One of my favorite lines ever uttered in rap music is:

“…and even after all my logic and my theory, I add a motherfucker so you ignant niggas hear me…” ~Lauryn Hill

I love that line. Strangely, it’s the concise, succint written explanation of how I like to live my life. I didn’t realize it at the time that album was released that my life was going to follow that ideology but lo and behold, that’s it.

And the album?

The Fugees The Score of course, which was released in February of 1996 and some 18 million albums sold later cemented Wyclef Jean, Lauryn “L-Boogie” Hill, and to a much much much lesser extent Pras Michel as musical, not just hip-hop, heavyweights. Then in 1998, Lauryn Hill released the critically lauded, Grammy winning, women-loving album of the decade, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. I’ll admit to not loving it as much as everybody else does but it is without a doubt a great damn album.

Lauryn Hill was on top of the world. Hell, she was the world. She was woman. She roared. Probably even growled too.

Grr.

I can’t think of a man alive who didn’t want to jump her bones. Quite honestly, in my mind, at that point in time (circa 1997-1999), Lauryn Hill was the epitome of woman. I wanted a woman like Lauryn Hill. I remember meeting her at North Dekalb Mall in Atlanta while she was signing copies of Miseducation… If ever there was a picture of beauty, it was her at that moment.

Apparently Rohan Marley saw the same thing every other man saw because he snatched her up like a thief in the night. And I’m not completely mad about it. He’s a Marley. He’s got lineage. I’ve got lint. The battle in my mind for Lauryn didn’t actually exist in the real world.

Then WHAM!

The world according to Lauryn went Black. She started pushing out kids and making controversial comments (to the Pope no less) and became sort of a recluse. She released a confusing few sets of music that introduced us to an insecure and distraught woman. It’s even rumored that over time she required people to call her Ms. Hill in her presence to include motherfucking Wyclef and Pras. If that’s true, she needs the holy shit Batman slapped out of her.

Lauryn Hill was the top and then she fell off. Hard. And this begs the question to me. As far as the most tragic falls from grace and the hearts of men have gone, Lauryn Hill might ace numero uno. And its especially tragic because Lauryn didn’t have a ceiling. Lauryn Hill could have turned into Madonna. Shit…and it almost pains me to say this, but Beyonce is what Lauryn Hill was going to be, except you know, the version of Beyonce that’s secretly a scholar quoting Nietsche and showing up to interviews with a personality.

[***SIDENOTE: I think I just realized something. I think that Erykah Badu is the mid-point between Beyonce and Lauryn Hill. Think about it (deep right?). Erykah Badu can be just as ghetto as anybody else but she's also dropping pure gems on that ass. She's an entertainer to the highest degree who straddles the line between the deep crowd and the chicks who have gold teeth with their babby-daddy's name on each toof. Hell, Erykah has gold fronts. I heart her. I can't completely divulge it right now, but just know that I'm making possibly one of the biggest sacrifices of my life in a few weeks and Erykah Badu comes heavily into play. I've considered suicide. ***]

She went from being the quintessential woman to being a confused mother of four with baby daddy issues like you ain’t neva seend. And dammit she just kept having kids. Think about people who have fallen off in the world of urban music. Hmm…seems I have to remove the talent part here because there haven’t been too many artists with as much talent as she has.

The only person I can really think of is…gulp…

MC Hammer.

Do you realize that nigga was doing infomercials about credit repair? CREDIT REPAIR?! If you can’t see the irony and comedy in that then you’re probably dead. And if you’re not…

…go kill yourself.

Lauryn’s talent level and ability was recognized by everybody. All races. Everybody loved her and then she lost it. Perhaps its the pressure of success or the pressures of talent. Maybe she just lost favor with the music industry as a whole. I can relate. I mean, I’ve shelved my own album for years now and I know the streets are waiting.

Ahem.

It’s funny though. Lauryn Hill is still a name that people love and respect. I think more people got worried about her as a person which is a testament to how many lives she’s touched.

