Blogging.

What an interesting past-time this phenomenon became. I say became because at this point, it is what it is. At one point, blogging was the new thing. New blogs were popping up to the tune of thousands a day. The joy of finding a new interesting blog was unparalleled. Pretty much, it had no parallel.

Blogging was as much a social activity as MySpace of Facebook have become. Especially amongst the Black bloggers. We all found one another and formed and maintained actual friendships (in some cases even relationships) and hung out at Blogger Happy Hours and created new never-ever-seen televisions shows like Homiez. Everyday that I got to work, after going through my myriad news-based websites, I’d hit the blog circuit reading nothing short of 30 to 40 blogs a day. Because of this I met some of my closest friends to date. And since we’re all pretty much Black and live in major cities, I’ve had the pleasure of hanging out with all of them numerous times.

And then, blogging got boring. I’ve been reading over my past, sifting through random blog postings made since my debut in 2004 and I’m amazed at how passionate a writer I was. It’s no wonder that back then I was offered a gazillion writing jobs in random places. I was fun and interesting. Hell, I crack up now reading things that I wrote, nevermind that I don’t even remember writing much of it. But at some point, my interests moved away from blogging. Overall, I got tired of reading everybody’s sites. Folks were saying the same shit over and over and boring the living fuck out of me in the process. People that I used to love reading quit blogging or were clearly forcing it.

And there’s nothing worse than forcing it. I’ve done it a few times. You get to the point where you’re filling in space because people are expecting you to write — for free. It becomes a job and anybody who’s employed like us regular people know that jobs suck ass. Sure, you need them to keep the lights on and food in the refrigerator, but largely, if most of us could be anywhere else than at work, we’d be there.

Fuckajob.

On the other side, some people who began blogging around the time I did have become not only internet celebrities but minor actual celebrities in their own right, which is always funny. You see people popping up in major publications and you know them and remember when you both were starting at ground zero. It’s a good feeling actually. For whatever reason, I didn’t want that shine or that wasn’t my goal. Come to find out, I never had any goals blogging. I just felt like writing because it was fun. Obtaining readers galore was icing on the cake and only served to help fuel the fire I had. That and all of the stupid shit that this world creates daily.

But being a good and interesting blogger actually requires a lot of work. You have to constantly come up with something to blog about which is no small task. You have to constantly be abreast of pop culture and unpop culture. Unless of course you’re writing of very personal nature, which I wasn’t. People got to know lots about me but it was thru reading between the lines and keeping a constantly tally card of all the pieces of personal information I’d placed in the atmosphere.

So I wonder, what happened to the passion I had to write? I still enjoy writing and I’m good at it. Sue me, I’m sexxy. Only every now and then do I come across something that really makes me want to speak via blog. I find myself sticking to my lane of race, music, and relationships; things I know best. And that bothers me to some end. What happened to the cat who was creative and witty and could approach anything from any angle. What happened to the different angles I would always find?

What’s changed? Clearly I’m older but sheesh, that shouldn’t make but so much of a difference. I’m the same cat I’ve always been just with much less time (not coincidentally due to this very blog) and yet, when I read the older posts, I see somebody who was hungry, not somebody who’s been eating for a while.

You know something’s wrong when you want the hunger pains.

And yet I do…

Homecoming is often a difficult time of year for me. I venture back to Atlanta, as do all my friends, with the thought that I have to return back home to DC in just a few days. And it isn’t even like we’re reliving our college days. We get drunk and act a fool everywhere — not just Atlanta.

But I also love Homecoming way beyond words. I live for Morehouse/Spelman homecomings. And strange enough, it seems like me and my compadres are the only group of folks still coming out in full force. Literally, we ALL always come to homecoming and party hard. Or as hard as one can party when approaching 30 but not quite there yet. For instance, one of my boys, Padre (is what I shall call him) is becoming such an old fogey that he got beat up by the Bitch Beach Mobile.

We rented and were givein a PT Cruiser. The very night we got into the car the first time, he hit his old ass knee on the dashboard and wasn’t right all weekend. Poor sap. While we’re talking about fucked up, let me tell you about fucked up. I go by the book and go get my car from the airport ticket counter. My girlfriend? Chicks ALWAYS have drama.

We end up with a PT Cruiser. She ends up with a damn 300M. You know, the Fake-Ass-Phantom. All that room for one person whereas we have 3. Life is an ugly bitch sometimes. Word to Grace Jones.

Anyway, this homecoming was way more low-key than any I’ve ever been too. Last year was such a blow-out good time I don’t even remember most of it. I’ve seen pictures floating around but you know, short of the pictures with actual proof, I can neither confirm nor deny that I was in any of them.

Confused much?

Unlike last year, when we showed up at my boys house and ended up ODing on the worst whiskey known to man…this year we couldn’t even find the liquor in the house. I mean we searched hi-and-low.

