Ya'll Know Better

It's About the Kids? Really?

2011-12-20T10:43:00.000-08:00

It’s that time of year again.

When I was a child, my brother and I were indoctrinated in the ways of Santa Claus. Like all individuals living under a dictatorship, we questioned the propaganda, but sang the party line, loud and clear.

We didn’t believe some 300lb white guy was coming down our chimney on Christmas Eve laden with just the gifts we wanted, but we were survivors. Friends who questioned the belief in the happy elf often received clothes. We got Atari 2600s, musical instruments and gift certificates to McDonalds. Damn easy choice.

Embrace the doctrine and get the goodies. Inform on those who do not and watch them suffer. My brother and I would have fared well in the USSR.

It’s different with my own children. My oldest ceased to believe when he was four, quite by accident. Often, with me, what comes up comes out. So when my son asked innocently, “Daddy is Santa having the elves make our gifts at the North Pole?” my response was typical of a new millennium father.

“Well, son, Santa is having union problems with the elves. Apparently those jokers want a better benefits package, and he couldn’t find enough contractors to break the strike.”

His face fell.

“Don’t worry, Big Man. I’ll stand in for Santa this year.”

He got the holiday equivalent of Fort Knox the next morning. He hasn’t believed since.

The following day, while on the expressway, we spotted many deer along the road.
“Are those Santa’s deer?”

“Probably.”

I saw my back window slide down and a little head pop out the window. “Stand in solidarity! Stay on strike! Thanks!”

Oh.

My youngest was in the annual Christmas musical.

“We’re singing ‘Feliz Navidad!”

Gravely. “Hmmm…”

“What?”

“Do you know what that means? Feliz Navidad?”

Eager nodding. “Merry Christmas.”

“Well, that’s what they WANT you to believe…” I generally do not do conspiracies, and as a lesson to my children, concoct some way out ones just to show them the sheer silliness of some of what people believe.

“Huh?”

"Yeah. It's really bad. It's code...for something else..." I told her.

“It really means that?”

“Yup. Whenever you hear that, it’s an insult.”

Slow 8 year old burn. "But aren't WE Black?"

“Yep. Do you want to hear the REAL song?”

Well, anger turns to laughter as I teach her the words. By the time we get home, the chorus is embedded.

I dropped her at home, headed to the store for eggnog.

Ring.

“Hey Hon!”

“OK, I sat back and let you lampoon Disney for them, making Gepetto the animated version of Jerry Sandusky. I let you portray Gumby and Pokey as gang bangers. I even turned a blind eye when you completely reconstructed ‘Davey and Goliath’ into something…awful…those poor clay characters.”

Oh, I’m in trouble. Again.

“But when you tell these children ‘Feliz Navidad’ really means ‘Black People S**k… and it’s a secret Spanish code song to eliminate them…”

It was a joke. I mean, who would really believe it? Oh, the 8 year old who thinks I’m the smartest think since SpongeBob? My bad.

Well, eliminate one more supportive vote for Saint Nick. And possibly the entire holiday season. I have created the world’s youngest cynic now who eyes her Latin brethren the way Seoul eyes Pyongyang. Great.

I couldn’t help it, though. Let’s be honest: there are people who say, “Let children be children”, and I concur.

I’m not sure this holiday is about children however.

Materialism? Maybe. Religion? Well, in a pinch, I’ll buy it. Family? Sure, but we all know how much family related anxiety pops up around the holidays.

Face facts: if this was really about maintaining childhood, our society would applaud parents who explain to their children the amount of love and sacrifice that goes into buying and doing things that just makes them smile. As a whole, we would spend less money at Wal Mart and more time out ice skating, or snuggling together by the fireplace, telling each other stories, drinking cocoa and laughing.

That’s not how it works. Parents are ridiculed for not allowing their children to believe some mythical third party cares so much about them he brings them gifts, as opposed to the folk who raise them. The people who make this splurge happen in spite of mounting bills, risk of unemployment and the other realities we all deal with while trying to raise our kids.

There's something culturally exclusive about this myth,a s well. Say what you want: there is no way mainstream America would allow their children to think happy thoughts about a Black dude (think Chef on South Park) invading their homes once a year and bringing their children gifts the parents worked to acquire.

It wouldn't happen.

If this was really about religion, we would discuss that although there is no shred of evidence that Jesus being born this late in the year. A time that corresponds with the pagan holiday practiced by the Romans who co-opted Christianity. Heck, we’d at least mention that Jesus never asked for an iPhone and there is no Biblical record of his parents celebrating his birthday once he arrived here on earth. There also would be more acceptance of the fact this person, the one whose momma took him to Black Egypt to hide when he was a baby, the one who a Black man helped carry his tool of execution(he was in the crowd, maybe he had something in common with the condemned?) and the one with hair like wool...if this was about the children, we'd at least acknowledge this time of the year that he did not resemble one of the Bee Gees.

Family? Wonderful. This is a time of year when we all gather. If this was really about childhood, however, we wouldn’t dread going to relatives’ houses, hoping no one says anything out of line. If this was really about childhood, that aunt who always gets lit and starts talking about how they weren’t favored as a child would remember there are kids present and stick to chamomile tea.

If this was about the children we'd really work harder on teaching our offspring the real value of this day is about giving, not receiving.

I am all in favor of my kids remaining kids. When my 11 year old had to buy pants in the men’s section this year, as opposed to the little boys’ section where the sizes are 12, 14 and 16, I made a conscious effort to not let his experiences catch up with his growing body until the time was right for him to handle both.

Spare me, however, “The holidays are for children. Kids should be allowed to believe in the fantasies and remain kids.”

As retailers sell more liquor than any other time of year besides Super Bowl Sunday.

As parents get children gifts that are more and more “grown” and less and less age appropriate every year.

As kids who were suspended for telling teachers “That’s why you had a baby wit’ yo’ daddy!” brag about the X Box systems they are guaranteed to receive for the holiday.

As ministers glide by members standing on bus stops Christmas morning, never slowing their speed in their holiday gift Bimmer 740s.

The holidays are what they are. Those who long for the good old days should have heard my grandfather share tales of getting an orange for Christmas in Depression era Eufala, Alabama, and being happy they would be able to eat all they wanted that night. If the harvest was good.

This Christmas, let’s forget the politics of the holiday and really try our best to make it about those basics, many of which are free.

Happiness, Family Cheer and Goodwill towards all.

Reclaim Your Holiday

2011-11-21T08:59:00.000-08:00

My conversation started with innocent enough intentions.

“Holiday plans?”

Few short phrases in the English language are as loaded. Perhaps “Are you late?” and “Did they convict?” come close to being as charged.

My friend’s answer was honest, if impolitic.

“My bad... was I supposed to have those?”

Ever the optimist, I pressed on.

“I was asking if in fact you DID. I can infer, using my acute powers of deduction, that you do NOT. Ah Ha!”

“Have 'em? That was the point. I didn't know that was supposed to happen.”

“Oh, yeah. Some folk house hop. Some have dinner at their home. Some are going out of town to be with family, some have family coming to town to be with them.”

“Wow. That must come from the Latin roots Holi- which must mean ‘tolerating ghetto/bourgeois-ass relatives’ and -dare which means ‘Oh GOD, not this time of year again.’"

Hmm.

You know what? For as long as I remember, this has been my least favorite time of year.

My favorite holiday memories, if I recall, are of one Thanksgiving where my small family and I travelled north of the border, where, at that time, it was not a holiday at all.

The other was a Christmas day when I was single, living in downtown Chicago. I spent half of the day alone in bed, reading. That evening, I went to my grandmother’s home on the South side, gave relatives their gifts, and after an hour or so of conversation (no, I did not eat), I returned downtown, treating myself to the late night premiere of “Jackie Brown.”

My aversion to the winter holidays isn’t because I have recently come across the origins of said days find myself appalled. In my family, we did history. We acknowledged early on the true meaning and histories behind these days of celebration. After gnashing our teeth in anger at both the facts and folks’ ignorance of them, we assuaged ourselves with the idea that family coming together was the real beauty of such times, not the historical ugliness and frauds that created them.

My mother wrote stories for my brother and me as children, detailing her own childhood holidays. Relatives would caravan from down south to Chicago, hordes of kids would be stuck on sofas and floors in sleeping bags, food cooking from 4am and fun until people fell asleep from turkey induced torpor. Love was thicker than turkey aroma in the air.

Those are just not my memories. I do not begrudge my mama hers. Growing up Black in Chicago during that era, those holidays and other family gatherings offset coming of age through an ugly period in our history. I am happy she has a fondness for days that could matter less to me.

I spent years thinking it was just me.

Time has taught me, however, many people my age don’t have those stereotypical memories of the Black holiday season, replete with “Soul Food” type dinner gatherings and hearty laughter and joy to spare.

They have the “Ohmylawd I’m stressed I gotta make this dish for dinner at my people’s house it’s taking forever I made it I dropped it off and lo and behold I get there and my sister is talking mess now I wanna fight her who does she think she is she does this every holiday…”

“My Uncle Pete and my cousin are in there at 2pm clearing out a fifth of Hennesy and come dinner time we are gonna have to pretend we don’t know they blasted as my uncle takes any opportunity (say, when served dark meat instead of white) to tell my grandma she never loved him because he was the darkest in the family. My cousin will start crying midway through because his wife/girlfriend/baby mama took the baby to her mama’s house for the holiday. No one wants to tell my uncle to grow up and repeat to my cousin he shoulda married that girl, so now dinner is ruined...”

“I can do my people, crazy as they are. My husband’s people are from planet Ignant, however. They come in trying to make you feel you’re nothing, with they trifling selves. They just nasty. Never bring anything, mind you, just show up ready to eat us outta house and home and then complain after they inhaled everything on the table…They leave ashes all over my furniture and I swear one a them babies was conceived in my coat closet...”

“My wife’s family bougie as all get out. You’d think, to hear them talk, this was a family on something. Please. They come in like Black royalty or something. Pulling up in a 15 year old Mercedes they bought used four years ago. They like to look down on folk cuz they so “educated”. Three of ‘em got associates degrees and the one boy who been working on his PhD FOREVER ain’t never held no job, and he’s pushing 40, and we know the one they keep saying is a minister is really the choir director, and you KNOW what THAT means…”

“We had just said grace when there was a knock at the door Pookie answered it and was told he had a warrant…they took him then with the turkey leg still in his mouth…”
“My brother and his perfect family come to my folks’ every year and love to rub how much better they are in our faces…”

Drunken relatives. Outside kids. Substance abuse issues. Infidelity. Abuse. Memories of a close relative who passed away during a holiday season. Angry recountings of someone who was hospitalized during same season for self destructive behavior. Someone can’t cook. All of this stuff has people dreading November 24th-January 1st.

For the record? These are associates sharing these tales with me. Such candor from people not really in my circle prohibits me from asking close friends what they think of this season.

What gives?

I acknowledge the holidays are not my favorite time of year, but I was recently reminded I will have to endure said period annually for the rest of my life. We all will.

So what are we going to do?

My friend made it clear. He is going to do his own thing, without family, without distraction and without drams.

Thanksgiving may as well be some Saturday in March, in that case.

A lot of folk, however, agree with his take on things. Lord knows that I do.

The only suggestion that I can make is not an easy one to implement.

Assess your holiday ritual. If it works for you, then follow it. Some of us have the patience and love to tolerate situations others want to avoid like the plague. Fair enough.

If your ritual does not work for you, however, it may be time to create a new one.

It may be time to have a small dinner with friends, as opposed to family. It may be time to quietly announce to Grandma you won’t make it for the holiday because you are going to try to start your own tradition. Bear in mind, the one your family has practiced for eons began somewhere. Call and offer your wishes for a nice holiday, and then try something, anything new, that may make for better memories. If you feel stuck because you live far from family and this is one of a few times yearly when you get to see them, make slight changes. Opt for staying at a hotel instead of with family. Buy something prepared as opposed to cooking. Set a time when, regardless of how the night is going, that you intend to leave, and make it clear throughout that you need to be back at the NoFamilyAllowed Arms & Suites by that time.

I think a lot of us have come to dread the holidays because they are excuses for having to endure behavior that is anything but celebratory. You can’t do anything about how others act. You can, however, control your exposure to them.

Times are hard. We all have challenges. Let’s try to find, at the very least, relaxation over the next over commercialized, food and drink sodden month or so.

Ending the holidays on a good, or different, note may very well set the stage for a happier more peaceful new year.

Is it really that time if year again?

The Press Conference

2011-11-08T09:41:00.001-08:00

“Next question?”

“Sir, what is your response to allegations that you have sexually harassed at least four women who were once in your employ? One of whom has come forward recently?”

Shaking of head. Then, that smirk. The one that closes the commercial where the white guy is puffing his cigarette.

“Are you for real?”

“I am. While your poll numbers have not taken much of a hit, some conservative pundits have expressed displeasure with you over this situation.”

That smirk again.

“What does your wife think of this?”

“Is it true that all of the women are white?”

The smirk stops.

“’Scuse me?”

“Reports indicate that all of the women are Caucasian. The one who ahs come forward definitely is. Do you favor white women, sir?”

Slow burn. Wait. Be easy. They got Clarence like this, kind of. Kobe. That damned fool, O.J.

Clear throat.

Smirk. Again.

“Yeah,” gliding chuckle. “It was me.”

Silence. Pens can be heard dropping.

“I mean, shoot. What ya’ll expect? I’m not exactly some school teacher here. I’m pretty much,” loosening of tie, “a self made man. In America, the true ballers are CEOs. WE tell Black kids they have slim pickin’s of being pro ball players, almost all of whom exclusively chase white booty. Or lack thereof. Have you any idea how hard it is to get to be CEO? I mean, even of a fast food chain. That’s some work. Hell. Kissinger said it best. Power corrupts. Ya’ll never give him a hard time over the white women.”

Someone is choking.

“Now, this gal outta Chicago? Mutual. I’m coming clean, no need to lie. I mean, had she NOT been into me, wouldn’t SHE have gotten paid, TOO? That damn pillow talk. You say things you shouldn’t in the afterglow. Like how the last couple who failed to come across got big paydays, but how all this one got was, well, hey, I got mine, you know?

“You all DO realize when I was in the Chi at a Tea Party event a bit back, she came up to me and gave me a big hug? Tried to suggest we hook up for old times sake, but those days are behind me, so I wished her well and kept it moving. Hell, someone in the media caught the whole exchange. Naw, she’s out to get paid. By the way, don’t think I’m stupid. No secret the only one to come public, aside from being a fake, is from the Windy. Who else is from the Windy? I think the new mayor there is someone’s dirty tricks expert, but I won’t name any names…heh…heh…heh…”

“Sir, aren’t you married?”

“Shoot, so is Bill Clinton. Look, I was on the road a lot. My wife and I were having problems. I’m a man. I’m alone, nice hotel rooms, money, power…I was pretty young, all things considered. Hell, I stepped out. It was wrong. Why you think I became a minister after all that? I was wrong, but I ain’t unique…

“Let’s call a spade a spade, no pun intended. If these were Black women, ya’ll wouldn’t even consider this news. I’m surprised.”

“But why white women, sir?”

“Dunno. Revenge for slavery? There are no Black women in pizza chain upper management? All Black women at that time were on the Democratic plantation and won’t give up any squishy goodness to a brotha like me? I dunno. Let’s keep it real. I was born in the south. I’m a Morehouse man. You don’t think I’ve had my share of Black women? Hell, I got one at home. I wanted to try something different. See what the fuss was all about…”

“Was it worth it, sir?”

“Kinda. Just expensive as hell, but it’s one of the CEO perks, y’know? They got insurance for that kind of thing. Pay your deductible and move on. Company picks up the premiums. Part of your compensation package.

"I will say this, however: I realized just how down sistas are. Moving forward, I'ma reserve my "plantation" comments for those chucklehead Black MALES. My wife is in my corner. Do you know Black female newscasters in Chicago are looking at this chick like, ' 'Why she come out now?' Nothing rallies Balck women like hatred of white women they think have dogged a Black man."

“But WHY white women?”

“Shoot, boy, you hard of hearing? Cuz they was THERE! Next question.”

“Does this have anything to do with 9-9-9?”

“I could comment, but I won’t. That one’s too easy.”

“Do you think this will affect you with voters?”

“Maybe, but I dunno. I mean, we’ve come a long way in this country. Some of the staunchest rednecks cheer for colored ballplayers who have white trash wives. Hell, some of the staunchest rednecks got sisters married to those colored ballplayers…”

“Rush Limbaugh defended you…”

“He should. Again, any powerful man who acts like what I done was a crime is a hypocrite, or same sex oriented. Don’t get me started on that.”

“But sir: WHITE WOMEN?”

“You never saw ‘Mandingo’? Been part of the plan since the beginning. Shoot. I’m an old school Republican. Before Condi or that cute Holmes gal, if you weren’t Lynn Swan and you wanted some off the reservation action, where did you go?”

“Do you think this hurts your chances to be President of the United States?”

“I never had any chance. We all know that. Well, anything is possible. Excepting that political Jackie Robinson you got residing there now, man, some real questionable characters have inhabited the executive mansion for the last decade and a half. Keep it real.”

“Do you think this was leaked now to cover up something that may damage another candidate?”

“You’re smarter than you look. But now that I’ve admitted it…my fallout is over. Let’s see how a certain other candidate deals with some mortgage issue fallout.”

“Like who, sir?”

“Is this good for the Democrats, sir?”

“Hell, I’M good for the Democrats. More people of color made sure their voter registrations were up to date once I started tying with Whasisface. The Democrats needed me to be popular just before the mid term elections. Remember, in politics, nothing is as it seems. We are all on smoke and mirrors. Also, this whole thing got real hot where? In Chicago. Hmmm…”

“Will the Koch brothers drop you after this?”

“My brothers from another mother? Naw. Please. With all of their money, you think they didn’t know about this way back? I’m a candidate, ya’ll. We walk the streets and lay like we’re told to lay. The money people know all there is to know about us. Hell, who do you think sent me some of those women?”

“But white women…”

“Get off it. The last time I was with a sista half my age I got two hernias and SHE blew MY back out. Uh uh. Plus, all of that is behind me. Things happen in marriage all the time. We work it out. Ya’ll the ones foaming at the mouth cuz they white. I just saw a chance to score.”