You know, D’Angelo would be giving her a run for her money right now except he released Voodoo. But shit, niggas have been waiting for a new D’Angelo album for years. Though he has a few court appearances, drug cases, and car insurance apps to fill out so we could be waiting for a while.

At least other artists from days of yore had the gall to just die to preserve the legacy. And be clear, I don’t want Lauryn Hill to pass…

…I’d just like somebody to slap the shit out of the motherfucker who miseducated her ass. But for now, I still have the Fugees album and I still have the Miseducation and I still have my favorite line that helped to define my existence on this planet.

Motherfucker.

Mayr-wige.

Mayr-wige is dat bwessed institution dat bwings us togeva today.

Translation:

Marriage is that blessed institution that brings us together today. Well, Saturday actually. But boy was it blessed.

So after that sloppy introduction let me tell you that I went to a wedding this weekend. Rather, I was in a wedding this weekend. As an usher.

Come a little closer.

That’s it.

A little more.

NEVER be an usher in a wedding. It requires so much random work its ridiculous. I had a good time and I wouldn’t take that time back. But unless I’m a groomsmen, I’m planning on planting my happy ass right in the pews with the rest of the love-viewers.

Now the point in bringing this up is that I witnessed something at this particular wedding that serves as a cautionary tale to all those young whippersnappers thinking of embarking on marriage and the ensuing planning and ish. I’ve been to no less than 5 weddings since last May. And I was in 4 of them. And I ain’t NEVA seen no shit like I saw at this wedding.

Let me unfold the story.

We’re at the part most people come to see at a wedding. YES YES!!! The bride is nearing her triumphant entrance into the sanctuary. Myself and the other usher are preparing to head down the aisle to roll the white carpet out for her…

YES YES!

Two young men tasked with the responsiblity of walking in with bells and screaming at the top of their lungs “THE MARRIAGE OF MALCOLM AND BETTY!” (well not really, but you get the drift) begin their walk into the sanctuary and then…

…the pastor says stop. He motions the two young men to stop. He tells them to walk out of the church and that we should roll out the carpet first, ya know, the white carpet that only the bride is supposed to walk down untouched.

The wedding coordinators shriek in horror as this man has managed to completely RUIN the wedding proceedings.

Ladies and gentleman, the pastor actually STOPPED the wedding so that he could have things happen in the manner in which he felt it should happen. It’s not in my nature to not like a man of God.

I do not like this particular man of God. Nevermind that the actual change he made wouldn’t have made any real difference for the wedding and was totally unnecessary. He just felt it should go the way he viewed it. It was not, so he made it do what he wanted it to do.

He…is a bad person.

The night before at the wedding rehearsal, he changed up the entire setup that was previously coordinated by those who coordinate such things. Perhaps we should come up with a term for them…perhaps…wedding coordinators. He decided he wanted to coordinate.

And coordinate (and confuse and discombobulate) he did.

I can’t even go to this church ever because of this man. As long as he’s the pastor, I couldn’t go. My god wouldn’t want me worshipping with his god.

While the proceedings were going on I just kept thinking to myself, when I get married, things will be made very clear to the pastor and everybody involved that it is MY WIFE AND I’S wedding and that ain’t NOBODY gonna wrest control of ANYTHING.

Mind you, the bride and groom told the pastor they wanted something to occur in the wedding.

He said, “no.”

At their wedding. They paid this man.

My god and his god might fight if that were to happen.

So, I leave you with three simple rules for getting married:

1) Make sure you’re marrying somebody you want, not just somebody you knocked up. Marrying somebody you knocked up (or got knocked up by) is such the bad look.

It is hip-hop. But it is not smart.

2) Make sure that you let people involved in the wedding know details that they need to know way in advance. If they are Black, they will need much advance notice.

It is rule. It is fact. We are Black. We need details.

And last but not least…

3) Do not ever let a grown ass man take control of your wedding and ultimately do shit his way which will ruin you doing it your because he felt that his way was better when truly its your day and your way should trump his way because your way is what you paid for not his way.

Apparently, Joe Jackson ain’t the only nigga who had control issues.

Word to Janet Jackson.

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

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

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

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

Maybe they lost a bet. Me no know.

