with some bullshit. Like, no lie. Did I take advantage of some of those situations, I suppose you could say that I did.

Then again, I’m also a believer that folks will only do to you what you let them do. Myself included.

My problem with these articles is that they totally leave everything to what the dating scene looks like on paper. And it isn’t only men who are tossing some of these women to the side. It goes both ways. Plus, when you add in the locations of some of these disparities, it adds a whole new layer of problems.

I mean, everybody knows that the further North you go, the more unattractive (on average) the women get.

*waiting on the WHAT THE FUCK? statements from unruly Northern women*

Yeah, I said it.

Despite the assholish nature I’ve displayed here, I do feel bad for women. The numbers don’t lie. There is a male shortage, and I can only date so many women.

That’s a joke.

I mean, 70 men for every 100 women means that no matter what happens, there are going to be some unmarried women out there. And that just doesn’t seem right. Mostly because it seems like the women with the most to offer usually end up being the odd ones out.

*hugs*

And when you throw in Black men dating white women, I suppose the number gets even smaller. That paints a very bleak picture. PLUS so many Black women really do want to marry Black men (as I want to marry a Black woman too), it just seems kind of sad.

On a side note, I’ve always found it funny how many Black women I know who have told me that they don’t know how they’d react to me dating a white woman…

…despite my mother being white.

Which is funny because I think my mother wants me to date a white woman. Or at least that’s how it feels when she tells me I need to be more “diverse” in my dating options. Of course, having a white mother but being raised by a Black woman in a Black household in Black surroundings tends to skew you one particular way…but still. I just don’t seem to get a fair shake on this one.

I do know that a lot of these articles fail to mention the attractiveness ratio that occurs (or doesn’t occur) with a lot of the women they tend to find. I mean, dude, a lot of us are still young enough to care what we’re bringing home. And if you’re like me, you have your own history to compete with. Though, I’m not actually sure I could date a woman who would be classified as a dime (10). I haven’t quite worked that one out in my head, but I think I prefer 8’s.

It seems that most 8’s tend to have come into their 8-dom over time and haven’t been fine forever, which means they don’t have the pretty-girl-for-life attitude that makes them damn near socially unfuckwitable. Basically, I like women who used to be ugly but turned pretty. They’re just more down to Earth.

Man, sometimes I amaze myself with the shit I say.

Chemistry and attractiveness are two facets of this dating demographic that always get left out and I think for our age group (25-34), they’re just as important as the ability to both know who the hell Yoyo Ma is. Besides, all of that culture shit is just what you use to impress the other party anyway. Yeah, it’s great that you’ve been to plays and all but how does that effect if we’re able to laugh at the same things? Or if I take you to my neighborhood you won’t freak the hell out because there are true to life crackheads chillin’ on the corner.

Sure, I’m glad you can read, but do you look good reading naked while we look like two peas in a pod?

Somehow, that simple question always gets left out of these articles.

[***This will be another Panama-length post. Stop working and take a 30 minute break. ***]

So India.Arie is not her hair.

She’s also not that great a singer or a talent, but let’s not let my personal biases against mediocre, over-hyped music get in the way of objective analysis.

See also: Alicia Keys.

India.Arie has a new song getting rotation on vh1 Soul entitled “I’m Not My Hair”. Though I more often than not change channels when I see it and have yet to really listen to the lyrics, I’m pretty sure I have a good idea where she’s going with it.

[***Sidenote: Have you noticed how much time India.Arie puts into telling us what she's not? She's not the average chick in the video (no shit Sherlock), she's not her hair, she's not caught up into the materialism of it all ("Little Things" which I hated with the passion of Mel Gibson. Construction through deconstruction, eh? I still don't think her music is that great or moving. In fact, I just created this sidenote so I could reinforce the fact that neither India or Alicia Keys is particularly overwhelmingly talented, they're just "positive" so the accolades come. Sad sad times we live in. And oh yes, kiss my ass if you think I'm just hating. ***]

It’s an ever-present reminder to not judge books by their cover. Many women with myriad hairdoes across the nation, especially of the darker persuasion, wish to not be judged by their hair or boxed into whatever stereotype their hair represents. Oh how cruel society can be for looking at a part of your chosen appearance and making some sort of (un)informed opinion about you.

Let me just cut the shit here, you can see through my obvious sarcasm that I like to call bullshit on this notion. But I’m not calling bullshit on the notion in its entirety, but just from the ONLY group of women who run this brouhaha into the ground: the alleged/assumed/stereotped “deep” crowd of women with the natural hair or locs that refuses to succumb to society’s (read white folks) requirement to have relaxed hair that conforms to the white aesthetic.

Women’s liberation lives on.

It is my understanding that relaxed hair is easier to manage. I could be wrong on that, but I’ve been told that from nearly all the women in my life with relaxed hair. If that is the case, then growing ones hair out in its natural African splendor or locking one’s hair is not only a societal rebellion but a conscious decision to retain God’s given goods. It is in fact…

…a statement of sorts.

And I’m all for statements. If you have something to say, then by all means say it. The more controversial the better. Now the funny shit here is that most of the controversy involved here comes from the stereotype that in some ways, women with the “hair” (as it will be called from here on out) run themselves right into, but don’t want to be a party to in the first place.

Common sense be damned.

And that’s where I get to calling bullshit. You see, not a SINGLE woman I know with the “hair” isn’t or hasn’t been on some sort of “enlightened” kick at some point in their lives. Lovers of all things natural from natural soaps and organic shit and lovers of the beauty of the outside and the grass and how we are all connected to the Earth and must take advantage of all that. And I’m not judging at all, I actually think thats great. More people should probably be into the natural order of things and want to preserve and enjoy the world’s resources and the like. And I’m all for enlightenment.

Further, it seems that when most black women go through some sort of major life change, often times, their hair becomes the subject of debate; whether or not to cut it, to lock it, to just let it grow into its natural state. In many ways, a woman’s hair does represent a lot about her. Not to say that it is the only facet of her, but it is a major part. The thing is, the only group that runs around wishing to not be judged by their hair is the women with the “hair”. And its because the rest of us aren’t nuts and have been exposed to so many women with the “hair” that some sort of opinion can be created.

Women with relaxers don’t run into this problem and it could very well be a societal, white-induced thing. If you see a woman with a perm, well, that just seems normal. Permed hair doesn’t really stand out. If you see a woman with the helicopter hair do, well, her ass is just ghetto. You are what you eat and you reap what you sow. But for those of us who can read, which would be everybody reading this right now, when you see a woman with big hair or locs (the “hair) we do tend to assume certain things about them.

