Reflection

The other day, I was talking to a brother about the rift between black men and women. My point was not to participate in the latest man-woman "Who Shot John?" episode. I wanted to learn what is it that black women do to break brothers down. And yes sisters, we can break a brother down.

His primary beef was the number of black women that claim to love black men and have respect for them; yet as soon as they get a man, they can't fix their mouths fast enough to tear him down. As a woman, I wanted to defend. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. Then I remembered a family member. I'll call her "Elle." The only time she discusses her husband is to talk about how stupid he is, how unsatisfied he leaves her, and how she works him essentially to death, and that's why she stays with him. I lost count of how many times they have separated, however, I do remember her going to retrieve him from his new woman's house, only to dish out more of the same.

He also touched on our buying the media's portrayal of black men. They're either dogs, gay, or bumbling morons - lovable, but bumbling and moronic nonetheless. I feel as though I need not mention the not so subtle nudges away from dating brothers altogether. How many movies romanticize relationships between white men and black women. After the obligatory obstacle that is the sole racist family member, they go on to live happily ever after. The lack of realism is astounding. For starters, when you wade through the pile of interracial relationships, black female/white male is close to the bottom of the barrel. I'm willing to wager that if you get down to the brass tacks of white males that are not impoverished or "PWT" as it were, I'll be the percentage is even smaller. So sisters, we really need to stop banking on the white Prince Charming.

I was fortunate enough to have a mother that kept me away from negative influences to the extent that she could. Additionally, she taught me how important it was that I respected black men. Eventually, my own experiences caught up with me. I became so used to being hurt and disrespected, that I started out on the defensive. I was tough on men that I attempted to date; insufferable to those I didn't. My friend mentioned the need to deal with each other on a human level. I thought about how many times we as women bristled at a man who only had use for women in bed. What can be said about a woman who only shows respect to men with whom she may be involved? Respect has to start prior to the relationship. After ti starts, it's too late. I had spent so much time with the wrong type of man, I became terrified of all men. I even avoided men that I thought would want to pursue a serious relationship, because I couldn't bear the thought of becoming attached to someone, then having it end.

Once I was told by someone that I cared deeply about, that maybe I should be with someone more suited to my relationship style; someone who could love me for the way I'm used to being loved. I realized the way I was used to being "loved" was non-existent. I crafted this amalgamation of my outside view of other people's semi-functioning relationships, combined that with a couple of "black-love" movies, and created for myself quite the cluster-fuck. I knew how to be disappointed; I knew how to have fun and bounce when it wasn't fun anymore; I knew how to be single. I didn't know how to be loved, so it went without saying that I didn't know how to give love properly. What is unfortunate is that I had a hand in messing up what could have been a good thing.

My friend said that we lie to ourselves. we say we love and respect black men, but our actions say otherwise. If I spend half of my relationship on pause wondering when (not if) I'm going to be hurt, am I really respecting my man? I can't say that I have the answers. I can't say that I'll be perfect. But what I can do is pledge to be better.

I can't let things happen. I must make them happen. My life is at a crossroads, and I have a lot of decisions to make. I refuse to allow them to be made for me.

"I

WILL

NOT

LOSE.

EVER!"


- Shawn "Jay-Z" Carter

I once was lost, but now I'm. . . missing?

You ever found yourself sitting on rocky bed of a Chattanooga Motel 6 wondering where things went left? Not just left-left - left on Tulane left. I feel unfocused. I look unfocused. The trip home was necessary for so many reasons. I thought this trip was simply an opportunity to reconnect with people I cared about from whom I had been separated for far too long. I was partially correct, but it ran SO much deeper than that. I needed to discover how disconnected I had become from myself; mind, body and spirit.

I've felt like a lost lamb in the woods before, so I figured the journey home would aid in clearing my head, and everything would be okay. I would have hatched a plan by then. Imagine my frustration when I found myself one hour from home, and no closer to a solution than the hour I embarked upon my journey.

This feeling is not hopelessness, nor is it helplessness. If anything, it is showing me that I am growing up, and I have real things to deal with; real decisions to make. Those who know me, know that a plot is in the making. I'm just not sure what it is yet. Stay tuned though. I feel a breakthrough coming on.

