Jackson G. Tickle Enterprises Presents…Panama’s Propositions

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.

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

And yes, this will be long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m getting sad just thinking about it.

Damn.

My friends are the fuckin’ greatest.

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

It’s law.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“my girl got a girlfriend…”

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

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

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

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

Chuuuch.

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

If the DJ sucks, you should slap him.

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

The fuck?

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

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

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

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

Uncle Ricky’s Punch is that crack.

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

We used the whole thing in the punch.

The whole thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drunk professionalism is harder than chinese arithmetic.

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

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

I am Panama…bitches.

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

Too many parties is a bad thing.

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

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

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

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

Maaaaaaaaaaan…this is long ain’t it?

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

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

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

Hmm…let me tell you about funny.

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

X, my internet fiancee.

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

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

And throw in some liquor and its a wrap.

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

Don’t go to work drunk.

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

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

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

HARVARD: The Morehouse of The North.

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

Chuuuuch.

Thank you and good night.

[***Yeah, you know it's long.***]

So yesterday was totally tomorrow on Monday.

A ninja apologize. You know you’re doing something right when you get emails from people asking you where the second half of a story is.

So our story ended up with our heroes, Panama Muhfuckin’ and Frank White finally returning from a night out with a strange woman in a strange land eating strange pizza and going to our respective abodes for sleep at roughly 415am only to wake up at…

…drum roll please…

…8am.

For no good gotdamn reason at all. Actually, I woke up at 8 am and began watching The Fantastic Four. Frank Nitty (he got the keys to the city) woke up around 830am…because I had the damn TV on.

I’m going to do this half a little bit differently than I did the first half. Mostly because there has to be a more interesting way to tell you what happened at the wedding. In fact, I shall do it in my standard, Things I Learned manner…and boy did I learn some shit.

I only tell you how early we woke up because apparently after being drunk off of your ass, waking up and being fully cognizant after a cool 4 hours of sleep is not normal. Who knew? One of the hostesses said she didn’t know how we could get hammered the way we did and be up all early and shit raring to go.

Now if you read here for any given amount of time then you already know the answer, but apparently, she didnt know that I, Mr. Oh So Sexxy…

…am just damn sexxy like that.

Woosah, bitches. Woosah.

On to the actual wedding day and:

10 THINGS I LEARNED AT THE SHOW, THE AFTERPARTY, AND THE HOTEL

I’d like to go on record as saying that Jodeci’s song “Freak’n U” is their best song. You can disagree but you will be wrong.

1. Richmond, Virginia, suckin’ fucks (well now that didn’t quite work now did it?).

There was a planned informal breakfast planned for everybody in the wedding party scheduled for 12 noon for all of us to just come in and get something to eat quickly. It wasn’t required or anything. However, you see us ninjas were up early as the Dickens (which I can only assume means Charles…Barkley for Governor 2008). So we decided to traipse out of the hotel and find a McDonald’s. Only problem was that, despite being downtown, there was only one which was like a good damn 2 mile walk away. Oh well, we make the walk and stumble across a quaint little market off of Main Street. Hmm…that’s nice.

We find McDonald’s. Well this MUST be the only gotdamn McDonald’s in Richmond because there must have been 12 generations of Vito Corleone (makes no sense does it) in there. Further, the staff was backed up. Now let me ask you, when your job is customer service, and you have a packed house, what is the best possible thing you can do?

Go ahead…you can say it. Serve customers.

Yo, I was watching The Fighing Temptations last night, and when Cuba Gooding called Beyonce a ho (well Mary Magdalene and indirectly Beyonce “Bad Weave” Knowles) I fell the hell out. That part always gets me.

This McDonald’s said fuck it and just stopped taking orders. STOPPED TAKING ORDERS.

Richmond? Blows.

2. I learned that in every wedding, unforeseen circumstances provide a lot more comedy than one might think.

I really like weddings. I really like being in weddings because you get to look cool while everybody in the audience tries to figure out why you’re special. Well, being as this was a very traditional wedding and all that good shit, and there were 7 groomsmen and similarly 7 bridesmaids, we had a routine planned out for all of us walking up onto the stage/altar kind of deal.

The men were to escort the ladies down the aisle with a flower (assumingly a rose) behind our backs, and when we ascended the stairs, we were to take the bridesmaids hand, kiss it, and pull the flower from behind our backs and hand it to them as we both bust a Michael Jackson spin move into our respective slots standing up to watch our boy and girl get married.

Sounds simple enough right?

And it was until the wedding planners brought us whole damn floral arangements the size of basketballs to carry down the aisle. How about, NOBODY could get that big ass bouquet behind their backs. Seriously, you may not have seen this kind of comedy in your entire life. The jokes went flying left and right. Oh yeah…AND the flowers were a good 2 pounds apiece.

I will say this, my bridesmaid companion was a straight G with hers. We laid our execution down. Even had some jokes going down the aisle together. I’m telling you…if she wasn’t married with kids…then she’d be single.

Speaking of wedding planner gaffes, here’s a quick story. All of us groomsmen were standing outside trying to figure out what the fuck to do while we waited since nobody gave us any instructions. Well the wedding planner finally comes to us, and says, “I’m gonna need you all to…”

Then she looks left and walks off somewhere.

No. Shit.

Anybody need a wedding planner? She’ll be available for you when I get married.

3. Parenting is not an art…it should be a beatdown when necessary.

Let’s just say, there are some kids who need to be beat on sight regardless of whether or not the authorities may be called. This one particular little fucker who was in the wedding was the most disruptive, disrespectful kid on Earth. He wouldn’t listen to direction or his parents. He went where he wanted to when he wanted to and mouthed off on his parents. We were later told that his parents beat his ass all the time. I honestly don’t believe that. He does not get beat enough. At one point, his mother called his daddy to come back and tend to him…

…I saw no fear in his eyes. I’m 27 years old and I’m still afraid of my daddy. That little boy…said fuck you to all of us and his parents and pissed us all off.

As a heads up, any woman who has kids with me better realize that our children won’t be acting like that. Let’s just say, every groomsman has a healthy disdain for said fucker.

And his daddy dresses like a table.

4. ShowStopper is not just a Danity Kane song.

You know, I totally had a dream last night that Puffy owned a comedy club in DC and brought George Carlin in to headline and they both sucked. Yes, Puffy tried his hands at comedy. No more KFC for me before I go to sleep…those engineered chickens be making my mind act up.

I said before that there were some certified stunners in the wedding party. One of them was a bridesmaid. Good googly moogly is she hot. Anyway…what do they tell you NOT to do when standing up for a long time on a stage or some shit where you’re required to stand still?

Do not lock your knees.

And do you know why you shouldn’t do that?

Because in the middle of a wedding you might just fall the fuck out, except in this case, you are standing a good 2 feet into the air which means you will fall off the stage to a big thud in a church full of people who are there to witness the nuptials of two very well-to-do individuals and their families. A great thud indeed.

Let me tell you, she fell the FUCK out. I mean she wasn’t even moving so it was very tense up in there for a good 5 minutes. But when she came too, and the wedding proceeded to much ballyhooing and nuptial joy and happiness, and as me and my bridesmaid walked down the aisle, making sure sure not to fall the fuck out…it dawned on me…she fell the fuck out IN THE MIDDLE of a wedding and shall be forever known as the chick who fell out at their wedding.

Showstopper.

It’s not funny, but I do want a copy of the unedited version of the wedding tape. You know…so I can watch the bride and groom say I do over and over again.

(If you believe that you ain’t bright.)

5. My boy must really have married an angel.

Pretty strong words, huh?

Well, let me tell you why. One of the good things about being in a wedding with all of your boys is that they’re there every step of the way. Me and Frank Nitty were standing right next to each other in the groomsmen line on stage. (I keep saying stage but it was an elevated pulpit more or less….we were in a church).

