June 2006 Archives

I have a little surprise for y'all...some of Boateng's goodies! I've got a clip, some updates, and...
A contest! With prizes no less...

First things first: Episode Two comes on tonight, on Sundance (check your local listings or their site for more details). If you've missed Episode 1, clips are available on Sundance's site (thanks, Melanie for the heads up).

Now about those goodies: here's a clip from House of Boateng, Episode 2. Hope you enjoy.

And if that isn't enough incentive to get you to watch (have I mentioned lately that Mr. Boateng is grown-man-sipping-ice-cold-gin sexy?) - here's a bonus for faithful viewers. I'm holding a Boateng Trivia Contest, thru July 31st. The winner gets a Boateng Prize Pack, which includes a Sundance hat, t-shirt, Boateng cologne and a Sundance festival DVD. So you're wondering, what do you have to do, to win? Simple, watch the show for the next five weeks and answer a few questions. Piece of cake, I know y'all got this.

Oh, you want to know what the questions are, don't you? Easy, just answer the following:

a) Who are the potential business partners Ozwald interviews? (from episode 2)
b) What's the suit color and name of the first model that appears on the runway in the Givency show? (from episode 3)
c) Which site is Ozwald & contemporaries' favorite NY retail location? (from episode 4)
d) What's the problem with the Milan show? (from episode 4)
e) Which major American draft brewery consults Boateng for a redesign? (from episode 5, but a freebie perhaps?)
f) Which Academy Award nominee/presenter does Boateng consider outfitting first? (from episode 6, but I want the first one considered, not the ones who wore him - methinks we already know who they are...lol)

Like I said, easy. And I'm sure you're ready ;-) Mail your responses to me here, and only here: saga's Boateng Contest
Now, I wouldn't go rattling off answers in the comments if I were you (I'm greedy, and I don't like to share), but if y'all want to collabo, and split the pack....ok, I'm not making any suggestions ;-)

So, the contest ends July 31st, and I'll judge responses August 1st thru August 5th. Mail responses only to the address mentioned above. The first respondent with the most correct answers, wins. And I'll be watching along with y'all, to get the answers myself....lol. I'll be back later with episodic updates...and maybe hints, hm...

(aside: first respondent by my mail's receipt timestamps. Don't try to cheat - I'll know!)

Aight, go, watch, email, prize. It's easy.

I'm going to try to briefly attempt to both explain what this means, only in order to illustrate its impact in 2006. However, I have to add the preface that this is a highly complex and charged issue. My hope is to do it justice. I have to thank DP for providing a post that serves as inspiration. I'm not cross-posting it, so if you'd like some background, go read it. I need to add another preface, about DP's post being related to a blog fight related to race. This post isn't restricted to those participants in particular, although clearly, one of those bloggers along with the commenters on that site, doesn't know or understand what Racism is. Some of their sentiments are reflective of an increasingly popular current attitude toward racism in this country, so I'll address them indirectly as well.

Ok, too much fancy language, and cautions for me: Let's just jump into this.

racism - n.
1.) The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability and that a particular race is superior to others.
2.) Discrimination or prejudice based on race.

the definition:: yes, it's above, but do those 27 words capture the myriad experiences that define what it means today?

Maybe visual imagery will help, so picture these:

Racism, circa 1972: a 6 yr old saga swings on her backyard swingset, in her pristinely white neighborhood. Her parents have mentioned racism, but she's too young to understand what it is. Tony (real name), a 6 yr old from across the street, asks to swing, then says he can't, because his parents say he can't play with n*ggers. saga runs to ask her daddy what n*gger means. Daddy & Tony's dad exchange heated unpleasantries, related to the use of the N-word, but this goes over saga's head. However, neither Tony, Tony's dad, or any other member of Tony's family speaks to saga or her family again. For 5 years. Until they move.

Racism, circa 1975: being 8 yrs old, in a predominantly black school (via a "project" close to my neighborhood), studying multiplication, and having your prinicipal's voice nervously & hurriedly urging you over the school's PA system, to gather your things and leave, and run home. However, before you make it off school property, several cars painted crudely with "White Power", pull up to the school, and the car's passengers and drivers chase the school children back to their projects, as you run home wondering what they/you did wrong. If you're wondering why this occurred, apparently some White parents weren't happy that the school was being integrated.

Racism, circa 1984: you attend a predominantly white college, majoring in Computer Science. Your advisor suggests switching to something less "challenging", particularly given your background and cultural upbringing. Note also, that your High School GPA was 3.81, your graduated in the top 10th percentile in your class from a technical high school ,where you majored in...Computer Science, and you scored 1210 on your SATs. You wonder if maybe it's because you're female, but then, so is the advisor.

Racism, circa 1992: career changes, and life changes later, you're a retail Assistant Manager at a well-known chain of specialty fashion stores. You've moved from part-time Associate to this position in a relatively short time, moving up the ranks to full-time, etc. - based on your high-sales volumes, ability to motivate other employees, and your skills in budgeting, cost-controls, etc. A new store is planned in your area, and you work diligently to get promoted to Store Manager for this store, hiring & training associates, creating sales projections and merchandising plans. You stock said store, along with the associates, only to find out that a part-time associate with no degree and no previous experience and an uneventful sales record is being promoted over you to become Store manager for this store.

Racism, circa 2006: you work for XXXXX Corporation, as a Systems Analyst. You hold two degrees in your field, and have XX years of experience in your field. You love your job, and it shows in your work. Your performance reviews are stellar, reflecting your attention to detail, and your rapport with your team. This puts you in line for a promotion. But when your boss leaves, and is replaced with someone unfamiliar with your past performance, this new boss elects to "groom" another, less qualified candidate for the next open slot. And asks you to report to him. This new boss, and his candidate have a lot in common, their shared cultural background and (implicitly) their values and subsequent work ethic. He suggests that this person will (eventually) be a better "fit". And that you should be a team player, and support this.

These are the rules, the contraints, in which people of varying colors, varying ethnicities, and varying races operate on a regular basis. Don't misunderstand the most important lesson here: these are NOT exceptions for black people and people of color in general (brown, red, yellow, etc). These are the rules. This still happens, every day. Every day. Every day, in both well-to-do neighborhoods, as well as economically oppressed neighborhoods, all across this country, black people are still readily, publicly referred to as "subhuman" and "inferior". Yes, this still happens. In 2006.

On a personal note: I've never wished I wasn't black, but there are days that I wake up in the mirror, dreading some cultural clash at work, or some ignorantly rude racial comment at school, or during a passing conversation at the grocery store. I sometimes anticipate getting followed around at Neiman Marcus or in the Versace boutique. And I never wish that I'm not black. However, I do wish that being black wasn't always so f*cking hard.

Stay with me y'all, this may be a long one...

From the NY Times article In Shirley Chisholm's Brooklyn, Rancor Over White Candidacy, an excerpt:

...But now, in a district whose boundaries were drawn to strengthen black voting power, residents are locked in a wrenching, racially charged debate over a white politician's campaign for Congress....The candidacy of that politician, David Yassky — who has built a reputation as an accomplished, independent-minded councilman — has led to angry accusations of racial carpetbagging....A Brooklyn Heights resident who was elected to the City Council in 2001, Mr. Yassky emerged as a key voice in pushing the Bloomberg administration to include subsidized housing in the gigantic waterfront rezoning in Williamsburg and Greenpoint and banning soda and candy in vending machines in public schools....Mr. Yassky's critics say that he is calculating that the other (three) candidates will splinter the black vote, allowing him to win by capturing whites, who make up 21.4 percent of the district, according to the 2004 Almanac of American Politics, which used 2000 census figures. Blacks make up 58.5 percent. Last year, Mr. Yassky had planned to run for Brooklyn district attorney but abandoned the effort. Mr. Yassky only recently moved into the Congressional district — he had lived three blocks outside it — as he began to campaign in earnest.

Oh yeah, a couple of buzzwords from the article: "gentrifying neighborhoods", "rezoning" and "steady influx of whites".

My feeling:: I'm so torn about these issues, because it widens the divide (class, not just race). On the one hand, we all should want the most engaged, qualified and passionate candidate to represent all of us. I'm not claiming Yassky is/isn't that guy, but theoretically - he should be allowed to run, in order to determine whether/not he is. But that's the best case scenario talking. The reality is that:

a) a lot of voters are not just under-represented, but also under-informed. They don't know/care who they vote for, or the issues the candidate actually embraces, as long as that person "sounds good" or "looks like them"
b) these same voters put far too much faith in party representation
c) Party-men, and the political parties themselves, bank on that, during every primary & election

On the other hand, the district was redrawn (albeit in the 1960's) to increase Congressional representation for black people, in this district. The Park Slope residents, as well as the Crown Heights residents. Is it soon enough to say, they've accomplished that?