You know, I know I’m getting old at this point. For one, on Saturday night…PRIME HOMECOMING NIGHT, what did me and my friends do? Went bowling. And by the way, I SUCK at bowling. A lot lot. Though on Friday night we ended up hitting Compound. Let me tell you how much I love that place. Their sound system is amazing.

Another sign of old age — when you care about how the sound sounds in a club. Of course, I ended up spending lots of dough in there and drunk. Word to the wise–when going piss in the bushes, make sure you pay attention for any sleeping homeless men who might scare the living fuck out of you if you aren’t careful in some damn bushes off of Marietta Blvd.

I’m just saying, niggas at night in bushes might scare you shitless. Luckily I just had to piss.

You know, its interesting. The older I get, the less actual homecoming, with respect to planned activites, we seem to do. We spend more time spending more time together as a unit. Kind of our own little show of a decade of solidarity. The people I came into college with are still the same people I’m friends with now and in some sense that’s damn near amazing. I know people retain college friends forever, but we still do all the same shit together at any given opportunity. We travel together for the hell of it. We get drunk and destroy cities together for the hell of it. If my boy is going to be in Alaska…shucks, why not go to Alaska.

I feel genuinely lucky in that regard. Most, if not all but two, of the chicks we normally hang with from the good ole college days balked at homecoming this year. Which sucks. I miss my friends…a lot.

And mostly, I miss being with my friends in Atlanta. Though the way it’s looking, that won’t be lasting forever since all of us (though one person needs some convincing) that we’ll all be there since I want to live in Atlanta. I love the city. I love the weather. I love the red dirt.

F.I.L.A.

So basically, I just wrote all that nothing to say:

Keep hope alive. One day Al Sharpton will shave his head.

Thank you.

By now, most folks have heard about the uproar in Detroit where a promoter decided to throw a party where Lightskinneded womenses and Libras got in free. If you haven’t, please do read the article.

*smoke break*

You back? Well, welcome!

I’ve heard numerous individuals discussing this story and lots of folks have harassed this young man for his colorism and ignorance in deciding to add fuel to the color cocophony in this country by further dividing an already divided race of people who’ve been hurt enough by white people’s focus on skin color. Why–oh why–would we do it to our own.

Poor fellow. He’s gone and cancelled his party and listened to the cries of the men and women who speak out against such atrocities in our community.

They should all eat a dick and die.

From the heart.

It’s amazing how stories and intentions can get totally misconstrued and fucked the fucked up through the little game we call “Telephone”. Hell, read the headline to the linked article. I first heard about this through some club promoters in DC telling me about this “light-skinned party” in Detroit and how this guy was throwing a party for lightskinned people. No mention of the Lightskinned FREE that night or that it was a party for everybody. We actually then engaged in a discussion of what kind of self-hate party we could throw in DC.

We landed on “Light and White in White” — a party where only lightskinned people dating white people could come through as long as they were wearing white. We’d serve fried chicken martini’s with watermelon slices. It’s amazing the ignorance that’s possible when you get enough like-minded ignant motherfuckers in the same place. Viva la imagination!

Anyway, upon further review, it turns out this promoter, DJ Lish, was planning on doing upcoming parties in a series, if you will, that would include dark skinned and the nebulous “ain’t light but ain’t dark” or better known as the “caramel” sisters.

IGNANT SIDENOTE: You know we have too much food in America when Black folks take to describing our color in food terms. I ain’t never met an African who refers to him or herself as a Chocolate drop. Perhaps coicidentally, there’s some starving ass motherfuckers over there too. You get to calling yourself Choco-Latay and you just might get cannibalised. Too. much. food. in. America.

Let’s delve a little shall we? Was this fellow slightly misguided? Perhaps. Any time you decide to throw skin tone into the mix with los Negros, you’re welcoming criticsm. Face it, we’re still a bunch of people who are psychologically and literally paying for our God (or whoever you pray to) given blessings. And because of that, skin tone issues are largely a sparkplug for outrage.

Hmm, fuck that.

Let me rephrase this (which is the source of this dude’s problem). Ever since the slavery days, lightskinned and dark skinned folks have been at odds. Sometimes blatantly, sometimes latently. Think about the barbs thrown our way. People ALWAYS resort to using somebody’s skin tone when making disparaging comments.

“Lightskinned bitch thinks she’s better than me!”

“Dark skinned motherfucker lookin’ like midnight!”

And we wonder why white people do it.

Thing is, implicit in both of those statements lies the problem. There’s a clear ideology about how skin tone plays into society. Light is right and dark is, well…dark. And we’ve all bought into it in some way shape or form. It’s a sad state of affairs but its unfortunately the state we live in. It’s like living in Montana when you know California exists.

It’s like rain on your wedding day. Oh wait, that’s actually ironic.