“Any closing remarks?”

“Keep your eye on the ball. None of this is what it seems.”

Herman Cain May Be Right...Not That It Will Help

2011-10-13T14:31:00.000-07:00

OK, the field of national politics has me alert and paying attention.

Usually, I reserve my alertness for local politics. Which is a redundant phrase. In Chicago, we have done what no other local politics was capable of doing: we gave the United States a Black president. Well, and openly Black one. Not one of those few that may have had a drop or two of Black blood so, by law, they would have been Black, just never racially profiled while trying to get in their own house in Cambridge…

I digress.

We have a black president. National politics. We have a Black man from the opposing party running for the nomination for president, and making a strong show of it.

Herman Cain.

Herman Cain reminds me a lot of my grandfather. Black men who grew up with nothing. In the south. Saw unfairness and racial evil that would have made Al Sharpton’s perm nap back. They learned early on that people who oppress you do not like you, and people who do not like you are not likely to give you anything. What you get, you get on your own. Getting on your own under those circumstances tends to make you view those who knuckled under as weak. Those who seek the approval of the oppressor are subhuman. Those who feel they cannot make it without the oppressor’s help, well, they may as well be dead.

It has to be a hoot to look at the very people who gave you hell coming up and saying, “I beat you at your own game. Now, I am on the national stage, making you look stupid.”

I get Herman Cain. I do.

I dig the fact that he is truly an American success story. I like that like my grandfather and other Black men of that generation, Mr. Cain has the cojones to call it like he sees it. Right or wrong. Do you ever remember your grandfather telling you and your cousins something you knew was crazy, but he didn’t give a hoot? He stuck to his guns and called it as he saw it? You’d be thinking, “That’s a crazy old man,” he’d be steady going on, “I’m right on this. Ya’ll see.”

That’s Herman Cain.

It’s not just his “Let Me Walk All Over Those Weaker than Me” attitude. When Cain disses Black folk who didn’t have the gumption to make it through hard work and whatnot, he is dissing those white folks who haven’t reached his pinnacle, too.

“What? I’m 'sposed to be scared a YOU? Didn’t you inherit your money, BOY? And YOU? Wasn’t your DADDY the GOVERNOR or something? How is it I made millions coming from nothing, and ya’ll can’t hold ya own against ME? I mean, haven’t ALL of you people had a bunch of advantages I could NEVER dream of having, yet I have bested YOU? Hell…weren’t YOU born WHITE?”

I get it, Rev. Cain. I do.

Which is why, when publishers of urban newspapers say, “Well, he has said he won’t allow any Muslims on his cabinet!”, I am forced to think, “Are there any Muslims there now? What about under Bush 43? Or Slick Willie? I mean, heck, just as Judaism is passed on through the mother, Islam passes from the dad, making the president the only person with any Islamic affiliation, and hey, he converted as soon as he knew what religion was. Man. Mr. Obama wouldn’t even stick with his own Black nationalist pastor that performed his wedding. You really think he’s gonna hire some Muslims?”

I get it, Mr. Cain. I do. When you suggest your 999 plan, and Black folk jump on it because they think its racist (I mean, c’mon…it’s a Republican plan, it HAS to be), I think, “Hey, wasn’t Congressman Chaka Fattah, a Democrat, trying to push transaction taxes as a way to invigorate the economy?” Racist? With a name like Chaka, I don’t think he has a Klan application on file.

Chairman Cain, I understand you are just calling it like you see it. When you say, “Black folk are just using racism as a reason to not achieve. Racism can not hold ya back if you don’t let it!” What do they expect you to say? You endured worse racism than most Black folk can imagine, and you are now giving it to white folk in spades. You defied a bunch of the silly stereotypes that have become synonymous with modern day Black folk. Things like having no respect for marriage. Expecting much for working little. Complaining about how people don’t like you but expecting those same folk to provide you with jobs, housing, etc. Making excuses at every turn. Not understanding business. None of that is you. Your success, your money and frankly, your lifestyle is bothering more white people than it is Black folk. You’re probably grinning inside the whole while.

I understand all of that. Hey, I agree with it.

I just can’t vote for him.

Why?

Well, for one, Cain isn’t going to win. I like to roll with winners.

Two, while the whole dump Rev. Wright thing bothers me, and while folk haven’t figured out Mr. Obama is a Chicago Democrat, which means talk blue but acts red, and while Black folk haven’t figured out POTUS # 44 has been dissing them worse than Cain ever could…

President Obama is a homeboy. I mean, we Chicagoans stick together. Period. Dot. Even when you let the Daley machine pull your strings. As a Black man, hey, I understand. We all work jobs where we gotta do what we told. Sometimes, working that job as best you can does nothing for your patience with people who won’t work at all. Especially those you risk your job trying to help.

I have admitted to some social conservatism in my writings. I do believe Black folk need to stop this overwhelming support of the Democrats simply on the basis that they are, well, Democrats. All Democrats are not good. All Republicans are not inherently evil. Many voting Black folk are quite conservative, regardless of what party they choose to support.

My issue with the GOP, Mr. Cain, is this: some pretty decent Black folk have allowed themselves to be poster children for this organization, only to be tossed aside like old charcoal that is no longer needed to cue anything when the party is over.

You disagree?

Remember Richie? The architect of the recent Republican electoral victory. His own party was so grateful that from minute one they let some entertainer with a penchant for prescription painkillers pimp slap him silly, thus forcing him to become both the party’s whipping boy and savior.

What about the young man from Oklahoma? Boy, they trotted you out to refute the claims of our “First Black President” (insert laugh track here) and let you take on anybody Black the party had no use for. I mean, look: we know these people love their sports heroes. They loved you, their Black token paragon of equality.

Where ya at, Son? Haven’t seen you in Congress lately. Party didn’t have your back, huh?

General? I still hold you in the highest regard. An old lion like you, however, should have seen in coming. Do they even allow you to cross the threshold of the United Nations anymore, sir?

So while, as a Chicagoan, I can quickly admit the Democratic Party isn’t a host of angels, I have to say, at least, if it suits their needs, they will offer some person of color to shine. Dick Daley used to brag that in his Chicago, there were Negro police captains, fire lieutenants, and elected officials. Sure, they had to toe his racist line, but it was better than down south, where they had the same racist thinking and wouldn’t even let you drink out of a fountain, much less run your own area. Democrats are the good party. Don’t forget it.

Is that foolish of me? Sure. It was foolish for a bunch of rednecks to vote for George W. Bush, thinking that because he liked cowboy boots they had so much in common. He still got eight years out of it. My loyalty to Obama can’t leave the country in as bad of a bind as their loyalty to Bush did.

Plus, again, I like to be on the winning side. Here in Chicago, if we want our guy to win, he wins. We will steal the election if we have to. Sadly, we won’t have to.

The Grand Old Party’s track record is pretty abysmal on their Black wunderkinds. I can see them congratulating themselves on their egalitarianism for inviting Cain to the dance. Then trying to lynch him for doing the slow grind with their sisters.

Regardless, after I cast my ballot, I will hear my maternal grandfather, his voice firm, saying, “This old fast food these companies are pushing will be the death of a once healthy country, mark my words…These prisons will one day be like a return to slavery, people with no rights collected together to do work for pennies and make others millions…One day, these projects here in Chicago will all come down, and only the wealthy will be able to live in those areas…That professional wrestling is really fake…I’m right on this, ya’ll see.”

My Dictatorship...An Ongoing Conversation (co-authored by F. Christopher King)

2011-08-22T10:53:00.000-07:00

JD: OK SO the press has Ghadaffi on the run. Why are we not there?
Sent at 11:37 AM on Monday

Mark: “cause this is not a smart time to try to take over. Trading out one dictator for another? That only works in North Korea.
Sent at 12:03 PM on Monday

JD: And you think Mubarak's successors in Egypt are not gonna be dictatorial?
Sent at 12:13 PM on Monday

Mark: Not the point.
Sent at 1:04 PM on Monday

Mark: Mubarak's successors will be implanted by the US because they have oil. We didn't mess with N.K. because they have nothing that we want.
Well, oil and someone friendly to the US can exert considerable influence there. We still have to get someone to start the Palestinian Israeli war to further the agenda of the NWO.
Naah, you want a country where you can be a real dictator and not a puppet of the Infidel.
Sent at 1:07 PM on Monday

JD: Puppetry pays too. And the Infidel, as you call him, is paying right now. His credit is good with me. Plus, we got a Black infidel now. We can trust him. He knows the handshake. This is business. LOL. China keeps NK on a string to get us rattled at times, and then they step in and appear sane
Sent at 1:11 PM on Monday

Mark: But puppetry doesn't pay like we want it to. We need to control the figurehead leader. We still looking at Irwin for that? He has political background now. It's a logical choice. With Flatbush as his second in command... no real power for him - provide him with a harem and some Hennessy and he'll stay out of the way.
Sent at 1:14 PM on Monday

JD: I want Flatbush kept on a REAL tight string. Saif Ghadafi he ain’t. He's more like Mobutu. You gotta watch them. The Hennessy is fine, all he wants. But no harem. Women make a man feel ambitious. Allow him to impregnate several goat ranchers' daughters, thus forcing him to marry or face disgrace. Nothing like a wife to keep a man busy. We’ll give him several.

Mark: I like it.
Sent at 1:24 PM on Monday

Mark: And we can make a deal with the US to start exporting some the Indian casino business to us in exchange for "migrant workers" (i.e.- indentured servants) that can be used to further undermine the economy and help further their agenda.

JD: Oh yeah. We will be SO in bed with the US government. I mean, they are the only game in town. The doggone Chinese are investing in Africa and (gasp) offering the Africans infrastructure and profits after the fact, not money up front. How does one get to build a dictatorship with back end money? Dumb dummies. Hey, Ghaddafi's daughter Ayesha is fine. I want her as general counsel. She may be unemployed soon.
Sent at 1:27 PM on Monday

Mark: "Foine" is not a qualification... and what do we need general counsel for? We're a DICTATORSHIP! Needing general counsel would imply a rule of law and fair trials and all that nonsense.
So unless you plan on hitting that, we need better "qualifications."
Sent at 1:30 PM on Monday

Mark: And if you did plan on hitting that, what we gonna do with #1 wife? That could be an issue.

JD: Dude, she was Saddaam's defense lawyer. Well, maybe that’s not much of a qualification. Like letting Kobe be Ben Roethlisberger’s mouthpiece. Plus, I had the pics mixed up. Ayesha just aiight. That was one of his female bodyguards who looked like a sista from 39th street. I'm married. I won't be hitting anything outside the homestead. "Stable family man" looks good on asylum applications when it is time to flee with my loot and let Flat and Irwin take the fall.

Mark: No doubt.
I just plan on becoming invisible.
Got a new identity set up and everything.
Sent at 1:32 PM on Monday

JD: Yeah, that's the problem. People don't think ahead. I've got all of that worked out NOW. In fact, I am having copies of my Archie comics sent to my safe house under my new identity, where they will stack up for years, waiting for me until I flee in exile. Hey, does that mean we can't come to Irwin's state funeral? Cuz they're gonna kill him. I think Flat may be dragged through the streets, and that's OK.
Sent at 1:33 PM on Monday

Mark: yeah, and Win will try to seek asylum in the US, and they will try him for war crimes. Since Johnnie Cochran is dead, you think that we could just set him up with Casey Anthony’s lawyer? I would feel kinda bad if we just left him completely hanging.....
Sent at 1:35 PM on Monday

JD: No, sorry, someone has to die, and not even the Americans will be dumb enough to buy Flat having any real power. I say let Irwin take his chances. Saudi Arabia might take him. They take everybody.

Mark: Damn. Well, if someone has to go, so be it.
Better him than me.

JD: I know, right? Don't feel bad. We're letting him be a head of state for a number of years. I mean, damn, what's the most he could be here? President? We're gonna let him be like Emperor King al Sheik or something. Take the good with the bad. Shoot. If he plays it right, he can be an international arbiter of style. You ever see those badass shades Ghadaffi wears? Remember Mobutu’s hats? Or Duvalier’s suits? We are offering him a chance at more style than he has ever had in his life. Good for the ladies.

Mark: Oh. I’m not sure women are a perk of the job Irwin wants. You DO realize that WE are going to have to be the ones that kill him, right?
Sent at 1:57 PM on Monday

Mark: I mean, he may be a tad slow on the upswing, but he still knows how to throw people under the bus. Once they start coming after him, how long until he dimes us out and says that we are the ones really in power? Lying and saying that he can lead the rebels to us?
Sent at 1:58 PM on Monday

JD: I can't kill him. I've known the guy over twenty years. Almost as long as I've known you.

Mark: We're gonna have to.
It’s an imperative.
Ok.
I'm gonna have to.
Fine.

JD: No, we gotta get Flat to kill him. I'll steal from the treasury and send my kids to boarding schools in hostile countries and I'll quickly sing like Mariah to the US government on whatever they want. I'll set Flatbush up to kill Irwin. Think about it. It's FAIR.

Mark: How can Flat kill Irwin if Flat is dead?
Oh. Never mind. I misread it.
We’ll make it look like a crime of passion.
Win was sleeping with Flat's goat-herding wife on a bed of yarn-cats.

JD: TOLJA it'd work

Mark: But GOOD yarn cats. Like cashmere
And then those loyal to Win would drag flat through the streets once he is declared dead.
That is just too perfect.
Sent at 2:07 PM on Monday

JD: Yeah, I have my moments. That was the plan. Then we can REALLY cash in. Make Irwin a martyr. We can get the t-shirt concession and everything. I'm working on the made for TV movie, of course which will not include us as anything but loyal friends he did so wrong.

Mark: And I am starting a book titled "Under My Thumb: how one humanitarian survived in an oppressive dictatorial regime - An autobiography."
Sent at 2:11 PM on Monday

JD: I'm gonna head up the university and write from exile about intellectual repression. Boy what a prick that Irwin is gonna be.
JD: They say success makes you who you really are. Think I'll be able to get my Bentley collection out of his repressive hellhole? That damn Irwin.
Sent at 2:17 PM on Monday

Mark: Sure we can! Just put them in freight containers marked diplomatic cargo.
That'll get them past customs.

JD: When the US overthrows him, y'know, I'ma be glad to see him go.
Sent at 2:23 PM on Monday

JD: I kinda wanted Libya. But you're right. I'll hold out for somewhere the seasons change. Oh, let me call Irwin and see if he wants to play golf...And I need to borrow $50 from Flat. I’m good for it…

I Can't Believe It

2010-12-01T10:48:00.000-08:00

I was going to write about my recent field trip to the Brookfield Zoo. Embarrassing one’s children is always a worthwhile part of the parenting process.

Something happened at work, however, that I had to write down.

By and large, the country’s perception of Black men is not a flattering one. The most favorable is that of an oversexed musician or a young athlete who has problems with the police, baby mommas or drugs. Or a combination of three.

The least favorable is that skinny guy with the curl bag and gold teeth the evening news always seeks to interview after something crazy happens in our community. Or some heavyset guy who reminds me of Big Worm in Friday.

These caricatures do their damage, but my concern isn’t that the rest of the world will view me as Pookie or some baller named Kashawnanon.

I saw something at work yesterday that showed me the true danger of stereotypes.

A guest at my place of business requested a late check out. During the week, this is the type of courtesy hotels happily extend regulars, but some folk take advantage. This person stays with us regularly but has tried every trick in the book to get a discount, a free room or attention above and beyond what a good property should offer. When people throw ketchup on their sheets and say you rented them a room with a bloody mattress, hoteliers start looking for what other scams such an individual may pull. These are people who will scream to high heaven how much they hate your establishment and then demand free nights.

If I’m that dissatisfied with a hotel, it would have to pay me to stay there. I’m not trying to spend any more time in a hellhole than necessary. Not even for free.

Those of you who’ve read YNB for a while remember my tales of Bad Guests # 1 & 2? This person tops them.

This gentleman keeps getting over, however. He asked for a late check out, after already wheedling a steep discount for his room from a new desk agent and after having tried to pull a fast one with paying his bill once before. As a member of management, I share the blame in this. Why keep doing business with this guy? Well, there’s a recession, and the hotel industry is hurting, and frankly, he’s not a violent or destructive guest.

He’s just slick.

So yesterday when the desk agent pops her head into our office and asks if we can extend this guy yet another break, the desk manager says, emphatically, “No!” Minutes later the agent is back with the usual request from this guest to see someone in management.

I have little patience for such people, and as the desk manager rises from her seat, I shrug into my jacket to lend some managerial support. I’ma big guy.

We go up front and I look around. All that I see is an elderly Caucasian guy and a man who reminds me of Carlton from “Fresh Prince of Bell Air”.

Carlton waits his turn then politely requests his late check out, along with other freebies. Not seeking to override the authority of the desk manager, I stand silently behind her, confused as she grants his request.

“What gives?” I said when we are back in our office. “I thought we were gonna put this guy out once and for all!”

“I know,” she sighed. “I can’t explain…”

I can.

Stereotypes like Pookie, Junebug and Man Man have conditioned a lot of folk to be prepared to instantly say “No!” when a Black man even asks for the time of day.

So most of us aren’t ready for the well spoken Black guy. And there are slicksters who have used that to their advantage for decades.

If you don’t speak like Magic Johnson, you’re in.

Think I’m lying?

Who’s living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?

It’s happened to me, and I use these powers for good. I go into places where people are ready to call the police until I open my mouth. Suddenly, people are looking at me like I’m a damn unicorn, and they start GIVING me things. It gets so bad to where they will lean over and make disparaging comments about other customers to me, as if I were part of some select club.

It’s not often I will say this, but white people, this is your fault. You spent years isolated in your own environment that you figured any of us who dresses and talks like Bryant Gumbel is some kind of Super Negro. Like Michael, Eddie and Magic, we’re not Black. We’re something else. Since we’re not Black, however, we must be OK. Here, JD-wanna borrow my Mercedes? I’m not using it. No. It’s OK. Take it. I got some money for gas. Just don’t drive on the low end. THOSE PEOPLE live there, and you might not be safe…

I walk into stores talking to my wife and white guys pull me aside, asking if it’s exotic being married to “one of them”.

As a result, shysters who know how to pronounce their ts, and rs are making a killing.