And we both saw the same shit. No lie…

…when the bride entered the church, the sun came out and shone right into the church. Frank said, “YO…THE SUN JUST CAME OUT.” I was like, “yes…it did…is we gon’ die?”

Okay, no I didn’t. You got me.

God must have agreed with their wedding…that’s all I know.

And my boy Johnny Kwest, was just a smiling his ass off as she came down the aisle. They’re happy. I like that.

6. Even traditional weddings get remixes.

This one will be short.

The bride…bless her heart, when the Pastor said, “…for richer or for poorer…” and she had to recite it, do you know she took a 3 second pause after “richer”. Just like this: “…and for richer…tick…tick…tick…and poorer”

Much laughter.

And the groom…this ninja hit a shoulder lean up there while he was reciting something causing all of us groomsmen to fall out laughing since Frank Nitty had originally requested an A-Town Stomp. We could have pulled it off too if it wasn’t for reason and well-thinking people.

7. If you build it, they will come.

There wasn’t an open bar at the reception. I know what you’re saying. Panama and his boys like to drink, whatever will they do? And trust me, me and my boy Doc were trying to figure out how to get drunk without any liquor…but then it happened…

…one of the waiters came around to the tables of the wedding party and started filling our glasses with wine. Now, I don’t know how he picked up on me and Doc’s lushtasticness, because he told us that the wedding party was to be taken care of all night, wine-wise. Well, I told him he was my hero right then and there. And he kept our glasses full, he did.

Well, after I went off to dance for a minute, or something, I come back to the table and the bartender has left two full bottles of wine for me and Doc. One of the hostesses sitting a droit, claimed that the wine was left because she asked the waiter to leave it. I don’t know if that’s true or not…but I do know that I…felt…like…runn-ing.

8. It’s possible to go from classy to ashy in under two hours.

You know, the worst thing you can ever do in life is tell a woman, that you just met mind you, that she might not look as hot, doing some natural shit women do. Confused? Let me unconfuse you.

One of the groomsmen was apparently kicking game to one of the hostesses, a chick from Spelman that I’d seen before but didn’t really know. Very pretty girl with very pretty eyes. Anywho, I suppose his holleration was working because he got her phone number, etc. We were supposed to go out after the reception for more drinks but we didn’t. We just got drunk after the reception in the hospitatlity suite. Many many shots of Grey Goose were had.

So we get kicked out of the hospitatlity suite for being too loud at 2am and all of the hostesses/bridesmaids that were there retreat to their room. I head up to one of their rooms because me and one of the hostesses need to finish a conversation that we’d been having all weekend. So as not to bother the other young ladies trying to get some sleep, we take our conversation into the hallway.

Well, something like 20 minutes into our convo, the dude that was hollering at the chick with the pretty eyes comes from the elevator and is walking towards us. He makes a comment that shall not be repeated…it’s one of those comments that was the reason for the damn convo in the first place between me and her…then walks right into their room.

Uh-oh. So we follow. Now, fellas…if you’ve ever dated a black woman, one thing you know is that damn near every black woman wraps their hair at night. It’s just what they do. You accept it. Hell, I don’t mind it at all. You’re finna go to sleep…who cares.

Apparently, that ninja. He went off on this soliloquy about how women don’t look as good in their nighty headwraps, talking directly to the chick he was trying to holler at…AND THEN…told another one of the chicks in the room that her headrwrap looked okay. Remember, we’re in their room disrupting their attempts to go to sleep.

Let’s just say, he TOTALLY fucked that one up. She’s hot too. No diggety no doubt. There’s a little more to this story, but I’ll cut that one out there.

9. Weddings and receptions are fun.

I like to have fun. I dance hard. Having fun and dancing hard gets people noticing you. It also draws folks onto the dancefloor. Either way, over the course of this weekend, I was called “Trouble” by a bridesmaid, “Dangerous” by and older gentleman, and invited to some folks home so that they could cook me dinner. And the homecooked meal was from an older dude and his wife who saw me dancing during the reception and were really delighted that I was having so much fun.

Yes, Panama turns this mother out. Trust me on that one.

Not sure what being called “Trouble” was about though.

10. Apparently you can’t take me anywhere without me meeting some random folks.

I almost forgot about this. This always happens to me for some reason. I can just be minding my own business and I will end up meeting some strange person and having a full length conversation about something random. This time, it was the environment. This is while we’re waiting on the limos to take us to the wedding. But yep…according to my boys, I got picked up.

I just like talking to people so I always do.

I asked if I’m the only person that happens too and I got a resounding yes from nearly everybody in attendance.

I’m sexxy.

And a bonus:

11. I love my friends and weddings and I would like to go to more.

Guess that one kind of speaks for itself…

To JK and Summer…congratulations. To Richmond, fuck you. And to my folks, old and new, that shit was one for the books.

[***This is some certified-gangsta Panama-length shit right here. Be aware, be very aware. Also, I could end up leaving some stuff out...to protect the innocent (me) and probably because I forgot. The spirits were calling this weekend. What I'm saying is that I can neither confirm nor deny that I'm telling the whole story. *wink**wink***]

“Mawaige…mawaige is what bwings us togeva today. Dat bwessed institution…” ~ Bishop in The Princess Bride

I love the movie, The Princess Bride. It makes me chuckle profusely.

This past weekend, one of my best friends in life wed the love of his life in Richmond, Virginia. In what was coined early on as The Summer of Love, the wedding season couldn’t have gone out on a better note.

As me and my people love to get up with the get down, much ignorance, enjoyment, love, happiness, debate, discourse, stupidity, fun, liquor, and late night creep moves occurred. I mean, hell, when Panama The Most Muhfuckin’ is involved you know how it’s going down (and in the offchance that you don’t, you really should invite me to your wedding). In fact, there was so much shit involved in the two day affair that I have to break this into two different parts.

I’m cool like that.

Yo, have you seen the Geico commercial with the caveman walking through the airport and he sees the “It’s so easy a caveman can do it” advertisement? That commercial kills me everytime. I’m telling you, the marketing execs at Geico are really worth their weight in gold.

So, I shall begin at the beginning as it’s a lovely place to start, especially considering that if I began at the end you’d probably not know what in the shit I was talking about. Plus, it’s difficult to write stories backwards. Or so they say…

…hmmm…

In the beginning, there was light.

Oops…wrong story.

Anybody who knows me knows that I despise the state of Virginia outside of the Capital Beltway. It’s a dastardly villain of a state. I hate it for one reason: traffic. It has taken me upwards of 4 hours to go 90 miles between Richmond and Washington. There’s never a good reason for it, but it’s as predictable as death. If you must drive between Washington, DC, and Richmond, VA, you will indeed be sitting in traffic. I don’t care if it’s at 3am or 3pm. If it’s purple or green. Shucks, it don’t matter if you’re black or white. Spaghetti spaghetti everywhere, up to my elbows, up to my hair.

Oh, and I’ll be throwing out all kinds of names pretty soon.

We had to be in Richmond by 4pm (well according to an original letter sent…I forgot this whole shebang involved nothing but Black people). So what time were me and two of my compadres, Frank White and Cool Breeze, on the road and raring to go?

1130am.

Mind you, it’s about 120 miles at most between Richmond and DC. That should take, what, 2 hours, tops???

Not in VA. So I like to have a cushion. We probably left more like at noon. Now, apparently, the more I get worried about traffic, the less traffic occurs. So we made it to Richmond in 2.5 hours. And checked ourselves into our lush pseudo-luxury suite at the Richmond Omni.

We’re there early. It’s a wedding. What to do? What to do? Aha!!!!

Liquor. Consumption.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that I brought a bunch of liquor from my house with me. Two bottles of Jose Cuervo, one bottle of Goldschlagger, and a big ass bottle of Bacardi Limon. Amazingly, if you mix the Limon with some free Lemonade (well we kind of jacked the Lemonade…like a cool gallon of it) from the Richmond Omni, you can make yourself Mike’s Hard Lemonade. At least that’s what it tasted like.