And I'm so sure this issue is coming to a political infight near you. And me ;-)

live from the jungle floor:: No, that isn't a picture from me, on an African Safari. That, my friends, is a picture from my back yard, and you can thank Yolie for inspiring me to embarass myself like I'm about to.

See, I haven't, I mean hadn't cut the grass since I moved in.

Okokokok, let me explain: see what had happened, was...OK, seriously, the front yard wasnt really growing very fast. Not fast at all. Matter of fact, other than the sod filling itself in, it hadn't grown at all. So it had fooldeded me into thinking the back yard wasn't all that bad.

Until I started hearing things.

bring the noise:: First, it was crickets. I chalked my sensitivity to their noise up to my adjusting to life in the "country", since I was trading sirens for woodland sounds. I figured I just had to get used to it. So, when they got louder, and more frequent, I just figured it was my overactive imagination. But then, I began to hear other noises. Humming. Cooing. Owls, whoo-ing. Leaves, rustling. Birds, chirping. Purring. And other sounds I couldn't easily identify. It got so bad, that I just stopped watering my back yard anywhere near dusk, for fear of what I'd hear/see back there.

the grassbuster, 3000:: So, yesterday I finally picked up my "special ordered" lawn mower. Wait, let me splain. I, being somewhat of a diva, had already made up my mind that I wanted an electric lawn mower, with a bag, for less than $XXX. I tried to wait until my model went on sale, but the noise from my back yard finally became unbearable. So, my Home Depot gift certificates in hand (thanks to XX, XX, XX and XX for breaking a sista OFF at my housewarming ;-) I went to pick it up. Lo and behold, they don't sell bagged electric lawn mower in the Southeast at all. What?! After much discussion between myself, and two extremely sweet HD managers (and probably after they determined I just wouldn't leave without said model), they had it transferred from Chicago for me, sans shipping. I got it yesterday!

7:30 PM this afternoon:: mow the front lawn, with no unpleasant incident, and with my coworker's firm caution "be careful & don't run over the cord" firmly in mind. As I said, it'd barely grown, so even on the lowest setting it barely shaved 1/4 inch off the top in the front. Ok, well, the sides of my house were a little hairier, since it's shady there, and the run-off from the front lawn slides into a small ditch that leads to the back yard. This run-off was a smidge longer, but still not bad. I'm pretty sure I managed to whack a few cricket-families mowing the sides of my house. Nevertheless, I'm making good time, so I push on to the back.

*gasps in horror* holy ish batman - this grass has got to be eight inches high! I walk through the back yard, scanning for rocks, sticks, pinecones, etc. Now, it's not all 8" high, some of it's only 2", but I'm still having some trouble seeing my feet. Let alone what's in the yard. And I'm a little scared of what 8" grass will do to the Grassbuster, 3000. But I push on, and Grassbuster does its thing, s-l-o-w-i-n-g-d-o-w-n-s-e-r-i-o-u-s-l-y when I try to hit those 8" patches. But, it hacks at it, and the grass yields. We're a force to be reckoned with!

8:25 PM:: there are creatures in my grass. I begin to see them scattering away from the noise of the lawnmower, at the very edge of my perception. Grey things, quick-moving things. The things appear to dive in and out of my long tall grass, like dolphins dancing in the ocean. They dive up, and plunge back into the grass. I'm getting tired, my arms hurt, sweat is pouring off my forehead...stinging my eyes, and I'm not quite quick enough to catch a full glimpse of, these...things. But I know they're there, and I can hear some of them, crunching, slithering, and being shredded by the lawn mower. I'm working hard to finish before dark, but the lawn, the lawn mower, and the cord is giving me fits...

Mistake #1 - I bought a green extension cord.
Mistake #2 - I started really late.
Mistake #3 - I'm a girl that's afraid of creatures.

So, at 8:35, when said creature slithers across the top of the grassbuster, 3000, greyly in high contrast with the grassbuster 3000's orange motor housing, I shrieked, lunged toward the creature with the lawn mower, and proceeded to...

...run right over the cord.

Which the Grassbuster, 3000 neatly shredded, before the lack of electricity shut its motor off. Friggin great. Oh, and said creature slithered off into the woods behind my house, unharmed.

8:45 PM:: truck off to Lowe's, to buy another cord. An orange one.

9:30:: the Grassbuster, 3000 and I are still at it. I'm still sweating, still hearing noises, but I no longer care. I run over any/everything that gets in my path. It's fully dark now, and the only light is coming from my neighbor's yards, and the occasional firefly. My primary concern now is to finish somewhat neatly, so that I only have to do touchups later...until the bushes in front of me rustle, loudly and...part.

That's f*ckin' it! This shyt will wait until tomorrow. Hopefully the lawn mower will still be out there in the same spot, when I go back out there to finish.

Oh, you didn't think I was going to stick around to see what it was, did you?

I'm in love. With a married man. Who lives 4218 miles away from me. Who wears red suits. And dresses far better than I could ever possibly attempt.

I originally met him while I was flipping channels, and paused on Sundance. He was wearing this bright orange suit, which was not only impeccably tailored, but masculine. Incredibly masculine. Shadow-boxing with the camera, his casually tossed "Are you kidding? Course I'm ready!", as he entertained whether he's ready to conquer American couture, was charming. I was hooked.

His name is Boateng. Ozwald Boateng. And you should watch this.

Now, I don't want to sound like a Stan about him, but truly - he's fascinating. And Sundance, by using a documentary film style, makes the show less "reality, and more real. He's meticulously obsessed with details, down to the angle of pants pockets, and the width of lapels. He also exudes this casually arrogant elegance, as he whips around in his silver jag (cherry-red leather interior), wearing jeans and a morning coat. But it's topped off with a certain humility, as he talks about his struggle to juggle career and family, then walk his kids to school, and gushes when his "mum" and familly attend a 20-year retrospective at the V&A.

And the CLOTHES. I can't say enough about them, but here's the gist: English tailoring, given a more modern edge, with new cuts, and an infusion of color. There's a definitive interplay between texture (his use of jacquards with bright colors, and traditional British tweeds is frankly, bananas) and fit, that screams European refinement. As he states ,it's inherently as British as he is, even with his Ghanian roots. They're masculine. And sexy as f*ck. Don't even let that (horrors) m____sexual word come to mind when looking at these, because this is far from manservant apparel here, so I don't think FB or any of those other m____sexual folks can pull this off. it's tailored, refined, elegant, masculine, and sophisticated. Without your *sexy* being in question.

Aside #1: my father (I still owe y'all that story, tomorrow I promise) was very much prone to wearing pegged pants, and men's zip on ankle boots with a slight heel. He was the most sophisticated black masculine man I've ever known.

Aside #2: if I hadn't mentioned this before, I began studying fashion at age 11, and from ages 13 - 17 I aspired to design. I was methodical about it, and longed to follow in the footsteps of my fashion icons of that time: Louis Dell'Olio, Norma Kamali, Donna Karan, Guy Laroche, Issey Miyake, etc, etc. I could spot a designer's clothing, just by the cut and draping of their fabrics. I read Vogue, Elle, and W like they were the sports page, and I was a Mavericks fan. Even applied to FIT. Plans went awry, but I still have the eye.

But back to House of Boateng. You have to watch it at least once. It's not just about him, but about his approach to re-launching his clothing line in the US. Again, it's an interesting watch, ,and I'm not just saying that because I'd like to jump his bones. Ok yes, I'd like to jump his bones. Oh, hi Gunyel (wifey), I'm sorry, but he's just dayum sexy! It's on the Sundance Channel, Thursdays at 9pm. Check your local listing to confirm details and times.

And if you don't have Sundance, you can catch clips here: Clips on AOL BlackVoices. Also, he's on a US tour I believe, check The Ozwald Boateng Website (that's official, don't fall for any other 'Bespoke Couture' hype) for details.

Here's hoping he can help American men get over metrosexuality and "getting their grown man on", and actually start dressing like sophisticated men. * Holds up Bombay Gin Gimlet * Cheers ;)

...and here's hoping men stop wearing those oversize, fruit-loop colored, long-jacketed, Deon Sanders pimp-suits. I've been incredibly shitty for decades that the guy who designs them actually calls them 'couture'. The f*cking nerve....augh!!!!!