I had a boss once, a Black small business owner, whose business was a phenomenal business to business concept. The problem? Dude could not manage a kid’s play date. He ran through money like crazy. Do you know why he stayed in business?

Because he had Caucasian business partners, savvy businessmen themselves, who kept throwing money at him. Tens of thousands of dollars. He’d bankrupt one business, and these same folk would be back on board for the next go round.

“Man, when these folks see one of us who can speak well, the sky is the limit!”

I was young at the time, so I thought he was crazy. Like I said, I was young.

It’s ridiculous. Barack Obama is a bright man who has pushed through a lot of beneficial legislation that will benefit Americans for years to come. Black people didn’t put him in the White House, however. We just don’t have the number.

I’m sure in those crowds were tons of folk who didn’t give one whit about his platform. “What’s his stance on gun control?” “Dunno. Have ya heard him TALK?” They saw his skin color and listened when he opened his mouth, and the rest was history. To this day, only the Republicans stand against him, probably because they have enough coloreds who talk right in their own party, so they’re inoculated.

I had a disagreement with another boss once over a different deadbeat guest whose balance was getting bigger and bigger.

“You gotta take action,” I begged. “This guy is soaking us!”

“Nonsense, he’s not that type,” came the reply. “For Pete’s sakes, James, he talks like you! He’s just having a tough go of it. Let’s float him til July…”

It was December.

There are exceptions. If you talk like a lot of sportscasters, like speaking correct English requires thought, so you are obviously speaking minutes after deciding just WHAT to say, and you over do it? Un uh. Dead giveaway. Or if you sound too much like Carlton. It’s weird. You have to be articulate but with some bass in your voice. You’re not TRYING to sound like anything other than what you ARE is the trick, I guess. Those are the guys who appear to get over the most.

I think this is limited to guys, as well. Our society is perfectly accepting and aware of Black women who speak like Oprah does and still accepts them “going black” and neck rolling and cutting someone down as if they were their mommas.

A Black man, however? Shoot. Sky’s the limit. It’s mind boggling.

I don’t know whether it is one of the twisted nuances of racism or it says something about how Americans really do have it in them to look past color. “I like Will Smith. He raps happy!”

No, Dummy. He pronounces polysyllabic words as if he’s been speaking the language most of his life, and as if his parents raised him with some sense. As a result, ya’ll made a billionaire out of him.

All of those years as a kid that I spent getting beaten up for not “talking Black” suddenly come into perspective.

There’s a market out here. I don’t think it’s fair. I was taught to speak correct English because my mother would pop me out of annoyance if I didn’t. Now some fools have turned this into a cottage industry? I feel like Eddie Murphy the time he put on make up and infiltrated the other side...

Happiness? At Any Cost, Nowadays

2010-11-30T14:32:00.001-08:00

I often wonder about this kick with happiness.

Everyone is striving to be happy.

Are there limits?

I ask because there are people out here who will be happy at all costs. While I believe a bit of rain here and there makes the sun appear brighter when it does shine, I place limits on what I will do to be happy. Often, the selfish pursuit of happiness on the part of some people makes me wonder.

I know someone that used to brag that no matter what, she would be happy. Several of the scenarios she presented often had her obtaining her happiness at the expense of another person.

Modern love nowadays often appears focused on that type of joy.

I will be happy at all costs. I will never be sad. If being happy means that I have to break my word, so be it. If I can obtain happiness by spending time I should not with another man’s wife, or bringing harm to another person’s life, well, that person should have handled their business better. If they were tight in whatever they were doing, there would be no room for me to insert myself into their process to obtain my happiness.

Perhaps it is me, but something seems so wrong about that type of thinking.

I know people who have ruined their relationships. We are all human, and things happen. What causes the real pain is when you find out someone you love has engaged in infidelity, and their response is, “Well, you shouldn’t have been looking,” or “What you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you.”

Really?

When I overhear people speak of others’ problems and a response they receive is, “Well, had Such and Such’s game been tight, none of this would have happened.”

It reminds me of a line from one of my favorite movies. One of the most complete bastards in literary history justifies murder by duel. He kills a man with whose wife he had a torrid affair. When his wife expresses concern, the good count replies,” His wife and I were happy in our passion. You were happy in your ignorance. Now comes the viscount's valiant defense of his honor, and you are pained. She is ruined, and he is dead.”

Nobody is perfect, but perhaps I am naive in thinking that people really try to do the right thing. It takes the sting out of it when things go wrong.

I once knew a guy that stepped outside of his marriage. He and his wife were separated, but he had recently contacted his spouse in an attempt to work things out. While they were apart, he began a little game with his married boss that led to their winding up in a hotel room one night. He said that he expressed regret before things got under way.

“Then why did you go any further?” I asked.

He shrugged. “We were there. I mean, things had kind of started, I guess we figured we’d go through with it and regret it later.”

His wife found out. She is now his ex wife. He is still angry, but not with himself.

“That didn’t have anything to do with her!”

Yeah, it did. You reached out to her. You laid it all on the line about wanting to reconcile, but you didn’t follow through in good faith. It was a secret? Buddy boy, when more than one person knows, there is no such animal.

We all do things we wish we had not done. I just wonder at what point in adulthood do we realize that having our cake and eating it too, while possible, is just, well, wrong?

I also wonder what point we realize commitment is about going through the good and the bad with the people we choose. I hear horror stories. The new, supposedly mature happiness has a checklist. See, under the old plan you worked with someone and tried to ride things out for the commitment. Not so with the new plan. The old model was family. The new model? It’s like working a job. You get so many times to endure some personal stress or disappointment, before you’re jettisoned. Some relationships sound life urban versions of “Survivor”.

I love when people bring religion into it. "Jesus wants me to be happy!"

Jesus was not always happy, upbeat or positive. He had his moments. One of his boys betrayed him, another pretended he didn't know him and a group of folk who were singing his praises one week forced the government to execute him the next. Little makes you as unhappy as hearing people who benefitted from your teachings choose teh release of a murderer over you. Check it out. I didn't write it. I daresay Jesus wants you to be compassionate and work through life's sadness to understand what happiness really is.

Some people are pursuing what they think is happiness with the same fervor street pharmaceutical reps pursue their profits. I am a little more understanding when I see cutthroat, selfish behavior in business, where survival of the fittest is at the root of profitability, and all parties know what to expect. In our personal lives, though, such behavior is, in my opinion, reprehensible. At the base of any relationship are trust and compassion, and such behavior clearly contraindicates both. If my idea of happiness with my lady is one where I will pursue outside happiness, or at least be open to any possibilities of outside happiness should she be depressed, find herself going through changes, or just suffering from a migraine when my hormones are off the chain, I really never had the patience and understanding a monogamous relationship required in the first place. What I have is a situation that was convenient at one time that I prolong because of continued conveniences. “Happiness” has become a euphemism for selfishness, self centeredness and a general lack of maturity. Building a commitment on that foundation is like building a house on sand.

I am a big believer in happiness, just as I am a believer in peoples’ rights. There are places where a line must be drawn, however. My freedom of speech stops this side of yelling “Fire” in a crowded movie theater.

My happiness should stop this side of me mistreating or being inconsiderate of others. That’s not happiness. That's misery in an Armani suit with handmade shoes.

No matter how you dress misery up, it's still misery.

We Know Better.

Don’t we?

Marriage 101

2010-11-22T08:45:00.001-08:00

I had an interesting conversation on my way to work with my grandma.

My maternal grandmother is the last grandparent that I have with me. Orville Cobb, affectionately known as “Gee Ma” “Nana” and “Bill” is absolutely revered by her grandsons. The feeling is mutual. I think it is because she knows what craziness her daughters, these boys’ mothers, inherited from their dear father. Granddaddy Cobb was a trip, but that is another story.

I have often said of Bill that she never has an unkind word for anyone. I have often joked that if the devil himself stopped by she would call out to me, “David! Please bring Mr. Mephistopheles some cool lemonade so he can be on his way. He is really sweating something awful.”

When Granddaddy Cobb was sick, bedridden with the last stages of Alzheimer’s, I was in college in the city. The house at 1235 was always home. It wasn’t as nice or as large as my folks’ place, but there was a peace in the lived in bungalow. My granny had raised about 40 children in this house, six of them whom she brought to life. The rest she just gave life because in so many cases, no one else had time for them. She never got a stipend or a license to be a foster parent. Things were different in those days. She did it because raising children is what she did. Except for a brief period when they were saving for a house, my grandmother did not work out of the home in the forty plus years she was married. She felt, towards Granddad’s last days that perhaps she was committing some form of adultery when she began volunteering at the local school.

“Earlee and I had an agreement,” she said one day while we had coffee after Granddaddy’s nap. “He would work outside of the home. He worked two full time jobs and had his own business. Plus his church. I would raise children. Once a year he sent me somewhere, first class, on my own, to get away and get a break.

“We didn’t love each other because of some new age formula. He loved me for having his children. I loved him for taking care of me, for his word being good, and for protecting anything that came his way.

“For a lot of young folk, that isn’t enough. They need ‘soul mates’ and ‘lifetime connections.’ It worked for us, however. I didn’t start out being his best friend. I became his best friend because we supported each other, even when we disagreed. And we disagreed a plenty.

“A lot of husbands weren’t perfect. A lot of wives weren’t, either. Don’t fool yourself. There is a reason we had phrases like, ‘That baby sure favors the milkman…’

“I never asked Earlee to be anything other than him. I also didn’t expect him to do everything. In my opinion, some of these young marriages don’t work because there is no balance. For example, I have seen many a man go too far for a woman, and it causes problems. He buys her whatever she wants. He is working, doing most of the housework, and basically just leaving his wife with too much time on her hands. This becomes a problem because it builds a lot of resentment, but he is afraid: if I stop doing these things, will she leave? But if I feel like I am being used and don’t say anything, will I go crazy?

“You have to understand there is a difference is someone loving you and liking what you do for them. Women used to make this mistake, as they became more independent. ‘Let me help my man’ and your man is driving off in a car you bought him with your best friend, who doesn’t work at all. Then something changed. I don’t mean these women who get with knuckleheads who create babies and then leave. I mean the women who get several good men and just use them up and find another. I mean women who figure it is a man’s job, and have connived some not so smart men, that love means he will do all of the things he has to do, plus some things she has to do, so she can go out and do the things she wants to do. There is a difference. Sadly, the single mothers get it but too many other women do not. The concept that with freedom and independence comes responsibility and society has not forced these women to be responsible. They momma can take care of the baby their husband will take care of the bills and what money she makes is spent on her making herself look good so she can get paid attention by some other men. Her husband can tell you the things she likes and what makes her tick, but she doesn’t even know his favorite color. She assumes that her responsibility in a marriage is to have sex with her husband, and that’s it.

“A marriage can’t work that way, but so many young people are trying and failing. You can’t have a marriage based on selfishness. I grew up in harder times. We saw some bad husbands and daddies, and the goal was to not have that. A lot of us wanted out of our parents’ houses, and that was part of what made a man appealing. We knew, however, we had to work our end of the bargain, and no one gave us talk shows as venues to gripe about having to pull our fair weight in an agreement we wanted. Nowhere in the equation was the idea of getting someone with the intent of him making our every wish come true and when he didn’t, somehow his manhood was lacking. People have always acted on self interest, but I do not, at least for my circle in my time, remember things being so mercenary. And unbalanced. Really nice girls can’t find a man who has basic respect for them. Girls who are selfish to the core keep stumbling upon Prince Charming and testing their luck, confident another chump will come along.

“Maybe I am old. It just seems to me like the women of my generation, we were too BUSY with real world things to be bothered with a bunch of silliness, and too grown to play games. We had children. We had lives. We had work to do. We didn’t have time to make marriage into something it is not or experiment for the sake of just ‘being happy’.

“Or this concept of people marrying their best friend. Now becoming a best friend after marriage? Sure. But do you have any idea what a disaster it can be, marrying someone that knows how bad you are? Or how low you can go? Or the things that you do sometimes because it’s just in your nature to do something that can really hurt someone else?

“Some things it’s better to let people learn over time. If you are true to the idea of staying married, you have long enough to learn your person’s old evils, and enough of their new ones, too.”

I mulled that one over.

“So how do you make it work?

“You have to talk. You have to be honest with each other. You have to have a certain amount of maturity, because a grown person talking to a child isn’t going to get very far. Children have short memories and are selfish by nature. You have to have an understanding. Some things will be one person’s responsibility, and vice versa. The other person can help, on occasion, but if you agree to do the budget and pay the bills, our spouse should not be routinely writing checks because you forgot to pay the bills. That’s YOUR job. Don’t divide jobs based on gender but ability. If you are bad with money, bite that bullet and let your wife manage your finances. If her idea of a balanced meal is fast take out, she has to get over the ‘I’m Every Woman’ syndrome and accept that you will be cooking daily. And you better have that meal ready at the times you agree, because that’s YOUR job.

“Be ready to hear some things you don’t like, but make it a point to only mention the things you don’t like that affect your marriage. If you don’t like her choice of décor for the house, get over it. If you think her mode of dress is too racy for a married woman that may bear a conversation. Choose your battles. You are marrying a person, not your dog. It is not the job of a spouse to recreate another person in their own image. A famous man said there is only one of you in the world, and Lord knows that is enough.”

Let's Be Real

2010-11-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

The new Tyler Perry movie debuted this weekend, raking in $20 million for Mr. Perry and once again giving Black talk radio fodder for topics for the next week or so.

I didn’t see it. My wife and I went to the movies, and had she wanted to watch “For Colored Girls”, I would have gone along; enduring yet another of Mr. Perry’s bash fests to happily enjoy the company of my wife.

“I don’t want to see it,” she said.

Oh.

“I mean, I go to the movies to be entertained. I know there are bad relationships and what not. I’ve had some. After a while, though, you wonder: why keep making a millionaire out of someone who has clearly figured out rehashing your problems makes for more of a market than say, just advising you to make better decisions?”

Ouch.

“I’ve had bad relationships. I chose the wrong guys. I hung in there thinking I could change people, or they would change on their own. I paid the price. I got over it. I think it’s funny that so many people, especially, now, a Black man, have learned they can get paid by repeatedly showing Black women their problems and never once saying, ‘Hey, you have more control over this situation than you realize.’ It’s crazy.”

Oh. OK.

After the movie and dinner, I opened my email to read one of those “Things You Need to Know About Black Women” lists. I guess some guy posted a list of things he found common among the women he dated, and decided to write a quick “I’m Not Falling for It Anymore” list. Of course, someone on their laptop in the beauty shop the next day had time on their hands and venom in her heart, and responded with the written version of a neck roll.

I kinda laugh at these lists. No group is a monolith. Yeah, I never liked it when authors, especially Black females, portrayed me as a dog out to sleep with whatever moved, ready to move on to a white woman as soon as one became available. Being a romantic has been my undoing on several occasions. I contribute fairly, or so I’ve been told, to my relationships. I’ve got my issues, but the rampant insecurity, sexual acting out or just plain violence that are often ascribed to Black men in these tomes aren’t what ails me. Arrogant? Yes. Think too much? Yes. Probably a bit judgmental because I know what I bring to the table? Of course. Do I keep score? Unfortunately. A bit pessimistic? Who told you. I’ve been told the Quentin Spivey character in ‘The Best Man’ and I share a character trait or two. I never been a dog, though, and to date, the number of times I have had my heart broken, teeny as it is, has been by Black women. My solution has not been to jump the fence and squire Marcia Brady.

I read both lists and laughed, however. Of course, there was the obligatory “Strong Black Woman” comment. I have known some women whose strength is earth shattering. None of them ever used the words “I am a strong Black woman.” Usually, the weak ones perpetrating could spell this phrase backwards. I’m just saying. Strength is like power. Look up what Maggie Thatcher said about that. She was a woman, by the way. Just thought I’d mention that.

There was the “Black women had to work while other women had wealthy men to take care of them.”

There are only so many rich men. I always laughed at how so many sistas I knew would get angry because they could not find a rich man. That’s why they griped about ball players and celebrities marrying white. Really? I hate to say this, but I’ll bet there are plenty of white, Asian and other women in the middle and lower classes who have to go earn a living like everyone else. Not all of the other women have rich men because gee, not everybody of another color is rich. Just a thought.

Once, when I suggested to my wife that she stay home and I carry the financial burden, she made it clear that nothing would annoy her more. She likes engaging with people. She likes getting dressed to go somewhere. Her mother has a PhD and someone with that kind of a gene pool is not going to let their mind waste away while they sit at home and watch cable. She was off two months this summer and would glare at me as I got dressed to go to work.

Also, she likes control. Many of the women that I know like control, and generating your own income means you don’t have to hear someone else’s mouth. I have found Black women to be inherently fairer than most simply because they understand the concept of democracy. “I am a part of this, I contribute, I got a say.”

I digress.

There was the “Black Women don’t want a thug but a manly man.”

Please.

Some people are stuck on what I call the superhero syndrome. You are constantly looking for that person with a cape to be in your life. Whether it is some super gorgeous woman that cooks, cleans and makes your knees buckle every time, or that hard as nails guy who was always in your corner. Manly man is not it. Face it. Many of us make bad relationship choices and try to make good come out of a bad situation. He chose her because her custom bras were the equivalent of Shaq’s custom sneakers. She chose him because he embodied some fantasy about her being swept away. She gave him the clap, he gave her a baby and a Black eye. So ends the fantasy. We often choose people for the wrong reasons, and I have too many friends who chose men solely because they were thugs, they seemed unattainable, they had money, whatever. More often than not, they were disappointed. I tell my guys, “Look, if you are with her because the horizontal activity is outstanding, good. Just don’t get mad when you can’t discuss why it is some of these domestic policies are messing with your ability to grow your business.” I knew a woman who admitted she destroyed every decent relationship she had. Got bored. Kept chasing some loser who couldn’t spell and really didn’t rock her world, mentally, physically or other. Too often we want what we cannot have, and there is a reason we are not supposed to have it.

I thought about what my wife said. About choices. Too often, we make lousy choices for ourselves, and then refuse to accept our role in having made them. I know some dogs. They are lousy actors. The women they get know what they have from the outset. These guys are never alone. Dog one, and five more who know you are a dog step up to take their place. Then they are upset, two babies, a venereal disease, and possibly several Black eyes later. Why? You knew he was a dog. What did you expect? You chose Livin With My Momma Tyrone over Boring Banker Byron. Why you mad Byron wanted Marcia?