That they rock earthtones and headwraps, read Sonia Sanchez, like ankh’s, wear jewelry with amber and are all about some sort of enlightenment or something. All of those things can, sometimes for right sometimes for wrong, be assumed from seeing a woman out with the “hair”. And yes it is wrong to make such assumptions…but umm…

…how often are you wrong?

When was the last time you met a woman with the “hair” that had the best of Ying Yang Twins bumping in their ride? They get lumped into the “concious” crowd by men and women alike because for the most part, they don’t exactly do anything to counter that title. You go to their homes they have books about women’s liberation, feminism, and spirituality, amidst the music of the the “deep” crowd who has an appreciation for “quality” music. The homes are filled with incense and the like.

Yes, I’m stereotyping, but how how often am I completely offbase? I’m not saying all women with the “hair” are like that, but I’m guessing that I’m not as wrong as India.Arie might have me believe. And I think that’s where the problem with the “hair” comes in and why so many of women rocking the “hair” always clamor at that statement.

They don’t want to be boxed in or labeled into something that makes being ignant or ghetto contrary to the image that is being portrayed. Granted, I come down hard on many of “deep” brothers and sisters, but its usually at the inauthenticity of some of it. I just think its funny that people go so far out of their way to put out an image that is reflective of a certain persona. Mostly because there isn’t much variance. It’s an all or nothing thing. I’m deep, so I must wear all things deep or do all things deep people do. I suppose its largely a phase thing that many people grow out of, but oh well, it’s still funny.

Being characterized by your hair means that when you get to shakin’ that ass to Nelly or the Ying Yang Twins, people might look at you funny. And that’s not fair. Just because she loves Che Guevara and Assata Shakur doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the music of Ying Yang while shunning the lyrics. It’s party music right? And she likes to party. Why come she can’t get her “Salt Shaker” on in peace without folks being like, “dang girl, i didn’t think you’d get down like that?”

You know what’s really funny about this, it’s that women with the “hair” often get stereotyped up. As in, we tend to expect something from them for whatever reason. You expect to go into their homes and be transported into a sea of understanding and knowledge. Sad to say, if you go into the home of a chick with a perm, and you see the home of a “deep” chick, you’re often surprised in some sort. I know I am. It may be wrong, but fuck you.

Not to say that I don’t expect permed out chicas to read, but when you get the Mother Africa treatment, it just kind of takes you aback, then you realize you can’t judge a book by its cover. She may be the flyest chick on the planet, but there’s more to her than meets the eye. And that is why this whole phenomena is so funny to me. Women with the “hair” want to be regarded as normal people…hell, they just want to get the freedom to be a multi-faceted fuck-up with ignorant tastes like everybody else, whereas other women get the “wow, you READ???” face when you enter their homes.

And, to reiterate, I understand that your hair alone does not make you who you are, but it does say something about you, when you decide to (this is going to be the dumbest shit I’ve ever said…so bear with me), shun the status quo and wear your hair the way God intended.

Yes I felt dumber for saying that.

And see that’s the problem: you are your hair. It makes a statement about you. It’s just not the whole you, and I understand wanting to be recognized as a whole person and not boxed in to some perception that YOU are giving off. But its funny the labels we reject, isn’t it? Nobody wants to reject being labeled smart, well read, or thinking, yet often times those are the very assumptions we make from checking out a woman’s hair and her persona (which often fits the stereotype we adorn due to their hair). Women with the “hair” want the opportunity to be just as ignant as the rest of us with out raising an eyebrow. Thing is, its not even usually the “hair” alone that does it. It’s the whole package, from afar.

Apparently the biggest problem that comes with the “hair” is the assumptions that go along with it. The women who have to scream that they aren’t their hair just don’t want folks to assume anything about them, be it true or not. But when you make certain statements, assumptions arise. Your hair is your statement when you chose to go the “hair” route.

But to counter that, I suggest wearing a Ying Yang Twins shirt. That will throw people off and make sure that nobody judges you by your cover.

Then drop it likes its hot…

…on the bus…

Stereotype. Dissolved.

By now, nearly everybody should have seen the 3:26 clip from some upcoming low-budget, homey next door filmed, movie Diary of a Tired Black Man.

One of the tag lines reads: Now it’s the mens turn to exhale.

Indeed, it is.

If you haven’t, I highly suggest that you do so now. In fact, if you haven’t, I’ll wait.

*humming “Sailing” by Christopher Cross*

You back? Good. Pretty interesting premise isn’t it, though not very original. If the movie follows the trailer, it is essentially a white-woman-dating-black-man’s wet dream, with extra emphasis on dream, for what would happen if he was ever confronted with the decision he made to date a white woman. I happen to find the clip to be downright comedic since nobody can really act and damn near everything about the preview is preposterously un-fuckin’-realistic to the nth degree.

Shall we begin? Yes, let us. But first, I must proffer a definition for those non-slanguists in the audience or those unfamiliar with urban terminology.

son. defintion (1) noun. the male offspring of a man and a woman. if in the black community, 8 times out of 10, at 12 he will become the man of the house because his father has disappeared; (2) verb. to completely quiet or shut down somebody in an argument/battle/war in a way that totally undermines their opinion/feeling/abilities in such a way that they have on response, retort, or dignity left. see also rap battles, slavery, Napolean’s conquest for Europe, Hannibal, 2004 Presidential election

It is the second definition that we will be working with here. Why? I’ll tell you why.

It’s is completely and totally fuckin’ unrealistic and unbelievable to even imagine that ANY black man in America would have the ability to son FOUR/QUATRO/FO’/5-1/2+2/QUATRE black women at any time on any situation as charged as a black man dating a white woman.

At her house. Get the fuck out of here.

Not.

Gonna.

Happen.

Ever.

Everytime I watch the clip I’m just waiting for the real version to surface. You know, the one where as soon as his ex-wife sees him driving up with a white woman, she charges out the front door and starts yelling all kinds of bitches, tramps, and skeezers at the white woman while the black man has to physically push her back into the house.

And then…

She starts yelling at him calling all kinds of emasculating names and her friends join into the fracas and begin cursing him out and shit. Oh wait…that’s not what would have happened. This is a white woman here, my bad.

Let’s rewind.