Inspiration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I get inspired.

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

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

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

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

Inspiration.

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

I’m inspired to try.

Black with inspiration is what we called the Harlem Renaissance.

(Some white money would help too.)

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

I.am.inspired.are.you?

Justice.

Of all the words that have had any semblance of meaning since Black people were mercilessly brought to the United States, justice is the word that has had the most lasting effect. Not the n-word. Not racism.

Justice.

Black people have been searching for justice for hundreds of years. Sadly, we’ve yet to find any. The Jena 6 is a prime example of the lack of justice that America see’s fit to don upon Black people. Everything about that case just reeks of differential treatment and outright arrogance on the part of the prosecutors of LaSalle Parish in Louisiana.

It reminds me of the movie “Ghosts of Mississippi” where Byron De La Beckwith tells the Assistant DA Bobby DeLauder that “no jury in the state of Mississippi would convict a white man of killing a Black man.” Sure that was 1963 (initially) and he was acquitted of killing Medgar Evers at the time but for some reason those words just resound to me.

Those 6 young men were arrested for what amounts to a fistfight. The white student was up and running and attending events that very evening yet Louisiana is ready to put these young men in jail for damn near life? Mychal Bell, the first convicted, had his charges thrown out for battery and assault because the state claims he should have been tried as a juvenile.

Hmm…what about the people who put the nooses up? That’s a hate crime. This whole fucking country has issues. Hell, in Darfur, AMERICA was loathe to call what was happening genocide, because that means that we’d have to get involved. Sure, we can police the Middle East, but to hell with Africa.

Justice.

I’ll always contend that race relations in this country will remain the way they are now forever. Black people think everything is racism and white people think nothing is racism and that’s about as close to the middle as we’ll ever get. But what I’ve always wondered is why white people seem to ignore the impetus for our reasoning? Black people have been lynched for doing so much as looking at a white woman without even a hint of fear of paying for it.

In layman’s terms: for hundreds of years a white man could kill a Black man with reckless abandon because they had a justice system on their side. Not even just on their side; gleefully on their side. For fuck’s sake, any white man could walk into a courtroom with a smile and some sweetened tea and just wait for “justice” to prevail. That justice would be the white man getting acquitted for crimes he might actually have admitted to.

Justice.

How am I, a Black man raised to believe in people supposed to feel when I know that people can and will justify any and everything. A few weeks ago at the University of Maryland-College Park, Maryland’s flagship institution of higher learning, a noose was hung from a tree near the Black student union. Amazingly it allegedly stayed there for a week before it was taken down. I’d be willing to bet my life on it that for as many Black people who were offended and even scared that something like that would happen on a very diverse campus, as many white students claimed it was just a prank and not to take it so seriously.

A noose. A symbol of white power for hundreds of years. It symbolised the white man’s ability to get away with murder. It also symbolised the fear that Black people had to endure because ultimately, a white man could get away with murder.

Mind you, I recognize that the system was more to blame than merely the individuals involved. However, what kind of people could accept a system that devalued human life in such a manner. The problem is that in America, the system trumps all. Everybody can hide behind the law. Almost 600,000 people in the District of Columbia have no elected voting representation in Congress because of the “law”. Forget what’s implicity right. Nevermind that whatever advantage the addition of a voting member in the House for the District would totally be offset by an additional House seat in Utah. It violates the “law”. And that is what’s most important. Laws intended to protect and serve. However, residents of the district don’t get a say in the laws they are ultimately held accountable to.

Justice.

As a young Black man I have an unhealthy distrust for the justice system. I always worry that if I’m stopped for anything other than a routine traffic stop, I’m going to jail and I might never see the light of day again. Why do I think so negatively? Because it’s a real possibility. The stakes are so high for Black people, and men in particular, that achieving a certain age is akin to an actual accomplishment. I can actually brag on never having been to jail. That is a problem.

We live in a country where justice has two prongs: white justice as displayed in Jena, Louisiana (lest we forget that a gun was pulled on a group of Black students yet no charges were filed…let me try that on somebody and see what happens), and Black justice as displayed in Jena, Louisiana where six young men who got into a fist-fight were charged with attempted murder (later reduced to battery and assault).