You know, this is the boring shit, but were a little, um, “lit” by 330pm. Let’s get to the very important stuff.

If you are a groomsmen…fuck it, if you’re in the wedding party period, and you’re a male, what’s the most important part?

The female half of the wedding party. You pray, plead, and hope beyond hope that they will be hot. As in really hot.

As in like, their knees are hot.

You’d also like them all to be a lot of fun, which in this wedding proved to be important since all the dudes involved were pretty much hellbent on having a damn good time.

And yes, they were hot. There was at least one certified 10. The bridesmaids looked good, the hostess lookeded good. Things were falling in order. The young lady that I had to escort down the aisle was hands down cool as a fan too. Bigups!!!!

Further, being as the bride went to Spelman, we knew all the hostesses (save one) ahead of time and they’re beaucoup fun. And a few of us have history with a few of them and there are strange connections between some of us yada yada yada.

I’m boring myself right now.

Let’s skip around a little. Ah…the rehearsal dinner.

Now right before the rehearsal, two more of my boys had shown up, The Doc and Maverick.

Maverick isn’t a drinker…but me, Doc, and Frank White are something like some drunks. So what did we do in the short twenty minute span between getting back to the hotel for the rehearsal dinner and the actual rehearsal dinner?

Shots.

We murdered the bottle of Goldschlagger. Three shots each. Mandatory sentence.

Now the problem with taking shots is that people notice that you return that much happier than you left. And we’re already a happy bunch so a person or two was slightly ’spicious.

Now I’ve heard that the cure for a hangover is more liquor. Well do you know what the key to throwing people off or your drunk tail is? Drinking so they can see you. That way, they think you’re doing it all right there. Much wine was had.

The problem with doing all this drinking is that…it tends to make everything seem a little bit funnier than it just might be. For instance…the fellow who came into sing during the rehearsal dinner sounded a whole damn lot like Randy Watson, lead singer of the group Sexual Chocolate.

So much so that Frank White made sure to yell Sexual Chocolate when he finished drinking. So loud so that folks at another table (the hostesses and bridesmaids) looked over and had to stifle a chuckle or two. So much so that it was hard for me to stop laughing…so much so that we had to leave again…

…and take another shot.

Don’t you see how that made logical sense?

So we got hot chicks, liquor, a wedding, and we’re in a new city. We simply MUST find something to get into for the night. There was a hospitality suite sectioned off for us as well. And do you know what they had in there…all pristine and sexxy (back) like?

Lots of liquor. Now, my boy Cool Breeze got a little more lit than the rest of us during the day. I mean, he just kept drinking so by the time it came to take the shots of Schlagger he took 2 and then declined from then on out. We get to the hospitality suite, and he’s making a Henny and Coke. Then he looked up, looked left and realized there was no way in shit he was about to drink it and handed it off to me. I was happy.

Let me say here, the chicks were bullshittin’. Well not all of them, the homey J.House was down for the cause to go out…but I’ll get to that in a second.

So let’s see…me and the homey Frank White started tossing back Henny and Cokes, then took a shot of Cuervo. And THEN we went to find the groom to make sure he would take at least one shot of Grey Goose with us.

He did. He was required too…I told him that earlier. In fact, I think it should be mandated that before any groom gets married, he is required to take at least two shots: 1) for his bride-to-be; and 2) for his boys.

It was written.

Apparently, the more drunk I get, the more ignant I get. And being as Richmond sucks ass and everything shuts down at 2am, at about 130am, I decided to make a phone call to information to see if I could find us some entertainment. Here’s the transcript of the conversation with 411:

Operator: What city please?

Panama: Richmond, VA.

Operator: What listing?

Panama: Hoes.

Operator: Excuse me????

Panama: Oh, sorry. Prostitutes. I’m bored.

Operator: *click*

Apparently, I didn’t tell anybody I was making that phone call ahead of time because two of the other groomsmen fell the fuck out in amazement at the conversation I was having.

At like, 145am, we make it out of the hotel. Not to get hoes…you see how helpful the operator was…so we ventured outside of the hotel on our own to find some entertainment. At this point its me, Frank White, Cool Breeze, The Doc, J.House, and our homegirl Sweet Candy of the World. That, my friends, is a funny name.

Remember how I said Richmond sucks ass? Well, I was trying to find something to do and I asked well over 10 people, from cab drivers to people letting out clubs what else there was to do in Richmond.

In fact, earlier in the day, two of the groomsmen went to the mall and asked a woman they met what they should do to have a good time in Richmond. She asked where they were from.

“Atlanta.”

“Go back.”

Damn.

While all of this is going on, our party buddies are dropping off like flies. First Sweet Candy of the World drops off. Then J. House. Then the Doc. Which was probably a good thing. For one, it was cold outside.

But mostly because while I’m out polling Richmond’s boring ass party crowds, my boy Frank White has begun breaking up a fight. You see, apparently, when you are drunk, the best thing for you to do, is get in the middle of other people’s bullshit.

It’s always safer that way.

So I go to help and when it looks like it calmed down, I trudge looking for more people to poll. And I think I yelled, “Richmond fuckin’ sucks” a good 4 times.

Well, on my way to more pollation, I walk into a fight between two other people. And since Frank White had just broken up a fight, I was felling like a follower so I jumped into their shit and broke it up.

I find that the key to breaking up any fight where people seem to have any inkling of soberness is to remind people, while pushing them back up against a wall, that if they go to jail tonight, the just might not be going anywhere until Monday. And spending the weekend in jail would blow.

Count so far? Two fights.

I walk back around the corner, and the two dudes who started the original fight, are at it again!!! So me and Frank White, feeling all Officer Friendly-ish, go and break up that shit and send one of the dudes on his merry way.

Oh, and can I just mention that we have YET to actually leave the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

However…Frank White, in his drunken splendor, started yelling to me and Cool Breeze, who was being the watchdog making sure that us idiots didn’t die while getting involved in other people’s shit, “YO…HOW ARE WE GONNA GET HOME??? HOW ARE WE GONNA GET HOME???”

Remember, we are standing in front of our hotel.

Oy vey.

So, we’ve broken up some fights, lost some of our friends who just said, fuck it, and went back inside, and have nowhere to go. Me…I go look for more people to talk too.

Frank White? Finds the ONLY BLACK WOMAN in the vicinity and immediatly goes to rap to her. At this point, Cool Breeze peaces us out.

Oh yeah, final count: three fights.

Because we believe in public safety and have been policing the streets of Richmond, the two safety minded inviduals do what anybody would do in our position. Convince the chick to take us out to eat.

At 3am.

In a city we know nothing about.

With a woman we just met.

Who didn’t seem to mind.

Smells like a setup to me.

Luckily, it smelled like teen spirit to her because she sure did take us to get some vittles at some placed called Aladdin’s.

Hmm…am I racist if I point out that the fellows working their were of Arab descent.

And it was named Aladdin’s? I mean, it was probably one of the fellow’s names…right?!??

Me…I’m trying not to say anything crazy as to make sure that the young lady would actually return us to the hotel. Frank White? Not so much…having to be the sensible one while being drunk at the same time is much more difficult than it might seem.

I promise.

But she took us home at like 4am. And we trudged up to our room. At 4am.

And went to sleep at about 410am.

Only to wake up at …

Tune in tomorrow for Part II of the epic tale of A September Wedding, where Falls Church isn’t only a city a Virginia, horrible game and headwraps take center stage, receptions turn into Soul Train, no Open bar at a wedding doesn’t stop two of us from procuring free bottles of wine from the bar, and oh yeah…a wedding takes place!!!

I just got back from Miami…again.

Apparently I can’t keep my ass in DC during weekends this summer and its been like that since May. Anyway…

When I tell you I’m in love with that city, well, that means I’m in love with that city. I don’t even know why. Maybe its the water and the beaches. Perhaps its the scantily clad women walking all over the place.