*rewinding noise*

Everytime I watch the clip I’m just waiting for the real version to surface. You know, the one where as soon as his ex-wife sees him driving up with a white woman, she charges out the front door and starts yelling all kinds of bitches, tramps, and skeezers at the white woman while the black man has to physically push her back into the house which causes her to start swinging on her husband which causes the white woman to very stupidly GET OUT OF THE CAR causing the black ex-wife’s friends to come out of the house and commence to hurling racial slurs epithets and love songs at the white girl and THEN commence to pushing and then possibly whipping her ass while the black man then comes to the aid of his white woman and gets hit in the process causing him to slap the monkey shine shit out of somebody and end up in jail.

That is what happens in real life. And its probably his fault. Just don’t bring the white girl to your ex-wife’s house when you’re coming to pick up your child, k?

But no. In this pipe dream of a clip, the black man TOTALLY SONS four black women. Causing all of them to shut the fuck up with well timed and articulate sentences that reinforce that he is indeed not a weak black man. He is a strong black man who has never even thought about a white woman before in the entire time that his ex has known him. He just wants a drama-less household and the fact that the woman he is receiving that from is white is just secondary, though that’s clearly the premise that’s being pushed here.

Wesley Snipes would be so proud.

I don’t know if anybody realizes the magnitude of the bullshit that is being pushed here. Let’s assume he makes it to the door unscathed. As soon as he started talking the women would have ganged up on him and not heard a single damn thing he said. Even if everything he said was true, up until the implied white woman drama free part, it wouldn’t matter because no self-respecting black woman is going to listen to any black man justify dating a white woman. None. He is automatically weak and that gives them every opportunity to just mentally beat him down especially since he’s trying to defend himself which serves no purpose whatsoever.

That’s like a black man trying to defend himself in 1867 for whistling at a white woman with an all white jury deciding his fate. Guilty bitch, guilty.

Further, where in America have you EVER seen four black women who would calmly answer questions and act civil in an emotionally charged situation like that. I have three sisters, one of whom has a kid by a white dude and she STILL goes off on black men dating white women. Hell, she went off on her white baby-daddy for dating a white girl.

Common sense and pissed off black women never quite meet in the middle.

But nope, in this clip, the black women listened and answered his questions in a way that made it seem that he was asking questions that made the women think. Hold the fuckin’ phone. There is no thinking in emotionally charged situations…not until after everybody’s had time to think on their own. But there they go, thinking and listening as this black man completely destroys their criticisms of him.

Pure and utter bullshit.

You get all the standard shit. “Youse a weak ass nigga.” “I’m not dating right now because I’m tired of weak ass niggas like you.” And of course none of the women is dating…except for the light skinned woman.

Who is dating a white man. Waitaminute.

I don’t know about you, but that immediately struck me as odd. In all of my experiences of living, most black women dating white men tend to be more on the darker side of the shade tree. I don’t know if lighter women are just on a quest for more color in their children’s lives or what, but you just don’t see that very often. I have a theory on this, but this is already long so that is another post. I could be wrong, but pay attention to the women you see dating white men, there are exceptions, but for the most part, it isn’t the uber-lightskinned black women doing it.

So to the makers of the movie Tired Black Man, I say, nigga please. Nowhere in America would one black man stand a chance against 4 black women on damn near anything, unless he is their pimp. And not like Nelly, but like Mr. Whitefolks. Further, nowhere in America would the bIack man get clearly cogent and understandable opinions out for the black women to calmly hear and internalize to a point where they felt bad.

I am a black man. I am not stupid. I know what battles to pick with black women. That ain’t one of them.

I look forward to more comedy, but the least you can do is make it slightly more realistic. At least throw in one of the fights that undoubtedly would occur. Thank you however for making the women in the clip at least attractive despite the fact that the white woman with no lines was the best actor in the entire thing as Hollywood is undoubtedly worried about the recent quadrupling of black people who are the recipients of much coveted Oscars.

I remember when my life changed.

I don’t know if everybody experiences life changing moments or goes through events that cause them to really consider life and all of its possibilities or not, but it happened to me.

The problem for me is that the very experience that changed my life is one where somebody else’s life came to an end. And that is something I’ve been dealing with for 6 years now. I only have one real regret in life. But over time, I realize that had I done something different that night, and thereby erasing my regret, I might have ended the lives of two other people. Not just the one person who’s life did end that night.

Today is the birthday of my cousin. Or would be if he was still alive. April 21. It’s a day that for years has pained me, since for the past 5 years, I’ve never been able to get to Atlanta to celebrate his birthday with my family. Everytime I do make it back to Atlanta, one of the first stops I always make is to the cemetery to visit the grave of my cousin, and now my grandmother as well, who is buried right next to him. Just as God intended them to be.

One night, in July 2000, my younger cousin and I went to the movies. We saw Scary Movie . I don’t even remember if it was funny or not. I do remember a conversation my cousin and I had about religion and our upbrining in the church and how we felt at the time. I was 21 and she was 19. The movie was over at about 1135pm. We lived on the Westside of Atlanta, Adamsville to be exact, and we were at Magic Johnson’s in Greenbriar. It takes about 10 minutes to get from Greenbriar to my grandmother’s house. We got there are about 1147pm.

My grandmother’s house has a split driveway. You can either pull into the left side or the right side. I pulled into the right side. Parked. And walked into the basement door. As I was walking in, my cousin, T, was walking out. He would go to our grandmother’s house every day at least once to check on his mother and my grandmother, who would cook dinner for him everyday. You get things like that when you are Grandma’s right-hand man. I hadn’t seen him in about a week, maybe. Which wasn’t normal. Not that anything was up, he would either stop by my spot to see me or we’d meet up at my grandmother’s house to say what’s up a few times a week. We have a pretty tightknit family like that.

T: What’s up folk, I ain’t seen you like a week, cuz. What’s up, you ain’t got love for your cuz no more?

Me: What’s up T, you know good and well I love you man. I’ll give you a call in a day or two.

*dapping up in black man handshake hug*

T: Alright, folk. I’ll holla at you later. Bye momma…

He walked outside.

I started to walk towards the stairs. At this point there is about 10 feet between us. He’s outside, I’m inside.

My other cousin, who is his little sister, is between the two of us. And then it happened. He yelled, “don’t hit me folk!!!”

He was gone.

1148pm.

Shot once in the heart. Died instantly.

I honestly never heard the gunshot. And to this day that bothers me. Everybody else heard it but I didn’t hear it so for a second I was confused at what I was seeing. I didn’t see anybody else’s face. I just saw T laid out on the ground, his car door open…

A total of 30 seconds at most passed between the time I got to the driveway and he was killed. At my grandmother’s house.