Further, let us not forget that it all started because there was an actual “white” tree in Jena, Louisiana. A situation where until the status quo was questioned, all people were just as happy to live their lives in their own version of American reality. If anything, this entire saga just teaches us that as Black youth, if you attempt to challenge the status quo that the American way of life accepted, you just might find yourself staring down the barrel of a 25 to life.

I hope and pray that all of the demonstrating gets the message across. I’m proud of all of those individuals who made their way to Jena to protest and demonstrate. My hat’s off to them. I’m just sad that in 2007 in America, a nation that feels we can trumpet our way of life across the world as a paragon of the right way to do things, we still have a situation where a Black man’s life can mean so little.

And there are just way too many examples to illustrate that point.

Justice.

*wiping dust off this thing*

I don’t even know the last time I wrote something here.

Okay, that’s a lie. Especially since these here blogs are timestamped and all sugarcoatery sweet. But you get the point. The kid took a mean two week vacation from all of his jobs.

The kid = me.

I ventured to the good ole dirty South and the dirty streets of New York City. I didn’t do much of anything but sit around and watch television with the joy of knowing that I didn’t have to wake up too early or anything. If all I wanted to do was scratch myself all day, then by George, all I had to do was scratch myself.

Well, that and stay hydrated. It was dastardly hot down South. I saw old friends that I don’t get to see enough. I debated life and its hardships with people. Specifically the Michael Vick case which has managed to not even make CNN anymore. Oh what a short attention span we have in this country.

A good question was posed to me. This question baffled me since it had never even really dawned on me before it was posed by one of my hombres in the NYC. Harlem to be exact. Lennox Terrace stand up.

How in the hell does Michael Vick NOT have a plan in place to pay off any of his “boys” who are going to dime him out? Basically, what the fuck happened to the contingency plan in case shit went, ya know, wrong?

Like it did.

If I’m a multi-millionaire athlete with promises of muchos moreo denero, you better believe that I will never even almost face jail time. All of my compadres will be well paid and under the impression that as long as we all shut the fuck up, we’ll all live well. I wonder what happened in the Vick case.

I’m trying to decide if I plan on writing a review of Kanye’s album. I absolutely love it though I keep reading reviews that pan it. There seems to be a very polarized opinion on this album. It’s either hate or love without much in-between. Some folks think it needs to grow on them. All I know is that on September 11th, make sure you pick up Graduation. It’s not as ambitious an album as his last two but man, its one good ass album by any measuring stick.

You know who puts on one hell of a live show? Camp Lo. That’s who.

What the fuck does cranking that Roosevelt mean?

And how does one first crank that Roosevelt and THEN supersoak that ho? Does it work in reverse? Like can I supersoak a ho and then crank that Roosevelt or would that result in some other form of crankage?

Somehow, I need to know this in my life.

I watched Dreamgirls last night for the first time since I saw it at the movies. Hmm…it seemed way more terrible at home than it did at the movies. Perhaps it’s one of those films best suited (and only) suited for theaters because it just seemed long, boring, and way too singy. And I didn’t mind the singy at the theater.

But let me tell you what movie is good, Just Friends. Some random ass movie on Showtime had me in actual tears from laughing so hard.

Super Bad? Not so much though it was enormously funny despite serious lulls in the middle. Oh yeah, and it was a total emo cum homo-erotic tale of two boys who seemingly have to break up with one another. If another grown ass man puts his pointer finger on my nose twice in a loveydovey flick motion…I just might have to robocop that ho.

On Sunday night/Monday morning I returned home at roughly 430am. Across the street from me, was a man laying on a white Mustang. The catch? He was sleeping standing up resting his head on the roof of the car. This motherfucker fell asleep standing up and then leaning on his car. I swear I never want to be so drunk where robbery has to happen on GP. Luckily, I was raised right.

Hello world, meet Sugar Whitewall. Today, you do not know why you need to know who that is. Just know that it’s important to know the name Sugar Whitewall.