The Odyssey, Pt. 1

This trip, I believe, may well be known as "the journey which launched a thousand posts.". Stories such as, "The day I discovered my father's pimpin is real," "you know that beignet sugar is really crack, right?" and "who knew that hunting El Chupacabra could make you sexy as hell" are begging to be told. I'm sure that some stories I will tell, and some I won't. But I've had a great time and hold mixed feelings about leaving. Don't think I've lost my mind and am entertaining the notion of returning to New Orleans. I just didn't anticipate how hard leaving could be. Let me also say that there is something positively soul stirring about traveling with the knowledge that with every stop, you're going to spend time with people that love you dearly.

I've learned, with this trip, that there is a time and place for everything. I've learned that sometimes, you don't have to rehash the past to look at the future. I've put some friendships on pause, taken others out of limbo, and even got transported back to my high school days. That's kind of what going home is all about, isn't it?

Award Tour

I'm out of the office until August 25, 2008. Earlier this week, at 3:39 on a cool morning, I got in my car, and started driving. I drove through Maryland. I drove through Virginia. I drove through Tennessee. I drove through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana and finally ended up in Houston, Texas.

It is a MUTHA to get out of Virginia, but it's one of the most beautiful drives I've ever taken. Driving through the mountains really helps put things in perspective in seeing how truly insignificant we are. Once I hit southern Virginia, I found myself amazed by the number of black people I DIDN'T see. I went to a Walmart, and I was the only black person in the store. THE ONLY NEGRO IN AN ENTIRE WALMART. I remember being a kid and wondering, "How are we minorities? There are black people everywhere I go." But I was only going to New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Houston and a few heavily negroidian areas in Missippi. I think black people are in maybe ten other cities and that's a wrap. When I saw two separate trucks full of Mennonites pull up, I knew it was time to get the hell out of there. Nothing against the Mennonites; but I was still trying to adjust to the fact that there were no black folks in Walmart. That was as different as I was ready to handle after eight hours on the road.

Between Virginia and Tennessee, there are 6,845, 293, 957 Cracker Barrels at various exits. I began to opine that they were operated by the minions of Beelzebub, and would have no part of it somewhere early on in Virginia. However, by the time I hit CB 6 billion, my resolve had worn thin. I wanted a sit-down meal, and I vowed to avoid typical fast food fare, so I finally pulled into a Cracker Barrel, only to discover that it's not run by minions at all; but the food was delicately sprinkled with crack. It wasn't soul food, but it definitely did the trick.

After lunch, I decided I would drive for another hour. By then, I anticipated being attacked by the 'itis, and I could take a nap at a rest stop. Every rest stop I encountered during my post-CB exodus from Tennessee was closed. I finally pulled into a Kmart parking lot in Alabama to get a few zzz's. But honestly, how much rest can you expect to get in a Kmart parking lot in Alabama. So I drove into the Alabama night, where there was NO lights. I have never in my life been so afraid of the moon. And let me tell you, we're missing out on a lot of stars in the city.

It was midnight, and I still hadn't made it to Baton Rouge where I intended to bunk for the night. After seriously considering falling asleep in the parking lot of a busy gas station (I just didn't think I had twenty more miles in me) I decided that grabbing a motel was a much more reasonable, not to mention safer option. So I bunked in Meridian, MS. The prostitutes there are friendly. That's gotta count for something. The next morning (after briefly stopping to say hi to my sister in Baton Rouge) I headed to Houston.

*sigh* What can I say about Houston, Texas? Everything and nothing. As much as I love to share, this one just kind of ain't anybody's business. But I can say that I've never been happier to let go of fear and live in the moment. I can also say that no matter how tough I like to believe that I am (and I drove from MD to TX, so I think it's fair for me to label myself "Tougher Than Leather), there exists a person that makes my insides feel like one of those molten chocolate desserts simply by hugging me. No clue what that means for tomorrow, next month - or even five minutes from now for that matter - but in this moment, I have yet to stop grinning.


Before I left Texas, I got to spend some time with the Creole Queen and her family. They have basically given me a time limit as to how much longer I am allowed to live in Maryland before I move to Texas. I love when people love me.

At this moment, I'm sitting in my sister's house (she's still in Baton Rouge) at her computer, still on a high from the last few days. I'm sure there are more stories to come. Stay tuned.