I no longer listen to friends angry their woman cheated on them. When you met her, she had a man. She was staying with him. He was taking care of her two babies by another guy. An hour of conversation and she gives you some? And you thought that was wifey material? Big Dummy. You mad because you walk in and she is servicing Tyrone again. Worse, your dumb behind will be there to save her when he dumps her…again.

Look, we all got our issues. I long for the day, however, when someone can write the following:

SBF, a bit of padding but great sista figure (you know how we do), shy, somewhat mouthy to cover up insecurities from being with guys who only wanted me for my voluptuous figure and the fact that I am so needy I fell for the okeydoke time and again. Seeking employed BM with sense of humor whose word is good. I have my moments but I will be ride or die, just make me feel loved and let me know I can trust you. My strength is not in what I say but in the ability to love no matter how bad the world looks or has treated me. Open to new things but please don’t assume just because we click in bed blowing my back out will be fair replacement for mental stimulation and real understanding.

SBM, employed, parent, sometimes drinks too much but good natured soul. Seeking a SBF, weight and complexion unimportant, but must understand I argue enough at work and verbal jousting is not my idea of relaxation. I like intimacy but sometimes that means letting me play with your hair and you eating my cooking. Love kids but don’t ask me to be in their lives and support them if I can’t check them when they are wrong. Don’t question my past mistakes with the law and I won’t question how you perfected those knee buckling skills at such an early age. I have payrolled some really lousy women so let’s not have any money double standards. I will never be a millionaire but I will treat you like the queen you are, just don’t take me for granted.

Mid Terms

2010-11-06T08:55:00.000-07:00

I’ve been asked what I thought about the recent Democratic “shellacking” known as the midterm elections.

Honestly, as a newly remarried man and dad and sales manager in an industry that is facing tough times, I gave it little thought.

Tuesday was an “Oops we overslept I got the kids you run to work see you for lunch hey I’ma be in late gotta do my civic responsibility in my old precinct (why lie? The election is over, and I’m updating my registration) see you love you ‘bye” kind of day.

Historically, mi- term elections do not favor the party in power.

Frankly, I am happy it is over. I was growing tired of hearing those on the left, especially Black folk, make it seem that Republican conservatives were going to make the nation’s first admittedly Black president serve them tea and say “Yassah” should the Dems not remain in control.

I was equally tired of right wing nutjobs screaming “I want my country back!” What country? The one we lived in for eight years prior to this administration, where we watched supposed fiscal conservatives magically turn a surplus into a deficit? The country where energy companies bled us dry as so many of us took pay cuts? Oh, the country where we lied our way into not one, but two wars?

You know, the Native Americans are the only ones who should be kvetching about “wanting our country back.” They are the racial personification of “No good deed goes unpunished.” I don’t care how many casinos you build.

I digress.

Every “x” number of years, Americans go to the polls to supposedly choose people of privilege to supposedly represent them. These people supposedly do honorable work for little pay, with no desire of power, access to women who like power, or that strange animal, the lobbyist, who makes all public servants’ hard work worthwhile.

These Americans get worked up over issues they have neither the education nor the sincere desire to fully understand. They jump on talking points and invest in personalities. Black people support Democrats, thinking this is their party, conveniently forgetting the GOP was the party of Lincoln (self hating racist that he was) and southern Democrats stood in the way of every piece of legislation that 400 years of oppression built. Black folks cry about people dying for their right to vote, which is overstating things a bit. Here in Chicago, Blacks long had the right to vote. The current Chicago Democratic machine finds its roots and initial strength in blocks of Blacks “persuaded” to switch party alliances in the 1920s. That machine has produced a president that looks like some Black folk, so we’ve come full circle. The irony is that Black people have yet to realize politicians and preachers aren’t “leaders”, and our deifying them as such is part of why they are so ineffective.”The Democrats are for working folk!” Really? Like the organized unions that still won’t let you in? You aren’t even the minority of choice anymore. You’ve been passed over for the Latins. Black people also aren’t honest enough to admit the Democratic Party has long used the Black community as some guy uses the unattractive yet needy girl in the neighborhood. No Vaseline, and no that baby ain’t mine.

The Republican Party is for semi literate white males what the Dems are for urban Blacks. These are people who fail to realize that Sean Hannity is an entertainer and not a journalist. There is a lot of quiet racism shrouded by “These policies… are just not American” logic, and that its head is a modern day caricature for StepinFetchit is a joke the higher ups in the party play on the masses that keep them in office. They are the equivalent of a group of third grade play grounders arguing whether Superman and Batman are really friends, and how could they make a movie about it if it wasn’t true? This block is quickly losing its power and will support any policy they think will keep those who are not white males down, even if said policy is detrimental to them. There is no way you can explain a group of working class white males from the Bible belt supporting the scion of one of America’s wealthiest, blue blood families as one of their own. Really? Because he wore cowboy boots? I thought Bush was a horrible president, not a bad man, who laughed through all eight years of his administration thinking, “Are these people for REAL? I couldn’t even run a baseball team! Did you see what I did to Texas? Oh wow. Condi, Baby, they never even figured out about US.” These are people who are hurting but willing to support policies that hurt them further just to make a certain man a one term president. Huh? You do realize only 44 people have ever held this job? If he’s only there 3 days, he will still be one of the most powerful men to have walked the earth. No, white males, and many other Caucasians failed to realize their party has, since the days of Nixon, done them the way Selena Cross. No Vaseline, Shut up Cousin, or next time I’ll go see Bessie the sheep.

Meanwhile, the real power structure in our country, the businessmen, could care less who is elected. To quote billionaire J.R. Simplot, “Republicans or Democrats? What does it matter? I gotta do business with whoever gets in.” These people realize elections are not about policies, but about money, and they could care two whits about half of the fodder on the table for public consumption. That is meant to keep the masses teething while agendas are rammed through that make the conglomerate corporations more and more powerful. Unemployment is high. Jobs are leaving. They are not coming back because it is simply not profitable to have them here. That has nothing to do with organized labor or the American can make more money paying little Asian kids a few cents to build my product and shipping it here than paying someone here even minimum wage. I’m interested in making more money, and as long as you dummies buy my products I don’t give a damn whether you have a job making them.

To sum it up, the midterm elections did not faze me. I participated, but realized, much like Simplot said, whatever happens, I have to deal with who is there. Frankly, the last decade has seen me switch industries, and I make way less at 38 than I did at 28, and that’s not something a bunch of speeches will solve. As a Chicagoan, I am too politically honest to believe those in office can push through policies that will benefit anyone other than the hand that feeds them. You play the cards you are dealt, I have learned, and remember that politics is a lot like a magic show: a lot of smoke and mirrors and little relation to reality at all.

Relationships Grown Up Style

2010-11-04T10:21:00.000-07:00

Flatbush called me the other day. It seems that everyone is settling down these days, and Flat is trying to give it a whirl as well. I could say it’s growing up, but it is getting cold outside, and the holidays are right around the corner.

“Man, JD,” Flat drawled tiredly, “she wants to go to counseling. What the hell?”

I’m all in favor of counseling. I have been in therapy and recognize its benefits. As ½ of a couple, however, I have grown to understand why men are reluctant to engage in relationship therapy. Too often, men find themselves opening up and facing either a wife who will use against them what they said in therapy, or worse, their wives will only share their husband’s wrong. For example, a wife who is having an affair will keep mum about that issue in a session while fully exploiting the pain her husband’s drinking is causing her.

Him: I have trust issues. I know she is seeing Byron. I know that her getting with me was about her needing attention, and she likes the pursuit and being caught, and then likes to move on. She married my but she is seeing someone else, because I know her. Oh, yeah, I also know because Byron keeps calling the house and I overheard her telling him, “My husband wants me to wear my black underwear today, so I have to get them from your house.”

Her: Why does he have to have a six pack every night? It’s tearing us apart. I mean, I come home and he’s half in the bag.

Men have come to realize that few relationship counselors ask, “Is he ripped because you are coming home in different clothes than you left in that morning, singing “Byyyyyyron” like other women sing “Caaaaaalgon”? They focus on, “Byron, you do realize substance abuse destroys many relationships?”

If poor Byron counters that infidelity might cause its share of breakups as well, he is quietly derided for not owning his issues.

As I have matured, I have found that much of what I thought was good logic in relationships just isn’t because we aren’t attracted to people based on maturity levels. There are a lot of things that initially attract us to the opposite sex, but maturity isn’t one of them. That’s probably wise. One tends to gain maturity at the expense of other physical attributes. Over the last fifteen years I have traded maturity for eyesight, a six pack, black hair, and finally hair at all. I have a bunch of maturity in my blind, bald overweight soon to approach middle aged years. Naturally, when I was in the market, I found myself with women who had the maturity of 18 year olds, but the trade off was they had the looks bodies of the same. Seldom did those relationships work.

Men have reached a point where by and large, they can admit their issues. Their frustration is that their women don’t, and nobody wants to be the bad guy all of the time. Contrary to popular belief, the male species needs more from the opposite sex than just sexual service and home amenities. Many are tiring of relationships not out of a failure to commit, but out of frustration. When someone points a high powered lens at you, it’s uncomfortable. When ladies have written books and jumped on talk shows exposing Black men’s foibles and failures, it hurt. Now that guys are starting to closely examine women the same way they have been scrutinized for years, it’s making folk uncomfortable. Suddenly, we need to run to outside referees who historically have not sided with the male species.

In Flat’s situation, I could offer no advice save a weak, “See if your health plan covers it. If not, maybe you got an out.”

“I mean, man, I like her and all, but she has no ambition, she has no drive, I feel she is only stepping up her game because she is with me. I kinda wanted someone who would give it her all just because that’s what she’s on.”

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing someone tries to put their best foot forward because of their environment, Flat. Some of the greatest successes in the world have come about because someone decided to better themselves to better their situation. There is great power in taking someone, or something, seriously.”

The line went quiet.

“No one is perfect, man, and no relationship is based on equals. “She’s probably would have stepped her game up long ago if she knew the men she loved loved her in return. It’s obvious ya’ll feel strongly for each other, have each other’s back, are each other’s best friend.”

“I don’t want a woman who’d step her game up for me. I’d want her to want something regardless. I’d be leading her. I want someone self led.”

“You dumb, Flat. EVERY relationship has an adult and a child. There are women out here who love their men but realize dude couldn’t survive on his own without them. There are strong men out here with women children who have to look past some of the childish things at play when they realize how much she needs them. No relationship is 50/50. In fact, I told one of my strong female friends who kept saying she couldn’t meet an even stronger man that she didn’t need one. Because if she ran across a man stronger than her, he would crush her spirit, and that would be a waste.”

“Yeah, cuz a strong man…”

“No, because she wants someone stronger than her. And in any situation, when you buck someone stronger than you, they will win. Male or female. That’s how strength works. Relationships can’t be built on that.”

“J…she’s been around. Even professionally. You know that.”

“Flat…she’s a young woman who really feels she has nothing to offer but what’s between her legs, and she has made the same mistake over and over offering that to guys because she felt she had nothing else. You know what’s funny? There are women who like sex. They ain’t doing just ANYBODY, cuz they ain’t trying to be disappointed. Then there are women who do it a lot because honestly, they don’t know nothing else. They get with the right person, if he can get beyond their need for attention and their way of playing that out through their organs…man. They got the potential to be something else. You gotta get over yesterday and what other people think, though, to get that gold.

You ever see how some women get mad? They were with Tyrone, he dogged them, he was into dirt, etc. They run into him 10 years later, he’s got this beautiful Black wife, kids, he’s superdad. And they are mad. SOMEONE saw what he had inside and made him…

“I guess the same goes with women. It bothers with you when you see that easy girl you knew before, ALL they guys had her, and she is with some dude who has made her a STAR. She is now someone you gotta look at and admit, ‘She WAS easy, but that chick be brought OUT of her ain’t no slut…In fact, that chick we used to mess with resembles this one in name and body only. We couldn’t touch the woman she is now.’” Dude, somebody else’s tramp is really a phenomenal woman inside, and be real: doesn’t it reflect on you as a man when you had her and all you could get was sex, but he got her to give up the whole package, and be a woman and a half? She’d just sleep you. She lives for him. That says more about the fool that dogged her and speaks volumes about the man that loves her.”

Flat got real quiet.

“Damn,” he said, “You right.”

I stayed quiet.

“What I wonder, though, J, is if she would have had anyone vouch for me the way you vouched for her? Because if the tables were turned, I’d just be wrong, and as a result of my wrongness, she would use that to justify whatever dirt she wanted to do.”

“One thing at a time, man. But you’re right. The pendulum is swinging the other way. This aint that however. You either want to be here or not. If you do, then you gotta roll with it, maybe do this counseling, and hopefully through honesty love and patience, it’ll all work out. If not, you know you put your best foot forward. That may have to be enough.”

Keeping the Faith

2010-10-24T16:57:00.000-07:00

I had an interesting conversation with an old friend today.

“I like you better now,” he said.

Old friends are the best ones. An old friend can explain, with no rancor nor regret, how throughout much of your twenty plus years together, you were a jerk.

And somehow or another, that endeared you to the masses.

I guess that should bother me, but I am a firm believer the truth was never meant to make you mad.

Most of the people who like me, and have liked me over the years, have done so in spite of my being an egotistical two fisted ass whose intellect and elocution served as a double edged sword, used equally against friend and foe alike.

Honestly, the women who have loved me did so because I was a jerk. Even those who left, having had their heads and hearts put through the wringer, seldom stayed gone long. How do I know? Because the ones who were mad because you were such an ass call you in tears over the fact that you married someone else. Someone, for the record, whom they heard you were NOT an Asshole to, and this may or may not have worked in your favor. “Mistreat me, PLEASE! Leave her and you can mistreat me all you like. I need a good mind game now, JD. Please?” It amazes me how more people can love someone who is such an Asshole but detest and walk over that same person when they have grown into something kinder, gentler, and hopefully, wiser.

“It’s not that I have given up the religion of Asshole,” I explained to my friend via telephone, “I am just no longer Orthodox Asshole, which requires Assholishness 24 hours a day, seven days a week, with alternating Christmases off. Think of me as Reformist Asshole. When necessary, I keep the tenets of my religion, and I am a good Asshole at those times. The days when necessary, I can pull that off the shelf. For now, though, I just like to devote myself to being understanding of my fellow human. We all have it SO hard these days.”

I could hear him shaking his head. “I like you better, now,” he said slowly, “but I’m not sure this is gonna be good for you. You have always thrived, personally, when you could be a turbo jerk. This nice stuff is either going to get you flushed, or worse, cause for such a buildup that when it comes time, you are going to go into the Asshole stratosphere.”

I pictured myself waking up one day, head on fire, castigating and riding folk and just being an all out fool until I was lifted, by me head, to the heavens, cussing out clouds with every foot I ascended.

“That guy is gone,” I said ruefully. “He was there primarily to protect a really sensitive person from getting his feelings hurt, and from being walked over like a three day old welcome mat.”

“I’m just saying,” came the wistful reply, “Face it. None of us really liked Anakin Skywalker. A whole lot of us rooted for Darth Vader.”

I remember rooting for Hannibal Lecter. I understood.

“There is neither honor nor pleasure in being a bad guy,” I intoned.

“You don’t even believe that,” my friend castigated me. “At least when you were a regular practicing asshole, you told the truth. To yourself and others.”

“I am happy and at peace,” I argued weakly.

“You sleeping at night?”

I call people and hear them waiting, with baited breath, for some vitriol. When there is none, they find ways to end the conversation. These same folk would have called me on garbage mere months before and delighted in my handling of them.

People call me, looking for a solution that not only addresses the problem but puts perpetrators in their place. Squarely. When I suggest prayer and working on their inner self, they groan and change the subject. I do not hear from these people again. They unfriend me on Facebook and when I call they are never home. Even when I call from their driveway. When their cars are in the carports. And their kids are playing in the yard. .

My own mother made a point of contacting me and saying she would no longer read YNB if I did not return to my sarcastic albeit insightful ways.

Being an Asshole is some things, and it isn’t others. You have to have an opinion. You have to believe your research for your opinions is infallible. If it is not, it will only be proven so when YOU discover said new research. You have to have honor. Assholes do not dog women, they do not mislead men. What they think and do is a result of straight ahead dealing. Plus a certain amount of, “Look at me-I’m bad enough to think, feel and say what I want without hiding” braggadocio. You must be sarcastic but not cynical. You must be angry but never sad. You set aside good works to do to balance out your dirt but you never perform these works for someone you’ve shafted. You hold grudges, but you love hard. You believe in loyalty and honesty, to YOU. You are not above throwing someone under the bus, but again, lying is out unless it protects someone. Assholes are not bullies. We often fight for the underdog, but see nothing wrong with exploiting those whom we have saved. We have an unwavering sense of fairness, usually because it gives us grounds to fight anyone we think is unfair, and not feel bad afterwards about wrecking shop. We are selfish altruists. The ancient Greeks characterized the Asshole as he who the gods deemed could only be born between July 23rd and August 22, but they may be a bit off.

Many of us who practice the faith didn’t intend to stay Assholes. I, for example, started out with every intention of being the ultimate power broker, the BSD. I won’t explain the letters but here’s a dictionary definition: “1. the financial industry's term for a rainmaker; a Wall Street executive who brings in enormous amounts of money for the firm, possibly because he has just screwed a customer. 2. A mover and shaker in any organization Calling some one a d**k is an insult. Calling some one a big d**k is a bigger insult. Calling some one a big swinging d**k is a term of respect.” Wow. Online dictionaries are so much more fun than the Webster’s of my childhood.

I aspired to BSD status, which is the PhD to the Asshole’s Masters Degree. Bachelor studies are referred to as Jerk. Remember, all Assholes are jerks but not all jerks are Assholes. Recognize. I had BSD ambition but compassion and a tiny inkling to love someone got in the way. I got caught in the ranks, like guys who attend military academies and get stuck at captain. I got stuck at Asshole. I aspired to Asshole Supreme for a while, which is kinda like being the highest ranking NCO in the marines, but washed out when I couldn’t be asshole enough with small children.