Or not. Am I the only person who got slightly peeved that she called so many things that weren’t actually ironic, ironic? She kept noting coincidences, not ironies. Though I suppose saying, “Now isn’t it a coincidence” doesn’t have the same punch. But I digress.

Dark skinned people constantly get the short end of the stick. And it sucks. But you know, that’s not really lightskinned people’s fault. It’s white people’s fault, but much like Black-on-Black crime…

…we STAY robbing the wrong people.

Yes, Black people stay losing.

So here comes DJ Lish, who from my perspective only made one real mistake.

He threw the wrong party first. But let’s think about this. How many of you people are party promoters? And for those who’ve been doing it for a while, how difficult is it to come up with something that actually draws people in? Promoting sucks. There are really not that many things you can do as a promoter to really draw folks in short of random gimmicks. Enter DJ Lish.

And he had a good idea. It’s a winner, a gimmick catered to the very women most men harp on in the media. Light chicks.

“…and all the wavey light skinned girls is loving me now…” ~ Jay - Z “December 4th”

Wrong or right, it’s true. And I’m sure a lot of light skinned reading chicks probably hate the lightskinned-points they get, but they sure don’t mind the attention. But the point is promoters need gimmicks to draw people in. Promotion is an ugly game.

So he picked the Light and Libra party. Bad move bucko, but not a bad idea. You should have just started with the Sexual Chocolate first because niggas hate color schemes, but don’t mind Chocolate as much as we mind Light-skinned preference. We actually love it when people of darker-hue receive recognition.

Read: India.Arie’s fanbase.

I think the outrage wouldn’t have been as loud for that party. Color me stupid and call me Renee but I think that our color issues intra-racially are far more skewed towards wanting to knock light-skinned “bitches” down a peg or two. So of course, any party that celebrates and benefits a woman’s light-skinnededness is going to catch hell. And the purveyor is going to catch wreck.

I wish this DJ would call me because I’d love to tell him not to listen to the motherfuckers who called for his head and have decided that he realizes he was wrong and should work on being a better person.

Fuck them.

Is he naive? Clearly, he thought he was just going to throw a party that allowed light-skinned chicks to gain entry free one night, but what he got was national attention and articles and phone calls. Playing with skin-tone is playing with fire, bucko. You can still play that game but you have to play it smarter. It’s actually a win-win. You throw that first Sexual Chocolate party and you can’t NOT throw the other two.

That’s how you stay winning.

But this dude has been reprimanded and scoffed at and I think that’s total bullshit. Not a bad idea, just bad judgement and decision-making on his part. Intra-race issues will be present forever, but everything ain’t as terrible as we want it to be.

Except the “Light and White and White” Party…there’s just no excuse for that one.

Word to Al Sharpton.

I wonder if white people walk into a room full of white people and notice that everybody is, ya know, white?

I know I do (I’m Black though). Everytime I walk into a room where the overwhelming majority of people are white I not only notice but I look for the other person(s) of color in the room. Of course, once I notice them, we spend the the duration of time that we’re in said location pretending not to notice one another.

But we notice. Oh, how we notice. I’m sure that white people do it as well if they walk into a room full of coloreds. But that’s mostly because they’re in jail at that point and it’s going to be lights out pretty soon for them anyway.

Lights out?!? That’s a pun and I didn’t even intend it. There should be a term for those puns that people accident-upon. Something like: no pun intended.

That’d be swell.

This recognition-lack of recognition of one another makes me realize something: Black people are fucked. We have the worst sense of unity of any other cultural group; I’m convinced of it. I went to both an HBCU and a big ole’ white public state school on the East Coast. At HBCU’s there’s no rush to speak or even notice all the Black people since we’re in such abundance. Nevermind that it’s a completely false representation of the real world and that it shouldn’t be taken for granted that we’re in the midst of likeminded individuals who can actually read and aren’t afraid of information at the same place at the same time. Yet we kind of gloss over the importance and landmarkism of it.

It’s college, who the fuck cares. Give me my hours and give me my degree. Fuck you, pay me.

Amazing how many people long for the constant recognition of successful driven Black people once they graduate (unless you went to Morehouse since ninjas apparently don’t graduate from there much) and re-enter the world we’re all more familiar with — you know, the world where its hard as hell to find the professional Black crowd and we’re often left longing for the intellectual stimulation that comes along with late night arguments about which A Tribe Called Quest album was better, The Low-End Theory or Midnight Marauders.

It’s Midnight Marauders, by the way. You can disagree but you will be wrong.

At our HBCU’s we see eachother but we don’t really notice one another. We’re just all there so we assume we’ll always be there. Don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone kind of thing.

And then we have the big ass state schools were there’s usually a handful of coloreds who STILL make all attempts NOT to notice one another. When I went to Big Ass State University, every time I’d see a Black person I’d speak. Hell, we had the same struggle. We were pepper sprinkles in a big ass cauldron of salt. Not just that, but filled with lots of salt that didn’t really want much peppering.