And cut.

…and Superman’d that ho.

Man kisses ailing wife, hurls her from balcony

I think it’s official. Hell has won. I’ve reached the maximum amount of Hell points possible. It was a good fight and I fought the good fight, but man, how could I NOT take that angle. It incorporates pop-culture, assholish irony, and pure and total unabashed comedy.

You know you wanted to laugh.

Anyway, as you can tell from the story (and title of this post) a man Superman’d his wife from a balcony because he could not afford to continue paying for her health care. Mind you, this is a sentiment that is shared by many Americans as we grapple with the argument for universal health care.

Then again, I have to wonder how many people have dreamed of wanted to do the same thing with an ailing family member but thought better of it and then went to pray for their soul for the heinous act that they wanted to commit.

America, this is how bad its gotten. White people have taken to tossing their family members out the window because we’re just gotdamn broke. It’s bad enough that gas prices are high. Hell, he probably wasted some of the money he could use for her health care just driving her back and forth to places. It’s enough to make somebody want to throw somebody off a balcony!

Oh…right.

All jokes aside, I don’t know all the sides of the issue involving universal health care. I do know that our taxes would have to increase and this is not a country where people (namely the rich) want to use their tax money for other people’s social services. Which is a shame, for a country that prides itself on the common man having the opportunity to come from nothing to becoming a rich person, we sure do forget that it takes a nation of people to make that happen.

I would hope that nobody’s life and finances would ever be so bad that you’d have to resort to throwing family members over a balcony, despite KNOWING you’re going to get caught. Let’s face it, you can’t just go hurling people over balconies all willy nilly without anybody finding out about it.

Sad sad times and I feel sorry for the man and his wife.

And also, in the event that anybody feels I’m too much of a burden, just tell a muhfucka. Shucks, I’ll be mad as hell if I die because somebody threw me off a balcony!

Just too bad she couldn’t Spiderman that ho…

I saw Beyonce in concert last Thursday at her Washington, DC, show at the Verizon Center.

Admittedly, I wasn’t excited about going. For whatever reason, seeing Beyonce live just wasn’t high on my list of goals in life. For one, I’m starting to hate crowds. For two, I’m starting to get really tired of hood-rats.

Beyonce concert? Crowds filled with hood-rats. But I said I’d go so I was going, going, gone.

But I ended up really excited to see Beyonce…and do you want to know why? Of course you want to know why.

It turns out that they actually sell ALOCHOL at the Verizon Center. They had a little liquor stand all next to the entrance to my section. For $7, I was drinking Rum & Cokes. And man was I like a fish in water after that. It changed my whole perspective. All of a sudden the crowds and hood-rats weren’t so important anymore.

And do you know why they weren’t important anymore?

Because I didn’t have to actually REMEMBER them if I didn’t want to. That’s the joy of intoxication; it removes all unpleasant memories (and pleasant ones too, but that’s just splitting hairs, now isn’t it?).

Opening acts were Katy Shotter and Robin Thicke. I do not like Robin Thicke. I abhorred “Lost Without You”. Let me tell you how much I can’t stand “Lost Without You”. Paula Patton, a woman who I think is just uber-smurfing gorgeous, isn’t fine enough to make me watch that video and listen to that gawdawful song.

And Katy Shotter is another white chick from England with who sounds like she has mad soul. She’s Joss Stone’s kissing-cousin or something.

Both were alright but since I don’t like (or care for) either one of them, the best I can do is give them a Almost Around The World Stopping In Malaysia and Back Snap. Not two snaps here, paco.

Beyonce on the other hand is ridiculously good-got-damn-great. I won’t go through the entire show because frankly, I don’t remember all of it. I do know she looked a little thicker than I originally thought which is just great. Like Tony the Tiger great.

Interestingly, while I was watching Beyonce perform (and not fall down the stairs, and you can bet your ass people were watching and WAITING for her to fall), I started to think about her place in society and history, for that matter. I think that when its all said and done, Beyonce is going to go down as the “it” girl for a good decade or two. She’s clearly on top of the game right now. She genuinely makes hits and music she wants to make but I’m almost 100 percent sure that if she wanted to make a bunch of pseudo-serious songs she could and turn in an album that could possibly change R&B, a la Usher’s Confessions.