Which means that whoever did it, was there when I pulled up and must have been hiding in the shadows of my grandmother’s carport, which is literally right next to the door we walked into.

Do you remember the scene in Menace II Society where Stacey is trying to revive Kaine after he was shot? That was us. We were shaking trying to wake him up refusing to believe he was gone. Little did we know he was already dead. One of the paramedics told me that later that he died instantly. At least there wasn’t any pain. I had to make all of the phone calls to the family because for whatever reason, I was the only person who could hold the phone. There were four other people in the house when it happened. My aunt (his mother), my grandmother, and his two sisters, one of which went to the movies with me. One of his sisters ran into the street and collapsed. HIs mother lost it as well. My grandmother and other cousin, both of who have the strongest relationships with God of anybody I’ve ever met, both cried, and then prayed.

It took about 10 minutes for it to dawn on me.

The person who killed my cousin had every opportunity to kill me. He had to have seen my face and my other cousin’s as well. For all we knew, he KNEW us. I was afraid to go to my grandmother’s house, or anywhere else for that matter for a week.

I could have died that night. Had I made the decision that would have erased my regret, and parked on the other side of the driveway, I would have seen him, and he might have killed me and my cousin in order to get away. He was clearly going to kill somebody that night. He came there to complete a job. He succeeded.

And that changed my life. I don’t really remember my demeanor before it all happened. I know I was still a happy person and that I wasn’t very negative in nature. But now…

…it’s hard for me to get upset or really depressed. I have my moments like everybody else. But losing my cousin like that, and being so close to the situation and realizing it could have been me, well, everyday I’m alive I’m happy to be here. I have quite a few friends who have asked me how I seem to be so happy or jovial so often and why not much gets me down. I nearly alwasy respond: because I’m alive. Life has been good to me. And it took that day to make me realize just how lucky I am.

My family was scared for me for quite a few days. My father in particular. I was leaving for a summer program in DC a week later so it was a very tense week in my neighborhood for me. I was scared. But somehow, I was just thankful to be alive. I feel that way lots of times. I have a weird peace in my life nowadays. Some things suck, but it takes me very little time to get over certain stuff. I realized how much I love and value my family.

I’m just I love life and living. I appreciate every day that I get. Even the people that drive me crazy are appreciated. Not being afraid to live is one of the best feelings ever. Sure I slack at times, but I know that life is grand and that my cousin is looking down on us while he and my grandmother play backgammon in heaven, something I could never play on Earth.

For a good year, I got really nervous at my grandmother’s house. Even today, everytime I walk by the spot it happened, I have to look over and stare for a while. I can’t get the vivid imagery out of my head, and I’m not sure I ever will. It’s part of me now.

I miss my cousin a lot. At least I got a chance to tell him that I loved him. Anytime we have a family function, everybody always makes sure to mention T and make sure we remember him. And because my family is tres ghetto, somebody always shows up with their RIP t-shirt. I myself have two of them.

So every April 21, on his birthday, I make sure to give thanks for his life and remember his death. My life is what it is now because of him.

Always missed, always loved. I remember.

R.I.P. TJY April 21, 1971 - July 17, 2000

First off, R.I.P. to rapper Proof (nee DeShaun Holton) from the Detroit group, D-12 who was killed at an afterhours spot in Detroit last nght. It is not a good year for Detroit on the rap front…at all. (via Allhiphop.com)

*****

“…straight up pimp, if you want me you can find me in the A…” - Big Boi, “Kryptonite”, Purple Ribbon All-Stars, Vol. 2

I went to see the movie ATL starring everybody’s favorite dopeboy, T.I., last night. I really enjoyed the movie and I’d recommend it to everybody. Is it cinematic perfection? No. But I go for entertainment. I was entertained.

Two thumbs up. And a pinky toe.

While watching the movie, I got a whole bunch of random movie, Atlanta, and life thoughts. So I figured, I’d share them. Also, there is a “twist” in the movie. I won’t share it here but I will say that it becomes quite obvious at one point AND for me, it was a relief in SO many ways.

Let us begin, shall we? Yes, let’s.

-I really miss Atlanta. From the opening scenes of the movie I found myself really missing being there. When the song “Georgia” by Ludacris and Field Mob came on, I almost shed a tear. Then I realized I went to the movies by myself and a bunch of teenage pseudo-thugs would probably begin laughing at me. So my pride caught me. Thank goodness. Bottom line, I really miss Atlanta.

-I thought that the movie did a good job of representing Atlanta. And especially the Southside of Atlanta. Yeah, they took some liberties with the actual location of some things but hey, it’s a movie. That area of Atlanta really looks like that. And Jason Weaver cleary doesn’t get enough acting roles. One time for SouthWest Atlanta AKA The SWATS.

-Lauren London is fine. She made one fine smurfin’ hoodrat too. But her accent irritated me to high Hell. I cringed listening to her talk. My mother’s entire side of the family is from the West side of Atlanta. All those places you hear T.I. talking about on his songs…yeah, that’s my momm’a side, Bankhead, Bowen Homes, and Adamsville.

I am the Adamsvillain.

“…I got that shit from Simpson Road/Adamsville, Bowen Homes, Center Hill, Zone 4…” - T.I. , “Ride Wit’ Me”, King

Don’t NOBODY on my momma’nem side talk like she did. I NEVER cringe listening to my family members. She made me cringe.

Big ups to Adamsville.

-I have a personal story to share. One of my boys, The Great, called me the other day to talk about the movie. I hadn’t seen it so we strayed away from the movie, but he did have a question for me.

The Great: Yo, is Mechanicsville a real neighborhood?

Peyton Place Panama: Yeah…dude, are you serious?

The Great: Yeah, I thought they were trying to make it like it was Adamsville or something.

Peyton Place Panama: Seriously, you’re joking right?

The Great: *silence* No, why you asking?

Just like in ATL, we get a “twist” in the story right here. Waaaaaaaaaait for it…

Waaiiiiiiiiit for it…

Peyton Place Panama: Nigga, BECAUSE YOU LIVE IN MECHANICSVILLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Great: WHAT???!?!!!

Peyton Place Panama: Dude, you fuckin’ live in Mechanicsville. Well close enough. You know the corner of Pryor Road and Abernathy…that’s Mechanicsville. Nigga, there’s a fuckin’ sign right there that says…Mechanicsville. You drive by that shit like everyday and you have never ONCE noticed it????