Ignored.

Constantly. At first I took it personal. Why on earth would these motherfuckers have the audacity to not respond back to me saying “hello.” These northern bastards. Then I realized that its part of the same shit we all do, even amidst times when we should have unity. We spend time noticing but not noticing one another as if to act like we don’t need to.

We have no unity. We have no unity when we’re unified and we have no unity when we should have unity and the opportunity exists. I don’t give a damn if I’ve never met you in life. If I walk into a KKK meeting and I see a Black cat you better believe I’m going to notice him since we have a common struggle.

Assuming I’m at a KKK meeting out common struggle is probably literally a struggle but hey, common is common.

Unless it’s Common Sense. Which is just not what it used to be.

That’s got a double meaning.

Sometimes I’ll go out of my way to speak to the other Negroes in a room. Of course, then we look like a gang which is never a good thing when you’re in the midst of a bunch of people who know how to dial 911 and aren’t afraid that 911 won’t result in action.

Our lack of unity — which is partially caused by our rise in social and economic status, face it, we don’t all have the same struggle anymore — is ultimately our downfall. We want equality but we all won’t even get on the same page in a room full of people who don’t look like us. Which is why Black people are fucked.

I only wish we’d notice.

Despite being a polarizingly craptastic ass song, there’s something to be said for Jay’s current re-emergence into the rap game via the movie American Gangster.

It’s all about inspiration. Upon seeing the movie, Jay was inspired to create again. And not in the way of Kingdom Come, though despite a few missteps wasn’t as bad an album as has been stated but was more-or-less non-relatable to the majority of his fans. Hell, he namechecked things on that album that I didn’t know existed. In fact, I’m still not sure if they actually do exist as I wouldn’t know where to find them to actually prove their existence. Oh what a tangled web we weave.

Inspiration is a strange beast for it can come in many shapes and sizes. It can be Oprah pre- or post-tubby tubby or it can come from Tubby Tubby Oprah. You might walk outside and see a bum with a glimmer of hope in his eye that’s really only the residual film from his latest doping binge, bu you see hope and he sees…well, not much really. But somebody got something out of that exchange.

Speaking of weird exchanges, as I made my way to work this morning through the mean streets of Northwest Washington, DC, I noticed nothing short of a cavalcade of cross-dressing he-shes walking down New York Avenue. These were clearly men doing their best rendition of the rumored Oscar De La Hoya froo-froo-she-she pictures that have been circulating Al Gore’s Internet. It baffled me–why in George Michael would a bunch of cross-dressing he-shes be walking down New York Avenue in daylight? And it was like a gang of them. You can’t turn one big gay group trick. Not in the morning.

Maybe they lost a bet. Me no know.

Inspiration.

I remember when I first started blogging, I was so excited to be writing random shit that some people actually stopped by to read. I remember getting my first comment from somebody I didn’t know–talk about your total pick me up. I felt inspired. I had a million and one ideas and nothing planned either. I just opened up Blogger and started typing away and what happened happened. There was no real thought process to it. I remember going to blogger “outings” where other bloggers would mention how they spent time thinking of things to write about. I never had that problem. Most of the time I’d just see something in the news or wherever and get to typing. The world is full of inspiration if you just look long enough.

Plus, I’m black. It’s almost not even fair. No pun intended.

But somewhere along the way, Donny, Roberta and I lost that loving feeling. My interests shifted to other venues. Blogging was cool but what was the point. I wasn’t changing the world really. Arrogant as it may seem, everybody who blogs feels that they’re important enough to have something that other people should read. Any blogger who says otherwise is lying and full of shit. We’re all exhibitionists by nature. Some maybe slightly more comedic or entertaining. Some focus strictly on gossip, etc. But everybody who has blogged has been inspired by something or other to blog. And I didn’t have any inspiration.

Blogging became work not play. And if there’s one thing I never wanted to happen, it was for blogging to become a job. Mostly because I wasn’t seeing nann penny from doing this here. Sure I’d been offered some paid writing gigs but they were all in the hip-hop realm. And writing about rap all the time isn’t in my nature. The world’s too big and there are way too many issues to focus on the world of hip-hop. Plus that would require me to actually listen to niggas like Soulja Boy and provide commentary. I’d prefer to just be entertained by it and not think too hard.

To be clear, if you are forced to think about Soulja Boy’s impact on society, go kill yourself. Ironically, killing yourself would be suicide, which involves death which is totally hip-hop.

Yes, it’s true. Being dead is so hip-hop. Word to Abe Lincoln.

Part of the loss of inspiration is that I knew I wasn’t adding much new to the canon anymore. I’m off kilter like hell but there are a million off-kilter mothertruckers out there. I stopped travellling so much. I stopped watching television which is the source of so much fodder. Plus I’d rather just watch some shit than have to think about the angle I might take on it. It’s difficult to enjoy something if you have to constantly break it down into pieces. Sometimes you just want to enjoy something for what it is. I love Kanye’s new album and its because I haven’t spent any time actually analyzing it for its flaws or for its impact on society.