Times have changed, and I have come to realize that perhaps, just perhaps, the world was a more interesting place with the old me. I have learned, since turning 38 this past August, no good deed goes unpunished, the devil does look out for his own, and the dirty get away with so much more than the clean who make a mistake here or there. Being an asshole had its benefits. It cost, but what doesn’t? It doggone sure doesn’t hurt as much. It’s time for that Zen like question: is all growth good, is all progress productive? While meditating this, I again see my body floating for the heavens, clouds cringing in my wake, birds looking like, “Maybe not. Not today.”

Before he rang off, my friend said, “The thing to remember, man, wasn’t that people loved you because you were an Asshole. We loved you because you were OUR Asshole.”

Oh.

Man

2010-10-02T19:26:00.000-07:00

WARNING: THIS POST USES STRONG LANGUAGE NOT NORMALLY FOUND IN MY WRITINGS. BE FOREWARNED

There’s something about old Black men.

I don’t mean middle aged. I mean old.

Especially tradesmen. Usually born in the South.

The kind of men who look at you funny if you call them “Brother” (“I ain’t yo’ fuckin brother” can be uttered without contempt, I learned) and who, like Rhett Butler, believe their only cause is themselves.

They drive the car they want. They do what they want. They smoke. They drink. They gamble. The only acceptable addiction, however, is women. They are responsible. “Character” is less about doing the right thing and more about keeping their word, paying their bills, and brooking no disrespect. These are the kind of men, who, if you ask them, will tell you Ike Turner got a bad rap. There’s no debate. That’s just what is, in their book. Unless they know a politician that has done favors for them, they stay out of politics and believe all pols, especially those in their families, are weasels.

I believe Robert B. Parker based his Hawk character on these men. They are the living embodiment of Richard Wright’s Tyree Tucker. They provided as best as they could for their children, many who don’t like them. All of their kids respect, and fear them, however. They keep weapons in their cars, regardless of their status with the state, and they fear little. They say “Thank You”, but I never heard one even twist his mouth to say, “Please.” They are almost all thin but you never hear the fat ones mention the word diet, and they get indignant if you serve them portions not in proportion to their size. They have excellent credit but almost always pay for things with cash, of which they keep surprising amounts on their person. They live, without having ever read it, by the philosophies of Epictetus’ “The Stoics.”

I saw one of these men in a liquor store once. He was buying a half pint of Crown and when a young buck in baggy sweatshirt and sagging dirty jeans asked him for some change so he could buy his beer. There was no conversation, no explanation. No understanding smile. There damn sure was not any fear.

What there was, plain, and clear, was, “No.”
AS the man grabbed his brown paper bag and moved his way to the door, the young man blocked his way. Holding the waist of his jeans with one hand, he wildly gesticulated with the other, threatening to do all types of bodily harm to this man old enough to be his grandfather.

I was tired. I wanted to get my own half pint and go after putting in 12 hours at the office, working the front desk and bawling out staff who thought they should get paid on time but did not understand that meant. I looked at my shoes in disgust, saw the boy’s Nike’s get an inch closer to the old man’s Stacy Addams, and then I heard it.

Click.

Everyone in the store heard it.

The boy not only heard it. The next thing we heard was a sound like a stream of water rushing onto cotton.

AS a rule, I think old Black men do not do automatics. In fact, there are two types of Old Black Man guns: large barreled revolvers, and snub nosed Saturday night specials. They are never called “guns.” They are referred to in manners like, “Gladys! Bring me my pistol!”

The latter was pointed at this boy’s chest. I realized why I heard a click. The hammer was back.

The man looked at the boy like he was eyeing a bird that had shit on the roof of his freshly washed Lincoln. There was another click, the little weapon disappeared, and the man strode calmly to his car, where his lady friend could be seen adjusting her wig in the front seat.

The boy fled the store. After the old man had pulled off and was safely blocks away.

I didn’t drink that night.

I got to know another of these men well. I participated in the grand opening of a hotel just off the highway. The place had been, in its last incarnation, a brothel and drug house. After the place went into foreclosure and the owners skipped town, story had it, the managers took turns working the desk, and what they charged guests during their shifts, they pocketed. This was payroll. The hotel faced an industrial park, and word was the girls would do stripteases in the windows that faced the factories on the first and the fifteenth.

The Indian who bought the place gutted it, rehabbed it, twisted the arms of the village for tax breaks, and opened for business with a strict no cash policy. A staple around the property was Old Man Beckett. Sixty seven, tall, dark and lean, clean shaven and bespectacled, Beckett was the owner, John’s, right hand man. An engineer by trade, Beckett was the guy who supervised the crews when John bought a new property to rehab. Before beginning work on this particular project, Beckett called his nephew, Big Tim, and gave him simple instructions.

“Go to each room Monday morning, and inform them the place under new management and closin’. They ain’t welcome. Give them sumbitches ‘til Tuesday…naw, Wednesday, some a them girls got kids…to get out. I want that building empty by 5 o clock Wednesday night.”

I heard Big Tim, four of his cousins, their pistols and Rottweilers made the rounds and were kind enough to carry able bodied but reluctant women and addicted men to the front door, where they deposited them oh so gently on the concrete in front of the hotel before locking the doors. The police showed up at 4:55pm, arresting folk for vagrancy and arguing with former tenants there was no way a group of angry young men with guns and dogs could have left them outside of the building, as the hotel was obviously empty.

Becket showed up the next morning and hung around shooting the shit with the mostly Caucasian crew of contractors who had been telephoned to meet the foreman at the hotel for work. After laughing about bosses being late and basically full of it, Beckett smiled, stretched, and said, “Now here this: some of you got problems taking orders from a Black man. I ain’t a Black man. I am the Head Nigger in Charge. I am the only boss you have. If you intend to get paid, you will follow this nigger’s orders and get them right the first time. Otherwise, you lazy ass crackas can go back home to screwing your cousins and I’ll get some spics in here who wanna work. Any questions?”

The hotel got rehabbed in record time. Beckett said everything was as smooth as glass.

I didn’t like Beckett. He didn’t like me. I thought he was crass. He thought I was an uppity sort that couldn’t follow orders.

We respected each other, though.

Becket had a problem with Matt, the assistant general manager who was working between two properties, bucking for the top spot at the newly opened one. Matt was white trash who learned that with a good suit, hard work and a condescending demeanor, people not in the know would think him their superior. The staff hated him. His boss knew from experience Matt was a backstabbing fink. Even John, the owner, wasn’t crazy about him, but John had a theory that white male managers were good for business.

Matt came in one day and immediately lit into a desk agent who had taken several rooms off market. The agent held her ground. Who gave her tha authority, Matt screamed, to pull that room off market when we were at capacity and could have benefitted from the extra revenue?

“Mr. Beckett said those rooms weren’t up to his standards,” cane the stern reply.

“This isn’t Beckett’s goddamn hotel!” Matt raved. “When he gets here, I want to see him at once!” Matt was a screamer.

Beckett strolled in just then, having parked his shiny pick up at the back of the lot, still reeking of the Kool he’d extinguished on his way in.

“Beckett!” Matt raged, in the empty lobby, and lit into him. He walked up one side of Beckett and down the other. Old man Beckett didn’t bat an eye. He smiled and said, “Hey, Baby,” to the desk clerk, who smiled at him, even knowing that at thirty something she was too old for anything other than his polite interest.

“I’m talking to you!” Matt bellowed. He grabbed Beckett’s arm, and time stood still.

Beckett looked at me. “Hey, Mac,” he said affably, “You a good looking guy. I’m telling you now get that weight up offa you.it won’t look as good at 40 as it does now, and your doctor will be your best friend.”

“Stop smoking, Mr. Beckett,” I laughed. “But I’ll follow your advice.”

“Don’t do none a that stupid diet shit,” he continued. “Just get out and walk around the block more.”

I promised I would. Matt was red. I felt for him. He was still holding Beckett’s arm.

Beckett looked at matt like he was a mosquito he forgot to crush an hour ago, and had been bitten in return for the favor.

“Get your hands off of me,” he said calmly.

The desk agent, Barbara, and I were looking for fallout shelters. Matt started screaming again. I noticed, however, he’d let the old man go.

Beckett took a pack of Kools out of his work shirt pocket, shook one out, and put it behind his ear.

“I’m talking to you, dammit!” Matt howled.

Forget what they say in the movies about people’s eyes. Beckett’s eyes were calm. His voice was steel.

“You not gonna raise your voice at me again, punk,” Beckett grated. A guest walked by. Beckett flashed a smile. When the guest was out of earshot, Beckett continued.

“Maybe you mistaken. This is my motherfucking hotel. I built this bitch. I will shut this entire motherfucker down, on Saturday night, with people waiting in line, outside, on a Saturday night, if I say so. Furthermore, if you raise your voice at me again, you faggot motherfucker, I will beat your ass."

It was not a threat. It was good advice.

Matt stood stock still, then I noticed his face was getting shiny. Beckett pulled his square from behind his ear, waved at me and Barbara, and strode outside, his Zippo flaring before he hit the door.

Matt stormed out. The back way. Opposite of the way Beckett left. His car was parked around front. We watched matt walk the long way, around the building, get in his car, and pull off.

The next afternoon, John came in with Beckett, laughing like they always did. I wondered if they’d been drinking. Matt walked up to them both, an imperious look on his face. Beckett gave him a hale fellow well met greeting.

“Matt! Hey!”

John greeted Matt, asked about business, and only stopped talking when Beckett grinned and said, “Yeah. You know what, John?”

“What’s that?”

“I had to explain to Matt, here,” Beckett said pleasantly, “that he needs to keep out of my way, or I will have to kick the grippers out of his ass and tell his mama why I did it. Probably be a good idea for you to go over his health plan with him, because if he challenges my decision again, I’ll beat his ass here in the lobby.”
“You hear that, Matt?” John laughed, but there was an edge in his voice. “I’d just do things the way Beckett wants them done, I was you.”

That night, a young man came in and requested a suite. He asked for Beckett.

“He’s gone for the day,” I explained.

“I’m sorry I missed him.”

“Are you a relative?” I asked.

“He’s like a father to me,” the man explained, declining my offer for the Friends and Family discount, saying, “I make good money, and I was taught not to take advantage. I just wanted to say ‘hi’ if he was here.”

The next time I saw Beckett, I told him about the young man. His face broke into a wide smile.

“I was involved with his mother off and on for what? Twenty years? Man, that woman loved me. Her husband had to leave because of me. He couldn’t stay knowing what she was doing with me, how she felt about me, and he wouldn’t stay knowing what I was doing to her. Whew,” Beckett grinned, “I had a ball with her.” Then his face grew dark. “We hit a rough spot, though. Her old man left and she wanted me to leave my wife. I told her all along, ‘I ain’t leavin’ my wife and my two daughters. This ain’t that.’ But I had to raise her boy. How couldn’t I? I was the reason his daddy was gone. I saw him through school, had him apprentice with me, got him in the union, made sure nobody messed with his money. His momma got sick. Lost her job at County, so I took on extra side work for a year and paid off her house. What else could I do? I mean, that was her old man’s job, but I was the reason her old man wasn’t there. A man really ain’t got no time for love, Mac, but he gotta be responsible for those that love him. When she got better, I had John put her on the payroll here. She works breakfast in the mornings, but I make up the other half of her wages so she gets paid for 8 hours even though she only work three.”

Old Man Beckett lit a Kool and smiled. “You got what it take to be in charge, man. You got promise me something, though.”

“Yessir?”

“Do what you think is right. Don’t let no woman get in the way of your business, but take care of the women whose lives you affect.”

“OK.”

“And lose some weight, man. I see too many young men dealing with health issues over that shit. You too smart for that.”

“OK Mr. Beckett.”

“And remember: what makes a man ain’t what he say, or what people think, but what he do. You ain’t got nothing’ but what you buy and what you take, and nobody give you nothin’. People give to women. They don’t give to no man. You cain’t please e’rybody and you ain’t gonna be right to most nobody, but you gotta know you doin’ what you think is good for you, and everything else will fall in line.”

People will call him intolerant, rude and probably ignorant. This is a world where fathers leave their children to be raised by the schools and prison system. This is an America where too many Black men fail to demand and take the respect they deserve, smiling when things aren’t funny and faking it to get that promotion while losing their dignity. This is the Chicagoland area. We leave it up to grandmothers to choose between being hit with bricks or shoot twelve year olds. Forget the niceties. We need more of what these old Black men brought to the table.

Sports: Your Kid's Future

2010-08-03T19:17:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while.

I have missed telling folk the things they know are true which they do not want to hear.

Short of saying, “Gee, what an interesting last few months it has been!” I’ll get at it straightaway.

I stopped for a cut recently at Successful Images Barbershop in Crete, IL. I like Successful Images. I have watched Crete, my hometown, get significantly browner over the last decade and a half. This change has created a market for the shop’s owner, Sylvester Wilson, Jr. Syl’s shop boasts its fair share of working and middle class homeowners whose conversations I find more productive than in many of the other shops I frequented over the years. Successful Images is the kind of place where single moms can bring their sons and men can come in to discuss politics or the ball game, and no one feels offended by the conversations once they’ve tipped their barber and headed home. Its barbers cut three generations of James McCallums, and I can leave Jimby there for a bit while I run local errands while he gets that Lou Rawls look off of his head.

The staff is used to Jimby arriving in his karate, baseball and basketball uniforms, and on those rare school days when we stop by, his school togs. I joke with his barber about how keeping him busy keeps me broke.

I am not much of a sports fan. I can watch a pro game to be sociable, but I really gave very little about sports until my son started playing. I have had to explain time and again how I like watching my kid play, but I could care less about most sports overall. My mother’s emphasis was education. I could rebel my way out of Little League but life was too short to attempt to fight my way out of Rita’s library visits and writing camps. It was just easier to go and participate. As a result, though, I never grow up enamored with athletes. I never wanted to be Michael Jordan as a kid. I wanted to be Ed Bradley from 60 Minutes.

So while I acquiesced to my son being involved in the sporting activities of his choice, and I celebrate the fact he is a much better athlete than I ever was, I have never followed this emphasis that so many parents, especially Black ones, put on their kids playing sports.

What amazes me is these aren’t impoverished parents. In too many instances, these are educated people, often in two parent, double income households, in neighborhoods where crime is not the norm and there is plenty for kids to do.

Before someone writes in asking, “What the devil does that matter?” let me answer: Plenty.

I hear folk from the hood get on TV all of the time bemoaning how ghetto kids have lousy schools and crime infested neighborhoods and how the only kids who can get out and escape the gangs are the athletes. How kids living under those circumstances don’t have role models around to show them that education and hard work can mean a more comfortable life and whatnot, and how sports or entertainment are surefire ways out of a life of poverty and pain, because kids can only be that which they understand.

OK. Knowing the number of Black doctors, lawyers and self employed professionals produced during Reconstruction invalidates that, but hey, another day, another argument.

I wonder about educated Black parents, people whose education and work ethics have put them in houses nicer than their parents imagined, with luxuries like two nice cars, cable, designer clothes for the kids and the like, that I hear in my barbershop discussing how they push their sons to excel in sports. They go on and on about traveling leagues and what they spend on equipment and clinics, always summing up their expenses and time commitments with a shrug and one word: “College.”

Really? Has President Obama eliminated Financial Aid?

I listened to a father explain to me how he has worked his strategy for a number of years, his son being known by all local coaches and constantly in demand.

I asked, “Dude, is your kid getting paid?”

“This will get him into college for free, man,” he explained.

Dad is a CPA.

I once dated a woman whose academic achievements made her a story that will one day be featured in Ebony magazine. Teenage parent at 14. MBA by 32. Presently preparing to leave a lucrative corporate career to study Education and give inner city kids what she feels so many lack: a role model and a teacher who gives a damn. She struggled to keep her kids in private schools in part because she understands how education catapulted her where she never dreamt.

She and I had the craziest conversations about which sports I should steer Jimby towards, primarily, the ones that have few Black participants, because coaches are recruiting Black kids heavily for those events.

Huh?

I can’t understand this, especially when the odds of a kid getting a full ride to school for playing sports are so much higher than if the kid, oh, applied for a scholarship.

An old friend reminded me recently that she, too, got a full ride to school. She applied for every scholarship open to Black females. Many she won, she is sure, because there was such a small pool of applicants. Whatever, they paid for four years of undergraduate school while she studied chemistry and grad school as she earned her Pharm D.

In fact, when I argue with many of these parents there are more academic scholarships available than athletic ones, and all a student has to do to maintain an athletic scholarship is, well, STUDY, and MAINTAIN HIS GRADES (foreign concepts to a college student, I am sure) I get blank stares from college educated parents.

One said, ‘Well, our kids just aren’t GOOD at that type of stuff…”

Well, hell, maybe, if our kids aren’t god at being students, maybe they need not go to college, whatcha think?

I wonder if sometimes, our children’s lack of achievement in so many areas is due not to the excuses we make for them, but the low expectations we set and the things we teach them are important. Asian kids’ parents can expect them to ace the ACT, but we cannot. Let me go you one better. Black parents from Cameroon and Trinidad can expect their kids to study and ace tests and write scholarship essays proving they are good material for free college educations, but we Black Americans cannot. Of course, we can expect for our kids to make it into higher education if it involves excelling in something that boils down to entertaining Caucasians. Plus, we like the attention. That’s what it boils down to. Athletes are more popular than brainiacs, although it is the smart people who control the athletes’ money, legal affairs, and often, futures. Let’s also remember: that learning stuff, you know, that’s culturally biased. Sports, however, are naturally inherent. Comes from all those years picking cotton.

As a sidebar, I remember reading some of John Ogbu’s research the five years I taught school. I found it interesting that regardless of how much money was spent in affluent Black American schools, the academic disengagement prevented them from achieving at a level that some poorer schools did. Let me make this plain: tis wasn’t aptitude or money, this was interest. Black American kids were found to just place less of an emphasis on academic achievement, regardless of the resources at their disposal. Perhaps this was due in part to there being an overwhelming focus, not in the school, but at home, on things that render children popular as opposed to accomplished. Just a thought.