So, I'm listening to WVEE this morning (pst, er - no judgement!). Frank, Wanda & Sophia were talking about the Car & Bike Show at the International Convention Center this Saturday, and a debate ensued. So I'd like to pose their question to y'all. Today's dating question was: What are the Top 3/First 3 questions women should ask men when they meet them?

What Not to Say:: So let's start out with the top questions women called in to share. There were way more than 3, but most were common:

1. Are you single?


2. Are you gay?


3. Do you go to church?


4. Have you ever been in jail?


5. Do you have a job? What do you do?


6. Do you have children? How many?


7. Are you under court-ordered child support?


8. When was the last time you had a full STD screening?


9. Do you have decent credit?


10. What are your living arrangements? Do you own your own house?

Aside:: the woman who called about #8 apparently had some "dirty potato salad" and got burned. They put her straight on the short bus for that question...

You ain't got to lie, Craig:: Let me hip you to some game: men lie. Men don't even tell little white lies. They tell big a$$ earth-shaking lies, just hoping they can get to their "goal" (whatever that may be, it ain't just p*$$y) before they get found out.

Preface: bro-in-law, forgive me for this next part. I luv ya, I really do, but the sistas need a heads up, for real.

A lil story: my bro-in-law and I took a road trip a coupla weeks ago. Right before we departed, he'd met a sista he was kinda feeling. So as I drove, him & homegirl were engaging in the initial "just-kicking-it" conversation. I tried hard not to eavesdrop, but since he turned my radio down to hear, it was hard. He's a pretty straight-forward guy, so it made for an interesting listen.

His half of the convo had so many ommissions, exaggerations and generalizations, I wanted to yell "Edit!" just so I could submit it for rewrites, to make it factual. Oh my friggin goodness. And it was little insignificant stuff, as well as major deal-breaker stuff. Like where he grew up: Buckhead. How many single black native Atlantans over 30 do you know that can actually claim that? Yeah, riiiight. Whether he got his degree, and what the degree was in. Number of children and/or baby-mamas. Yes, ommission is a lie! What he did for a living. Yes, exaggeration is also a lie. What he's looking for in a relationship. Ok, the jury may be out, but if you're only looking for some a$$ from the person asking the question, answering marriage is a lot deceitful.

Aside: homegirl was just as bad, telling him she lived in Buckhead, when she was about 1/4 mile away from Vine City. Oh and didn't know who Lisa Leslie was. Ok, back to the pernt...

So as for that list above, you can cancel out Numbers 1-10, because a brother will pass a court-ordered lie detector answering those. Without so much as breaking a sweat. But don't feel bad, I've asked those too. Recently, matter of fact. Even wrote a short javascript about it, wanna see it? - here it go. Sshhh, again - no judgement. I was still in school, did it for a class...

But if you've gotta ask:: there's gotta be a way to broach these topics, without being so, I dunnno. Obvious? Well, there were a few decent conversational questions mentioned that open the floor up for discussion:

1. Tell me about your family? What your relationship between/with your parents? Your mom?


2. What's your relationship with your ex?


3. What are your goals and/or life ambitions?


4. Tell me about your spirituality and/or values? What's important to you?

There's a lot to be said about open-ended questions, but the idea here is to open up the floor for conversation. The more a brother talks, the more you can read whether his responses, his body language and his knowledge of his subject matter, match what he's actually saying. Does his eye start twitching as he tells you how well he and his ex get along? Does he start scratching his neck when he's talking about his mom? Does he change the subject when the discussion of his life ambitions comes up? Or does he light up at the question, and disclose not only his career aspirations, but also his personal, financial and romantic aspirations, and how all these things fit together? Ok, you feel me.

Ok, um, aside: Sophia's questions involved stinky feet, moms with gold teeth, and the handling of jail-house soap. Next!

Don't ask, he'll tell?:: First, I've gotta say that I just find Frank Ski to be extra and a know-it-all. And people who are extra tend to irk me. Like this chick in my neighborhood, who happens to be a local HBCU grad (all girls school, you know which one, and this is relevant), who picked a fight with the cashier at my local Publix at 7:10 AM. A fight about not wanting to scan her ATM card, because the person next to her (who wasn't me, and whose appearance was a little unkempt) was standing too close. Calling the cashier rude, threatening to never shop there again, holding up the rest of the line, loudly complaining about how she doesn't get treated like this elsewhere. As she finally scanned her pink and leopard-print ATM card, I had to just tell her: "You are so extra! It is way too early in the morning for all that extra-ness. It's completely unnecessary." I have this thing about XXXXX-college girls, they irk me constantly. I'm working on it. Ok, I digress.

But, with all Frank's extra-ness, he made a good point. "People shouldn't ask questions. They should be friends first, and then find out all those things as they're getting to know a person. Those first few questions are about deceit - and no one who's being deceitful will answer them honestly. So they're pointless. And if it's about sex (particularly for the DL/GAY/STD/MARITAL STATUS questions) you're not supposed to be giving it up that easily anyway. Women go into dating looking for a boyfriend, which is wrong. You should go into it looking for a friend, and see what happens. Most married women will tell you, the guy they married was their friend first, and the relationship developed..." He may have something here...

No questions. And a que sera, sera attitude. Sounds easy, right? Ok, maybe for you, but for an analytical control freak such as myself, this is Mission Impossiblé

Well, that dayum dating survey never did me any good, so I'm willing to try it. Your thoughts?

Note: graphic below sized for space, click it to view full size in your browser.
Soooo...I'm nearly done with my MBA, and this is where it gets interesting. With all my foundation classes completed, it's time to apply the theories I've learned into a real application. Since I'm in a joint-pathed International Business - Information Systems major, the application will require me to briefly study abroad, and spend a lot of time studying/discussing other cultures. Hence most of my remaining classes are related to International Business, and this current one is the primer.

Weee-he-he-he-ell, I've had a rude awakening. I'm culturally illiterate. Ok, so you're thinking, "the hell you say - not with your open-door, open-mind, open-to-all-things-new policy"? Mm-hm, think again. I got slapped early on, Day 1 in class, with my Professor's seemingly simple question:

Professor: "why did India wait so many years to make the necessary changes to grow their economy?"
Class response: * crickets *

Let me frame this for you: this class is pretty diverse, with a few foreign students, from every continent across the globe (excluding Australia). We even have a few students from India, who moved here as children. And since this is a flexible MBA program, most of the students have established careers, work for companies of varying size, including quite a few local Fortune 500's.

Professor: "ok, can you typify the political-economic climate in India prior to this recent growth spurt?"
economy?"
Class response: * more crickets *

Now granted, most students know these questions are leading, and don't have an easy "right" answer. Frankly, we could all shout out a dozen semi-right answers, and they wouldn't necessarily match the answer this professor had in mind. But, no one answered? No one tried? Amazing, since most of us are probably nearing graduation. Ok, let me ask you a few of these questions, and correct me if these seem like things the average American *should* know:

1. Which country was economically predominant in the 19th century, and how does this affect globalization today?


2. Why does the US think Communism is bad? How's about Islamic fundamentalism?


3. What's the difference between a Caucus and a Primary?


4. What's the capital of Montana?

Aside: Question Number 3 really bugged the living shyt outta me, particularly because I'm a voter, and if this was on a voting test (remember, I'm in a voter-id state - so that idea isn't that far-fetched) I would've failed miserably.

I mean, I know my strengths and/or weaknesses. History, in general, has never been my strong suit. However, I thought I had enough working knowledge of the world, to maintain. To consider myself, about average. That, my friends, is laughable. I barely have enough working knowledge of my own country to be able to read the NY Times or WSJ. Let's not even talk about trying to have a go at The Economist, The BBC Online, or any other non-US news source, for that matter.

And you might be thinking, like I was at one point in my life: who the f*ck cares? I got bills to pay, and babies to feed! Well, the problem is that I know better now. I know that we Americans don't live in a vacuum, we as a country have our hands in pots we definitely shouldn't have, and are ignoring other pots that we definitely should be stirring. I'm trying not to overly beat myself up about it, but I have to call myself to task, and be about my business. I'm not just an employee of XXXXXX company that happens to have a diverse staff, a student at XXXXX University, studying topics of International import. I'm a human being, and I live in a world that I know very little about.

So, if my posts become sparse, just know I'm spending my free time with my new best friends: Wikipedia, Google, and Bloglines (thank goodness for EJ hippin' me to RSS news feeds!).