The Great: Wait…you’re surely right!!! Oh shit…I sure do!

In the two days since we have had this conversation, he called me yesterday morning to tell me he saw the sign, and texted me this morning to tell me that he was “driving thru Mechanicsville. Est. 1893″.

Further, he’s been living in Atlanta for the past 9 years now and actually in the vicinity of Mechanicsville for like 2. I’d like to offer my congratulations to the Least Observant Negro In History.

Mechanicsville, Atlanta, Georgia for those that don’t know, don’t show, or just don’t care about what happens in the hood is located in South West Atlanta south of I-20, west of the 75/85 connector and borders the railroad on the south and west. Sheesh…negroes.

-I don’t know what its like in other cities, but going to the skating rink really is a big deal in Atlanta. I used to live on MLK before I moved to DC and about a year before I graduated, they opened up the Cascade Family Skating Center which is prominently displayed in the movie on MLK Blvd. That place is ALWAYS jumpin’ on the weekends. When my cousin, who is now like 15 and going to Douglass (or Doug for the locals), would get in trouble her punishment would be that she couldn’t go to Cascade. Her world would end that weekend, literally. It’s really as packed as they show in the movie and it’s really as live as they show in the movie.

In undergrad, my boy Barry used to work at Sparkle in Riverdale. Like clockwork, every weekend we’d be up in there trying to look good and snag some chicks because on Sunday nights…that’s where the chicks were. Though I said that gangsta’s don’t roller-skate, there sure are a bunch of niggas on skates doing tricks that look like they’ll rob you as soon as you walk out. If you’re in Atlanta and you want to see some real local fun…go to the skating rink, and if you’re not afraid to be on MLK Blvd. at midnight, go to Cascade.

-I thought that the group of friends really came off well. They seemed like real friends who could joke with eachother and understood that everybody was trying to make it. Nobody was trying to hold anybody back or judge anybody for being who they were. They had the prep boy who was trying to make it out the hood, the uber-ghetto negro who just loved being an uber-ghetto negro (Jason Weaver…get him more ghetto parts STAT), Rashad (T.I.) who is like any other regular cat in the hood who’ just living trying to do something with himself and his family, and the NY transplant who reminds everybody that he’s from NY at every turn.

Niggas from NY really do that too. It’s like there’s NY, then the rest of the world. They even had a good little convo about that at the requisite ATL stop, Waffle House.

I can’t not do this, so bear with me.

Can we please have a moment of silence for the infamous North Avenue IHOP?

*silence*

If you never experienced it, your life is missing something. You betta know dat.

-Big Boi from Outkast is a show stealer. He pulled off being a dopeboy so well it was almost frightening. He was a little too cool-and-callous. Funny as hell in the most frightening way possible.

-In the beginning scenes of the movie, Rashad, his brother Ant, and his Uncle are cleaning up a Value Village which just HAS to be the one on Metropolitan Parkway. That conjured up memories from February 2005 when I was in Atlanta and the cashier at Value Village got all uppity with me cuz I didnt know that at Value Village, the cashiers don’t remove the hangers themselves…the customers do. So just like in February 2005…

…I’d like to send an Extra Special Fuck You out to the Value Village on Metropolitan Parkway for having the nerve to be bougie…at Value Village on Metropolitan Parkway also know in Atlanta as, “the track.” Not to be confused with the “trap”. The trap has the dopeboys, the track has the hoes.

-Shoutouts to Spelman College getting mentioned in the movie. Needless to say, Spelman holds a special place in my heart and will always be my favorite place on Earth. Extra special shoutouts to Packard Hall, though I’m an Abby and HH man myself.

-Speaking of famous Atlanta landmarks, I love how Eddie’s Gold Teeth makes it up in the movie. Grills have always been popular in Atlanta, but it seems like Eddie’s has gotten way more popular in the last few years. It is also one of the longest running search queries to this site. Every month, no less than 5 people do searches for Eddie’s Gold Teeth and end up on my site. Hell, I didn’t even know where it was until I realized so many people were searching for it and I was informed that it’s at Greenbriar Mall, which is my favorite mall in Atlanta, with Cumberland coming in second. You need shoes, some bomb chinese food, or some good This Is It!! ribs??? Greenbriar is your spot.

-There is one scene in the movie that is hilariously funny. Let’s just say Lost in Translation takes on a whole new meaning when involving a nigga from Atlanta. It is also a scene that SO many people who venture to Atlanta from other places can relate too. In college, me and my boy Johnny Kwest would go to the Checkers on MLK (Adamsville beeyotch!) and I would intentionally let JK do the ordering because he could NEVER understand what the Checkers employees were saying. You can’t create comedy like that, it just has to fall into your lap. I’d have to translate all the time. Nothing is funnier than hearing this:

Checker’s Worker: ‘Sup shawty…whajaogjaodihjaoi…knowhumtalkin’bout?

Johnny Kwest: Ummm…Uhhhhh…*turning to me* What in the FUCK did he just say????!!??

Peyton Place Panama: He just asked if you wanted a banana milkshake.

JK: No shit???

PPP: Yep.

JK: I don’t know how in the hell you can understand that shit. *turning back* Naw nigga…give me 2 .99 cent spicy chicken sandwiches.

CW: Ok…weljsaljfoidoajfodajoijfijadodjofojo…

JK: Shit…sure. *driving around to the front*

Also, I’d like to send an extra special fuck you out to Checker’s in Washington, DC for NEVER having $. 99 spicy chicken sandwiches when in Atlanta, them hoes are ALWAYS $ .99.

-This movie is also home to one of the WORST sex scenes ever in a movie, if it was even supposed to be that. Trust me on this one. You’re kids don’t have to close their eyes.

Since this is getting long…

-Overall, it’s a good movie with some laughs, some heartwarming moments, some life lessons, some fine ass women (synonymous with Atlanta), some hoodrats (synoymous with Atlanta), and a bunch of dudes trying to figure out life. Well worth the entertainment…

“…you can find me in the A…A….A….”

Boy stop!

Over the past few months, I’ve posted on a plethora of things. Yet in all that time, I’ve managed to stray away from the most important thing I can think of in life…

…me…

…and my sexxy.

Yes you out there in the crowd?

Panama, how do you do it? How do you maintain your sexy?

Excuse me, it’s sexXy…two X’s.

How could you hear that I only used one X??

I’m sexxy like that.