Panama’s Confession: I don’t have one.

She has style and grace and she’s learned to talk way gooder than she used too. I actually have always liked the way she talked. It was charming in its own way. Sure you never really thought she had anything going on upstairs but hell, I know lots of dumb broke people, it’s nice to have dumb rich people to set your aspirations too. Between her and President Bush, they made you feel like the world was your oyster and isn’t that the real American dream?

But now she can speak and actually has interesting interviews. She’s intriguing.

Her acting could stand to improve a little but hell, she can’t be perfect at everthing. She’s already fine as all hell, can sing better than damn near everybody, except for Andre 3000. He’s totally the best singer ever.

Singing rappers is so hip-hop.

I wonder how it feels to be on top of the world like some of our favorite entertainers. How do you live when everybody wants to either be you or be like you. As I was watching over the damn near packed house at Verizon, I couldn’t help but think about how many of these young (and hell, old) women wanted to Beyonce. And who wouldn’t (except me)? The world is Beyonce’s right now and I’m guessing it will remain hers for a long time.

Of course, I still love Kelly and can’t really stand Michelle. I’m STILL upset at Michelle for fucking up the song “Is She The Reason?” from Destiny Fulfilled. Man she sounded like pure shit on that song. And I couldn’t care less that she makes great gospel music.

As you can see, there wasn’t much depth here. I blame Lil Wayne. He’s been cracking me up lately with his mixtapes and shit. That fellow right there, has managed to make a fan out of me.

“…Chevy grill looking like a set of new braces…”

Not sure why that line cracks me up so much.

Beyonce = “It” Girl

Hate it or love it, she isn’t going anywhere and the world is a better place for it.

…

Well not really, but she DID make “Bootylicious” and for my money, that puts her up there with Martin and Malcolm.

Thank you for upgrading us, B.

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

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

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

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

Now? Check for both.

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

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

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

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

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

*waiting*

Over it.

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

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

All this to say, integration ruined the world.

Thank you and goodnight.

First things first (I poppa freaks all the honies), I do not look like Juelz Santana. At all. Let’s just put that out there.

However, everytime I wear a bandana, somebody calls me Juelz Santana. I know they’re joking but I hear it all the time. Last year, one of my boys threw a party with the Howard (University) Dental School and I was rocking a black bandana and this group of chicks working the door kept referring to me as Juelz.

Let’s backtrack for a second. Is it even feasible that it makes even one iota of sense to refer to me as such? No. Perhaps, it’s the fact that we’re two lanky lightskinned ninjas who wear bandanas. In fact, lanky wouldn’t cut it. Kevin Garnett is lanky. I’m just skinny (sexxy). I think its the lightskinneded skinny bandana that does it.

But it never fails, which brings us to Saturday night. Like I’ve stated before, I work at a nightclub in DC. I’d tell you which one but then you might come stalk me and kill me and…

…I don’t wanna diiiiiiiiie.

Bone Thugs-n-Harmony said that best.

Well, I had on a black bandana and this one particular girl stood out from the rest, poison as could be, a high powered chest. Ya know, in that past sentence, there was one fact and three un-facts. Two points if you can name that song.

I was standing behind the bar doing what random cats behind the bar do…taking shots with customers and making jokes with the bartenders and waiting for the T-Pain song “Bartender” to come on so that everybody could continue singing about bartenders hopefully bringing people to the bar so that our bartender could do what bartenders do…bartend. Out of the corner of my eye, I see this chick and her friend looking at me all funny and smiling. One of them was giving me the “smile”; the one that says come talk to me, Daddy. And I love it when they call me Big Poppa.

By the way I’d like to point out that embellishment sells books.

I pay these chicks no mind and go on about my business. Hell, I’m working. Well one of them walks up to me and is like, “Juelz?? Juelz Santana?”

Now I’m thinking this is somebody I’ve met before who didn’t remember my name but because they met when I had on a bandana decided to refer to me as the Dipset under-capo.