Mas Palabras

October will mark three years as a Maryland resident. Yet, once a week, there is a female behemoth that will attempt to share a subway seat with me. My behind will not invade the seat next to me, but I take up every square inch of my alloted (and purchased) seat. If you do stunts for Bruce Bruce, you can't sit next to me. Keep it moving, Leviathan.

I can drink like a fish. There's not even a story there; just. . . hot damn.

Every time a person says they "heart" something, Abigail Breslin is beaten with a sack of nickels. The same goes for "vajayjay." It's just stupid. Cut it out.

I've had it with men complaining about getting the shaft for Fathers' Day presents. You can stand up when you pee and you get the big piece of chicken. However, if that's not enough for you spoiled babies, you also don't have to undergo the horror that is the bra fitting. I won't go into the gory details, but I will say that afterward, I refused to purchase the bra strictly on principle. It would have been too much like paying for inappropriate contact, and I'm just not "there" yet.

You ever sit around and wonder who makes the rules? I do. Por ejemplo, lately, I've been thinking about marijuana and coffeeI'm not running for Prez, so I'll keep it real: once upon a time, I used to blaze up on the regular. When I decided to stop blazing, that was that. Had other things going on in my life, and weed didn't fit. Done. What happens when you smoke weed? You want sex and the occasional hot pocket. Marijuana is an illegal substance. I am a dyed in the wool coffee drinker. I have a few cups on the daily. When I try to quit coffee, I get migraines, the jitters, and I stay thisclose to homicide. What happens when you drink coffee, you become hyper and pretty much annoying as all hell. I have quit and restarted coffee more times than I can count. Coffee is a legal substance. Just putting that out there.

This past weekend, I had to take a drive to Queens, NY. You know how you see a place in a movie, and you think it's an exaggeration? Not so for Queens. You saw coming to America? It was pretty much like that. Queens is JACKED UP. However, I saw a site where they are building luxury condos. I have also cast lots on which mom and pop operation they were going to shut down so that they could build their Starbucks (or whatever godless, souless entity that is replacing the 'Bux now that the company has hit the skids.)

Am I the only person that finds it strange when a person needs to be walked through filling out a form. "Where it says name. . ." I just can't quite get with it.

Last week became very interesting, very quickly.

And I'm spent. . .

Words of Wisdom

I guess it takes time - more time than anybody wants to imagine - to sort things out, inside, and then try to put them together, and then try - not so much to make sense out of it all - as to see. Maybe that's why what seems to be past begins to be clearer than what seems to be present.

-- James Baldwin Just Above My Head

When I need my mother most, she comes to my dreams. I remember holding Finge, counting his toes over and over again - Smith toes, like hers (onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten). She wanted boys in the family. She would have loved this boy, I thought to myself, she would have wanted to hold this boy - she would be holding this boy at this very moment. One of my first nights home, she was in my dream. She told me that she taught me everything I needed to know in order to raise a good son.

When I left my marriage, I of course, questioned myself and felt like a failure. She told me the only failure is in sitting idly by as a spectator to your own destruction.

Sometimes, when I feel like I can't do right, I have dreams where she is sitting on our old couch, ratty as it was, she pats the cushion urging me to sit next to her. Sometimes she advises me; sometimes she tells me stories; sometimes she just lets me curl up and cry while she massages my scalp.

The thing is, I don't believe I'm having supernatural or out of body experiences. I don't believe that her "spirit" is coming to me. I believe that her presence in my life was one so powerful, I had to sort it out. The things she says or does in my dreams aren't "new" things. The dreams are indicative of her handprint on my life. The signature of the artist.

I guess I can't say that I have a real "reason" for this post. However, I was hard pressed not to share.

Love and Affection

I can't remember if I posted this movie before; maybe I just posted the link. However, it is one of my favorite short films ever! I guess it will give you a glimpse into the fact that I truly have some problems. Enjoy!

Funny Videos | Funny Cartoons | More Video Clips

Title Irrelevant

Monday, July 14, 2008, would have been my mother's 57th birthday. She died when she was 43. Shortly after giving birth to her fourth child (she lost her third due to miscarriage), her host of health issues surfaced. She spent a month in the hospital. I was six, younger than my Ladybug is now. I remember her letting me get in her hospital bed and eat her ice cream. That is who she was. Her predicament was irrelevant. She wanted those around her, and her children especially, to be comfortable and at ease. During the year of these events, my mother turned 32; this year, I turn 32.