I’ll tell you what it’s not. It’s definitely not the horrendously asstastic service we got at the KFC on 71st Street in Miami Beach. And it’s not really the weather either which has the potential to both suck ass and blow tushy at the exact same time.

Seriously, how many grown men do you know use the word “tushy”?

I must give a shoutout to my host for this past weekend, the homey, the one and only Go.tdam.n Diva. Okay, so you know how they say its not what you know but who you know?

Dude…she’s like so great to know.

No, no wait…so say you go out of town to kick it with your friends. And they live in some new exciting city. And everybody knows that when you go out of town, the goal is to go out. Let’s just say, hanging with the right people can increase your club enjoyment and and overall Miami enjoyment by like 100 percent. That my friends, is what friends are for. Hell, I need to become somebody just to be able to repay the favor.

I have some good friends, I swear.

As with most trips I take, I leave with a greater understanding of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Well that’s usually because I spend so much time drunk off of my ass that I tend to see things a little differently than I otherwise would. Well, this trip was no different as I gained some very interesting insights of great interest and insight. So let’s just delve right in.

1. Miami has some SERIOUSLY fuckin’ beautiful people.

So we were hanging out at Opium Garden/Prive and I couldn’t help but notice how gotdamn beautiful the women were. The last time I was in Miami, I have to admit I was a little disappointed by the quality of women just strolling about. Hell, one of the first things everybody tells you about Miami is how beautiful the people are. So the first night we went to the club, I was literally just looking around the whole time in amazement…then drinking…then looking.

One could even say that I was excited.

Come to find out, it makes total sense now. You see, I did a google search on Opium and read some of the reviews of the place and the one common thread was that everybody said its hard as fuck to get in there. Unless…

So basically, they select who they are going to let in this bitch. They select the beautiful people (or people they know). I noticed that there wasn’t much of a line, just a big ass group of people waiting to get in the club. Apparently, many of them were waiting to get “picked” to enter. Bottom line: Be a cute woman or be with cute women, it seems as if it will make youre life easier when trying to get into these places.

Hence, the beautiful people. Not that I gave a shit about what it took for folks to get in. Why? Because me and my boy were inside bitches!!!!!!!

2. I think I’m a racist.

Okay, that sounds way worse than it really is so let me explain. We’re in the club and there are all of these beautiful people around. But they’re like 90 percent Latina. Not that I have a problem with that. I love all women. But as soon as I saw a black woman I automatically paid her way more attention that I probably would have outside. I found myself continuously looking for black women. Granted, I was appreciating the shit out of the Cuban chicks in that bad boy. And good googly moogly (that thang is juicy) they were fine, but apparently there is nothing like a black woman in my mind.

To my black women out there, I love you. Act right!

I kid, I kid. (kind of)

3. This comes courtesy of my boy Frank aka The Most Shady: Two bottles does not make you a baller.

Let me tell you a little something about this club here. They have tables all over in there. In order to get priority seating at a table and shit and to guarantee that you’ll actually have a place to sit, you have to order a bottle. The cheapest bottle? I think I was told it’s a bottle of Moet (I think). You know what that’s gonna run you up in there? $270.

So let’s do the math kiddies. Fuck that, let’s give you an example. On Saturday night, we were chillin. We were sitting in the VIP section at a table (and no we ain’t pay for no bottles…we were just cool like that through association). These three chicks mentioned to one of the hostesses in there that they wanted to sit down.

Sucks for them, because them niggas had to procure an expensive as bottle of some shit they probably didn’t want. I’m talking about at least 3 bills on that ass. AND they had to share a table with the cool kids from out of town.

Panama and The Most Shady 4. I just may be getting a little too old to go to the club all the time.

Clubs close at like 5am in Miami. This means that I didn’t get to sleep before 6am two nights in a row. Well color me exhausted and slap my honky tonk. But that doesn’t make me old.

What makes me old is this. I found myself checking out the architecture in the damn club. Like literally looking at moldings and shit. The spacing and location of things. When you’re 18, the last thing you give a shit about a club is what it really looks like. It’s why you can go party in what really are just make shift warehouses and have the time of your life. Now I’m looking at the aesthetics and shit.

Forget that there are scantily clad women shaking what their mother’s gave them all in my purview. Nope, I want to know who did the drapes.

Shoot.

Me.

5. Ft. Lauderdale is pretty cool.

Not much to say there. But it’s like the Miami you take your kids too when you’re too afraid of all the beautiful people down on South Beach. Less crowded, seems more family oriented. I like Ft. Lauderdale…but only if I don’t have a car and my camels on strike rendering me helpless on my quest to get to Miami. I’m young and verile…South Beach all day bitches.

6. Turn off the radio…ah fuck it, just listen to it all the time.

My friend is a major Kelis fan. And being as I’m in the pre-release date album procurement industry, I sent her the Kelis album sometime last week before getting to Miami. Do you know we listened to that album every gotdamn day while I was there. AND…this isn’t to say that I actually WANTED to hear it. I gained such a healthy disdain for that album that you know what I did when I got home to DC???????

I burned a copy and put it in my car despite not liking it very much. Apparently, repetition can make you a fan of anything. Which would explain why I like half the songs I like despite there being very little redeeming qualities to any of them.

Shit my new favorite song just might be “Like You” off that album.

“I don’t just like you/I like you like you…” ~Kelis “Like You”

That’s deep shit. Or not.

7. Oh yeah, I saw Snakes On A Plane.

I don’t care what anybody says, that shit was entertaining. It was the most predictable, cliche, random ass movie I’ve seen in a very long time. And I was entertained like hell.

Unlike Pirates of the Carribbean: Dead Man’s Chest (or as one of my friends calls it, Boo Boo Pirates), which was the worst 3 hours of my life. Okay that’s not true, but at least Snakes was entertaining. Where else will you get lines like this…

“oh great, snakes on crack…”

“time is tissue…”

“I’ve had up to here with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane.”

I believed I was cursed out a few times by my friends who went with me to see it. And for real though…there were a whole lot of damn snakes on that plane.

SNAKES ON A PLANE!!!!!

8. I don’t even know how to preface this one except to say it…

This is paraphrased from an actual conversation between me, my boy The Most Shady, and another friend of mine, GAW.

KeyLimePie Panama: I can’t eat at no restaurant that gives bad head, I really can’t.

GAW: I don’t do that, it’s nasty.

KLP Panama: (to The Most Shady) She doesn’t give head. She should move to Utah.

The Most Shady: You will, you’re young.

GAW: I’ll just date men who don’t want it.

The Most Shady: What, you think you’re smart enough or funny enough, to NOT do that????

END TRANSCRIPT.

Can I tell you that I haven’t laughed as hard as I did when he said that in a very long time. Can you say, TSHIRT!!!!

The funny thing is, my boy’s been on a roll. I know this girl who goes to the Harvard of the West who on a recent trip to Atlanta got a grill.

Not a Foreman grill, but one of the Paul Wall, niggas from Houston variety. And it said, “THUG” ON IT.

Dude, she’s like, totally not a thug.

Well, upon finding out this simple fact, he retorted with, “Tell her its okay to be middle class.”

Floored.

Okay, I tire of writing this right now, but let’s just say, Miami is my hotspot. We’re supposed to be going back for New Year’s.

Shit, I might mess around and have to move down there off the no bull.

Oh yes, and I now like Benihana’s as I was forced to go in there and eat. You know, we did a lot of random drinking this weekend…and Red Stripe tastes like creekwater.

Miami…I love it.

For those folks in DC looking for something to do tonight, come out to Bohemian Cavern’s for a little country, for a little bit of rock roll (and then soul to soul). It’s a good time and his royal majesty, the Sexxy one is on the mic handling the hosting duties. Plus, Afi (check her MySpace page right here) is scheduled to be performing along with comedians, Frank Nitty and Derrick Thomas.