Nope.

I was like, “(sarcastically) yep…Juelz”.

She kissed my hand and told me that she loves my music and kept trying to follow me around.

End story.

Actually, un-end the story. If I was really Juelz Santana, you’d think she’d wonder why NOBODY else seemed to care in the club. The moral of the story here kiddies is this:

Get chicks drunk because they’ll think you’re a celebrity and probably sleep with you if you even give them one iota of attention.

Good night and good luck.

I’ve got two words for you: Jean “Motherfucking” Strahan.

Also known as the ex-wife, divorcé of one New York Football Giant, Michael Strahan.

Actually that’s three words unless you just count the “Motherfucking” as a nickname (which I do), therefore making it interchangeable, which still renders it as two words. Logic be damned.

Fellas, you REALLY need to consider the shit that you do while you’re married because this here justice system is going to fuck you with no vaseline. Basically, don’t get caught cheating on your wife or you just might lose roughtly 70 percent of your net worth.

Yes bitches, not 50, but 70.

Such is the case in this sad tale about divorce, retribution, and a (must be) woman judge.

To wit:

Michael got taken to the cleaners to the tune of $15.3 million in the divorce (New York Daily News headline: “Wife: 15,000,000, Strahan: 0″). He also had to vacate the couple’s 1906 Montclair, N.J. mansion, the one with the 22,000-square feet, 12 bedrooms, seven baths and a garage big enough for 20 cars.

The ruling was even more than Jean actually sought for the less than six years of marriage. The judge wound up giving up more than half of Michael’s estimated $22 million of net worth. from article, “Giant Headache” from Yahoo! Sports

Say it with me, class: Gotdamn! Dude, getting taken to the cleaners is so not heavy metal. However, if he OJs her ass with a gun instead of a knife, that would definitely qualify him as hip-hop.

Gunplay is so hip-hop. Word to Smith & Wesson.

And why did he get fucked 40 ways from Sunday taken to the cleaners? My guess is he sucks as a husband, but this probably helped:

Strahan’s rep took a beating in the divorce. It was alleged he ditched his wife and twin 2-year-old daughters to jet off with his mistresses, one he supposedly called “Cupcake.” Then there was the time, Jean alleged, he secretly videotaped her sister as she undressed only to later allegedly deposit $30,000 in her bank account.

And, maybe most damaging to female viewers, there was the rebuke by the judge for not remembering Jean’s birthday or their wedding anniversary. Every man knows that’s tough to overcome.

Dude, calling a woman, “Cupcake” is so not the hotness. I don’t care if she is just your jump-off sperm holder. But that’s WAY better than videotaping your sister-in-law undress. For fuck’s sake, what were you thinking? Things like that are what makes marriage such a fading institution. You just can’t trust anybody these days. Plus, people apparently can’t keep secrets either since he allegedly “secretly” taped his sister-in-law but motherfucking Yahoo! Sports knows about it. Some secret, Santa.

It’s no wonder El Idiote Strahan got laundered. He approached his cheating with reckless abandon and if the child support case of Diddy is any indication, New York state doesn’t play when it comes to infidelity and uberfuckery. Of course there is a downside to this whole thing (aside from the serious downside that Strahan will have to face if the actual settlement goes through, he’s appealing)…

…you see, Jean Strahan just might catch a bad one. Michael Strahan is a rich nigga. But he is also about to become a broke nigga. Yes people, he will not be able to live like he used to live once his career ends (like in a year). And you do not mess with a Black man’s money. She’s white too?! Oy vey. I’m getting OJ flashback as we speak, except instead of a white Bronco, it will be a black Escalade with limo tints and a bulletproof fiberglass casing.

Let’s just say, Jean Strahan might need some security because she took his house, his money, and she doesn’t really have to do shit except sit back and laugh at him.

“I ain’t saying he should have killed her, but I understand…” ~ Chris Rock, Bring The Pain, 1996

Word to the wise when purchasing a wife…let the buyer beware.

That bitch might cost you 25 to life one day.

Michael Strahan, this is your life.