I have nothing against athletes. I am questioning the mindset among American parents, especially educated ones of color, to push their children to achieve in areas that statistically speaking, do not reap the same benefits and results as other professions. I hear Black people bemoan how whites have the power, Jews control the money and Asians are naturally proficient at computers and Arabs are the merchants. Their solution to those problems is to send kids from the educated households they inhabit into the world to prepare to enter the world as entertainers for whites whose money will be invested by Jews whose kids will be beat into Harvard by Asians whose mommas will, once the athletic fortune fades, be back to doing their shopping with Arabs.

Ya’ll Know Better.

Leave Kwame Alone

2010-05-25T17:45:00.001-07:00

Leave Kwame Alone

I guess spending time away from Ya’ll Know Better, writing books about homicidal yet love struck African generals and hopelessly romantic but hapless hoteliers has left me without much comment regarding current events.

I had to cut my sabbatical short, however, to comment on something that appears to be madness playing out in the Midwest.

Someone special and I were discussing the Kwame Kilpatrick silliness recently.

I am a Chicagoan. She is a Michigan native, currently residing near Detroit. Sadly, being a Chicagoan, I expect my politicians colorful and corrupt. You just learn, when you are from the Windy City, to assume, as one (convicted, of course) alderman put it, that “politicians are hoes.”

I think she said that on an FBI wire.

I digress.

Kilpatrick is the former mayor of Detroit. A city where there was no such thing as political corruption and throwing one’s weight around until he came on the scene.

Detroiters were mad as hell about Kilpatrick and their county prosecutor charged him with perjury, misconduct in office and obstruction of justice. Then they made him pay back a bunch of money his investigation cost the city. Again, was it not for our man Kwame, there would never have been a corruption trial in the D. It cost so much because prosecutors absolutely had no experience going after a corrupt politician.

Anyway, the Kilpatrick story to me was just so much, well, non news. Boy wonder mayor gets caught lying in court and as a result a bunch of text messages come out proving he is a lying, scheming philanderer trying to live large on the public dime.

I mean, gee, he is a politician. Isn’t that “lying, scheming philandering politician” redundant? What did ya’ll (everyone outside of Chicago, and maybe New Orleans) expect? Had he been here, he’d either be well on his way to a brighter political future, or an FBI informant ratting out folk to keep his own corruption safe from examination.

You bounced the man out of office. You took his law license. You humiliated his family. What could be next?

Newsflash: the former mayor has been returned to prison for violating his probation. You see, he was supposed to make restitution payments and he lapsed, so they are going to put him in the joint to show him how important it is to pay a broke city back on time. Think of it: Kwame holding up on his restitution is the sole reason the Detroit school system is bankrupt today.

OK, perhaps it’s a Chicago thing. I am reading the Kilpatrick mess, and I am looking for murder, assault, hey, even a weapons charge.

The stuff that gets most urban probationers violated back to the big house.

Is Chicago THAT corrupt?

I mean, I’m not sure politicians here even get cited for stuff like that.

Kwame lied.

Politician.

Misconduct in office? Oh wow. Isn’t hat privilege one of the spoils of winning elections?

Politician.

Obstruction of justice. That’s the state version of “mail fraud”, you know, that one federal charge a prosecutor knows he can get to stick because it’s so broad and sweeping?
Wow.

Politician.

I mean, I’m a bit ashamed to call Detroit a city. Ya’ll indict someone on that? Then get a conviction? Where are the Motor City versions of Sam Adam and Ed Jensen?

Kwame admitted he was wrong, copped a plea, did his time and fled with his family to another state, where political hook ups assured him a good job and provided his family with a home and whatnot. Don’t get me wrong: I wish more young brothas convicted for crimes committed on 79th Street in Chicago got that type of fresh start. Recidivism would stop dead in its tracks. In fairness, though, Kilpatrick is an educated individual from a political family, and as those of us from Chicago are well aware, we are our brothers’ keepers. Or, to paraphrase Mike Royko, our brothers in law, our cousins, our nephews…

I won’t even stoop to making this a racial thing. Well, not yet. What connected person leaves jail and is homeless? Or truly broke? I mean, isn’t that the big difference between the haves and we have nots?

I have zero political juice, but the few times I have benefited from who I know were enough to keep me from being a hypocrite. It can’t be okay for me to benefit from a hook up and others cannot, simply because their hook ups are better than mine. People were angry that after coming out of jail, Kwame Kilpatrick emerged to a new job in a new place, with money donated to help him and his family get back on the right track. Let’s remember, this doesn’t just affect Mr. Kilpatrick. It affects his wife and children as well. I’m a bit curious as to why they should have to suffer. Just because you are a corrupt mayor and lousy husband at one time, does that mean you were a bad dad? Or provider? L

The current issue appears to be that good ol’ Kwame has not been making restitution payments. Money donated to his family has gone elsewhere. Bad? Yeah. Punishable by up to 5 years? Why? Where is the justice in that? How do the people of Detroit benefit?

Apparently, Kwame was working his new job, owing the Motor City money while living in a nice home, driving nice cars, and spending money giving his family a comfortable life. According to one judge, Kilpatrick found it more important to “to pacify your wife" than follow court orders.” This was in response to Kilpatrick having used some of the money donated to his family to pay for elective surgery for his Mrs.

Hmmm. I remember a former Arkansas governor who was found to have committed perjury and cost the government a whole bunch of money when it investigated him, all of this related to some sexual stuff with women who were not his wife. He lost his law license for five years, had to endure a whole lot of ridicule, and basically gave his wife a US Senate seat to mollify her.

I guess that’s OK. Some woman gives you three kids and you humiliate her by being involved with your married chief of staff, plus you blow a great political opportunity. No, I can’t see how in the world you’d feel obligated to give her something that makes her feel better. Especially after she stuck by your sorry ass.

Forgive me.

Let’s see. The best way to get a man to pay restitution is to lock him up, thus getting him fired from his job. I have been in courtrooms where the only thing that kept guys out of jail was that they had jobs. By the way, these were hardened criminals.

Now that I think about it, I see hardened criminals who are real menaces to society get more chances to get their act together than this guy. Sure, he owes the city of Detroit money. That is bad. Somehow, though, I have a feeling Wayne County judges are cutting more slack to Moey and Man Man, multiple offenders they are, than to one tacky suit wearing former mayor.

The logic of the prosecution? Mr. Kilpatrick was trying to hide the money he received to keep from paying the city back.

OK.

If Kilpatrick was trying to hide, he would have done a better job of it.

Follow me here: I am not an attorney, I have no powerful friends, but I know enough about the law to know that if I am really trying to hide some assets, especially if they are donated, then I can have them put in trust. Trust me, some of your favorite “public servants” have their real estate and most of their assets put in untouchable, quite legal shelters to safeguard them from things such as this. Former mayor Richard J. Daley comes to mind, and he was doing this forty years ago.

If I didn’t want gifts meant for my family to be touched by the vultures, my benefactors could have put them into some charitable trust meant for the benefit of my children and made my mother trustee.

If I find the restitution payments are too steep, the bankruptcy courts work wonders.

I am a hotel manager and writer, and I came up with these means of avoiding all of this nonsense. This man has a law degree and comes from a politically connected family whose supporters can afford to get him a great job, new house and new life days after his release from jail. Trust me; if he were trying to hide assets and put one over on the court, he had the means to do it.

I think the guy decided to start over, do it as right as he could, and take advantage of his blessings. Again, if he wanted to hide or shaft the system, the people around him knew how to do it.

This is personal as hell.

Detroit has never had any corrupt politicians, police officers and the like in its history. It has never suffered from any type of financial management. That is why their economy is booming, their school system is tops in the nation and its City Council president is a shining example of financial responsibility. Its downtown reminds one of Manhattan, without the winos. I can see why the city would fall like a wall on Kwame Kilpatrick, bad boy that he was.

So because he was the only one, because he sullied the fair city’s name, because he is a lousy example of bill paying, Detroit will flex its muscles, make this man’s family suffer (but not for long), possibly anger his congresswoman mother into retirement (thus allowing her to tap her campaign fund to pay this debt once and for all) and giving her district a freshman with no juice, well, they showed him.

Oh. By the way, I wonder how much it is going to cost to incarcerate this fool? Is he going to work off his debt in license plates?

Yeah. Detroit does set the example for how to get things done. If only Chicago could get her act together and be more like her big brother to the north.

Ya’ll sure ya’ll a big city up there?

Spectacular

2010-04-14T09:40:00.000-07:00

I admit, it’s been a minute.

I’m working on two books at once, and between that and some personal changes, I haven’t been my usual witty, controversial yet logical self of late.

I was chatting with a dear friend earlier today, however, who sent me a link to a video featuring a young lady talking about having an unprotected sexual one night stand with some unknown guy after getting drunk at a bar. You’ve all heard of this, I’m sure. Supposedly, women are up in arms about the message this presents, especially to young girls.

I am not surprised by the popularity of the song.

What surprises me is the target audience, twenty something young women.

I know a lot of women. My younger female friends, by and large, are not jaded. Yet. They still believe in love and for the most part, want the house, hubby and two point five children. They still think sex matters and counts for something. Many of them are afraid of pregnancy, which they feel will upset their career goals. There are exceptions, but by and large, the unmarried women thirty and under that I know are more concerned with relationships than stuff like that. They have situations like this in their past and many regret them.

No, I am surprised the target was not middle aged women.

My friend, who is a middle aged woman, asked for my comments on the video. Bear in mind my libido is in overdrive these days, and Erykah Badu’s new video isn’t helping that any. I attempted to objectively watch the YouTube clip and process what I was seeing and hearing. It was a struggle.

Crass? Sure.

Over the top? Definitely.

Real? Especially for some of the older women that I know? Yup.

Keeping it real? I know too many women who've done what the young woman (I forget her name) spends a few minutes sharing in song. If that’s singing. . I've overheard these conversations. OK, from a public relatins standpoint, yes, it’s bad and slutty and irresponsible. You can argue it sets a bad influence or that it is empowering because women are being open about their sexuality.

All that aside, ask yourself: Is it real?

I have often written of my disdain for those of us who take a stand against something in public we know damn well we do in private. It’s like criticizing Black men for dating outside of their race while quietly admitting to your girlfriends that you would date a white man if he made you happy. I am not alone in having overheard or directly engaged in conversations where grown women have made it clear they enjoy one night stands and they are only interested in the sex being outstanding. I mean, let's be honest: this happens.

Many have made it clear that doggone it, sometimes, that one night stand, that face down behind up smack me while bent over and blow my mind I hope I never see you again" encounter was an awesome sexual experience. This may bother some insecure men. I am sure it annoys prudish women who want to pretend only loser prostitute sluts engaging that engage in this behavior. Sorry, that’s not what I’m hearing.

More and more Black women are saying, "To heck with love. Do the devil out of me and leave me alone unless you're gonna do me the same way again." I cleaned up the language that I used in the rough draft for that last line. You can imagine what I’ve heard, espescially over a couple of vodka tonics.

And condoms? Please. Male admission here: I know way too many women who have shared, "My tubes are tied and I don't like condoms" They are more concerned with pregnancy and feeling than the safety of their health.

As a sidebar, I wonder if one of the biggest fallacies is this idea that AIDS is affecting middle aged Black women at its current rate because of men on the down low. That is convenient, but based on what is happening in society, I question whether that is wholly accurate. Again. Many women in this age group have been disappointed by love and relationships with men. But sex? They like sex. The risks associated with this behavior are common knowledge, but it isn’t stopping some of them.

My buddy Flatbush told me years ago the most sexually adventurous an women were those ranging from thirty five to fifty who were divorced mothers just looking for a good time. I used to argue him up and down, but dog that he is, he has the experience to back up his claim. As I grow older, I find myself in agreement. Women like my young friend Blip enjoy sex but are scared of it because they don't want babies without the husband. Many of her older counterparts? They will tell you, they have been married and regard it as a farce. They have been hurt in relationship after relationship and have decided men are too much of a headache and good for one thing. To hell with a relationship. Let's do it, and if it’s no good, move on. I was thinking recently any man who was lacking in activity need only hang outside of divorce court or these relationship conferences with titles like, “Move On, Girl…Just Get Yours in the Interim!” The stories I have heard are not filled with coy innuendo but with frank invitations to have intercourse, but intercourse only.

If so many people are living it, what is the deal with the song?

I'm helping a friend of a friend by proofreading some of her graduate research. My friend Bernadette shared with me the other day the lady I am helping, Janine, commented just the other day, "JD’s voice is sexy. Give him my number. What does he look like?" Strange twist, but it turns out that Janine worked for me some years back. When Bernadette reminded her friend of this, Janine remembered me and commented, "Oh, he's handsome. He and I should hang out this summer." Bern, well acquainted with my current state of mind, explained to Janine that I really was not looking to get involved with anyone. Janine’s response? "Girl, I said ‘hang out’. Read between the lines. What I need with a boyfriend? Tell him to call me."

Bernadette is fifty one. Janine a few years her senior, and quite attractive. Frankly, I’m scared.

I think about that video. Too many younger men think they are getting over, but some women are out there are running game. They want the physical interaction, the stuff the young lady described in her song, the things they read about or dreamt of that either they were afraid to ask their husbands for or hubby just wouldn’t do. They are tired of being heartbroken and have resigned themselves to the idea that physical happiness is about what there is, and that’s OK. This is what I am hearing. This is what the young woman is singing. Why all of the fuss? These aren’t twenty something floozies. These are grown women with educations, great jobs, families, and a new set of expectations: No, we’re not going to the movies. No, I can buy my own dinner, thank you. Depending on the situation, I really do not care about your marital status. We’re hooking up. What do I expect from you? Intensity. Oh, and please, please please do not get attached, because your purpose in this situation is not to love or be loved. It is what it is. That sounds harsh? If I’m wrong, what is the cougar mentality all about? Playing house?

Why are grown women mad about this song and its video yet signing up for The Naughty Room on Facebook and sharing their escapades with an almost religious dedication?

The question isn’t whether young women will be influenced by this silly drivel that passes for music. Mothers are a far better example to their daughters than some recording artist who doesn’t know them from Eve. The real question: Is this behavior a reality not just for some of the young women who supposedly will be influenced, but also for the adult women in their lives whose actions and opinions hold way more weight?

Family Drama

2010-04-01T06:17:00.000-07:00

I loved Greek mythology as a child.

Before my foray into comic books, my mother, from an early age, had me reading the tales of Apollo, Hercules, Athena, Aphrodite and the three muses. I learned about Cerberus, the two headed dog that guarded Hell. The story of Jason and the Argonauts Perseus and Icarus, the boy who escaped prison on wings fashioned of feathers and wax, who flew to close to the sun and plummeted to his death.

Myths were once valuable means of explaining the “whys” of our life, and while I never viewed these characters as deities, I was quick to recognize they were the first superheroes.

Anxiously awaiting the remake of “Clash of the Titans”, I boned up on my mythology again, and realized not only were the gods of Olympus the first superheroes, here to explain how life works, they were also the first dysfunctional family.

I learned that immortality ain’t all its cracked up to be. Hades, lord of the underworld, drew the short straw and was sent to run the world of the dead while his brothers, Poseidon and Zeus, got the oceans and the Heavens, respectively. Talk about some oldest child resentment.

“Dude! I got the sky!”

“I drew the sea!”

“Dammit, Momma always DID like ya’ll best…”

Hades had such a lousy time that he seldom visited Olympus, where the gods kept primary residence. Kinda like Uncle Rico refusing to come to Grandma’s every Christmas unless someone begs him the day before hand. He is still mad Junior and Cleophus got to go away to Hampton, but no one pushed his aspirations to play semi-pro ball.

The only people who came to visit him were his successful nieces and nephews, probably to talk about their dads and commiserate with Uncle H about how lousy life as a god could be.

Hades is probably still ruing to this day the fact that he fought so hard on his family’s side to overthrow the Titans, only to have his baby brother installed as head of the family and king of the gods. Can anyone say, “Fredo?”

Even his woman, Persephone, realized, “man, this world of the dead place is SO depressing. I’m up, Baby.” They worked out an arrangement where, through trickery, she had to stay with him for a part of every year. Something tells me they slept in separate quarters.

Zeus, king of the gods, had his own issues.

First, he married his sister. Ewww.

Second, he fathered about forty kids. That’s four-zero.

Only four were by his sister and queen, Hera. He probably caught the “eww” factor early and decided to spread himself around.

Compare this to modern relationships, where some men have an “outside” child or two by a woman other than their wife.

Multiply that several times over.

Hera has been criticized for centuries as something that rhymes with “witch”. I’m on her side.

A little infidelity is bad enough. How do you justify 40 kids? Doesn’t matter that he claims them, do you realize what child support must be like for 36 kids? Zeus makes NBA players look like amateurs.

My buddy and I were laughing about how Zeus eventually had to visit some of his baby mommas as a shower of gold, or wind, or thunder. You think?

Dude was MARRIED. Hera was a known baby momma stalker. Can you blame her? Castration of a god is on record. So is sexual member regeneration. What else was she to do?

Hera did her best to off some of Zeus’ kids, and adding insult to injury, he made a few of them Olympian gods. Ladies, how would you like seeing the sun come up every morning and roll over, groaning, “There goes that bastard son of my husband’s streaking across the sky in his latest birthday present from daddy. Whoopt-dee-doo!”

Zeus further angered his long-suffering wife by crossing the line and engaging in an act women have safely regarded as their since the beginning of time.

Deciding he wanted a child, Zeus conceived one within himself. He had relations with a goddess, swallowed her to keep her from conceiving (please…don’t go there…I’m already laughing) and nine months later, Zeus bore his daughter, Athena, goddess of war, after a splitting headache. She became his favorite child.

Great. Double whammy. Now when his wife complains she doesn’t want to be intimate because of a headache, he can regale her with tales of how he bore a child with a splitting headache, so what’s the fuss? Worse, the female concept of “my child” is long gone. Zeus could pat Lil Thena on the head after a good report card, look around, smirk and exclaim, “That’s MY child”, and dare some woman to take credit. A marital counselor would have a field day with this one. It’s a wonder Hera wasn’t comatose from antidepressants every morning.