Bohemian Caverns
2001 11th Street, NW (at the corner of 11th and U Streets, NW)
Doors open at 6pm.

And the crowd says…yay-men.

I’ve returned back to the bottom of the map. Back in the mud…

Well I assume you get the point. I’m back down South and I couldn’t be happier if I was a pig in slop.

Yes, that is a country statement. Yes, I am slightly country. But overall…yes, I’m sexxier than you. Don’t forget that.

I came back to Atlanta because one of my boys had his graduation commencement ceremony for his Ph.D. in Biomedical Engineering.

I say, gotdamn.

And we had a party on Friday night. It was ignorantly ignant.

You know, I really must say how much I love Atlanta. This simple fact cannot be stressed enough. Everytime I’m back in Atlanta I just feel comfortable…I’m more at ease. While I’m living and working and playing in Washington, DC, I can honestly say that I never feel at complete peace. I’d always rather be somewhere else. Granted, DC isn’t bad at all. And over time I’ve come to accept it as a second home kind of thing. When I move from DC I know I’ll miss it because its ultimately the place where I did my final stages of growing up. I came into my own in DC.

Basically, I obtained my second “x” in DC. It’s where I became sexxy, not just sexy since we all know that I am the king purveyor of all that is sexxy and that sexxy couldn’t be achieved if I’d never come to DC and made it to do what it do.

I also did it like I was doing it for TV.

You betta know dat.

Speaking of shit you betta know, Outkast’s song “Hollywood Divorce” featuring Lil Wayne and Snoop is so fuckin’ crazily off the hinges. It’s all over the internet right now, I suggest you aww skeet skeet over to Allhiphop to listen to it from their homepage.

A is for Adamsville, B is for Bowen Homes…you see, even Dre knows whats up. Westside of the A beeyotch.

Back to my Southern Comfort…oh yes, much liquor consumption took place on Friday and Saturday evening. At my boy’s graduation party so many people fell through it was nuts. I saw all kinds of friends of mine. Some new friends, some old. Hell, even one of my sisters just fell through. ‘Twas one hell of a party.

Have you noticed that I have very little point in writing this post?

I’ll even take my happiness a step further. I’m typing this from my parent’s house in Alabama. And I’m even happy here. There’s something about peace and quiet that I think it takes living in a city, or on a block where there is non-stop action be it from crackheads, prostitutes (they’ve made a strange resurgence around my neighborhood for some reason) or just police.

This all just makes me realize, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that soon and very soon, I must return back to Atlanta, to live. Add to the fact that it’s so damn cheap to live in Atlanta relative to every other city I’d think about living and there really is no downside. I’ve got family, a truckload of friends, and Atlanta is just a beautiful place.

I know why I left, but I don’t really know why I’ve stayed away. Of course, I did get my sexxy and shit, but let’s assume that my sexxy was just layign latent anyway, which means that it would have manifested itself at some point anyway right?

Right.

Oh yes, fuck that heffa that hit me with her drunk ass and no insurance.

I will be down South (going back to Atlanta on Thursday for those in the A that I’m supposed to be catching up with like Heinz) and I’m already depressed that I have to go back to DC and back to work and shit…

Of course there is some good news in all of this…

…I just really don’t know what it is right now.

Le sigh.

I shall now go and roll around in the grass and then eat some collard greens.

I miss home a lot.

And yes, this was a pointless post…I told you that a good 6 or something paragraphs ago, assuming that you know it is wholly possible to have a one sentence paragraph.

Good night and Good luck.

[***You know the spiel, it's long. Panama-length long. ***]

I have some confessions to make upfront here.

1) It is wholly possible that I still may have some liquor in my system. I’m not 100 percent sure on this but the vision in my left eye hasn’t been right since Tuesday.

2) I have a scar on my forehead right now. I have no clue where it came from or how it happened. Not even the slightest clue. I woke up Tuesday morning, looked in the mirror and there it was. It is possible that maybe, just maybe, I drank a wee little bit too much on Monday night. See #1.

3) I got to Miami on Saturday morning, a full day later than all of my friends. Why? Because I made work a priority for the first time in my life. I feel sick to my stomach. I apologize to my friends and anybody who expects me to be there to be a part of the party jump off. I pledge to never do that again. Employment should never be more important than spending time drinking out of town with your friends while two of them get married.

Let me repeat that last part: A muhfucka apologize and I pledge to never slack on partying again due to anything work related. Feel free to invite me anywhere. I’ll be around like The Spinners and Rappin’ 4 Tay.

[***Sidenote: For everybody in DC, I'm hosting a weekly open mic night on U Street at Bohemian Caverns every Wednesday. Doors open at 6pm with drink specials til 730. Open mic til around 10pm and an afterparty at the club upstairs til 2am. Sign up to get on the guest list for the upstairs club at www.stock13.net. I'm sexxy. ***]

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I just spent 4 days in Miami to celebrate the nuptuals of two of my friends. It was a great time and the wedding was lovely. The bride looked adorable and the groom is something like a G. It was the least traditional wedding I’ve been to in my life and needless to say I’m not sure anybody else will have a wedding like that.

How untraditional? The groomsmen walked in to Common’s “Be” and the bridesmaids walked into Lauryn Hill’s “The Sweetest Thing.”

But like any of my other trips, much hilarity, debauchery, drunken antics and just all around tomfoolery ensued. This was one for the books as well. So what would Panama do? He’d write about it.

Hmm…I just realized that somebody needs to spearhead the WWPD campaign. It’s probably the opposite of WWJD in most cases. Umm…that didn’t sound right.

I’m going to do this as an educational tool. It will be done in a vein of things I learned in Miami. Sharing is caring, reading is fundamental, and Miami is full of education. Believe you me.

[***DISCLAIMER: This will be a very anonymous post to protect the innocent guilty. No names will appear. No references to you know who, who did you know what, to you know who...naw, we'll just keep that between me and you. Any emails from individuals asking who did what will be forwarded to Equifax. ***]

Things I Learned In Miami While My Name is Panama

-A grown ass black man can actually (like no bullshit) fall asleep while in the midst of receiving a lap dance.

[***Sidenote: If you're a stripper, isn't a man falling asleep while you are performing specifically for him the most disprespectful thing ever? Would that make you self-conscious? Poor stripper, that might be a shot to her esteem. He might have singlehandedly signed her death certificate as she might try her best from here on out to go the extra mile on every lap dance thereby causing herself cardiac arrest...all because one drunk ass negro managed to fall asleep during a lap dance. Disrespectful...just wrong. ***]

-Miami is a city that makes you feel like fucking. There is just too much T&A walking the streets and the beach is way too convenient a jumpoff spot for any healthy-libido’d man or woman to be completely devoid of impure thought. The only exception is the fact that a lot of the people displaying T&A needed to be displaying T&S. T-shirts. But I ain’t mad.

-Miami Beach is lovely. The real Miami, of the Rick Ross/Trick Daddy ‘nem variety is something like some hood shit. I mean damn. I say…damn.

-Skinny dipping at 4 am on the beach will result in a lot of fucking sand in a hotel room.

-There is a lonely vibrating lighter dildo roaming the streets of Miami Beach right now.

-Room service can be on some shit sometimes. And they will not hesitate to cuss you out. So…fuck ‘em.

-It is always good to talk to the bartenders and get their names. Do you want to know why? I’ll tell you why. I missed the first day of festivities where my people got fucked the fuck up off some Long Island Iced Teas, but on Monday night…

…shiiiiiiiiiiiiit. We went down to the bar by the hotel pool. Met the bartender. Chopped it up. Result? Two dollar Long Islands.

I MUST repeat that. Muthafuckin’ $2 Long Islands. AND…this dude GAVE us a free round and gave me a free hot dog because I said I was hungry. THEN…he told us to come back tomorrow morning because another bartender was going to be teaching him how to make some drinks and we could have them all free.