And I promise to tell y'all my thoughts about being a Black man. And my father. And Alfred E. Neuman. It ends with a horror story. And it's definitely not what you think...

Words cannot begin to express my thoughts, so I'll just leave you with this:

Note: this is one of the least appalling images I could find.

For More Information:
CNN Coverage of World Refugee Day 2006
BBC Coverage of the Crisis in Darfur
Human Rights Watch on the Crisis in Darfur
Amnesty Intl. on World Refugee Day 2006
And if you just must see what I saw: Yahoo Image Search on Darfur.

I'll be back tomorrow, to talk about my being an Ugly American.

I saw this coming...

Yet, why were the words of Mr. Burns commenting on the sad state of hip-hop running through my head when I read the following? Maybe because he happens to live in a "Have" sector:

Court upholds law dividing Fulton tax base

The gist: my county's tax base is now legally, neatly divided into two parts: the "Have's" (N. Fulton) and the "Have-Nots" (S. Fulton). They're absotively right, most of Atlanta's Fortune 500 companies, larger corporations, large portion of the business sector, etc. happen to be located in the Have sector. And as for me - I happen to be a Have-Not.

Now, this doesn't surprise me, given the attitudes of some of my colleagues who live in N. Fulton, where I work. Their attitudes aren't far from Mr. Burns either. What does bother me is that this was "tacked ... on during a last-second meeting on the bill".

And where, exactly, do you think Shafer will want to draw the line between Have's and Have-Nots? Probably right about, uh -> there, just below that Star in the "crown" that is N. Fulton county perhaps? Or maybe not - leave Atlanta, even with all its new development, to the tax-draining Have-Nots, with their "unfettered welfare, bad schools, and disrespect for authority".

Yes, I could have bought in N. Fulton, but there's economic development happening in S. Fulton, with additional projects being proposed and developed, and I wanted my home to build value as these developments unfolded.

Point is, I'm asking myself, isn't this all One County (City, State, Nation)?

Apparently not.

I'll go on about this later...

Right before I was about to write the final verse to my hip-hop love story, I sat in my favorite nail salon, listening to a mixtape featuring both southern acts like D4L and Dem Franchise Boyz, and some underground (?) versions of some Biggie, Jay-Z and Nas tracks I'd never heard. Tony, my fave nail tech (who, yes is a Vietnamese straight man and yes, can hook up a French manicure) and I started talking about the mixtape, which he promised to burn a copy of for me later. And while that alone should have stunned me into action (that Tony had hotter music than me - I'm a hip-hop kid for Gawd's sake! Oh the horror!), something else served as the fuel for the final hip-hop post.

As I waited for my nails to dry, I picked up the April 2006 copy of Atlanta magazine, and skimmed through the editorial pages. Now, Atlanta magazine is a glossy regional lifestyle magazine, that typically features everything from politics and the local economy, to travel, culture and technology. Personally, I love it for the shopping.

But as I skimmed, the words Dissing Dupri caught my eye. This reader commentary was apparently in response to the (Feb '06) article written by Jennifer Senator called "Six Degrees of J.D.", which stated that Dupri "...was overlooked ... for the producer of the Year Grammy" and apparently praised Dupri. But this comment by an Atlanta magazine reader didn't agree with Jennifer's statements. At all. Wait, let me allow you, kind reader, to hear his voice of disagreement:

"Are tbug rappers like this what you call talent? ...Without mentioning race, these sub human beings have polluted our mainstream culture with gutter rap music and you are one of those white enablers who glorifies them and their trashy music. I hold you and other enablers like you solely responsible for alloing these creatures to contribute to the declining morals of the society in which we live today.

Because of white enablers like you, it is merely impossible to hold individual adults responsible for bad behavior and providing bad examples for children. You should deplore gangsta rap music, the drug and intoxication world, gangs, unfettered welfare, bad schools, disrespect for authority and the denigration of the English language." ~ John P. Burns Dunwoody

W.O.W.

So, it's 2 weeks later, and this still bugs me. I'm neither a "fan" or detractor of J.D., but it's still bugging me. It's stuck in my craw for three reasons:
1) Mr. Burns portrayal of rap music isn't far from my portrayal of the current state of hip-hop. Yeah, it was me who said that "that n*gga was still on the same block. Sometimes he'd be shiny suited up, screaming some shyt about bling, bytches and benjamins. Sometimes he's be in his tims and jeans, wifebeater and white tee, ramblling some bullshyt about Jesus and steady saying "we ain't going anywhere...we right here". It is a stretch from gangsta rap -to- trifling brotha posted up on the block, true. But it isn't a looong stretch. And I'm kicking myself for allowing the radio and tv to overshadow my historical knowledge of hip-hop, and let that caricature fester in my own brain. Oh yeah, and 5.0. Cent. Ugh. I actually bought into this bullshyt.

2) This portrayal is wholly inaccurate. This is J.D. we're talking about, right? No offense to any J.D. fans, but anyone who knows anything about his music would agree, he's as far from gangsta rap as you can get these days. He's produced for Mariah Carey, for Christ's sake - didn't her label make him sign a morals clause or something while he was working on her album? Look at his bio, his discography - gangsta rap? Are you kidding me?

And Mr. Burns apparently googled JD's name, and came across an API story about his performance with the YoungBloodz and BoneCrusher at a Falcons game, where the language and content was er - questionable to say the least. But - this story is 2.5 years old (Nov '03). And, there is no consensus about what the offensive language actually was. Each newswire that carried this story, modified the headline (some to make it rather inflammatory), but along with carrying the same story, they all stated: "It wasn't clear which versions of their songs the groups used at the Georgia Dome. Some people at the game claimed they heard profanity, others said they didn't." Clueless from his comfortable Atlanta suburb, Mr. Burns fired off this toney commentary with no facts in hand, and used this 'response' to loosely indict the genre. That, my friends - I have a problem with.

Okokok, let's assume J.D. works with questionable artists, gangsta rappers and thugs. Do you think Mr. Burns would take Clive Davis to task?

3) This portrayal typifies the view of a certain large segment of our political/cultural population. I find this kind of thinking maddening, because it's supposed to come from people who are "educated", "enlightened" and/or "knowledgeable" about "everything" including popular culture.They develop this esoteric perspective, and then force those views on the unwitting sheep who take their professed "knowledge" for granted, without thinking for themselves. "Unfettered welfare"? "drug and intoxication world"? Does any of this rhetoric sound familiar?

* shaking her head * I'm just...done. The whole thing was so overtly classist and racist, I'd have to start a whole new series to address it. I just can't give this anymore thought/air.

when they ask about me, tell 'em...I'm a hustla...

Lemme frame this for you real quick: I'm in a meeting at work, an admittedly bullshyt meeting about some company-sanctioned, company-favored charitable organization that we contribute money to every year, both as an organization, as well as on an individual level. We have annual meetings about this shyt, that no one looks forward to, to "re-emphasize our commitment" to this charity, before they begin to solicit funds. Blah...blah...blah. So. I'm sitting next to "semi-rebellious" manager SRM (just rebellious enough to f*ck up his own career, but not enough to create any major organizational changes). Two of my team-mates/colleagues are having this conversation behind me within earshot, while our Department Manager rambles on about why this organization deserves our attention. The speaker then shifts focus to a sub-titled visual presentation, that lacks audio. Both chatty-Kathy's miss alla this intro. Visual rolls, subtitles come on, and chatty-Kathy #1 loudly says something like "oh, I know we're not supposed to be reading those subtitles, are we?". And SRM gives me the gas face, as if to say "I know this peon is not talking over this. Had she been paying attention, she'd know enough to shut the f*ck up. Wait, let me make a mental note of this to f*ck up her career later..." And I mentally cringe in horror.

I've often thought that the corporate game isn't unlike any other game out there. Pimp game, drug game, numbers game, basketball, hockey, you name it. Frankly, it's all a hustle, and there are facets that they all share. A few:

know your environment:: If selling drugs was as easy as buying a kilo, divying it up and standing on the corner, we'd all do it. (ok not US all, but u knowwutImean) But it isn't; hence the police, other drug dealers, crackheads, drug-rollers, law-abiding citizens and the like. Given that, for the life of me I don't know why individuals walk into a corporate environment, and think they're gonna start the rebellion. Run shyt. Ni**a please - you're only the first knucklehead to have that thought this hour. Meanwhile, your competitors are scoping the landscape, learning the players, making connections, trying to figure out first how the environment works, and who's who in it.

slang-aside:: a "drug-roller" is someone (male or female) who, as an individual or part of a crew, cons then robs drug-dealers for a living. Mara used to do that too...