It's easy to diefy a person when they're gone. You remember all of the good and none of the bad. That's not the case here. My mother's foot had a permanent addresss in my behind. Sometimes, I still maintain that she was extra, but she also knew I was full of nonsense and shenanigans. She had no intention of allowing me to turn my life into shit on her watch. I went to great lengths to attempt to be a "bad girl," but my mother fought that. Ferociously.

What impressed me most about my mother, was that she didn't just fight for me because I was her daughter. She did so because I was a human being, and she desired happiness and success for everyone. If you were to speak to anyone who had the pleasure of her company, they would echo that sentiment. Her funeral was filled with countless people, crying as though they had lost their best friend. Young people, who on any other occasion, would have assumed the stance of stoic ambivalence, breaking down as though they had lost their own mother. But that is how she touched people. When she talked to, laughed with, or counseled you, she was your best friend. When she hugged you, she was your mother. There was never an ulterior motive to her kindness. She was a kind person, because that's how she believed she should be.

The last conversation I had with her was over the phone. I remember the conversation on her end seeming rather forced. What, really, do you talk about to your 17 year old kid when you know that you're dying? I offhandedly mentioned something we could do when she got out of the hospital. She began to cry. For years, I thought it's because she knew she was dying and she was afraid. I will not say that my mother was a superhuman being with no fear of the unknonwn that is death, but I only believe that played a small role. However, the first time I held Finge in my arms, I knew it was because she couldn't bear to leave behind her children. Even at the very end, she was worried about us.

Since I was the oldest, I did the most as far as helping my mother was concerned. I remember once, being home with her, going through our daily routine of cleaning, general care and such. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and tearfully apologized for me having to go through "all this" when I should be having fun. The same woman who took care of me in a body cast; the same woman who would stay up all night sewing just so that her four daughters would have new, pretty dresses for church; the same woman who declined countless wedding and party invitations because, according to her, "I have four girls - that's a party in and of itself." This woman was offering me an apology for doing for her what she had done for us our whole lives - a thousand fold.

My father picked her final dress. I can only hope, with every fiber of my being, that it has disintegrated into nothingness. It was a pink contraption with matching lipstick. My mother LIVED in technicolor: oranges, bright yellows, bold purples, red (never enough red), fuschias and teals. No pinks. Not ever. For the better part of two years I watched my mother with an unparallelled sense of sadness. I couldn't change her loss of health. I couldn't change her loss of spirit. I couldn't change her loss of life. I couldn't even change that stupid pink dress. But I could change her lipstick. Radiant Red was her color; Fashion Fair her brand. I didn't see any reason for that to change. My cousin produced a tube from her purse and we changed it.

Finding an appropriate ending for this post is so difficult, because, how do you wrap up in a few paragraphs, someone who had such a profound effect on everything that you are? It dawned on me that, in a couple of years, my mother will have been gone from me longer than I knew her. Despite that, I still carry her with me every day. I look at Finge and know how she would have spoiled him rotten (she wanted more boys in the family). I laugh when I think of how she would have dressed up Ladybug and let her play with her wigs. When I am at my lowest, and most lost, she shows up in my dreams. So no, I can't form a typical "conclusion" on this post. I can just promise you that there will be another.

Mamba's Musical Moment

Paul Simon: If you don't know, you better ask somebody.

Dirty Bastards

This morning started out 7:41 (my alarm goes off at 7:00; yes, I did hear it). Whenever I picked out my afro on the left, the right went flat, and vice-versa. I have also been exceedingly busy, so I haven't done laundry since the Carter administration. I still have clothes left, but everytime I would pull out an outfit, if the shirt was good, the pants that I intended to go were not, if the pants were clean, I didn't have a shirt to go, etc. So finally I pulled something together that involves one of my last clean pairs of slacks, and a shirt that is decidedly "clubby."