However, that’s somewhat irresponsible of me. If you have a voice you’re supposed to use it, right? And quite honestly, I do think at times of what I could have achieved had I continued blogging and perhaps taken it as seriously as some people. Difference is, I never wanted to become a famous writer or anything. Hell, I didn’t even know I could “write” until somebody told me they liked my writing. I’m Jay-Zing this shit. Just kind of writing what I think. But then I hear motherfuckers who blog getting on television and radio and saying some uberfucking shit.

And I get inspired.

I hear niggas with causes that go about shit in the wrong way. I hear misguided individuals trying to misguide other motherfuckers. I hear people singing the praises of Master P and his newfound “enlightenment” that allows him to preen for the corporate sponsorship that evaded him while he was the Ice Cream Man. I don’t hear a “reformed” rapper realizing the error of his ways.

I hear a nigga upset that he didnt realize sooner that he could have capitalized on more money had he did things differently. I don’t hear a man thinking of his community. I hear a nigga who wants that white money too. Nothing wrong with that Percy. Just shut the fuck up about your growth.

Then I read motherfuckers railing on David Banner who was the ONLY motherfucker in the actual entertainment industry (including what HAD to be a drunk ass Mos Def on Bill Maher) who had anything intelligible and coherent to say to a Congress with nothing better to do with their time. Agree or disagree with him, at least he can make a point and defend it, sometimes to his detriment.

And the criticism is coming from so-called enlightened people and motherfuckers with purpose. I hate Michael Eric Dyson too but he did make some good points.

Inspiration.

Perhaps what I need to do is just go back to what inspired me to write in the first place. Stupid shit and ignorant motherfuckers. It ain’t like they’ve gone anywhere. They’re still here alive and kicking. They haven’t killed themselves.

I’m inspired to try.

Black with inspiration is what we called the Harlem Renaissance.

(Some white money would help too.)

Plus I have to stop somebody from sullying my name. Google Panama Jackson and you’ll find out what I’m talking about.

I.am.inspired.are.you?

I’m pretty sure I’ve discussed this before. But that was then and this is now.

Am I the only person who wishes they’d discovered their various talents much earlier in life? Granted, I’m happy with the choices I’ve made. I’m a Black man with a Master’s degree, good credit, and no kids out of wedlock. That has to put me at least in the slim 1 % of Negroes everywhere. I make a good salary but yet, I’d rather be somewhere else than my current employment at least 95 percent of the time I’m here.

Which could explain why I have a second job that has nothing to do with the first. Speaking of which, how-the-fuck-come everybody does a double take when I tell them what kind of real job I have when I’m at the club? You’d be surprised at the looks, then laughs I get from individuals who find it hard to believe that Your Highness, the Imperial Pimpin’ Panama of the 2nd Order At the 3rd Takeout is an actual asset to the country.

But get this, since my 25th birthday, I’ve begun doing everything I’d thought I’d have been doing as a youth but just never got to doing. Hell, I used to want to work in a club or get into music when I was like 18 but never made any headways into either.

Now? Check for both.

What in Sam Hill was I thinking when I was younger and I had all the free time in the world. In college I had so much free time there was NO reason that I didn’t graduate with a 4.0. Well, except that whole party all the time (bigups to Eddie Murphy for bagging TWO uber-fine broads - that’s right Eddie, don’t let those gay prostitute Norbit setbacks hold you down!).

It’s just crazy at times when I think about the turns that we take in life that lead you where they do. I do tend to believe that things happen for a reason. Or at least I use that as a crutch when things don’t happen like I want them too. Then again, I’ve never been one to pine away at hope for shit to happen. I’ve been pretty lucky to live the life I have. I can walk around with a pink shirt on and nobody thinks I’m gay.

Of course, I refuse to wear my sunglasses at night.

Conflicted. I’ve never really felt that about my life choices. I just wish I’d thought to do or try some of this shit I’m doing at this point a while back. Who knows where I’d be now. I got tired of blogging because it became old hat. I’d gained some exposure (as many people have - I ain’t special) but I wonder what would have happened had I tried my hand at writing back when I had the time to really develop that into a marketable skill.

You know what the worst shit is, I won’t even wonder about it long. I’ll be over it in like 20 seconds.

*waiting*

Over it.

Things happen for a reason so I suppose I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be at this moment. And there are far worse places for me to be. I wonder where I’m going…

…I was voted most likely to be a millionaire by 30 by my high school class. And I feel its possible. Hell, it seems like such an easy feat to accomplish…as SOON as I shed this middle-class content safety zone headtrip that’s been instilled in me by my sometimes-well-to-do parents.

All this to say, integration ruined the world.