I don’t care what anybody says…I love white people.

If it’s one thing white people want you to do right in their presence, it’s drink.

Oh yeah, I learned that too many Long Island Iced Teas may result in unintentional nudity while the hotel next door is obviously shooting a video with spotlights that just might end up on you as you streak down the beach naked. Not that that happened or anything. I’m just saying it seems possible.

-Chasing a bunch of Long Island Iced Teas with shots of Patron and Captain Morgan’s Rum will result in you losing days from your memory. I’m still not completely sure how…fuck it, never mind.

-If given the right audience…it is possible for me to be a bodybuilder. Because apparently some motherfuckers will believe anything despite the sheer unfuckinbelievableness of it.

Oh yeah, I’m skinny as the fuck.

Still sexxy. But skinny.

-Along those same lines, I’ve seen hair that was claiming rival gangs. At the same time.

-I learned that I forgot that I don’t smoke.

-You don’t have to go to the club to have a really good time. You bring the club to the beach. All you really need is some liquor (a lot of liquor) some blankets and some people and you can have a right good time.

You can also get left there sleeping while it seems that EVERYFUCKIN’BODY just dipped out. Then what do you do? Roll over and go back to sleep and hope nobody robs you. This will also result in sand everywhere.

-If you meet a woman who has the exact same name of a chick you used to deal with, somebody will tell you that you should specifically try to holler at her and then tell the other one that you messed with a chick who has her name. For reasons that I will not go into here that is WAY funnier than it might seem…

-I really miss college. More specifically I really miss Spelman College. I’ve also learned something very interesting on a more personal note. People from college either recognize me from jump or swear they’ve never seen me before. Granted in college I had a whole lot of hair doing all kinds of crazy things and I wore glasses but I keep meeting women who have no recollection of ever seeing me, despite a whole OTHER half of Spelman swearing I was there everyday (I was). My friend who got married is a Delta and a a bunch of her linesisters and sorors were there and let me just say…I really love Deltas.

One more time, I really love Deltas.

All AKA’s please feel free to refer any and all hate mail to my email address.

Shit, all Zeta’s and SGRho’s for that matter.

-Time is not always good to all people. Sometimes one should be glad that a crush they had in college remained a crush because as was stated in the first sentence, time is not always good to all people.

-However, time can be fuckin’ great for others that some people have always had a thing for. Summer dresses? That is an idea that must have come straight from God himself.

-Yung Joc’s song “It’s Going Down” is one of the best party songs in years. Especially if two negros in the middle of the room know how to direct traffic and keep things crunk.

-One lightly alcoholic drink will not fuck you up. However, 10 will make you feel a lot better. Especially if you chase said drinks with shots of Vanilla Vodka, Patron, and then drink rum and cokes.

-Driving in Miami fucking sucks. People in Miami are the worst drivers in the nation.

-Cab drivers will curse you out if you call them on the fact that they changed to a black radio station as soon as you got in the car. Luckily the person who called him out was drunk or it could have gotten ugly. Two groups of people I never realized would think to get gully: cab drivers and the hotel cleaning crews. But they too will curse you out.

Over some towels.

Fuck ‘em.

-Being white in Miami must be what it feels like to be Black in Omaha. I think all the white people in Miami are Cuban or something.

Or college students.

-I can’t believe I forgot this one…Miami is fucking hot.

-Key West is far.

-I really like going to weddings. They’re lots of fun and you get to see lots of people you haven’t seen in a good long while. Especially when the people coming to the wedding are a lot of chicks you thought were fine in college who managed to remain fine. That always makes me feel better about life.

-Thundercats and Northern Cali got more in common than you might think. Some very unattractive things happened with some very unattractive people in relation to some very unattractive conversations.

I want half Eddie.

-Some people are in complete denial about the sheer attractiveness of some of their friends. I mean…really.

Top 10.

-Some people are in complete denial about their hateration of people who clearly just need a hug.

Definitely not Top 10.

(By the way, don’t you love the completely inside nature of all of this shit?)

-Drinking done in moderation can totally ruin a weekend.

-Sex…do it for the kids.

-A musicless BBQ that neither the bride or groom has attended will result in food that isn’t ready until its time to go to the wedding rehearsal.

-If you eat at a restaurant in Miami Beach, say for a rehearsal dinner, at say Tap Tap, and say a HUGE FUCKIN’ ROACH THE SIZE OF A SHOE starts climbing the wall…the waitress will kill it near your food and tell you that, “hey, it’s Miami what do you expect?”

-If somebody just happens to spot a mouse running around the theater that the wedding is taking place, while the wedding is taking place, sometimes its better not to tell any of the guests because they might cause a scene. That way, the wedding can go off without a hitch.

Unless of course the mouse runs over somebody’s foot causing mass hysteria and screaming and shit.

Not that that happened. I’m just saying its possible.

-I love my friends a whole lot. I say it all the time and I mean it everytime I say it. We’re planning a 10 year anniversary next August for all of us who met in August of 1997 at Morehouse and Spelman. That my friends, will be some hot shit.

-Miami is a great fuckin’ place!

I think I’ll stop there because for one, I’ve forgotten a lot of what actually happened, and 2 I’m tired.

Next stop: Atlanta, GA, August 4-14th The Panama Vacation Train Keeps Moving On!!!!

I want to wish a pre-July 4th Happy 4th of July to everybody who will be out and about BBQ’n watching fireworks and the like.

What will I be doing you ask?

Well, this weekend the Sexxiest Man Alive will be in the M-I-Yayo.

That’s Miami for you Rick Ross illiterates out there.

The Summer of Love continues for Panama Jackson and Associates (that’s my law firm) in Miami as I witness the nuptuals of two more friends of mine. If you remember, one of my boys kicked off the summer in May by getting married in my favorite city in the United States of America (the Beautiful), Atlanta. I really must say that Black love is a beautiful thing. But Black love that decides to get married in Miami and invites me along for the ride and then adds me to the wedding party requiring that I spend time in Miami…

…during a holiday weekend?

Well, that’s the kind of love I can get behind. Any love that ultimately benefits me in the short or long run is okay with me.

I have one more wedding I’m definitely going too (I’m in that wedding as well…props to the homey JK) at the end of September and one that I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make due to its relative location in this hemisphere. But dammit, keep the love going anyway.

2006: The Summer of Love

And…!!!

And another one of my friends got engaged as recently as a month ago and is getting married in October.

With all this love in the air, the question always arises: Panama, you’re 27 now and you aren’t exactly a spring chicken anymore (I’m too sexxy for that shit actually), when are you going to get married?

Panama Jackson = in no rush.

He’s chillin. In fact, I’m straight.

So straight.

I’ve been put in charge of putting together the music for the pre-Wedding BBQ that’s taking place on Saturday (the wedding is on Sunday). And in the process of putting together some music I noticed something.

I’ll bet your just chomping at the bit to know what I discovered aren’t you? No?

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

What I noticed was that it’s fuckin’ hard to make a “clean” playlist of the most popular songs out there nowadays. Now, for this particular event I’m supposed to be spanning decades which is very easy to do given my music collection. Hell I even have a few pre-made playlists specifically for purposes like this. But all of those playlists include music for the older crowd.

By throwing a BBQ with both young and old folks you have to play the new stuff. And boy is some of that shit fuckin’ profane. And vulgar too! This always causes me some sort of moral dilemma (of which I’ve actually talked about before). I know there will be little kids present and older people and I sure as hell don’t want to inundate them with the throngs of bitches and asses that don’t get bleeped out of the CLEAN versions of songs. Luckily, drug talk has become so coded that most people that don’t listen to rap won’t know what the fuck the rappers are talking about in that realm.