The typical dysfunctional guy, Zeus eventually gets into it with his brother Poseidon, god of the sea. Over a woman. Go figure. Both of them want to sleep with Thetis, a lesser goddess. She has no say in the matter. Zeus decides to back off when it is prophesied any child born of Thetis will become mightier than his father. Never one to employ birth control, Zeus decides it’s best to marry this goddess off to some dumb mortal. Quickly.

Well, turns out that Peleus, the mortal Zeus chose, got the nod. If I had been Peleus, knowing all of the shenanigans happening on Olympus, I would have said, “No. Ya’ll keep too much drama going. Leave me out.” Marrying a goddess has its perks, though. It is my understanding they are inexhaustible, and face it, men are stupid.

All of the gods are invited to the wedding but Cousin Eris. The goddess of family drama. Go figure.

Mad she was dissed, Eris drops by with a gift, a golden apple meant for the most beautiful woman there. In this family? Wow.

Zeus, knowing women and drama, thinks he is removing the problem from his house when he tells the angry women in his family the judge for who gets the apple will be Paris, the prince of Troy. Athena offered to make Paris a general. General equals war equals death. Hera offered him a larger kingdom. Kingdom equals work equals stress equals death. Aphrodite, goddess of beauty?

“Dude, I’ll get you the most beautiful babe out there.”

Beautiful woman equals lotsa sex equals death with a smile. Told you men are stupid.

Oh, by the way: Helen was married. Paris was too. The gods were a sneaky bunch.

This touched off one of the biggest wars in history. Zeus then figured all of this child support was affecting his retirement income. Plus, Hera was looking at half. And all those damn kids…he decides none of the gods can participate in the Trojan War, but has no problem sending a bunch of his mortal kids to get whacked. Midway through, while Achilles is wrecking shop, Zeus changes his mind, but it’s too late. Child support eliminated, along with several former bundles of joy. The mortal mothers are still waiting for their day in court.

Lately, pixilated video of folk with names like “Sun God” and “God of War” have been popping up on daytime talk, voices distorted, making claims like, “Well, it was nice, having a father who was king of the gods and all…but we really didn’t get much time with him. It would have been better if he just played catch with us or something. He was always gone on these business trips, and every time we turned around, there was a new baby brother or sister.” It’s sad to watch a god cry on national television.

Drama is not limited to us mere mortals.

Next on Maury: Olympians and what ails them.

When you compare our lives to this, we really have it pretty good, no?

The Return

2010-03-18T09:46:00.000-07:00

I was brushing my teeth and listening to CNN the other day when I heard an announcement.

Apparently, something of monumental importance would be revealed within the next hour.

I finished my morning routine and was almost late for work waiting for this announcement from who knows who.

Was the president going to unveil some new stimulus package? Did Japan finally admit they’d forced Amelia Earhart’s plane form the sky decades ago? Were Oprah, Alicia and Taraji going to simultaneously announce their unrequited love for me?

No.

Tiger Woods is going to play in the Master’s.

“Tiger Woods's Masters return 'as big as Barack Obama's inauguration” London Telegraph

Yeah. Two half Black guys showing up in places everyone knew they would go. That’s news.

I mean, wow. Tiger broke camp after the whole “My Wife Beat My Ass for Cheating” thing hit. He’s been gone for what? Four months? Summer vacation plus Winter and Spring Break? Tiger’s been gone the length of a full school break. He considered that time away? Tiggy better talk to some nine year olds about how much time away from the grind is REALLY time away from the grind.

I am not going to go into the whole, “His marriage is his business” thing.

I got tired of reading about it.

I will say, “I told you so!”

The only comment I really made about the incident was, ‘When the golf ratings go down, he’ll be back.”

I hate to use this example, but I liken it to OJ (before the stupid Vegas thing) and Ben Rothenberger and other athletes who screw up.

Too many other people are sending their kids to college on these fools’ money. How many agents, attorneys managers and PR folks' kids Ivy League tuition is paid in full because Mom and Pops work for the golden goose?

“Tiger’s coming back!” folk exclaim in hushed tones.

You think? Better yet, where did he go?

Four months on your yacht and in sex therapy isn’t exactly monastery time.
Eldrick Woods is no dummy. Stanford is not a safe haven for idiots.

He probably loaded up his boat thinking, “Let me do a bit of fishing, check myself in somewhere just so I can say that I did, sit back and wait.

He probably had the same smug look Edie Kendricks and David Ruffin had when they laughed, “They need us. We the voices.”

“They need ME. I’m the winner.”

This whole thing makes me laugh.

I mean, come on now, golf?

Even this silliness makes it the golf of athletic shenanigans.

We have basketball and football players being convicted of murder.

Paternity suits are considered as common as signing bonuses in professional athletics.

Sexual assault? Many of us learned exactly how the law defines it because of athletes. (“So if she let me do it THERE, but said no AFTERWARDS, I’m clear?” ‘Yes, Kobe.”)

We have a man who had consenting sex with a bunch of mediocre women. He was no playa. “Uh, this Tiger. No, not the stripper. You know…the athlete? You don’t…(sigh) No, golf…yeah, that one. Can you not answer your phone…”

A real playa would have let this roll and had the ‘Wasn’t me” defense, a la Eddie Murphy circa 1986.

A real playa would have been caught with women that other men would be like, “Dayum!…Well, you know what it is, right? It’s the money…”

This is a Black guy who favors my younger brother who swears he isn’t Black. To quote Tracy Morgan, “Your father's name is Earl. Woods. And he drove a white van. He's black.”

This is as exciting as it gets? Some confused guy has sex with some okay looking women gets caught his wife gets mad he takes a quick break we see him next year? A couple of inches taller missing some teeth and in a new Ernie ‘n’ Bert shirt?

So he’s come back.

He never really left.

Dude was just on summer vacation.

You really didn’t want him to leave anyway.

Ya’ll know better.

What I've Learned-Esquire Magazine-JD McCallum, Writer

2010-03-07T16:08:00.000-08:00

October 2012

JD McCallum, Writer

I write because I have something to say. Be it funny, serious, or downright mean, it’s something that is on my mind, and this is how I communicate it.

Sometimes I laugh out loud reading my own stuff. I definitely need medicine, man. Crazy as I am, I think I'm rarely wrong.

Just looking at literature for the last hundred years, readers have devolved from intuitive, critical comprehenders to a group that wants the writer to spell everything out for them. That is not good.

Don’t spend 300 pages saying what you can express clearly in 95.

Someone once told me no one would buy a book about love gone bad from a man's point of view. I bet they told F. Scott Fitzgerald the same thing.

I have been grown all my life...I don't mean that in a Michael Jackson or Sammy Davis way. I've just always been an adult.

Sometimes, I understand shutting down. You gotta do that and start back up when you ready.

Don’t be afraid to walk through new doors.

Remember that no one is going to love your child the way you do. My ex wife taught me that.

Your kids are more in charge than you realize.

The most ineffective people in the world are those who constantly complain for the sake of being heard. People with real power decide and act…everyone else complains.

I know where you are in my life by what you call me. David, James, JD, Bighead, Daddy, Dexter, M*********er…depending on what name you call me, I know just how close we are and exactly where you fit in my universe.

Remember Richard Pryor in “Uptown Saturday Night”? “Why us?” ‘Why NOT you, Brotha?” Such realism is always worthy of a laugh.

I've had Jack Daniels for breakfast before. It wasn't bad. That silliness stops when you become a parent, though.

Robert Deane Pharr was a writer. He did a bunch of other stuff, but his adult life, regardless of what he did to pay the bills, he was a writer.

Stevie Wonder is the only cat I know who has written about love without using the lens of sex and made it sound appealing as hell.

Play the cards the way they are dealt. All you can do.

Teaching was the most rewarding job I ever had, but the problem with the profession, in my opinion, is the adults, not the kids. Too many people stick it out because they like summers off, they like short days, and contrary to popular belief, teachers make pretty good money. A joy for educating children is somewhere way down the list of priorities for too many of the teachers that I knew.

Don't tell me what to write and I won't come to your day job critiquing you.

Chester Himes was the man.

You can't save anyone. Stop trying. There's a reason they need to be saved, and it ain't you.

Man, I never cared whether anyone liked me or not. Why? That's so juvenile. Did you buy my stuff, and did you read it? Not necessarily in that order.

(Chuckling) Yeah, I'm Koor Mitchell. I'm Theo Miles too. And Fuzzhead Jenkins. They all me, they all mine. Flatbush? Nah. that's someone else. He's an ass in real life. I had to tone him down.

"Smartass?" (Waving hand) "Here!"

Everybody has Rights but the People Who Earned Them

2010-03-06T12:20:00.000-08:00

People are funny when they start to talk about their rights.

Guests in my place of business regularly gripe about their rights. As a principle, I believe consumers have rights. I also believe they have responsibilities. I have written in these pages many times before of my disdain for those who try every which way to get out of paying for a product, then expect the service and amenities for that which they did not pay. It is the equivalent of me writing Nissan of my anger that my Altima does not perform at the level of its GT-R sports coupe. Bear in mind, the GT-R starts at $76840, more than three times the cost of my current model.

My employees occasionally gripe about rights, many imagined. I will not tolerate harassment nor abuse. That said, however, Illinois is an “at will” employment state, and a reality of this economy is employers can and have let people for performance and attitude issues but have headed the termination under “loss of business”. This is especially the case with small businesses. People who have left larger corporations during these turbulent times have found not only pay cuts, but drastic changes in how their so-called “rights” apply when they go to work for much smaller organizations. Sadly, all they can fight with are their memories and their mouths, and very few of those fights are won by the little guy.

Chicagoans are dealing with some issues regarding rights as well. The city has had a handgun ban since 1982, when then Mayor Byrne decided banning hand guns was a good way to curb gun violence within the city’s borders.

For the record, I have been shooting since I was 8. I do not live in Chicago, and outlying areas, especially outside of Cook County, are not bound by this law. One of the things that makes Chicago unappealing to me is the handgun law. I love my city. I refuse to live somewhere that forces me to put the primary protection of my family in the hands of overworked and under-resourced individuals who may have to choose between my kid and a gang war. It ain’t happenin’.

While Chicago is not the murder capital of the country, we are in the running, with most of those deaths perpetrated by folk under 25 using handguns. Research and just plain street knowledge confirms almost all of those weapons are not registered, nor used by licensed and trained civilians. The guns are usually in the hands of young thugs that would get laughed out of a gun shop (ya’ll ARE aware gun shop personnel are visibly armed, no?) in a moment’s notice.

I once dated a woman, a lifelong Chicagoan and veteran of some of its toughest neighborhoods, who explained, rather foolishly, that legalizing handguns in the city would be bad because every hood would be able to acquire a firearm.

“Baby,” I yawned, realizing this conversation might kill later expectations of adult activity, “the goons already got the guns.”

It is true.

Firearms are a part of criminal business, and criminal business is as American as apple pie. A lot of money is at stake, and as such, the powers that be in that enterprise have mechanisms in place to address such job hazards as incarceration, money laundering, taxes and yes, protection and enforcement. Those last two usually require guns. Any person in law enforcement will tell you the crooks will always have their guns. It’s like Joe Pesci in “Casino”: “I ain’t afraid of jail. Jail is what I do.” Jail. Guns. Lawyers. The like. No amount of fair legislation is going to convince someone preying on society for their salary to give up their weapons. They will take precautions; they know enough of the law to take steps to avoid a maximum sentence if caught with gun on their person. Real talk? Unlike most of us out here, criminals know their rights.

One of the things I find interesting is the number of legally armed people in our society. Of course, municipal police officers. Think about this, however: parole officers, customs agents, postal police, forest preserve police, armed security guards, gun shop employees, the list goes on and on of the number of people who own firearms as a part of their work and, if forced to use them, have a justifiable excuse for having said weapon in their possession at home.

When I read the story of Otis McDonald, the septuagenarian primary plaintiff in the Supreme Court case against Chicago, I know the handgun ban is ridiculous. McDonald has had his life and property threatened too many times and has figured a handgun would equalize things, or at least provide some peace of mind.

“Why doesn’t he just move?” some would ask.

Where? Why should he? What if he doesn’t have the money?

In too many situations, a Chicago reality is the police are called, and they are so overwhelmed, they have to prioritize which calls to respond to when. Now, I have buddies who are police officers who make it clear that if someone tries to enter their homes and harm their families, they are reacting first and calling their blue brethren after ascertaining their families are safe. Somehow, though, the argument from Chicagoans in high priced neighborhoods where the police have lighter caseloads, and thus, much faster response times, is that every day folk like Mr. McDonald should call the police and wait indefinitely while some young fool tries to enter his home, assault his wife and possibly kill any grandchildren they may be watching. Oh, either that or risk prison for defending his family.

Please.

Mayor Daley, a man who has had some form of government provided armed protection most of his adult life, says the gun ban is necessary.

Say what?

You won’t, or can’t, hire more cops. Face it, if you do, many of them will be deployed to areas where violence is low and revenues are high, like Michigan Avenue. You acknowledge the police in areas such as Englewood, the Pocket, Calumet Heights, Roseland and Lawndale are overmatched. The government is not in a position to do something, but it will tie the hands of the citizenry when it attempts to solve its own problem?

“Well, if we legalize guns, it’s like legalizing drugs, everyone will have them.”

Nonsense.

Alcohol is legal. Not everyone is a drunk. When alcohol was illegal, drinkers still found a way to get their buzz on.

Legalizing handguns will not be a free for all. Background checks are still required, waiting periods are still in place. I often question the racial dynamics of such logic. In Will, DuPage and Iroquois counties, outside of Chicago, citizens who are eligible have the right to bear arms. Granted, those areas are not 53% black and by and large don’t have rapidly growing Latino populations.

Let’s also remember, too: Tyrone, Man Man and Pookie, who are terrorizing everyone n the block, HAVE guns. They have multiple felonies, but they also have Sig Saurs with which they threaten solid citizens like Mr. McDonald.

I am not arguing whether or not a person should be allowed to have an AK-47. My opinion is that if you are eligible to own it, who cares? When these massacres and mass murders occur, seldom is the news coverage opened with, “A legally registered howitzer was used today…”

This is not that issue.

I am curious why some hopped up shooter has the right to carry an illegal weapon, use it indiscriminately, beat the system should he get caught, and acquire a new gun just like his old one within an hour after leaving lock-up, to start the madness all over again.

While someone the age of my grandparents, who has helped weave the fabric of civil society, has to either contemplate completely rearranging his life or a prison sentence to protect what he works for and loves.

Ya’ll know better.

That Special Someone Part 2

2010-03-04T12:38:00.000-08:00

It was a nice, sunny day. I was on a park bench, shelling peanuts and tossing them in the general direction of some squirrels. I couldn’t see them. My eyes were closed behind some tortoise Persol shades.

I was chilling when I felt a thud on my shoulder. I reached in my jacket pocket, but remembered that God had told me to stop carrying what had once been there. Good thing, too. Double action means I would have put a hole through my jacket. And Blip.

Hands on her beautifully rounded hips, eyes flashing, she cocked for another punch. Blip had triceps like Angela Bassett and hit like a dude.

“Cut that out!” I grinned. “Hey Baby.”

My female friends are all Baby, Hon, Boo, Lovie, and Silly. I tend to have just one “Babygirl”, and that is my person. Actually, I only used that with that one person. I have referred to Rachel as “Duck”, but that is not entirely complimentary. I have also referred to Rae as Cerberus. Look that one up.

Anyway…

“Don’t ‘hey baby’ me!” She reared back again.

“This a bad time to tell you that I love you?” I do love Blip. I love all my female friends. I tell them, too. No one outside of asylum staff would tolerate me with as much patience and caring.

“You wrote that essay…”

“Yeah. You encourage me to write as a release, DOCTOR. What gives?”

“You gave that damn advice…””
“OK. “

“Aaaarh! This is maddening!”

Blip sat her impressive rear end on the bench next to me. “All I wanted was someone to share my life with…that could get on my agenda and have a family with me…gimme one of those damned peanuts.”

She threw it at a squirrel, shell and all. That squirrel gave her a look that could kill.

“Baby…squirrels can be mean. They’ll gang up on you.”

“Grr….”

“What? Was my advice bad?”

She turned her almond eyes in my direction. I prefer to look at Blip while standing up. Looking down her shirt isn’t as much of a treat as it is with my other friends.

“No! Now I’ve got three guys who won’t leave me alone!”

I am merely a dumb male. I did not understand.

“That is baaaad…why?”

“Mac, I did NOT need three men. I went on three dates. Three different guys. Oh my gosh, I have NEVER embarrassed myself so much. All three of them keep blowing up my phone! Oh my gosh…one of them thinks it was cute…has requested…JD, I can’t produce that much damn flatulence on demand! Oh, wow…”

“This other guy, man. I told him that part of me dating him was that I have an agenda. You know what? So does he! He was only too happy to share it, and he treated me like a doggone business deal. ‘You fulfill parts of my agenda, I am happy to fulfill yours…’ He made me feel like a commodity…”

“But Baby, in truth, isn’t that what he is to you? How can you get angry if he is…dunno,” I dropped my voice an octacve, “Playin’ yo’ game, baby…yo game…”

Blip looked askance at me, grinning. “You silly.”

“Of course, Ms. Shrink. Continue.”

“Guy number three? He is looking for a wife, family, wants to settle down…”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

She banged her palms on her solid thighs repeatedly. “Yes, but I don’t want him to want it like I do…I mean…where is the…I mean, make it…”

“And they say only men like the chase?”

“I mean, what’s wrong with him? What man wants those things now?”

“Two things: one, perhaps that’s what folk think about you when you push that same issue? And also, some men, like some women are very family oriented. I don’t miss my ex wife, but I do miss having a family.”

“Everybody ain’t you, Buddy.”

“So what else is the problem?”

“OK, I did this truthful, honest thing, I got three guys I like, but I got issues. I can’t get with all three of them…”

‘Why not? Date ‘em all, see what happens.”

“I’m not sleeping with three men at once, Mac.”

“You forget who you talking to? All of us, a t some point in our lives, have had multiple sex partners in the same rotation. I ain’t saying it’s cool, and I prefer sex within a monogamous relationship…”

“Just because I did it before doesn’t mean I’m doing it now. I ain’t going out like that.”

“Fair enough. I did not say ‘commit’. I did not say ‘have relations’. I said ‘date’ all three for a while, see what you like.”