Thank you and goodnight.

And no, this isn’t a review of the television show on BET. I haven’t watched the show and have no plans to do so. It’s on BET. AND it used to be “Hot Ghetto Mess”. When I said I wanted new original programming at BET, somehow, this isn’t what I envisioned.

Nope.

A few weeks ago now (or sometime last month) a bunch of niggas made strides for the Black community with their attempts at building our long lacking self-esteem and showing the young Black people that we can make it despite whatever obstacles, either historical or present, are lobbed our way.

The NAACP buried the n-word. Now this isn’t news to anybody clearly. This made national news and opinions were plentiful. I didn’t really pay much attention to most opinions because I felt like this was the biggest damn waste of time in the history of wasting time. This is up there with Sheila Jackson-Lee’s uber-fucking-stupid attempts a few years ago to get hurricane’s named after Black people. I wonder how she feels now that motherfucking Katrina wiped out a bunch of niggas. Somebody needs to follow up with her on that one pronto. You know Black people have too much time on our hands when we introduce affirmative action into the weather.

I mean, really.

I also think it was just damn dumb. I’m a big fan of symbolism. I really am; especially symoblism that turns a system on its ear and makes a splash.

Burying the n-word? No splash. The funny shit is that I’m not convinced that none of the niggas in the NAACP don’t use the n-word. It’s just too easy a word to use if you’re Black. It really is. I’ve actually made attempts to stop using it to no avail. No dice. I’m sure I could stop if I really wanted to, but you know what, I like the n-word. Just like I like cursing. Makes for much more spirited conversations.

My main beef with symbolic gestures like the NAACP’s is that it stops there. After the burial there is nothing. There’s no real significance. AND it just sounds like a dumb ass idea. Corny. Contrived. A waste of resources. In fact, I want to know who green lighted this idea. I sincerely hope that this wasn’t on the docket of important business for the NAACP and that somebody just threw this shit out around the watercooler one day and a bunch of niggas ran with it. If it wasted no more than 15 minutes of actual “we could be changing the world” time then I suppose I ain’t but so mad aside from the lack of significane in the aftermath.

But once again, it is the NAACP and my guess it that these niggas have nothing better to do until the next nigga comes along and screams racism somewhere…

Speaking of which, I have to say something here that might be of unfavorable view. But man, niggas owe them Duke Lacrosse players a big motherfucking apology. MAN…I’m so glad I kept my opinion to myself on that one. However it gets to a much bigger issue, and one that will need to be expanded upon in the future.

As Black people, we are so tired of being trampled upon and outcast that when something does go down, we tend to act out emotionally first. There is no judge and jury. Everybody’s guilty. And that does pose a problem. It means that we think too many of our own aren’t guilty and too many other people are guilty. It’s a legitimate reaction-solely based on the amount of shit Black people have had to and still have to go through-but its one that more times than not needs further examination.

Tawanna Brawley anyone? True, indeed, there are more than enough instances where we are completely justified in our reactions and responses, however, when we’re wrong we tend to just move on to the next shit (Al Sharpton) with very little in the way of regretting any mistakes.

Yeah so pretty much, all the problems in the Black community are Al Sharpton’s fault since he’s at the center of all the ruckus in the Black community.

Think about that for a minute.

Anyway, random I know. But its Friday, and I’m bored.

It was written.

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.

Do you know what’s worse than being sick?

Being sick the day after Labor Day, or any major holiday that falls on a Monday. For one, nobody actually believes you when you call out sick from work. Hell, I don’t believe people when they call out sick on Mondays.

Even when I do it I don’t believe myself.

But alas, that was me. Sick as a dog. And I was even sick over the holiday and in a city where walking through the rains that Ernesto wrought was required.

Viva la storm season!

Two things I learned from being sick:

1) A grown ass man should never have to rub Vicks Vapor Rub all over his own chest. That is a woman’s job. I stand by that; and

2) Being sick alone blows ass. No, I’m not advocating for people to pass on their meningitis to their friends. I’m just saying that when you’re sick it’s always good to have company or at least somebody to tell you that you’re not going to die over a game of Parcheesi, or perhaps Trouble!

I like Trouble!

So I did what any well intentioned sick ass individual would normally do…went to sleep as early as possible and shunned the world.

I also realized I’m not much of a mama’s boy since I didn’t call either of my mothers and I know full damn well how to make my own Hot Toddies. Then again, I like to drink and a Hot Toddy is a mixed drink…just one that folks use to clear congestion and the like when folks are sick.

How many folks out here have no idea what in the Hell a Hot Toddy is and why I’d be drinking one when I’m sick? Maybe it’s just a Southern thing. Me no know.