In all my benevolence, I’ve decided to let you, the masses, in on a secret. As was offered in the comment section, I will offer up a step-by-step booklet (for you to get) on how to get your sexxy on. And no, this ain’t no Puffy-level Proactiv sexxy here…this is that real shit the shit to make you feel shit have you in the club lookin’ in the mirror while other folks love shit.

Yes, it’s the real…sexxy.

(I will also attempt to break the world’s record for the number of times the word sexxy can be used in a single entry.)

Sexxy sexxy sexxy sexxy sexxy sexxy.

I can do that…I’m sexxy.

I wasn’t always so sexxy. No. Once upon a time, I was a regular old traffic stopping stunner. But something was missing. Then one day, it happened. I realized that hey, Panama, you are a sexxy bitch. Umm…no brokeback. My friends from college can attest to the fact that I would indeed, rebut any stupid thing I said or did with the term, “I’m sexxy.” As if that automatically made whatever I said or did worthy of note, documentation, and Smithsonian review. They were sexxy times bitches…sexxy times. And they haven’t changed.

My name is Panama D. Jackson, and I am sexxy.

And you can be too. So let’s get started, shall we?

Yes, let’s.

Panama Jackson Presents…Obtaining Your Second “X”: The Killa’s 10 Commandments to Gettin’ Your SexXy

Yaymen.

“I’m so fly with it, look how I did it…” - Kanye West, “Late”, Late Registration

“the fuck you expect, I’ve got a history…” - Kanye West, “They Say”, from Common’s Be

I absofuckin’lutely love that line. And you will learn to love those lines as well. Some see those lines as arrogance, to me, I see it as truth (for Kanye and to a slightly lesser extent, yours truly). Which leads us right into our first Commandment.

1st Commandment: Thou shalt be convincing. And not be a dickhead whilst doing it.

The key to being sexxy is getting other people to buy into the bullshit you are espousing without belittling anybody in the process. People don’t like belittlers and women don’t like littlers. My weapon of choice is comedy.

Gem For Life: You can get away with damn near ANYTHING if you make people laugh. It also helps if you don’t look like a pterodactyl.

I am an asshole. I run with it. You see, I’m not afraid to let the asshole within out. You should do this as well. As long as you don’t piss people off in the process (read: comedy) you can get a pass on many a thing because people will hopefully know that deep down inside you aren’t NEARLY as bad as you come across or realize that some of it is show. Basically, don’t try to hurt people’s feelings and make them feel like you believe you are better than them. No, you are just more sexxy. There is a difference.

Simultaneously…

2nd Commandment: Thou shalt do what the fuck thou wantsteth to do.

You see, it is damn near IMPOSSIBLE to be sexxy if you are constantly second guessing yourself or worrying about what other muhfuckas are going to think after you do something. I mean, if you aren’t bringing down a government, fuck it…make it happen, cap’n. I say a lot of stupid shit. A lot. This blog is the tip of the iceberg. If you had to deal with what my friends had to deal with on a daily basis…well, let’s just say, I’ve got great friends. Thing is, I’m comfortable enough with my sexxy to keep it moving and offering up the random tidbits of what-the-fuckedness.

For instance. Or as the French would say, for instance. You see, that in and of itself was stupid as uptight downstrokes in the rain. 3rd Commandment: Don’t be afraid to be wrong.

You know why? If you are truly sexxy, as I am, you have a built in response to everything.

Panama, son, what is 2+2?

Shiiiiiit, 847!

Dude, it’s 4.

I’m sexxy.

End game. There is no retort because it requires none. You got the answer wrong, and are okay with it. You know why? I’ll tell you why. It’s because you are sexxy. That’s why.

4th Commandment: Be wrong and randomly wrong often.

You see, having that built in line, makes life all the more entertaining. You can just blatantly do your own thing at all times and spin the answers the way you see fit. If you think that 2+2 should be 5, then dammit, make sure everybody knows that. And in the event that people refuse to accept it, make sure to remind them just how sexxy you truly are and that your sexxiness trumps all else. Things that have rhyme and reason should no longer have rhyme and reason. In fact, you recreate the status quo. And do you know why?

Because you’re sexxy. Bitches.

Number 5 should have been number 1 to me…

5th Commandment: Thou shouldn’t confuse sexxy with just regular sexy.

People tend to think that when I say sexxy, I mean that I am sexy. No, when I say sexxy, I mean sexxy. Understand?

You see how I explained that without explaining shit?

6th Commandment: If people don’t get you…fuck ‘em up against the wall. Oh wait…sorry. Thou shalt if people don’t get you…fuck ‘em up against the wall.

Of course, this rebuts that whole 1st Commandment, don’t be a dickhead thing. But did you see I, Robot? Do you remember the ghosts in the machine? Me neither, however, you can’t go around trying to make people feel better about themselves by explaining yourself all the time. Do you and someobdy will get you some of the time. Nobody will never not get you all of the time…after the hurricane. Understand that the last sentence made total sense to me in my mind. Also understand that I have no idea why it did. You see, half the time, understanding your own train of thought is a full time job.

And who wants one of those.

I understand that this commandment seems slightly arrogant. And I quote:

“the fuck you expect, I’ve got a history…”

Plus, I’m sexxy. Bitches.

Are you starting to catch on yet?

7th Commandment: Thou shalt be open-minded.

Hmm, I bet you didn’t see that one coming did you. I also bet you can’t do it like this, which is a song I absofuckin’ lutely HATE. In fact, I hate D4L with the passion of the Honda Accord. (See, once again, its okay to be random and make no sense). It is important to be openminded in life period and be willing to at least LISTEN to other people’s opinions. Hell you might learn something. For instance, if I tell you that the Arctic Monkey’s album WHATEVER PEOPLE SAY I AM, THAT’s WHAT I’M NOT, is that hot shit, you shouldn’t automatically turn your nose up and say, what the fuck is that? Is that some white shit? Yes it is…and it’s great. You should at least be willing to give it a shot. That way, people won’t think that you believe you are merely sexy with one x, but sexxy with two x’s.

Come to think of it though, the mere fact that I’m telling you means that it is gospel.

What was I saying again? Oh yes, being openminded. With great sexxiness comes great responsibility. Which means that people will come to you in hopes of obtaining a mere morsel of your sexxiness. It is important to offer precise, well-thought out, unassholish advice whenever possible. However, if an asshole comes at you sideways, it is also okay to be a total asshole to them. Once again, please…fuck ‘em up against a wall.

8th Commandment: Thou shalt be cool.