Back to the issue at hand, and this is just a thought, I know this sounds crazy, but hear me out: ya may want to familiarize yourself with that block, before you load your pockets up with raviloli bags, and start screaming that you've got that good power (you). Before you get deaded. I'm jes sayin'...

know your enemy:: When I started workin' for the good gub'ment (corporate) gig, some mess involving my new boss went down as soon as I walked in the door. At the time I wasn't privvy to all the details, so I lay low, and kept my ears open. Well, one of my coworkers, also working for this new boss, had already identified said boss as "the enemy", and revelled in the afore-mentioned mess. We disagreed about it once, loudly and with expletives inserted, since I thought that her assessment of him as "the enemy" was premature. She also compared said boss to SRM above, whom she found to be much easier to work for. Oh well.

Found out later, that said boss was "ridin' her (and the rest of us) hard", because he knew that some other bosses would find our job performance questionable, primarily because we're a) young b) gifted and c) black. He was trying to get us all to a level where our performance was beyond reproach. In some cases, his methods worked. In hers, it didn't, and she unwittingly earned a label as a 'non-descript' performer, that follows her to this day. Matter of fact, SRM confirmed that non-descript label, even as he was being 'nice' to her. She's clueless, despite attempts by several of her teammates (incl. myself) to give her a heads up about it. The whole thing has thrown a wrench in her career plans on several occasions.

Your enemy has a face, no doubt. It's your cubemate, your desk neighbor, it's the sista/brotha who's at the 'fight the diversity' power rallies 1X/year, but silently stabbing you in the back while they try to take your shine. I don't fret overmuch about Sméagol, since he's made his presence known, he's easily managed. It's the enemy that I don't see concerns me.

know your limits/strengths:: I violate my dress code. E.v.e.r.y. D.a.y. Open toed shoes, gauchos, sleeveless shirts, and the like. E.v.e.r.y. D.a.y. Oh, and let's not even talk about my non-corporate hair. That's right, I can acknowledge that even my hair pushes that dress code boundary. E.v.e.r.y. D.a.y. Matter of fact, sometimes I intentionally compound the violations, and then go talk to my HR rep or some other higher level manager, about ne-ole-thing, just to silently say "yeah, I know I'm violating. And?!"

They let it pass. I could think of a number of reasons, but here's the two most important: I work my a$$ off, and I'm incredibly professional. Almost to the point of being anal. I take my work ethic so seriously in fact, that I think there's a silent agreement that, we won't f*ck with saga & her fashion sense, and saga won't keep pushing those limits any further. I did once (wore a hat to work), which started so much shyt that I decided it wasn't a battle worth fighting for. But I could've. And I had a chance of winning. But it would've started a mini-war. And you definitely have to pick your battles. This dress code thing, it is truly minor. But it's also foolish to ride good employees over their pants length, and that's the point I was trying to make. Point (in fact) made.

when in doubt...stop. think. ask.::
Thug #1 pointing to random hustla on the come-up: yo, who's that new kid on the block?
Thug #2, shruggin: him? I don't know son. I think he's down with Poochie.
Thug #1: you think? or you know?
Thug #2: I dunno man...yo why you sweatin' him?
Thug #1: he's creepin on my customers yo - I ain't feelin' that! I'mma take that n*gga out...
Thug #2: c'mon man, he's wit Poochie man..it ain't even worth all that drama, for real...
Thug #1 then shoots random hustla....he'll ask Poochie lata

Ok, well Poochie actually shot him later. But you get the point right? Ok, given that, would he have looked more/less foolish if he'd have given ole Poochie a lil ring-a-ling? Maybe pondered a lil over his course of action?

Now, what kills me, is that I work with folks, multi-degreed, allegedly intelligent folks, 6-figure salary making folks, who won't just ask. Or stop and think. They'll fire off a volley of emails, schedule conference calls, get whole teams involved in issues that are really non-issues. Non-issues that would've been easily addressed with a single question. Maybe 5 minutes of meditation. * sighs *

protect ya neck. oh yeah, and your rep:: this is the lesson I found the hardest to handle on a personal level. See, my work ethic is impeachable, but my ability to toot my own horn isn't. I "don't need no steenkin' horn-tooter, maihne". I've got a work ethic. Period.

That is, until I got a knife in the side from a boss that I thought I had a decent relationship with. But she didn't stab me while I was lookin'. No, she stabbed me while I was sleepin. She questioned my performance to someone else, and never told me about it. Planted the seed, tried to let it grow, without my knowledge. And not only did I not see it coming, I didn't feel it either. Until someone pulled the knife out a couple of weeks later, but (some) damage had already been done. I learned, the hard way, that your rep is almost more important than making sure you're doing the do. Your rep proceeds you, and can protect you when shyt gets proverbially thyck. And it always gets thyck. My homeboys on the street know this, and would hurt someone for tarnishing their rep.

Yeah, I know how to CYA/CMA (cover yo/my ass), and I work like a Hebrew slave for my own personal satisfaction. Sometimes that isn't enough. Protecting ya rep is the underlying current that will fuel your career, as you sail along your career path. Steering is crucial, but you won't go anywhere without the current.

I need a soldier...: My first love (albeit puppy love) was named Tink. Tink & I parted ways years ago, but when I was in college, Tink and some of his boys got jobs working for a telemarketing company. At the time, none of us knew much about telemarketing. And me and my friends were broke college students. However, what we could see was that a) Tink and Co. suddenly started pushing luxury vehicles b) Tink and Co. started wearing expensive suits. Vintage-looking suits (think Chicago-house music meets 1940's gangsters) and c) Tink and Co. all engaged in some cash-intensive yet lucrative sidelines (real-estate investing, party promotions, etc.) So when Tink and Co. were implicated in some fraud allegations, and money laundering schemes, etc. none of us were surprised.

But what did surprise me was that Tink and Co. managed to avoid federal charges. Matter of fact, for the most part Tink and Co. got relatively light/non-existent sentences. And managed to hold on to some of those lucrative sidelines. Collectively. Some of Tink and Co. still have those businesses today. Why? They had a network that they trusted. Tink and Co. (to a degree) were some ride or die n*ggaz, and none of them turned on the other. They held tight, and didn't allow the fear of catching a case interfere with their goal: for all of them to remain free. Any of them could easily have turned on the lot, but they didn't, and I (despite the questionable legality of their endeavors) can respect that.

We all need a soldier. I work with quite a few folks I trust and I appreciate them for that. Common goals and all. Don't get it twisted, we ain't "fallin on the sword" for each other, and I ain't catchin' a case for anyone (I've got babies to feed...) but that unspoken agreement is there.

theProduct:: do any of us really believe in the shyt we sell? Crack. Overpriced clothing. Luxury cars. The idea that the playing field is level. Dreams. A corporate culture that at once opresses us and keeps our pockets swole.

Hell no. Sierra Mist has it over 7Up and Sprite, no matter how many lemons and limes are involved in head-on collisions, and no matter what Miles Thirst says. But Sprite doesn't need to believe, they just need y'all to believe.

theGame::So back to chatty-Kathy. She's older than me, been working here longer, and (technically speakin') higher level than me. But she doesn't get it. Should I hip her to the game?

Maybe it's just that I'd been ignoring him for a sec, or it could've been the alert was extra loud this AM, but why is my Outlook getting all attitudinal on me?

Ok, dayum.....I'm reminded. You don't have to be all funky about it...sheesh.

Mara wasn't always a girl geek. Matter of fact, she wasn't always on the approved side of the law. And to take that even further, she wasn't always on the moral side of philosophical life. Yeah, she did some dirt...

she was a geek, but not for long:: freshman year in high school, Mara was a year ahead of herself (skipped a grade), taking senior classes, naive from living in the burbs, and fresh out of a gifted school she fought hard to escape. And her mom dressed her funny. So Mara got picked on. A lot. Her sole mission in life back then, was to just be cool. So she latched on to some A-list kids, and these A-list kids smoked weed. Lots of weed. Mara was 13.

Now , we all have those stories: dad leaves a bag unattended, or some friends try to smoke lawn cuttings. Well, she did the same thing. But this was different. Mara's homegirl's parents sold weight. So, even when they couldn't sneak into their parent's stash, homegirl knew all the parents' buyers (hustlas in their own right). This was back when a dub would get you 20 fat ones wrapped neatly in Zig-Zags. By her sophmore year, Mara knew how to clean a sack, roll it, fashion home-made bongs out of empty toilet paper rolls and screens, and take a shotgun like it wasn't shyt. Mara was 14.