This SHOULD have clued me in that the workday would be a little left of center. As I get off the train and proceed toward the platform exit, I notice someone on the floor in my peripheral vision. I turn and see that it is a woman, no more than 24 years old, stretched out, and alone on the floor. I am in a crowd, no one is stopping. So I stop to see if she is okay and needs help, and she tells me that she can't breathe. I go to get the station manager, and I notice that a woman is actually returning with him. Which makes me feel better, because that means someone stopped and this woman has clearly been on the floor for a while. However, when I look at the face of the woman who brought assistance, I realize that she was on the same train car as I was. The number of people who had to have passed this woman prior to my

I know people in this day and age like to believe that the sun rises and sets shining on their asses. I find myself becoming increasingly disgusted with the way individuals treat one another (stay tuned for the upcoming weekly installment "Men are from Maine, Women are from Compton"). This, however, takes the proverbial cake. There are four station managers in the Metro Center platform (one at each exit), as well as a minimum of two sales attendants. This means, if you need assistance, and one is preoccupied with, say, a woman literally collapsing out of her chair, you have five other people to assist you. However, for the five douches that walked up to the station manager at the 12th Street exit, collapsing woman or not, they wanted immediate assistance.

I will say this: New Orleans is dirty, ignant, backwards, and you MIGHT get stabbed. Yet, with all of that, when there is a person in need of help, there will be no shortage of people ready and willing to help. I find that when people don't have much, they are a lot more giving and concerned about their fellows. When you know what it's like to be in need, it seems that you're more likely to fill a need when you see fit. Maybe that's what's wrong here - people have too much. Maybe they don't know what it's like to be in need, or to be desperate.

I have seen more people be outright inconsiderate, then justify it because they don't feel it's adequately appreciated. Human concern is FREE. If you open a door, and a person doesn't say thank you, did only do it because you were expecting a parade? If you say good morning, and it's not returned, is that person automatically a bitch or an asshole? I'm a surly mofo, but I know that even the nicest person can have a day where they aren't "on." What does it cost for me to be the person that I AM, not because it will be acknowledged, but just because? Not a damn dime, that's what.

Mamba's Musical Moment

Amy Winehouse has tremendous talent, but let's not go crazy. She is NOT Janis Joplin.

"Just another Manic Monday" (c) The Bangles

"Wooo hoooo!" That's been my catch phrase since the kiddies have been away. Thus far, there have been no major disturbances in the Force. I have been charged with the duty of having as exciting a summer as possible by the Harlem Bon Vivant. Two and a half weeks into my summer, and here's what's been going on:

Mamba's Making That Monay!

I have made it known that my hustle is not a game. That will not be changing. It's really good to set personal goals and meet them.

Mamba's Hitting Them Streets!

Last week, my friend from work invited me for a night on the town. We hit up a local watering hole where the dj mixed current radio hits, reggae, reggaeton, and house music. Good times.

Funny Mamba story: I go to clubs for the ambience. Being a 504 girl to the bone, I just LOVE to be around people having a good time. I'm happy because they're happy, ya dig? However, that means I tend to get a little lost in the ambience and oblivious to what is going on around me. So, when the white guy standing in front of me had his hand out, I simply presumed he was the bus boy, wanting to take my Red Bull can, so I gave it to him. My friends fell out laughing, because he wasn't asking for my can; he was trying to get me to join him on the floor and shake my can. Once I saw that he had a neck tattoo, it all made sense.

Mamba's Talkin' 'Bout Music!

Last week the "Black People Awards" were on. I guess I'd like to first say that the name "Pretty Ricky" always disturbed me. Whilst gazing upon some red carpet pictures, I discovered they have faces like diseased, inverted rectums. Ugh. Fate was kind to me, and I've flicked past the channel twice when the awards show was on. Each time, it was during Al Green's performance. I don't care what channel he's on - the KKK network even - I love me some Al Green.

Rhianna gave a wannabe Beyonce performance reminiscent of when Beyonce was going through her wannabe diva extraordinaire phase. So, when you're the wannabe of the wannabe. . .? Stay in your lane and get to shakin. I'm kind of bothered by the fact that her face is shaped like a croissant.

Mamba's Talkin' 'Bout Prince!

Technically, this could have gone under the music section, but I feel the need to separate this. I'm sure I will take a lot of heat for this, however, I happen to be one of those people who do NOT see Prince as the beginning and end of music. I think he's infinitely talented. I think he can write a song like no other. I think "The Beautiful Ones" possesses the ability to make panties fly off the body and across the room. That being said, I'm kind of over the elitist, recluse thing. I appreciate artists who recognize their talent as a blessing from whatever higher power they believe in; those who use their talent to lay claim to deification, not so much.