You know, this one might be hard for many a boho out there. Cool isn’t something you can buy somewhere. You either got it or you don’t got it. However, I also believe that most folks have some semblance of cool, they just haven’t been able to properly harness it. I blame slavery. And yes, that goes for white people too. Non-sequiter? You betcha bottom dollar.

The majority of the aforementioned, previously stated, I done already told you, scroll up bitches, commandments are part-and-parcel to being cool. You can’t get away with any of that other shit if you aren’t a cool person by nature. In essence, somebody aside from your mother has to like you. It helps if you don’t include family period. You must find someway to not be a spazz or someway to be comfortable enough with yourself for somebody out there to say, “Hey, you know that Panama is one cool fellow.” Feel free to substitue your name for Panama in there, unless you are a one eyed one armed flying purple people eater. In which case, substitute the name Bob in there.

Also realizing that falling asleep at a table full of drunk bloggers does not remove an X from your sexxy. It merely illuminates another way for everybody else to improve on their sexxy.

Yes niggas, it is important to get sleep.

9th Commandment: Thou shalt realize that you don’t have to look sexxy to be sexxy, you have to feel sexxy.

Just let your soul glow, just let it shine thru. You know why? It’s cuz that’s all that matters.

Actually, that’s a lie. Looking like Fred Flinstone’s big toe will probably make your ascension to sexxy more difficult than you think.

However…eat well.

And finally…

10th Commandment: Thou shalt be like Panama Jackson in every conceivable way.

I’m not just sexxy, I’m the definition of it.

They call me Panama…Panama Jackson.

You now have all the knowledge you need to go forth into the world and attempt to be obtain your second “X”. Go forth with said knowledge and change the world.

And the chuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuch said…yay-men.

Good night and good luck.

(You must also feel comfortable jacking pop culture for catch-phrases, slanguage, and Paris Hilton.)

[***I hear that there's some dude out there named Panama who writes long posts. I'm sure glad I'm not him. Ole long winded self! Yes, that means this is long. ***]

Who knew one song could cause so much intra-race controversy?

It’s been a few days since the world found out that it is, indeed, hard out here for a pimp. Three 6 Mafia couldn’t have predicted that a year ago, a song they were commissioned to do for an indepedent movie would be placed on center stage during Hollywood’s biggest night. After all, they were just doing what they were asked to do; create some original songs for the pimp-turned-rapper, DJay, to perform in the movie that pertained to his pimpin’ lifestyle.

And now, “It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp” won an accolade that many people wish to have on their resume.

And a lot of black folks are pissed. Which isn’t surprising.

And the title of this post had little to do with anything, I just like the song. It’s by Blue Oyster Cult.

Rock on!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There have been articles all over the internet, national newspapers (more specifically, the Washington Post ran two articles that I’m aware of) on both sides of the coin. Some people are happy that they won, or think that it was good for hip-hop while others are completely aghast, disappointed, pissed, and offended.

I believe that some black folks think this is akin to “Plymouth rock landing on us…again…followed by Chris Rock, Rock ‘n Roll, and Prudential.”

You know, piece of mind, it comes with every piece of the rock.

*rimshot*

Hell, I’ve heard people refer to Three 6 Mafia’s winning of the Oscar as confirmation of white America’s love for black modern day minstrel shows.

Others hate that black stereotypes are lauded.

Well, you get the picture. A lot of black people are very upset with this.

And in some ways, I can understand…but that’s only because I’m very aware that a lot of black people care a whole hell of a lot about white people’s perception of us. Somehow, it seems that our own self-perception is tied into how white America views us.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, black folks are full of shit.

Why do we care so gotdamned much about how they see us? Really. I want to know.

Black people are so full of concern over our image (as it was pointed out to me last night, and I can’t believe I never thought about this, but we even have the NAACP Image Awards…good God) that we hate anything that can be deemed contrary to what we would like our image to be.

Mind you, I understand the need for balance. To be honest, I’d wager that there is more balance nowadays, outside of mainstream hiphop, than there ever has been before. I can’t think of a single scripted show featuring majority black people on television that doesn’t feature upwardly mobile, well-to-do black people. Black people with degrees and businesses, etc. You know, the people like a lot of us. With the image that we want.

And you know my problem with that? It’s all steeped in how we want to be viewed by larger society…you know, white people.

How in the hell can we progress if our entire self-image is rooted in how we would like to look to white people?

And I’m no better at times. I pride myself on usually not giving a flying fuck what most white people think about me. I kind of march to my own beat most of the time anyway, so even black folks are confused. But there are times when I’m just as guilty of caring about white people’s opinions as the next person. And that is stupid.

It’s impossible to improve your own situation when you’re too busy trying to make sure you look good to a group that, for the most part, doesn’t give a shit what image you put out there. How can we, as black folks, even figure out what’s best for us as a community (assuming that any of us really do give a shit about that community thing since I figure most folks care about what white folks think because of how it might negatively impact them as individuals) if our entire goal is to make sure that white people see that some of us do have degrees and jobs.

Especially when they already know that since they give some of us jobs. Begrudingly at times, but they do.

For the most part, I manage to live my life according to my own liking. And do you know why? Go ahead…take a gander…

…it’s because I’m free.

We have a long way to go in race relations. Clearly, but last I checked, I was free. I didn’t have to live my life dictated by the whims and musings of white people.

So why do so many of us do that? Why do we try to do all the things that one wouldn’t typically associate with black. Hell…why do some folks think they have to dissociate themselves period?? I’ll never understand that.

And speaking on race relations, I find it funny that we want mainstream media, and essentially white America’s perception of us to be perfect…because don’t get it twisted, we don’t want them to have a balanced view of us, we want them to think of us as equals, but in that equality lies a want to be considered as educated people who are as successful as they are at many different ventures. Anytime we can show white folks that we aren’t all poor, we make strides to do so.

But…we also want white people to still recognize racism. It’s like we want white people to look in the mirror and say, “yes you fucked over black people, but still they rise, like the tides. and despite the slip and slides, they rise…they took all that racism and made it anyway.”

Come on…how realistic is that? We want instant gratification and recognition. It’s going to take some time. Hell, we JUST started getting into white schools almost 50 years ago. And that took a landmark Supreme Court case. It isn’t like we were welcomed with open arms, an apple, and some Mentos.

The freshmaker.

Hell, do you even realize that the entire last few paragraphs were all about our dealings with white people? And how we want them to essentially welcome us to the table? Are you still reading right now anyway?