It was all in good fun though. They were young, and dumb and experimenting, right? Champale was king, although a Genny Cream Ale would work too. Mara and her homegirls played Quarters or Spoons alongside Spades, or the Question game (every question answered with a question, or else you're drinking/smoking something) at sleepovers. Sleepovers that boys snuck into. Her tolerance for Al-kyll-hol was cultivated between the ages of 14 and 16, and by age 17 - Mara could outdrink most grown men.

gimme the loot:: Now, how did she support her dub-sack/Al-kyll-hol habit? Good question, since Mara was too young to work. Well, allowance covered some. And her allowance was higher than most kids, thanks to SSI (dad died) and a whole lot of mama-guilt (mom worked a lot, to make up for dad being gone). But yeah, Mara also stole from her friends/family. Sure did. And she manipulated that mama guilt too. But even that wasn't always enough to keep her in fancy A-list duds, and fulfill the drug/Al-kyll-hol/cigarette habit. Particularly when Mara started taking Speed to offset the Weed. Oh yes, it was a progression - Mara was young and dumb, remember?

Poochie was his name. Poochie, with the money green Datsun, the chrome wheels, the kit, the bra, and running lights. Poochie, with the gold teeth, and chains/rings/bracelets to match. He caught up with Mara walking home from school one day. Poochie was a hustla - sold weight, and Poochie was ugly. Not just ugly, fugly. Like Mara didn't want to be seen with him in public. But he was a hustla, so she took his number, and they made an unspoken deal. Poochie at 19 was too old to be hanging out publicly with 15-16 year old Mara anyway, so Poochie courted her with free drugs. A $20-sack here, a few pills here, a 1/2 oz there, in lieu of movies and trips to Crystal Beach.

It was like hitting the jackpot. Mara's school was predominantly white, and not for anything - but those white kids were foolish about their drugs. So Mara's fat $20 sack could get her $40 by selling them individual joints at $2/each - thinly rolled, and laced with Oregano. The white kids never complained. For a sec, Mara was the school dealer, selling both joints and ravioli bags and kids she didn't even know were trying to get at her, to buy.

the ho-stroll...:: ...but Poochie had expectations. All that doesn't come for free, amd even as a ugly dude, he was a hustla with grown women trying to get at him. He wouldn't allow himself to get hustled by no young chick, even if she was mad cute. He pressured Mara for time alone in his apartment, tried hard to get at her (sexually), but she couldn't even kiss him without wincing. Eventually, the hook-up ended.

Her girls had already taken up the slack though. Her two best friends were already dating hustlas, so they just kept it moving. They threw parties, attended parties, and did what they had to do to keep the weed coming/going. Looking back, at them being 16, 17 and 19 - what they did was so close to ho-ing, it was indistinguishable. No, Mara never gave up any a$$ for cash or weed, but she dated guys that she shouldn't have entertained, for hookups. Mara dated a booster for free clothes, her girl dated a mechanic for free car parts. Maybe they were cute, she can't remember much - shyt Mara was pretty much high constantly by then.

...and maintainin':: Mara stayed at the top of her class, regardless. Graduated in the top 10th percentile, 95 average, got 100's in math, 90's in science, and scored 1210 (1600 scale) on her SAT's. All while high. Maintained so hard, her American History teacher tried hard to flunk her, because she slept through his entire class for a year, and still had an 88 average.

the X-step program:: it didn't come to a crashing end. But there were some lowlights that slowed her road:
a) Cocaine - two of her homegirls started snorting during her senior year. They tried to get Mara to snort with them, but the idea of putting shyt in her nose scared her too much. A coupla nosebleeds / flattening a$$es later, and they stopped being tight.
b) Senior Day - Mara and a group of her classmates basically bum-rushed a Likker Store before school started. Stole everything not nailed down, and mixed everything they stole in a local park: Cognac with MD 20/20, Wild Irish Rose with 151. She puked in 3rd period English, fell asleep in the puke, then woke up, ran out and puked all the way home. They thought it was too hilarious to be ashamed, and she wasn't the only one calling Earl that morning.
c) theBaby - she got pregnant (with a good friend's ex who also happened to smoke with her - her homegirl never forgave her). No weed during the pregnancy at all.
d) the White Rug - 2 weeks after Mara gave birth (about 8 months outta high school), her girls tried to get her high/drunk to celebrate. They had a new connect, a 25 yr old sista who had just purchased a new house, with a white shag rug. Not even 45 mins after the first smoke, Mara puked up Whiskey Sour just outside homegirl's bathroom. Mara was done smokin', for the most part.

Mara still drank though. See motherhood may have dampened her fashion designer aspirations (got accepted to FIT, but no parent housing available), but it didn't stop the party. She drank herself right outta college (with a 1.9 GPA). she drank herself right outta two relationships. She drank when she was happy, depressed, with friends, and sometimes alone. Mara was 21. And at 21 Mara realized she had a problem.

Mara got a handle on her drinking, herself. No 12-step for her. Mara had to dissassociate herself from some friends, who weren't at all happy about that. Her new man was ecstatic. Mara's had occasional binges since then (OD'd on Whiskey Sours one night at 112, and decorated her car interior. Oh yeah, and she tried to smoke a blunt in Piedmont park, passed out, and woke up 2 hours later laying in the grass - undisturbed. That was the last time she thought about smokin' weed.), but not like back then.

moral?:: I don't think there is one, except maybe to say that we all go through things sometimes, and sometimes we have to know ourselves when those things are getting the best of us, so we can put those things behind us. Mara got off (and out) easy. Howevr, Mara has former friends whose drug habits developed pretty nastily before they wised up (or didn't) and some friends whose associations with street pharmacists got them hemmed up either by the po-po (jail) or the streets (one was kidnapped temporarily, but returned only slightly harmed).

we all go through things sometimes. how we handle them is how we grow, and become sagacious. oh yeah, and that the hustle? it don't stop...

...how did we go from inseparable, to what we are now?

ETA:: happy 200th post, and how fitting that this should be it, eh? see parts I and II for background

the end of the affair:: Looking back, it's hard to pinpoint the exact moment in which our paths veered. I can remember that hip-hop got me through some really rough times (Mary J. and Lauren Hill's "I Used To Love Him"), taught me how to drive like a maniac (Wu-Tang's "Protect Ya Neck"), showed me how not to give a flyin f*ck when the chips fell ( Biggie's "My Downfall").

Man, I can remember the instant I decided to make a career change into the IT field, and it's a definitive hip-hop moment. I was working for a state gov't agency, making very little dough, and pondering whether this gig was where the inept go to retire. Working with a truckload of hopelessly disgruntled, underpaid, complaining women - literally, it felt like this place was where career hopes go to die. And one day, this fine m****f*** pulled in the parking lot, brand spankin new silver Benz, blastin' The Firm's "Phone Tap". Out pops this brother, standard NY gear (at th time, an anomaly in 'white tee' land): Tims, baggy jeans, Enyce sweater. Clearly not giving a damn about our dress code, any noise ordinances, or what anyone thought. Now, don't get it twisted, he was FOINE. But he was also free, and what I craved in that moment was exactly that: freedom. Financial freedom, career freedom, and the freedom to blast Nas all over that parking lot.

but then fate stepped in...: or maybe it was Erykah? Lauren? Jilly from Philly? Nooooo...it was D'Angelo. He walked in, with his braided hair, and swagger. I mean, he was cool, looked like most of my "boys" I'd catch spittin' verses and passin' blunts in any cypher. D walked up on me then, opened his mouth, and while I thought he'd drop a few rhymes, over a tight beat, he....sang. This deep sexy voiced man sang, right in my ear. Oh shyt...I think my panties just melted off. And this is all before he took that dayum shirt off...

I fell in love with 'Neo-Soul'.

And all that it represented. Growth. Movement. Eclecticism. Eccentricity. Sexuality. Maturity. Edge. Allegedly. Well, it was ambitious and progressive. My friends and I topped each other with our new "discoveries". Trumping Erica Wright's demo release, with Jill's snippet of "you got me..." on Come Alive. Debating about whether Res would blow up before Lina (thanks to theChaos for that - and I lost that bet). The edgier and more 'eclectic' it became (I luv you Bilal! and Codie Chestnut is a wild boy!) the more I loved it.