[***SIDENOTE: Omarion's song "Entourage" is a really good damn song. And the video is hot too just for his dancing. I know folks often hate cuz he was part of B2K...and well, yes that's a very good reason. However, just like with his last album, the songs I've heard sound like his album is going to be good. Oooooooooo!!! Don't be hatin...! I also like Ray J. Just thought I'd kill any credibility I might have upfront this time instead of folks finding out later and then wanting to slap me with a Honeybaked Ham and a side of extension cord. ***]

[***SIDENOTE 2: Have you ever heard of this singer named, Choklate? I had vaguely heard of her until yesterday when I was perusing HoneySoul's site and there was an interview up with her. I figured what the hell, I'll listen to it. I listened to about half then went to iTunes and bought her self-titled, CD. It's really good people. You should check her out, not because she's good, but because I'm telling you she's good. Quality. Goodshit. You'll like it is I suppose the main bullet point I'm trying to get across...word to Family Guy! Check out her MySpace page: Listen2Chok ***]

As you can see already, this post has very little purpose thus far. However, I do want to share a little something. I was driving back from NY on Monday with two of my boys. One of my boys, Doc (he used to be The Great…but now he’s a Doctor of the Ph.D. variety), got to talking to me and my other boy about our various side hustles. In case you didn’t know, I have about 5 or 6 different side hustles. Well, Doc, got to discussing about people being on their grind the way they should to make things happen. For instance, he mentioned how much he liked We The Voices, the currently stalled like shit e-zine I founded well over a year (or two) ago with my homegirl out in LA.

You know, it had a good run initially. It wasn’t perfect but it was fun. Thing is, I didn’t even realize how many folks were actually reading and shit. Yeah, I looked at the stats but what really got me was the inordinate amount of emails I received from folks telling me that we needed to hurry up and bring it back because I was disappointing the fanbase. Like, no shit, I was seriously taken aback. I knew we had a good product (or at least I thought it was) but I didn’t realize that folks actually liked it enough to be mad at me personally when it went under.

That made me smile.

Nothing lets you see that you’re successful like pissing people off. Word to 50 Cent.

And for good measure…why are there dandelions in the parking garage?

So Doc got to talking and everytime he does that, he gets me re-motivated all over again about getting on my hustle. Maybe it’s the fact that I know he believes in me and the shit that I’m doing. Or maybe its the actual validation that what I was doing was actually something that folks I know were checking out…

Whatever, he has managed to light a fire under my ass and make me realize how unfocused I’ve been. I’m working on quite a few different things right now with different people and you know, I’m probably holding them all up in some way shape or form. True we have no deadlines for anything, but still…I can’t operate like that.

I might not even be alive tomorrow.

I’ve always treated my actualy real job as my hobby while I was out trying to make things happen with everything else. And I’ve slacked on that. In the words of the Doc, I suppose if I need to be up until 2am everyday doing what needs to get done to get where I want to go…then so be it.

I’ve been in my own way on a lot of this shit. Whether it be lack of focus or lack of motivation or worrying about something not coming out right. And that’s not even in my personality. I’m usually the kind of cat who does shit because I know I can…then lets other folks catch up and figure it out.

Of course, I’m random as hell so most folks are left scratching their chin but still. No point in trying to figure shit out. Might as well be like Nike and just do it.

So…to Doc, thanks. Like I told you in the car, I might need you to keep it up. I spend so much time trying to motivate other people that at times I forget that I need my own motivators.

To The Champ…it’s coming. I was sick and it fucked me up something proper, but I’m going to get it together. My apologies for slacking like shit, pimpin’. Truly.

To my boy Harold Clemens…we gonna get some of this shit we’re ALWAYS talking about together…too much talent and besides, we need to get you out of Boston.

Liz…me and you pimpin’. We got this. Somebody is going to make millions, it might as well be us.

And to builtfromwax…I’m really going to get on it. Can’t make money unless we got something to put out, now can we? In the famous words of one of my hometowns most famous artists…I be on it…

And to my folks who are very supportive and come out to events I’m apart of or read here daily, or whenever I post, I appreciate it. I really do…I feel like I can be a lot bigger than what I’m doing here but I can’t stop blogging because it caused me to realize these things. Circle of life, bitches.

But thanks for sleepwalking with the kid.

We The Voices. Coming soon. For real. To those folks who are apart…posse up.

Dandelions In The Parking Garage.

And umm…people in DC are rude as fuck. I just wanted to emphasize this. Rude as THE FUCK. I went grocery shopping yesterday to get some shit for my sickness and the folks were just all ornery and mule-like. Nobody says excuse me or anything, or acknowledges you…this is how bad it can be:

While checking out, I said, “thank you ma’am” to the cashier and she said, “son where are you from?”

Me: Down South.

Her: I can tell. You have a nice day, hear?!

Chuuuch!