Mamba's Going to the Movies!

One of the things I've been waiting to do is see "R" rated movies. Can't do that with the kiddies. However, nothing has piqued my interested. However, I can't WAIT until July 18, 2008. Who's gonna be seeing Bruce Wayne on an IMAX screen? THIS CHICK!

Mamba's Pondering

Why is it that whenever the 2520s are trying to appeal to the "urban" market, they're encouraging us to get some shit "on?" "Get your credit on." "Get your mortgage on." That type of shit. That's racist as all hell. Stop it.

I harbor the same resentment for those McDonald's Southern Fried Chicken sandwich commercials. It's always some negro saying, "This shole is how Big Mama useta fry my chicken." This reminiscence would only hold water if McDonalds were selling a chicken leg sandwich, where the chicken had been so heavily stewed, the bone had slide out of the leg. However, as they are marketing, not only a breast (i.e., "the big piece of chicken") but a breast FILET, I say hogwash!

Alltel spending a lot of money on marketing; however, no one has been able to name 3 friends who have Alltel as a service provider. I read that Alltel is being bought out by Verizon. Is there trickery afoot?

According to my sister, that dude I with whom I was once joined in ungodly matrimony, has cut his hair. Does this mean I can no longer call him "Press-N-Curl" or "Poop Dogg." I am currently in search of a new name. Please post suggestions in the comments box.

Thank you for your support.

The call out

Still living in a cyclone, but I'm trying to get my life in some form of organized chaos. However, I have not been so busy as to not notice the following people are missing:

A(nother) C(onspiracy T(heorist) - WHAT THE HELL! Where you been? Do I have to send Gil Grissom out for your ass? Post something!

Extra Flavory - Yeah, we talk and shit, but that doesn't matter. You have funny stories that MUST be told. POST NEGRO!

Bint Alshamsa - Okay, you post, and that's how I know you're not trapped under something heavy. CALL ME HO!

Jali - We're about to be in July homie. Are YOU trapped under something heavy? Someone heavy? You being nasty? Oooooooh I'm tellin...ok, I'm jealous.

Amadeo - You've been posting, but I just feel the need to tax you on your A.C. winnings. You ain't fooling nobody. . .

Cliff - Thank you for holding it down. Of course, 504 gotta show folks how it's done.

(I am so happy to have a free moment, I really don't know what to do with myself. I'll be posting something substantive in the near future. Smooches.)

Like Whoa!

So people, your girl has been mad busy since the kids left for the summer. I spent last weekend investing my time in my personal business venture (please note the link to the right beautiful people). In addition to that, I've put in about 24 overtime hours at my gig. MY HUSTLE IS NOT A GAME!

I promise I'll be back for those of you who love me. However, I can't go without dropping a little goodness on you. I was listening to my iPod and this song came up? Remember this? What happened to this chick? This used to be the jam!

Today

Is one of those days where I'm working through just a little bit of rigamarole emotionally. I'm not down. I'm not even going "through it." I'm just having a moment. Mary knows what I'm talking about:

Marketing for that A$$!

I swear before God... and four more white people! This is the last time!
- Gator Purify

aka "The Ghetto Can't Keep NUTHIN!"

White people and crack. Really? Rock n roll, locs and Tina Turner wasn't enough? They had to get in on this crack thing too? That's heavy. And you know the shit is about to hit the fan because it's white women who are getting strung out. You saw how they started putting the hammer down on meth production. This government will NOT sit idly by and let white folks get strung out on cheap drugs. I'm not sure of the logic behind it, I'm just citing the way things are. This can not bode well for the hood.

Here is my question: How, in 2008, are people still being convinced to smoke crack. We know what crackheads look like. I have personally been offered a big screen tv for $100.00 that a woman was selling without her husband's knowledge. (She did eventually sell it, and I was ear-witness to the subsequent beating. Life on Cindy Place was a FOOL!) With that knowledge, I KNOW crack isn't something I want any part of.

I don't consider myself any less susceptible to getting got than the next person, so I don't think it takes Festivus-worthy feats of strength to avoid the pitfalls of crack. I am a firm believer in tackling your problems, so needless to say, I find drug abuse a bit of a copout. Is their rationale, "I'm gonna keep this crack thing in check"? Do they mistakenly believe sucking dick for rocks will not be their eventuality?