And we, fit. I was getting older, maturing. Putting childish things behind me. Looking for a corporate gig, and a more serious relationship. Allegedly. Ok, really I was getting old. Rebellion is cool, but I had babies to feed.

...and hip-hop?:: well I want to say that we were still feeling each other. But I'd be lying. I'd check my old hood to see how he was doing, and that n*gga was still on the same block. Sometimes he'd be shiny suited up, screaming some shyt about bling, bytches and benjamins. Sometimes he's be in his tims and jeans, wifebeater and white tee, ramblling some bullshyt about Jesus and steady saying "we ain't going anywhere...we right here". Dayum. I swear, for 3 minutes straight, dude faked a gulf shore accent, and just grunted 'uhn' without even catching his breath.

"Yo, you see that bytch right there? Yeah, I had her a$$. She was all sprung and shyt. She was cool for a sec, kna'wha I'm saying, she had my back, you know?! But I needed to make that bread, and she wasn't paying. So I had to do, what I had to do, kna'mean?"

"Hey bytch, do I know you? Yeah, your name is saga, right? So what's up? Oh, so you all stuck up now, f*cking with them singing n*ggas and shyt? Oh, you don't know me? Oh, it's like that? F*ck you then, broke bytch - you lucky I used to let you s*ck my d*ck...."

I started crossing the street when I saw his standing there, as much to avoid revealing my anguish at hearing how he was treating me, as I did it to avoid confrontations. Hip-hop had new fans now, a whole new cypher to entertain. He didn't need me anymore.

...and so it ended with a whimper...:: no more discourses on who was tighter lyrically, or whose reviews were more authentic (Sauce? Extra-Extra-Medium? Who cares?). Jacking for beats was the standard (and this is ''the remix'), without even changing the original drop. Yeah, I still loved hip-hop deep somewhere inside, but not what it had become. So we turned our backs on each other. I still listened to the Roots, Common, Mos Def, Talib Kweli..but the jazz influences had me in a real bad way. I didn't have the ears for a pure hip hop song (in my jazz/soul music's minds eye), so I voluntarily turned in my hip-hop card.

...occasionally though...a song so hot I couldn't ignore it would catch my ear ("ether") ...and against my will, my hopes would soar...only to be dashed by hip-hop using some other gimmick to get new listeners. snap. *eyes rolling* riiiiight.

where are we now, anyway?:: *laughing* twisted, that's where we are. 'Cause the Miseducation of Lauren was a hip-hop album, just like the Roots, and hell, Jill very well could have been the new Queen of Hip Hop soul. And somewhere, heads still doing what they do. Not only did we turn our backs on each other, but we allowed the Media (via commecialization) and the Industry (pimps and whores we all know that they are) dictate our relationship. So that now, when Nas, Reebok and Sprite can agree that 'Hip Hop is Dead', it isn't surprising...it's a self fullling prophecy. "There's a shortage of 'real' hip hop...so you'd better try to lock some down while you can..." riiiight.

My friend pulled my hip-hop card.. He took me back to the block, to check up on him, that hip-hop kid. He was riding a skateboard this time, on the humble, trying to get back to his roots, and keep his bearings. He spit a few verses, and it sounded good. Yeah, I'm feeling that...

I used to love him. Still do. Always will. And I'm not the only one...

I owe y'all posts, so I promise, part III (the finale) of love of my life is coming, along with the drug post and some others...meanwhile, a babby daddy rant.

I've been biting my tongue for the last month about this whole thing, trying to work out a civil disagreement, some sort of parental compromise. Despite the fact that I think my ex is a hemorrhoidal a$$hole (at times) who needs psychological help, I do understand two fundamental facts:

a) he's still my son's father, and I cannot replace him
b) I chose him to be the father (even if the pregnancy was unplanned)

So, it's my lot to deal with (some) of the consequences of those facts. No, we don't get along well. No, he's not a good father. But I try to work with him, through our arguments, our not seeing eye-to-eye, our fights about child support, etc.

But there's one thing that m*tha f*ckin' galls me: the opt-out option. See, that's the route of the irresponsible non-custodial parental unit....when the times get rough, the sorry opt the f*ck out.

While my son was sick repeatedly with pneumonia, to the tune of 6 different bouts and 3 hospital stays, he opted out. Days I spent at the hospital, he opted out. The day our son was diagnosed with developmental delays, he opted out. Nights on feeding tubes, and heart/lung monitors, he opted out. One incident where I spent 6 days in the hospital, unable to shower or change clothes, because our son was on IV fluids and kept pulling the IV out, he opted out. Hell, the night our son was born he opted out (left my hospital room, to sleep with another woman, in our bed). He opted out not just on our relationship, but also the idea of being a parent, pretty much from day 1. But I chalked all that up to his being a new parent, with his first child, and tried until I just couldn't try anymore, to make him be responsible. I finally left, when he started getting me into legal trouble.

My irresponsible non-custodial parental unit then opted out for 3 years. After a year without child support, rarely visiting, he made an irresponsible move on his part. My enraged response was to decide that if he couldn't be responsible, my son was better off. So yes, I opted out, for a while. He happily complied, not calling, not asking about us, not giving a dayum how we ate, lived, about school, about how I was working, nothing for three m*tha f*ckin' years. Finally, I swallowed my pride, and apologized to him, because I felt like it was more important for my son to have a father, than for me to prove my point about his irresponsibility, and it was only then that he opted back in. But even then, that didn't guarantee his responsibility.

Well gaht dayum if it didn't reinforce his thinking. His a$$ has exercised this option over and over and over again ever since. When I approached him with a visitation schedule, he opted out. The first time I got seriously involved with someone else, he opted out. When he got pissed off at me about the child support agreement, he opted out, in court. Unfortunately for me, the child support mediator didn't handle visitation issues. So, when he opts out, I'm the sole parent, and my recourse is limited. Yeah, I could hire a lawyer, fight it out, but this brotha is sorry, and didn't work for three years....he'd disappear, I already know this.

Jump to now. I'd love to pinpoint the root-cause of our current strife but there isn't just one. There are a few: his other baby-mama has a new boyfriend; he's having relationship problems; I moved into a new house; I borrowed money from him; she went back to school; she borrowed money from him; I bought a new truck, he lost his job; he broke down her door; he professed his undying love for me; I told him there's no chance we'd ever get back together. Ever.

Root cause or not, the bottom line is he still owes me $thousands$ of dollars in back child support, we still don't have a visitation agreement, and he still opts out whenever he friggin feels like it.

People (brothers and sisters alike), to get respect as a parent, you have to earn it, which is impossible to do when you're still engaging in the same behavior you did to lose it in the first f*cking place. That shyt should be common sense.

Yeah, I'm sick and m*tha f*ckin tired of the opt out option, but I refuse to take responsibility for making my ex be a responsible father. Like I told him, being irresponsible is easy, it's the sticking around trying to make broken things work that's the hard part, and has been the bulk of my parenting experience.

...you don't have to look hard for a reason to opt the f*ck out..any old excuse will do...to be a good parent, you have to find the reason to stay. And it should be somewhere in your child's eyes.

Nah, I don't think I'll presume to comment on this one. Yet.

However, shouts out to DaveyWayne, for giving me a heads up about it, and for suggesting an idea related to it.

Here's the deal:: The Washington Post is doing a multi-part, multi-authored series on What Being A Black Man in America Means. It includes interviews, videos, commentaries, etc, and is slated to run throughout the rest of the year, in the Washingon Post, and on their website: http://www.washingtonpost.com.

Now, here's the real:: While the Post gets pseudo-props for attempting to cover this, I've already got one skeptical eyebrow arched about whether it will be done accurately, or well. Of course, I'm not the only one. And we don't want the black-celebrity-everyman to be the loudest, most oft repeated voice speaking for our brethren. So, at DP's excellent suggestion, we're soliciting stories from Black men. Readers, lurkers, bloggers, non-Bloggers....I know y'all have stories to tell.

DP's got a great idea - a collective online outlet for these stories, told in the authors own words, about what Being a Black Man really means. Anoynmous, for those of you that seek anonymity. If you'd like to contribute, feel free to comment, email me, email DP (please replace the [AT] symbol in the email addy)... just holla back, and we'll get your story out into the blogosphere.

*insert sarcasm here* Thanks DaveyWayne for infecting me with what has to be the world's longest friggin meme...lmao. Naw, it ain't nearly as long as the 1001 (oops, I should update, eh?) but it's kewl...and it's viral. And I'm tagging - everyone who manages to actually read the entire thing. If you got that kinda time on your hands, you got time to post back!