Why don’t we care more about what’s going on inside our our communities first…then worry about what the hell else white folks think? It isn’t like racism is going anywhere anytime soon anyway. Just because we THINK that they look at us differently doesn’t mean they do does it? Or is that what it’s all about anyway…

…we just want to FEEL better about ourselves…and if we feel white folks feel good about us, then maybe we will feel good about us too.

Man, I miss Ice Cube from 1991. For all of the criticism he caught, he had the right idea. Focus on us first, fuck how they think.

This is why we can’t rise as a people, X. It has nothing to do with Three 6 Mafia. They won that award because the Academy didn’t give a shit about how we view ourselves. They liked the song. Same reason Terrence Howard was nominated for his role, because he played a good ass pimp (no pun intended).

Somebody needs to do a study on why we’re so good at portraying the very stereoypes we rail against.

And on why we care so damn much what white people think…please, somebody explain it to me.

(And on how we can keep Flavor Flav on TV for as long as possible, with a possible reality show featuring Crunchy Black as well.)

(Most Known Unknowns no longer…now white people know who you are.)

“Crunchy Black has an Oscar. We have to prepare ourselves for the fact that the world may be coming to an end.” ~ semi-incorrect words (Cruncy Black actually isn’t one of the authors or producers of the song…hence he didn’t really win shit…but the sentiment is still right) uttered by my boy The Great, shortly after Queen Latifah announced to the world that members of Three 6 Mafia won the oscar for Best Original Song.

And I couldn’t be happier. Well aside from the potential end of the world, but I had a good run.

Seriously.

Admittedly, I’m black.

Yes I know. Shocking. What that means is that much like every other black person that can read or even knows who Truman Capote was, I was a tad nervous as to what the Three 6 Mafia was going to bring to the stage last night. Nervous might not be the right word.

Terrified might be more appropos.

Honestly, I hid under my couch while they were performing. Okay, that was dumb. I don’t have a couch. I have a futon.

But lo and behold, Three 6 gave us the absolute whitest rendition of that song they could give, complete with white interpretive dancers and…fuck it, they gave us interpretive dancers period. There was actual choreography (and they thanked the choreographer on stage…who saw THAT coming?) to give the song somewhat of a more finessed feel. And it worked. I’m as amazed as anybody else, but it worked. It was a good performance. Very white (mainstream), but good.

After it was over…I made sure to look out my window to see if time had magically reverted back to the mid-1800’s. Apparently, they DID NOT set us back.

Even Taraji Henson was lovely, if not a smidge out of place in her Oscar gown. I love her. She’s so ‘hood it’s ridiculous.

To cap off the toned down performance, Taraji Henson ended the song with a run that I couldn’t find on my Hustle & Flow soundtrack for shit. I listened over and over again and it just wasn’t there. Yes, I own it. And love it.

Basically, they did what anybody put in their position would do. They made you focus on the actual song as opposed to the people delivering it.

Which is the EXACT opposite of what a good 99% of us expected.

We ain’t shit.

A damn shame how sometimes we forget that though some of these rappers seem to exude ghetto-ocity in everything they do, they are ultimately smart people who have made moves and shakes to be successful at their chosen field. We don’t give them much credit apparently. And we can argue about their business acumen later, but you will be wrong.

However, as surprised as I was at the performance, NOTHING prepared me for the fact that they would actually win the Oscar for Best Original Song…against Dolly “My Boobs Are Too Big To Box With God” Parton.

And once again, I couldn’t be happier.

Since they are black, out of nowhere, we got the obligatory…”thank you Jesus.”

Good times.

But back to the surprise of them winning. You know, I know a lot of black folks who have disdain for the movie and further couldn’t care less about no damn “It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp” song. Me, I love the song. I’ll be the first to tell you.

I’m a fan of Three 6 Mafia. I’m not saying that they are the best rappers out there, but I’ll be damned if they can’t put together a good album. And who wasn’t bumping “Stay Fly (High)” since last summer? But many a nigra was downright offended by the Oscar’s choice of that song. Not even realizing how good the song was IN RELATION TO THE MOVIE. It fit the movie to a “T”…which is the POINT.

[***Sidenote: What the fuck does that saying "to a T" mean anyway? Is it because the the horizontal line sits right up there perfectly balanced in the actual formation of the "T"? And does it matter if its lowercase? Also, does that take into account the use of nails and other hardware in today's societ? Inquiring minds would like to know. ***]

We fell into the old, “well see we only get nominated for shit like that…” Yada yada yada. And since there were so many people who either hated or loved the movie, black people that is, had we been voting, it wouldn’t have won.

Thank God for white people. Oh, and the Academy… who are the ones who voted for that song to win. Oh right, I had the Academy covered by saying white people. Let Halle, Denzel, and Jamie Foxx in and I done plum forgot that that’s only 4.

Speaking of which, somebody needs to get Denzel’s vote card…STAT. I wonder which song he voted for? Because you KNOW Jamie Foxx voted for “…Pimp” to win. Did you see how happy he was??? I myself just laughed for a good 5 minutes. In glee bitches, in glee.

Hell, now I’m waiting for them to drop their next album featuring the lead-single, club banger, “Bitch I Got An Oscar”. I think it would go something like this:

“they hatin’ on us but we did it/so fuck all them hatin’ violatin’ ass bitches/you bitch nigga’s sittin at home had to watch us/cuz I’m Juicy J and Bitch I got an Oscar”

Speaking of which…on the song “Stay Fly (High)”, Juicy J quips: “I ain’t Denzel, but I know I’m a star”. Well, now you and Denzel have both been recognized by the Academy. You both have Oscars. What are the odds of seeing a collabo between Jamie Foxx, Denzel, and Three 6 Mafia doing a song called “Oscar Nigga!”

There’s so much potential out there now.

Also, what are the odds on Kanye deciding that he wants an Oscar now too. He is doing the song for “Mission Impossible 3.” Will we have to hear him bitch and moan if he doesn’t win next year? Probably…but fuck him today, because Three 6 Mafia is on top of the world.

As much as we want to hate on them, those niggas got themselves an Oscar. In the famous words of Jon Stewart:

“Martin Scorcese zero Oscar’s, Three 6 Mafia…one!”

Collar’s were popped, clubs were torn up, spinners were rode, two-ways were exchanged with freaks, and sizzurp was sipped.

And George Clooney got bigged up.

“You leave you’re Oscar ’round me, bitch you’re Oscar gonna get snatched up…”

Good damn job.