And further, when was smoking a rock an acceptable excuse when grieving the death of a pet. I know Caucasians have a special affinity for canines, but word? Have they stopped making chocolate? Is there a special Hallmark card that has a small vial attached for rocks?

I swear, I don't understand this world anymore.

This Is Only For Their Own Good

You can imagine how distressed I was when I saw this last week. See, evidently, Negroes want something done about the crime in their area. And in repayment for their desire to have standard safety precautions, Cathy Lanier, the MPD Police Chief, decided the only way this could be accomplished is by instituting police-state measures.

I have said it before, I will repeat it now, and I am certain I will have occasion to say it again: whenever a zero tolerance measure is taken, its negative impact of people of color is an inevitability. It's never a matter of "if", merely WHEN. They feel somewhat justified in their tactic because there were no shootings during that time period. Um. What about other crimes? Were there rapes? Robberies? Stabbings?

I can also say that I find the MPD as a whole, to be among the most unprofessional police forces I have ever witnessed. Considering I grew up in New Orleans, that's saying something. If I had half a penny for every time I saw a member of MPD driving with one hand on the wheel and another on their cell phone, I'd be able to purchase all the tea in China and the oil in the Middle East.

I grew up in a city where you can be surrounded by mansions on one block, and crack houses on the next. Therefore, the city's paler residents are often unshielded by crime. So they have regular meetings with the police department. They build up a rapport. Sometimes they even have the cops over for coffee. They discuss plans of action, options, take feedback. If you think this same thing takes place in black neighborhoods, allow me to hand you your fool of the year trophy. IF you get a meeting, you are told what is going to happen, and that's that. See, the police have to keep you rowdy niggers in line, and your tiny brains can't comprehend a plan involving law and order. Period.

Part of the reason this is problematic is because black folks don't trust the police. Policemen participated in lynchings. Policemen turned hoses and attack dogs on non-violent civil rights marchers. For those who feel these statements are merely me living in the past, I'll catch you up. Policemen sodomized Abner Louima with a plunger, then one pranced around the police station as though he deserved a medal for doing so. Policemen shot Amadou Diallo 41 times. Policemen shot at Sean Bell's car roughly 48 times, with one of those bullets almost hitting people half a block away. My point in all this, people of color have never been made to feel at ease around the police. As they are SERVANTS, it is incumbent upon THEM to gain OUR trust. Not the other way around.

But, since people of color often don't have the financial means, it is tantamount to not having a voice. And that's beyond frightening.

"I wonder if them gates was put up to keep crime out
or keep our ass in?"
- Cee Lo of Goodie Mob

Banned Books Meme

Ripped this from Bint

This is a list of the top 110 banned books.

Bold the ones you've read completely and italicize the one's you've read at least some of. I've got work to do. . .