And for my DC folks, tonight looks like it will be a good night talentwise up in Bohemian Caverns (corner of 11th and U Streets, NW). We’ve got some folks coming in from Texas and some comedians from LA. Doors open at 6pm. Show should start around 730-8pm ish. Hosted by the Kid, Panama Jackson. I bet ya can’t do it like me…shiiiiiiiiit, what else are you going to be doing? Party with Panama Jackson or sit and watch television? The choice is yours…

“This Philly cat back it…” ~ Beanie Sigel, “Guess Who’s Bizzack” from Scarface’s album, The Fix

Bill Cosby is back at it again.

Actually, I assume he never stopped and has been travelling the country pissing off black people left and right with his chastising of those in the Black community that he feels simply aren’t doing their part.

Well, he’s gone to taking shots at the hip-hop community…finally.

I say finally because it seems slightly perplexing to me that after all of his thousands of rants and raves (and illegitimate children) across the nation, he seems to have left hip-hop alone. There has been little mention of how horrible rap music is or how denigrating it is to Black women or how violent it is.

I mean, c’mon Bill, even white people know that rap music is to blame for all the country’s ills. Which makes me wonder how out of touch he really is.

I know I’m making a leap here, but seriously, when discussing how fucked up the inner city is, EVERYBODY takes shots at rap. Rappers take shots at hip-hop. White people, Jewish people, Dominicans, aliens…

…pastors, bakers, candlestick makers, cobblers, wobblers, librarians…

…Presidents, Vice Presidents, Mexicans…

…well you get the point.

They all take shots at hip-hop.

For fuck’s sake, Bill…how is it possible that you completely missed out on assigning blame for the ills of Black people to the culprit that causes the Black community to devolve into the guntoting, pound-cake stealing, non-reading bastards that we are? Especially when so many of your contemporaries never miss an opportunity to do so.

Which leads me to two possible conclusions: 1) he actually doesn’t think hip-hop is that much of a problem and is more concerned about the root cause of the issue; or…

STOP!

This just in: Bill Cosby Addresses Absentee Fathers and Criticizes Hip-Hop (click on link to go to Allhiphop.com article)

Oh well.

So the only other conclusion I have is this, 2) Bill Cosby hasn’t been paying attention and finally turned on either BET or MTV or the radio or just so happened to be listening to some shit a grandchild or somebody played and was offended and decided to attack hip-hop now as well.

There is no way in 7th Hell that you can go years chastising the “lower dredges” of Black society without criticizing rap unless you just aren’t paying attention…

…which is what I tend to do with Bill Cosby now. It’s hard to pay attention to him when everything he says seems so doggone persnickety. And I’m not even saying he doesn’t make any legit points, but its all in the delivery Bill. You should learn from Rakim or Kane or AZ. Delivery Bill, delivery.

Every good rapper has a good delivery. It’s why we listen to dumb shit all the time…that and it usually sounds good.

Oh, and he’s wrong on this point:

“They put the word ‘nigga’ in a song, and we get up and dance to it,” Cosby said.

Not true, Bill. We get up and dance to it because it’s on.

Unless of course it’s Yung Joc’s song “It’s Going Down” which, I mean, just totally rocks, in which case we get up and dance to it because we all want to do the dance that goes with it.

Oh yes, and do the “have you ever seen a Chevy with the butterfly doors” part. That part is fly.

I’m just wondering when all of these critics of the lower class, especially the Black ones, are going to decide to attack the circumstances that led to this shit. All of the problems we have now aren’t new. In fact, none of them are new. The same problems that were present in the 50s and 60s are present today.

The difference now is that white America is fascinated by this culture and puts it all over television. And since they’re fascinated, they find us ninja’s to keep it up…it’s a vicious cycle really.

People are well within their rights to get upset at the state of Black America, and hell, hip-hop. But rarely is anybody doing shit to combat the very problems that we so often rail against.

Fuckin’ armchair activists, that’s what it seems like most of us are. Granted, I wouldn’t put Bill Cosby in that boat, and in some ways I suppose he’s earned the right to be a crochety old fuck. I think I’d just appreciate it more if I felt like he wasn’t so out of touch on some of these things.

Because now he just seems like he’s whining. And messages get lost in the whining.

When was the last time you wanted to do anything for somebody who was whining to you about something? It was like 10 minutes before never for me.

“This is a great evening because we’re calling on men to come claim their children,” said Cosby, who spoke for 20 minutes before joining a panel to field questions. “And that’s part of being a man. You cannot be a man at all if you haven’t claimed your child. Some of you have three, four, five of them. You have more children than you have jobs.”

This is kind of tangential, but I always have a problem with these speeches. Namely, it seems like he’s preaching to the choir. The very fathers he’s talking about probably aren’t there listening to him nor would they care.

And that crosses all color lines.

Many people posit that the family structure is what has the Black community mired in stagnation.

I agree with that too, and I wonder how you make that point to the fathers who aren’t there because those are the ones that need to hear it most.

More questions, fewer answers.

It’s not easy being Black.

Or hip-hop for that matter.