1. If you could be doing what you really want to be doing for a living, what would
it be?

Write. Seriously. For m-o-n-e-y. Non-fiction commentaries on the state of relations
in the AA community, and what each one of us should personally be responsible
for doing about it. Oh, and horror fiction - the kind that keeps you up all night.

2. If you could slap the shit out of any famous person, alive or dead, who
would it be?

Famous? Pick a right-wing pundit (Hannity, Limbaugh, O'Reilly, Coulter, etc..etc...ad
infinitum). Their smug holier-than-thouness just makes me want to Trade
(ing) Places with them, and see if the answers are so f*cking clear. and
their approval ratings are better than the standing pres...sheesh.

3. What's the dumbest decision you've made in the past 5 years?

Absolutely refusing to buy a townhouse in Atlantic
Station for $250K (they're now worth $400-600K). And dealing with a brotha
I knew had serious financial issues.

4. Give up one for a year: (good) sex or (good) music.

Sex, no question. Music calms the sexless beast, not vice-versa.

5. Ladies, nice tits & azz or common sense?

That's a hard one, since I've got an overabundance of the former, and the latter
is questionable by all accounts. Hm. Nah, no one's ever paid me for the former
(to-date), so I'll take sense (enough to buy some T&A...lol).

6. So you've been invited to an all expense paid Blogger Prom in The Bahamas.
You're sitting at the bar on the beach. Which blogger do you want to join you
for hours of good convo?

Just ONE?!!! You're friggin kidding, right? Torn between deep convo, shits
& giggles, or chill convo. DP, Amn.eris or EJ. Not in any particular order.

7. Which blogger would you most like to cuddle with on the beach? (and don't
defer to your current signif other either. Infidelity won't count against you.
Duh.)

Er, I have a list. However, a coupla listees significant others read me, and
I ain't trying to get read in real life, m'kay? I lust quietly to m'self. But
if you're smart, or use bloglines you can see: Will, Slish, DP, Humanity, and
Fave

8. You're going on a 5 hour road trip...which 5 CDs do you bring?

The Saga mixtape that EJ made for me...

Sergio Mendes - Timeless

Esthero - Wikked Lil Girl

Ghostface - Fish Scales

Sade - Best of Sade

9. Would you rather bury your children young or have your children bury you
young?

I pray every day that I never have to bury either of my kids. Every day.

10. What's your biggest insecurity?

Failure. And that the last "relationship"
with a man that I'll have for the rest of my life, is the one that failed the
most miserably.

11.What's the first blog you read every day...or however
often you read them? (And I swear to God, don't be saying mine just cuz I'm
the one asking...unless of course you really mean it. lol)

bloglines biyotches - means I don't have to be loyal to just one - MUAHAHAHAHA!

ok, for real - there isn't One - I just read my faves (see blogroll) according to who has posted the latest.

12. When's the last time you peed your pants?

Um, just no. I ain't.

Okokokok, it was probably Cinco de Mayo, because we hit 3 bars, and I refused
to use the public restrooms in any of them. But it was only a little tinkle
before I made it to my own :-(

13. Which was better, your first kiss or your first pay check?

My first kiss is still in my top 10 kiss list. That paycheck? FICA ate it.

14. Do you have kids? Want kids?

Have 2 (theChaos - 22, theHammy - 11). And I'm done. But the plumbing still
works...

15. You get dropped off at home after the office holiday party by your bitch
azz boss that you can't effing stand...you exit the car and he peels out, runs
a red light at your corner and rolls up an unsuspecting midget. The next day
the midget watch groups are on TV outraged at the heartless hit and run, and
are calling for any witnesses to please come fwd...that half dead midget has
a family at home waiting on C-mas presents. Would you take $1000 hush money?
$500? $100? A six pack?

*corporate-whore-speaking* But I don't luv them midgets. Take a lot more than
a grip though. Hm, about that promotion...

16. Live the rest of your life without your eyebrows or your fingernails?

Brows. Mom had toenails removed, and the pain never ends. Never. I can tattoo
the eyebrows back on.

17. What makes you angry?

Classism

the "Intelligentsia"

Conservatives (Rep/Demo/both) posing as moderates

18. What makes you horny?

Almost any form of water (rain, pools, oceans, lakes, bathtubs, showers, etc)

intelligent conversation

A strong breeze (hell, it's been almost a friggin YEAR)

19. What makes you nervous?

bank account dips below _____ amount

first dates

speaking in public (although I'm a decent public speaker)

20. What makes you smile?
hammy & theChaos

music

dark hued lilies

dancin'

a good pedicure & cute sandals

confident, intelligent men of color

Shi, by Alfred Sung
snugglin under the covers way after my alarm goes off
...I could go on...

oh, you're done? mm-hm, don't think u ain't getting tagged either - I'm calling everyone out who checks hits this, via sitemeter, as soon as you read it - don't think u weaseling out of it either...lol

ETA:: Ok, I had seented y'all: Aziza, Amn.eris (queen of the meme...lol) Fave, coolbabe, brown suga, YouToldHarpoTaBeatMe, vjkyles, Morena, and methinks Serenitee...
Y'all know what to do...

It's become interesting watching the whole dating game play out, particularly as I've gotten older. And through periods of complete abstinence, dating time-outs and objectively watching the dating goings-on around me, I keep trying to figure out how things got so damn complicated.

"Simplicity defines the fine line between eloquence and plain-ness ...": but does it also define the fine line between painful and painless? See, I'm yearning for those old days, when we were young and naive enough to believe that if we simply told someone "I like you", they'd either respond "I like you too", or "well, I don't like you". And we could all keep it moving, accordingly.

Exactly when did things get so damned hard?

According to "E":: "by the time we reach a certain age - 30's and 40's, we become magicians. We're all smoke and mirrors. All we do is work on creating illusions. We reflect exactly what we want the other person to see. We're afraid when we reveal our true selves, this person will not feel us at all. Problem is, as most of us eventually find out - time reveals all...It's the QuasiModo in all of us that we fear the most."

Yeah, there's some truth there ( a whole lotta truth for a whole lotta folks actually). People conceal so much, so habitually that it becomes hard to actual reveal, which is one of those cornerstones fundamental to building something meaningful. Or, they reveal just enough to draw the other person in, without sharing anything that's actually important to them. And they're left wondering why all their relationships are superficial.

But, I like my inner QuasiModo. So much so, that (according to my good girlfriends) I tend to show her to any brother who spends more than 2.5 seconds in my presence. I figure, if he likes me, he'll like me regardless. They figure, he needs to like me, before he meets Quasi. Hmph..

stakes is high, though:: see, my problem IMHO, isn't that I'm scared of what most guys think. My problem is that I've got a lot to lose. As one blind date told me, after our establishing we have a lot in common: "We've got a lot to lose. Nice careers, nice cars, financial stability, sanity, a drama-free llife that we worked very hard to create. We can't date just any-ole-body...". aside: there was no second date, btw. But factor in my anticipating what an equally-yoked-to-me brotha would anticipate in a woman (hm, killer body - which is always subjective, easy on the eyes - again, subjective, and with men being aesthetic creatures, my guesses are never far off), and the field gets even narrower. I'd love to entertain a decent date with the brothers I run into at the gas station, supermarket, bank, etc.

theReal:: but experience tells me I can't. Experience tells me these encounters rarely rate a second conversation. See, those wack conversations I whined about occurring in da club? Yeah, they occur outside the club, too. So, to avoid awkward pauses after I say what I do, or what I'm studying, etc...well, I stopped entertaining these chance encounters. I refuse to settle, because in practicality settling has never worked well for me. So, I chill, and expect that extraordinary brother to pierce my hard candy shell.

I'm the girl in the plastic bubble. Literally.

I'd love to just put it all out there, but the reality is that most guys I meet can't take all of it. Truth is, they want the least of me, and when I raise that bar, most bolt. And it's cool, but it's also not. I'm coming quickly on my 6 month anniversary in my new crib, and through many dates, I've only allowed one person I was dating into the new spot. He asked within 10 minutes of arrival, how much I paid for my house. I haven't invited him back. Stakes is high, y'all.

to my sistahs:: It's hard, trust me - I know. But know that you're extraordinary, so he's gotta be extraordinary. And thus a little challenging to find. Meanwhile, you really don't have to kiss (or entertain) every frog you meet in the process.

Sometimes though, I wish we could just go back to "will you go with me....?"