I’ve been combing through my stacks and iTunes trying to find clean AND suitable versions of songs for kids from 8-80 and let me tell you, the shit is an exercise in problem solving. Luckily I only have to come with about 4 hours of music. That’s not hard to do at all, but sheesh.

All I’m saying is that you rappin’ ass niggas need to clean up your fuckin’ music. Shit’s just too profane and vulgar.

With that said, I’m really looking forward to going to this wedding and hanging with my boys and turning Miami out. Let’s see, we’ve turned out LA, San Diego, Atlanta (on a continuous basis), NY, DC, Boston, New Orleans, and Las Vegas. I could very well be missing a few cities but you can blame that on the liquor…

…and Jim Jones.

Did I also mention that this will not only be my first time in Miami…but the WHOLE STATE OF FLORIDA!

That’s right kiddies, Panama has never been to Disneyland or DisneyWorld. I lived overseas for a sizable portion of my life so I’ve been to Euro-Disney, but never to the real Happiest Place on Earth. I was so deprived as a child. There are still emotional scars.

So…have a Happy 4th…enjoy yourself.

Relax yourself and envision the gobs of fun that the Killa (me) will be having in Miami with the beautiful people as the Summer of Love keeps on rolling.

It’s a celebration, bitches.

I just got back from Huntsville, Alabama.

And I’ve noticed that lately, every time I go there, I’m acutally glad to be there.

Well aside from the fact that I went out to the club on Saturday night and if that was the normal club scene I’d have to kill myself if I lived there.

Either that or become a Buddhist.

I also realized that it’s entirely possible to walk out the house with some turqoise boxer briefs and a tie wrapped around your head with some Birkenstocks on and be completely over dressed for the club. I’m not saying that was me, but I really could have got into this club with a “dress code” dressed like Jesus.

With the halo.

Of course, at least I’m down South so the women look good, but nothing quite annoys me more than niggas trying to hit on two of my sisters with me sitting there telling me they don’t want no trouble cuz they’re on “papers.”

When they’re like 6′5″ and 280 pounds.

Which I am not. Just feels patronizing, ya know? I mean I have feelings. Almost felt like a challenge.

Hmm, to take it even further. I never have to drink to have a good time. For the first time, I had to drink to have a good time. A lot. Fortunately for me, my sisters are a riot.

Slight caveat, when I say sisters up there, I’m speaking of one actual sister of mine and one adopted sister, sort of. But the weird thing is, if it wasn’t for the law, neither would be related to me at all. Seriously, they could do a study on my family and it would take years to break down how I happen to have a brother and 6 sisters and only one of them is blood.

But we’re family like the Jacksons.

Either way, I have come to appreciate being in Huntsville. I’ve realized that I love open space a whole lot. And greenspace. I like peace and quiet at night and the ability to drive out of the city into just open roads and quiet and crickets and dark roads and stuff. Backroads and the like. I’ve always wanted to buy a house in the city and a house out in the sticks where not too many people could find me.

I like the country a lot as well. I like walking around barefoot without worrying about catching HIV from the sidewalk.

Though I’ll never live in Huntsville for long periods of time, I might buy me a house or something there. Kind of my getaway for when I move back to Atlanta.

Oh, and by the way, there is like zero depth whatever to anything I’m writing today. I’m just sharing because sharing is caring.

But the real reason I wanted to write this post is because I need to do a formal congratulations to one of my boys, The Great. I think I will now have to change his name from The Great, to The Doc. My boy, at age 27, has received his Ph.D. in Biology and Biomedical Engineering from the Georgia Institute of Technology.

That’s Georgia Tech for those that just don’t know.

I’m so proud of that dude I don’t even know what to do with myself. Luckily we’ll be in Miami this weekend at a friends wedding so we can kick of the festivities something proper. Then again in August in the A.

To my boy, who occasionally reads here, congratulations. You know, I need to say this here, and forgive me if it sounds a little gloatish, but I’m really proud of my group of friends. I don’t know if it’s just luck or what have you, but I got a group of friends from Morehouse that all managed to graduate in 4 years, together, which at Morehouse is an accomplishment worthy of an award.

All of us have managed to get some type of advanced degree in some random field. We’ve got lawyers, educators, economists, policy analysts, scientists.

And we all can get as ignant as the next man.

And I appreciate that.

I think I shall change our motto to, “we do big shit.”

Anyway, to my boy, The Artists Now Known as The Doc and formerly known as The Great, the first Ph.D. in the group, good damn job homeboy.

Good damn job.

[***This is Panama-length, plus some. What can I say? It was a wedding weekend and I probably won't even really cover half of it. ***]

Have you ever seen a stripper start reading a magazine in the middle of her act?

Like a Jet Magazine?

I have.

And let me tell you, if there is one thing that this world does not need, it’s lazy strippers.

However, not even a lazy stripper could bring down (though it did make me reconsider cosmic signs) the amount of joy and excitement I experienced over the past 5 days. I went back to Atlanta to witness the nuptuals of one of my good friends from college and let me tell you, it did not disappoint.

So, I figured I’d do a recap of sorts, partially for the entertainment value, and partially so I can remember this 10 years from now assuming this site is still up and hasn’t been taken over by the CIA or somebody. Just know that if one day you ever hear me talking about having a drink from Starbucks, well, click the “x” at the top right of your screen because the government is monitoring you.

Before I get to the festivities and the chroniclization of such festivities (and there wasn’t any real debauchery to speak of), I must take a second to comment on marriage and seeing your friends proclaim their love for eachother. Well, let me just say, it brought me to tears. Literally. The most gangsta of all gangstas was boo-hoo’n up in the wedding. Now, I wasn’t really crying, it’s more like I teared up because when the new-wife did her vows…man…there weren’t many dry eyes in the building. I loved seeing them get married, I loved seeing them happy, and I loved how good the two of them are doing together.

Basically, this made for one of the happiest times in my entire life. I was smiling the whole damn weekend. Just…good times. Neither of them read this site, or probably even know it exists, but I really do have to thank them for the fact that their love was able to make me so happy. It just felt good to be apart of it all. That’s that contagious stuff right there.

Well, I feel gayer now. How about you?

Excuse me one moment.

*going outside to rob somebody to retrieve my gangsta*

I’m going to take this day by day and try not to overdo it by being excessively long or anything about this. Okay, I’m kind of lying on that “excessively long” part. And I think I’m going to do this as a sort of “lessons learned” kind of deal. Shall we? Yes let’s…

Things I Learned on Thursday, May 25, 2006

-It’s hot as the fuck in Atlanta, even at 11am. I got off the plane and felt like I had just been hit with an Egyptian camel.

-Camp Creek Parkway is long as the fuck. I didn’t even KNOW that Campbellton Road eventually crossed Camp Creek Pkwy. And do you know why? Because there’s no good got damn reason to ever be that far down the road. Now there building all of these affordable homes so folks are moving out there, but it’s way too far.

-I’m definitely moving back to Atlanta. There are no ands, ifs, or buts about it. Not only do I love the city, but its also like a gajillion times cheaper than any other city I’d consider living, which would be: DC, NY, or LA. Sorry Des Moines, but your city sucks ass.

-It’s never too early to start drinking. Too bad it took us, me and my boy, The Most Shady, about a good 5 hours to actually get our first marital-induced drink. And it took me even less time to feel the repercusions of said drink. Time started to float…

-In Greenbriar Mall, the wings at Abdullah The Butchers are way better than the little wing spot in the back corner by the bathrooms. My boy, CoolBreeze, wouldn’t admit this outright, but he wanted another one of my wings…I didn’t want another one of his. And umm…no brokeback.

-A little short drunk man was going to get his ass WHIPPED up in Dave & Busters. This nigga got a little ignant when he thought I was by myself…even going so far as to tell me that he had his boys with him. Then a few of my boys showed up while I was talkign shit to him. Oh how the tables turned. I am glad we didn’t get into the fight that seemed like it was about to happen. It’s a wedding weekend.