#1 The Bible
#2 Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
#3 Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes
#4 The Koran
#5 Arabian Nights
#6 Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
#7 Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift
#8 Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
#9 Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
#10 Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
#11 Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli
#12 Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
#13 Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank
#14 Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
#15 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
#16 Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
#17 Dracula by Bram Stoker
#18 Autobiography by Benjamin Franklin
#19 Tom Jones by Henry Fielding
#20 Essays by Michel de Montaigne
#21 Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
#22 History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon
#23 Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
#24 Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
#25 Ulysses by James Joyce
#26 Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio
#27 Animal Farm by George Orwell
#28 Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell
#29 Candide by Voltaire
#30 To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
#31 Analects by Confucius
#32 Dubliners by James Joyce
#33 Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
#34 Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
#35 Red and the Black by Stendhal
#36 Capital by Karl Marx
#37 Flowers of Evil by Charles Baudelaire
#38 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
#39 Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence
#40 Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
#41 Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser
#42 Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
#43 Jungle by Upton Sinclair
#44 All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque
#45 Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx
#46 Lord of the Flies by William Golding
#47 Diary by Samuel Pepys
#48 Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
#49 Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
#50 Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
#51 Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
#52 Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant
#53 One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey
#54 Praise of Folly by Desiderius Erasmus
#55 Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
#56 Autobiography of Malcolm X by Malcolm X
#57 Color Purple by Alice Walker
#58 Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
#59 Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke
#60 The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
#61 Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe
#62 One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
#63 East of Eden by John Steinbeck
#64 Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
#65 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
#66 Confessions by Jean Jacques Rousseau
#67 Gargantua and Pantagruel by François Rabelais
#68 Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes
#69 The Talmud
#70 Social Contract by Jean Jacques Rousseau
#71 Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
#72 Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence
#73 American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser
#74 Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler
#75 A Separate Peace by John Knowles
#76 Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
#77 Red Pony by John Steinbeck
#78 Popol Vuh
#79 Affluent Society by John Kenneth Galbraith
#80 Satyricon by Petronius
#81 James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
#82 Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
#83 Black Boy by Richard Wright
#84 Spirit of the Laws by Charles de Secondat Baron de Montesquieu
#85 Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut
#86 Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George
#87 Metaphysics by Aristotle
#88 Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder
#89 Institutes of the Christian Religion by Jean Calvin
#90 Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse
#91 Power and the Glory by Graham Greene
#92 Sanctuary by William Faulkner
#93 As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
#94 Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin
#95 Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig
#96 Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
#97 General Introduction to Psychoanalysis by Sigmund Freud
#98 Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
#99 Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Alexander Brown
#100 Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
#101 Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman by Ernest J. Gaines
#102 Émile by Jean Jacques Rousseau
#103 Nana by Émile Zola
#104 Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
#105 Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin
#106 Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
#107 Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein
#108 Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Peck
#109 Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark
#110 Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes

"Here's my ten cents and my two cents is free" (c) Eminem

Okay, I'm sure some folks won't necessarily like what I say, but it really needs to be said. (Please note, this is my personal opinion, and if you are sensitive and like this show/movie, you may suffer from hurt feelings.)

SEX AND THE CITY IS THE MOST BORING AND HELLACIOUS SHIT EVER! EVER, I SAID!

I cram to understand the obsession with the sex lives of four pre-menopausal Caucasian females on a show that had virtually NO consistent black representation (save when Blair Underwood was dicking down Foot Face aka Sarah Jessica Parker or when they had the "up the butt" trannies). If that weren't enough, Foot Face made a statement regarding Jennifer Hudson's addition (as an assistant, mind you), because she wanted to be responsible to the African American female viewers. Now, I know quite a few women that live in New York. Most, if not ALL of them, have professions. They are directors, executives, musicians. NONE of them are assistants. So, for the token to be a gopher, really, they could have kept that. I didn't expect her to be a friend, but hell, a professional neighbor, a boss, something?

Let me also say that I found the show itself to be boring as all hell. There were moments that I found mildly entertaining, but never enough to sustain my interest for more than 8 minutes. I've tried giving it another shot now that it comes on TBS, yet, I still combat the desire to commit seppuku when I attempt to view the show for more than ten minutes. Here's my take on it: Samatha's got "the bonus," Carrie suffers from from pediculus countenansus ("Foot Face" in Melanie's phoney baloney Latin), Charlotte is mildly retarded, and Miranda really isn't fooling anyone with that "I date men" shit. WIGGETY WIGGETY WIGGETY WACK!

At the end of the day, people like what they're going to like. That being said, what's up with dragging men to see this. One comedian said that if a dude's woman is trying to make him see this movie with him, he needs to find her some friends, because she obviously has none. Real talk. I understand wanting to do the "togetherness" thing, but really. My theory is that going to see this movie is a test for gateway activity. Don't be fooled men. If your woman gets you to go see this movie today, she's going to "gently" introduce the idea of you getting ass fucked within four weeks. MAX! I envision it something like this:

Hey baby. What's for dinner.

I appreciated you coming to see that with me so much, I made your favorite, [husband food with husband side dishes and beer and shit].

Thanks so much baby.

You know, it's great that you shared that experience with me. It shows that you truly are a progressive brother and you make an effort to appreciate the things that I enjoy. I was thinking that since you are so progressive. . .

Now, this segue will vary depending on the relationship, but it will not end before you've finished a sufficient amount of your first beer and the desired end involves having a rather uncomfortable conversation with your proctologist.

Now, I'm not here to tell you what you should watch. I'm not here to tell you what you should not watch. Simply using my blog for rumination. And warning brothers to protect not only ya neck, but potentially ya ass.