-Patron shots at the bar in the arcade were like 4 bucks at Dave & Busters. Maker’s Mark? 3 bucks. And how do I know this? You friendly neighborhood, Xquizzyt1, was blessing us with her presence.

Let me just say something about your friendly neighborhood, Xquizzyt1. How about she showed up, and all of my friends loved her instantly. Too bad random other dudes did too. Poor guy. Have you ever seen a man’s spirit completely broken. I have. This overly loquacious gentlemen who was trying really hard to rap to a few of my friends before me and X showed up began attempting to deconstruct manhood, the man woman relationship, and other shit when we showed up. Me, I was drunk. So I just sat there and looked around curiously. And since X never met an argument she didn’t like, they went at it.

In what can only be deemed, “How Not To Get Into A Woman’s Drawz In 10 Minutes Or Less”, ole boy actually said to her…”I guess you aren’t what I expected…” El Dumass. She took his pride after that. Kicked it around on the floor. Then right when he went to pick it up…hurled that bitch into the bar. When he was leaving, he just put his head down and said, “bye.” But…

…on the brightside he gave me props when he realized I went to Morehouse. So he wasn’t all bad. He did recognize his superiors.

*evil snicker*

-I also learned that there are some cool ass folks from up in Chicago. But that would be a running theme from the whole weekend as the bride is from Chicago (and Milwaukee or Killwaukee as it was referred by one of the brides cousins or something…a lot of black folks were running rampant this past weekend).

Sheesh this is long already…I’ll try to speed some of this up:

Friday, May 26, 2006

Fuck the things I learned. I’ll just recap this shit.

So after leaving Dave & Busters, two of my friends brought me back to my boys house at like 2am…I don’t actually remember them leaving, but they did leave at some point. That’s how damn tired I was. So what does a supremely tired black man do after being drunk and going to sleep somewhere in the neighborhood of 3-something A.M.??

He wakes up at 756am and can’t go back to sleep. Fuck. Me.

Went to BBQ. Had a Michael Jackson dance-off at the BBQ. That was fun as shit actually. There were way too many dancing negroes…and I was one of them.

Oh and let me say…i HATE the gotdamned Cha-Cha Slide. Hate Hate Hate it. It is a sorry excuse for a group dance.

Oh yes, on Friday, Atlanta was once again…hot as the fuck. I started stripping. Please, put your dollar bills away. Though I did offer to strip for money at the BBQ. Word to the wise: If you offer me money, I might offer to strip. I also might say no.

Here, I must get into how following the cosmic signs is probably always going to lead you in the right direction. This is a story, please have a seat.

Goal: Entertainment for males
Location: As of 9pm, we ain’t have one AKA Sign #1

By 11pm, we were having fun at my boy The Great’s home and had started to get a little nervous about whether or not we were gonna be doing anything. We were drinking, having fun with a few folks. I’d met another person from Panama and a doctor who was moving to Maryland.

1130pm and nowhere to go? Sign #2 to keep your black ass at home.

1135 or something, we get a call to meet on Fulton Industrial at Riley’s. That’s a strip club. Ehh…we don’t want to roll at this point, but what the fuck, it’s for the groom. And he’s our boy. My boy has a spare tire on his car and we can’t go faster than 55 MPH. In Atlanta, that is a severe problem. Shit’s already far as hell, to have to drive it slowly?? Painful.

We get to Riley’s. Ready to party?? NOPE. You see, we aren’t actually going into that club, we’re waiting outside for some dude to show up with some of our own personal entertainment.

Wait time, one hour and some change. Sign #3. Me and my boy, The Great…get ready to roll. We want some Krystal’s (similar to White Castle but better). We start to leave and say fuck it, but we get the call. We deliberate and go against our better judgement…and go with the caravan. Sign #4.

Fuck it…let’s just say that when you go against your hunches, you get lazy strippers in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.

And THEN the spare tire blows out on you on Piedmont Avenue leaving you stranded for like 2 hours while you wait for a tow truck to come get you. And you end up on Piedmont when you were just out in Austell (a long ass fucking way apart) because one of your boys also wants to leave the lazy strippers and asks for a ride.

Me, I drove to fast and blew the spare. Plus, putting 300 miles on that bitch in 2 days will do that to you. Luckily, one of our other friends was still up at like 4 something AM and came to get us from Stone Mountain…

…let me just say I really love my friends. And also, I skipped signs number 5 throuh 100 as to why we should have just stayed home.

GOT DAMNED THIS IS LONG.

Saturday, May 27, 2006

Get in at like 6am from the Great Piedmont Car Fiasco of 2006. Wake up at like 10am. Went out to eat lunch with a friend. I also gave this friend a tour of Atlanta of which she had never really seen before. See all these folks think they know about certain parts of the city. I had to take her ass through Adamsville and the real Southwest. Not just driving up and down Cascade. I also took her to Simpson Road and Center Hill. Went through Dixie Hills. Basically, if you ever really want a Westside of Atlanta tour, I’m your man.

Dropped her off. Went to hotel for party. Party was fun. Played spades. Set our opponents, TWO TIMES IN A ROW. On some straight Debo shit. And by the way, I was fuckin’ drunk off my ass. Too much Henny and not enough Coke will do that to you. Especially when you’re playing spades like this:

If you win the book, the other team has to take a drink. If you set them, you tell them they have to do some guzzling. Let’s just say, we were some drunk ass spades players. At about 230, we packed it in…except, I made some phone calls and two of my friends, including your friendly neighborhood Xquizzyt1 and everybody’s favorite Bulletproof Diva came through to hang out at the hotel with us.

And get your mind out the gutter.

They leave at around 4 or something. I really don’t remember.

I get back to my boys house at around 5am.

Sunday, May 28th, 2006 AKA Wedding Day

Wake up at like 9am. Get pissed because I’m up at 9am. Watch the History of Metal on vh1. Head out at 1130am to go to Lenox to do some shopping. Run into the friend I went out to eat with on Saturday. We kick it while she goes shopping. She tried on everything in every store we went into. Lots of fun was had by all. I dipped out.

Went to get ready for the wedding.

Wedding.

Let me just say that it was a wonderful ceremony. I was extremely happy and all the groomsmen and bridesmaids looked good. The pastor presiding…well, it must have been her first wedding because she fucked up more lines than Keanu Reeves doing Shakespeare. No lie…she said this:

“I now pronounce them husband and wife…or I will after they exchange rings. Oh yeah, and then kiss…wait, what else are they gonna do? I can’t remember. This is a wedding right? Fuck it…y’all just do your own thing cuz apparently I’m unprepared.”

Okay, I embellished a little.

The reception was the best party I’ve been to in years. I can’t even explain it. It was that much fun. I sat down for like 2 or 3 minutes in total when the dancing started. Slow dancing, line dancing, soul train lines, ATL dancing, a go-go segment. We had a party. AND an open bar. And we do damage to those.

Hell, I wish he was getting married again this weekend.

After the reception, we kicked it more. Spades, dominoes, late night runs to Krystal’s. Sleep time: somewhere around 3-4 or 5am. I really don’t know when.

Monday, May 29, 2006

Wake up at 730am. Say peace to the groom and tell him to enjoy his honeymoon.

Might I tell you that there is tired. And then there is fuckin’ tired. Bulletproof Diva had a pool party. Me and my boy, The Most Shady, went to sleep there. At a pool party.

Late night dinner, X, came through and hung out. In fact, she hung out on 4 of the 5 days I was there. She’s a trooper that X.

Sleep time at 1230am to wake up and go to the airport at 730am on Tuesday.

All in all, it was a great time, I got to hang out with new friends, old friends, and X all weekend. And I didn’t even really spend that much money.

So cheers to my boy and his new wife for providing a weekend I’ll never forget and here’s hoping that some of you people decide to get married and invite me to the wedding, I promise I won’t let you down.