“But what if they date someone while they are dating me?”

“Goose, gander…”

“I got NEEDS, Mac.”

“Sorry, Blip. You know we don’t get down like that.”

“I’m feeling the need for some…attention. Which of these three guys...?”

“None of them. You’re dating, figuring out what you like and really want. Why is it that Black folk start having relationships at like, 12, and life thereafter revolves around being committed to someone and the drama that ensues?”

“So, put my needs on hold?”

“You‘ve done it before.”

“I could call X, my guy from last summer. He could help me through this while I am dating.”

“That further complicates the matter, doesn’t it?”

“How?”

“One, you’ll be angry if you find out one of these three new prospects are doing the same thing.”

“That would make them doggish as hell.”

“Debatable. It can’t be OJ when you do it and doggish when it is done to you. You don’t have to like that, Doctor, but it’s real.”

“Two, reintroducing an old flame to your life for sexual fulfillment while you are supposedly really trying to find the right guy for the future sets you up for all kinds of failure. Eventually, the type of person you are, and baby, you needy…” Why lie? Many of my women friends are.

“You got one time to feel lonely one Friday night when X can’t make it over and your three new guys have blown in the wind because they ain’t into games…now you mad. Hurt. All over again. Especially when X calls saying, ‘Been real, I’m with her now’. That rejection is not going to go well, and my dear, it is wholly avoidable.”

“Well, what am I SUPPOSED to do?”

“Stop rushing. Take your time. See what is really out there.”

“No. I’m just going to love me and hang with my girls.”

“That’s great if that’s what you want to do. But if it’s not, it’s a lousy defense mechanism. First of your sorors that gets a man and leaves the clique will put you on full hate mode.”

“This is because men can’t work with a strong woman.”

“Really? I’m not seeing that.”

“Why can’t they just do things the way they should be done?”

“They’re not you. You cannot control another person.”

“You’re just being your usual, male self.”

“Last I checked, yes, I was standing when I relieved myself an hour back.

“Look, Baby, there is nothing wrong with you. You need to grow up a bit, though. There is something that you want. Fine. Nothing wrong with that. But you won’t have it playing games, hiding who you are and getting angry over nothing. You won’t have it rushing. You won’t have it giving in to desires when they hit. Conveniently using religion won’t help it materialize any faster. Pointing fingers will only make the other side mad, and frankly? You don’t want to hear it, but time and years are on the other team’s side. And numbers. They are approaching peak earning years and while society values one side when it is young, the other reaps its rewards as it gets older. So much BS is out here about there being no eligible Black men that those who still have their teeth, hold a job and touch their toes are realizing their value.

“Finally, the other side is not as emotional. The games that worked when you were younger will get you used and left behind. There was stuff I would tolerate five years ago that would cause me to cut a woman I loved dearly loose today. We are not y’all. The things you care about and value mean so little to us, and we can be more judgmental than you when we feel you are playing games. Be honest, Baby: we both know there is no gender bias on fidelity, honesty or the like. You and I both know too many situations where women are just as grimy as men, regardless of how they try to justify it. We both know that folk really just want easy, they want relaxed, the smart ones want a situation that works and is productive and drama free. Someone switching up game plans and practicing adolescent relationship tricks just isn’t cool.”

Blip looked at me hard.

“I don’t do that stuff. So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying being up front has put three new people in your life. Feel them out. If it works, move forward. If it doesn’t, move on. Don’t put yourself out there for just any old thing, but relax. Have a good time. Many people ruin their own thing because they don’t know how to handle it when it gets good. You a beautiful woman, blip. You pretty. You smart. You fun. You punch like Tyson…”

“The first thing is usually the most important. Why I gotta be pretty, first? Why couldn’t you have said smart first?”

“Cuz that’s the way I am. You want somebody to think like a woman? Go be with one. Me? Take me or leave me. That’s the lesson, Grasshopper. The other side is what it is. The numbers and our resolve and our overall lack of needing to be somebody’s somebody make it so, and we are not changing. We will never be you. You wither love us or you don’t. Don’t take no stuff. Don’t let nobody treat you like dirt. Cut folk slack like you need to be cut sometimes. This ain’t rocket science. You wrote and defended a dissertation. You can do this.”

Blip leaned against me. I put my arm around her.

“Yeah, you know I ain’t trying to hear none a this, right?”

I laughed and pulled her closer. “I love you too, Blip.”

That Special Someone

2010-03-02T16:07:00.001-08:00

I was talking to a female friend of mine the other day.

I like women. I mean, I like the way they smell, the way they walk, and the softness in their voice. Honestly, I like the way they act around me. I love making them laugh.

Sometimes, I find the way they think is a bit taxing, but I am sure they feel the same way about me. Take the good with the bad. I love the way they lean against me. I love the way they watch me laugh at myself. I love how the sight of them makes me understand “Sunday Mornings” is a journey, not a destination. Honestly? I know that in practice, I am the walking personification of “harassment is defined in how welcome the interaction is.” I’m usually pretty welcome. I mean, yeah, I like me some women.

This attraction has caused some friction in my relationships, which is funny. Anyone who knows me understands I am a model of monogamy. I don’t do to others what I’d hate having done to me. I am everyone sista’s big brother, little brother, guy, buddy, ride or die Negro…you name it, I’m it. I am never anyone’s, ah, you know, “friend” in that manner. I keep those lines pretty clear, and I think it is appreciated. By everyone but the women who happen to be my “person”.

I guess part of what makes me a good male friend, however, is that I respect boundaries. That makes it easy for me to share, and learn from my female friends. They clue me in on stuff, I don’t try to do them when we’re both drunk on her couch, half naked after playing ‘Twister’ The years are long gone when my friendships with women melded into something else. OK. Wait. There was a blip two years back, but that was different. She was real special. Hell. Why lie? They all were.

I digress.

So, I was talking to my friend. We’ll call her “Blip”. Blip has classic good looks, a decent sense of humor, a career taking off and a smile that could stop global warming. Blip is, like many of my friends, an attractive woman. That said, I would not date her to save either of our lives. It’s not that I know her dirt (which I do), but she is certifiably crazy. She is a practicing head shrinker. And crazy.

“Mac, I just don’t get it. He was nice, we clicked on everything…mentally…emotionally…sexually…and he just shut down on me. What did I do?”

Being her friend, I know that Blip is looking for love for a few different reasons. She is approaching thirty and wants the husband, family etc. This is important to her because this female milestone will keep her on track with similarly educated sistas her age. While statistics show more than half of them will be divorced within a decade, that is irrelevant. It is time to claim a spouse and wreck a perfectly good figure, and she needs a man for that. Even the sex is irrelevant, as everyone knows it is probably fifty times better AFTER you lose your spouse and meet that person who will pass in and out of your life, leaving behind memories, some of which cause you to simultaneously grin and blush.

“What am I doing wrong, Mac?” Blip looked at me sadly.

Funny you should ask. To answer your question in a nutshell? The real you showed up.

Late last year, I wrote an essay on how you break up with someone. Shortly thereafter, my own situation imploded. Still trying to figure that one out. That is what we writers call “irony”.

Let me offer, in one sitting, advice to folk looking for someone. My own lack of success in this field notwithstanding, I have been informed by many that I really understand relationships. Like Caruso’s voice teacher, I can’t sing a jingoed note, but I can produce the greatest operatic singer ever. Read on.

Sistas, you are beautiful. That isn’t just my opinion. The world over, the symbol of beauty is a Black woman. Stop doubting. I have heard women of other cultures sing praises of the Black female body and how ageless Black women become after 40. I have almost had to fight guys of other cultures who make it clear their wildest sexual fantasies involve not Jenna Jameson but Jada Fire. Real talk.

Something about your approach, however, isn’t working. You can get him. You can interest him. But you can’t keep him. Now, I know toupee wearing clowns and angry Black women have written scads of books on how it’s his entire fault, but we know that can’t be true. There are no absolutes, and we all know that when you sit down with friends (like me) you wallow in self pity over some of what you’ve done to bring about your relationship’s demise. If he hit you, it’s his fault. If he fooled around on you, it’s his fault. If ya’ll had an argument that really went there cause of both of you to act like fools, that’s 50/50.

If you got crazy on him, however? That’s you. If you wanted to change the rules of the game and he wasn’t having it? That’s you. If you decide to run some game and get caught-and remember, I have tons of female friends and ya’ll are much better at it than we are-that’s you.

So how do we get past this and find you that special someone to build with, that will stick around?

Keep reading. This is gonna be better than Kanye’s workout plan.

First, when you meet a guy, I mean right after he says, “Hi, my name is Brack” or some such? I need you to go on full evil female mode. You know what I mean. That person that you beat into submissiveness when you are in “Why me?” single gear, but who starts to peek out little by little as your relationship progresses?

Dude needs to meet her FIRST. She must be “on” all of the time. He needs to know she exists and will usually be present, regardless of the smiles, the giggles, the walks in the park. If you have an alter ego that clowns when she gets hungry? Bruh man needs to meet Drusilla on your first date. Skip lunch. Don’t eat all day so he is fully presented what’s in store down the line. He needs to see what your face looks like when it gets all twisted up because you feel someone has slighted you. He needs to recognize from day one you may feel slighted for no reason and if he is there, you will take it out on him.

Second. Many of the women that I know tend to share things with their new guy to give him a bit of fair warning about the inner demon we just mentioned. Stop. “I can be kinda moody sometimes”, said on date two as he is looking into your eyes and thinking of spending his life with you comes out as “I’m so human but aren’t we all?”

Men are simple creatures. We don’t do hints. Cross this line? Touchdown. Get hit and stay on the mat past ten seconds? Knockout. Pursue the issue after she’s said “no”? Jail.

You need to, while demonstrating every lack of table manners he will come to notice after you’ve hooked him, belch real loudly, pull him close, and hiss, “I am a psycho hose beast” or something along those lines. Before you sit him down, pass gas. Let him see what he is getting into now. Because if he gets this in pieces over the honeymoon period, he will think whatever you do is cute, and will set him up for a flight or flee situation later, which does you no good.

Third. I know a LOT of my girls’ secrets. Most men have female friends because many women don’t trust other women. As a man, I know that whatever you are sharing with me is probably three times as bad in reality, but you are trying to be honest while still presenting yourself as something you are not. We are not stupid. When we fall, we fall hard, so we can hear anything. Just give it to us up front.

“Bobby and I…we had an intense sexual relationship. It was a phase.”

Uh uh. Confirm what we already know.

“Of COURSE I was sleeping with someone else while you and I were being acquainted. I mean, not now, but then? We weren’t TOGETHER, I didn’t know if you’d work out, and I got needs. Me, Bobby, Ricky and their cousin Shay Shay? One night, ten days ago, after a bottle of Stoli and some really good hydro? Yeah. Baby oil everywhere. Well, not all of that was baby oil. Honestly? It’s on the Internet somewhere. Google ‘Orgy where Dude in Question Gets Turned Out’. Ricky was always a bit suspect. Don’t think that’s gonna be us, though. I understand why the pros get bonuses for DP, and you ain’t paying. Felt good at the time, though. Say, did you want dessert?”

Male friends often understand the reason why female friends aren’t straight up with their new guy about past encounters has nothing to do with shame. It has to do with the fact that men are opportunists. “You did it with HIM, why can’t you try that same thing with ME? So what you almost died the first time around. I know CPR…”

Women try things, have the experience, and move on. Guys try them, like them, and expect them to become the norm. Ya’ll ain’t trying to hear that six months into the relationship, so let him know up front. “Man, sorry, I tried the whole Astroglide banana in the tailpipe while having a plastic bag over my head thing while watching pregnant monkeys on Discovery Channel with someone else. Been there, done that. Sorry, you missed that experience, and I don’t want to relive it. Although it was a blast. How about I sit on your face after tacos? That’ll be a first…” Say this while having a bowel movement, at his house, bathroom door open, smoking a Newport. Even if you do not smoke. Especially if you do not smoke.

Fourth. Be upfront. I mean, you’ve been upfront up to now, but really make your intentions clear. My friend Blip used to run down her list of what was important to her. “Tall, handsome, kind, nice to his momma, considerate, God fearing…” I recently explained to Blip that she needed to stop lying to herself. The last three dudes she thought she loved didn’t even go to church, and one was an out and out bastard. You have to use the “Something About Mary” formula: brief but real. “Deaf mute with three pound…” You get it. Stop adding window dressing that really plays no part in your selection process. Be real with yourself, and him. “Rich”, “Fine” and “Freaky” are not bad things to want. Be straight with yourself. “Funny”, “Doesn’t Snore” and “Tolerates my bull daily” are OK, even mature, things to want in a man. Just remember, you’re human too, and if you set your sights too high, you may be disappointed. This isn’t settling. This is being comfortable and getting a fair exchange for what you bring to the table.

Ask real questions. “I think it’s great you love yo’ momma but is that heffa gonna get more time than me?” “Do you really think just because we both enjoy it we’re gonna have sex ALL the time?” “You do understand I expect you to put your family on hold but my family will always be a priority?” “You been to jail? You engage in homosexual acts? Did you like it? Do you still do it?” Men respect reality.

Part of being up front is also letting the schmuck know what’s what. Tell him, “Man, you’re cute, and you ain’t bad in the sack, and you make me feel good about myself, but let’s face it. I really like you because you work with your hands, and my kid needs a new sandbox” or “Dating you is a plus. Honestly, I looked you up in Martindale Hubbell and knew way before hand you were the best family lawyer in the state. My ex husband is on some bullcorn and eventually, I’m gonna want you to ream him in court for me…” “Man, whenever I need someone who is going to just do what they are told and take my beating them daily, I can count on you.” “My feet hurt, and although they smell like week old Doritos, I can count on you to rub them and them use your tongue to work out the toe jam.” We can take it. Just give it to us up front.

Follow this advice and you can’t fail. If he bounces, you’ve saved yourself some real head and heartache, and conversations with me in our jammies on Friday night, eating pizza together. If he stays, he is either in love with you or a damn fool. And you know what?

Either one of those beats being with the wrong guy, no?

I know that of which I speak. I have loved at least four crazy women, and I am on record as having married and procreated with one. And none of their craziness would stop me from loving them again. I just need it all up front, in the open, the full Monte. Because deception by small doses is annoying as hell.

You wanna get and keep the right man?

Do you. From Day One. He probably loves you for, or in spite, of it anyway. And honesty is what love is all about.

The Tattlers

2010-02-28T13:04:00.000-08:00

Man, what is with supposed grown folk?

Is it the economy? What?

Lately, I have dealt with more so called adults who act like, well, six year olds.

Everything boils down to people not complaining, or making a point, but them telling on other adults.

Case in point: I walked into my place of business for a quick cup of coffee (perhaps this is why I have not had a day off in over a month) and overheard Rachel, my majordomo, insisting to a caller that I would not be on site until the following evening. Some of my staff has become very protective of me, and while I ignore their insistence that I stay away from work when I am supposed to be off, I usually heed to their wishes regarding accepting phone calls, meeting with vendors, and the like.

I gently took the phone from Rae and greeted the caller.

“I need a manager…”

“Yes, ma’am. Happy to help you.”

“So, see, she lied to me. Told me there was no manager on duty.”

“Ma’am? I am happy to help you with whatever inconvenience you suffered in my place of business. First, however, there will be some ground rules: casting aspersions on the character of my staff is counterproductive, and frankly, I won’t stand for it. Now how may I help you?”

She voiced her complaint, which, in fairness, was partly about my product, but also partly about the staff. Were they unprofessional? No. Were they negligent? No. She didn’t like the look on their faces. What? Yes. They smiled while listening to her. That was rude. Ma’am, it’s a goddamn hotel. I ORDER my people to smile. Get over it.

Or the guy who browbeat me for a discount on a whirlpool suite Friday. He called. He came in, reviewed the room. Usually, I like helping people who want to plan a special evening for their special person. In my opinion, stuff like that is part of what makes a relationship beautiful. This fool started almost whining, “Yeah, man, my girl wants me to spend some money, and you know, says we need a night out, but this is expensive.”

What? You think telling on your girl is gonna get me in your corner? Yeah. How dare she want the two of you to do a night away from home somewhere different and just be with each other? Fool. How is it you got somebody and I don’t? Man, I am not going to listen to you telling on a woman you know you’ll be intimate with in a matter of hours, just so you can save a few bucks. Full price, Fool. She’s worth it, even if for only sleeping with your punk, ah, you know.

The owners of my establishment regularly tell on each other. To me. One, like I speak Hindi. Two, do you really think, coming from a Black family, with oodles of cousins, aunts, nieces and nephews, I am going to side with one of you knowing full well ya’ll family? Man up, talk to your relative, and leave me out of it.

I have come to detest people tattling on each other so much, the minute someone opens their mouth with a complaint, I go into Jack Webb mode: “Just the facts, please.” What is even sadder is the number of adults who then take a deep breath, pout, and then give me the fact sullenly. It is as if they are saying, “Look, my problem was inconsequential. What I really wanted was for you to go do something to someone because they made me mad.”

This summer, I worked part time at a place where staff actually watched each other and waited for a slip up. These weren’t teens or twenty-somethings. These were people with families. The woman I was seeing at the time suggested a home remedy for an ailment, some mix of vinegar and water. I mixed some up and took it to work. OK, part of this was my fault. Lacking any suitable containers, I pulled out my stainless steel flask and poured the concoction in there. I was at work and forgot it in the fridge. The next morning, I went looking in the fridge for my flask. Gone. I went to the boss to complain.

“Oh, yeah,” she produced it from her desk drawer. “Such and such brought this to me and went into a long litany about people drinking on the job and how she would help me find them.”

Uh huh. Such and such was fired for being drunk at work a month later. As for me? The boss tried to lecture me until I calmly told her that based on the odor in her office; it was obvious the container held a sizeable amount of vinegar. “You want me to bring a more appropriate container?” I asked. “Then gimme a raise so I can afford one. If I was gonna drink here, better believe it’d be vodka, which has no smell, and that I would be too thirsty to leave it in the fridge.”

I used to write angry letters for relatives who felt they’d been wronged in an establishment. I am a big believer in customer service. I stopped, though, when I realized that while there are rules to trade, many customers have reached a point where they expect the businesses to live up to their responsibilities as merchants, while they neglect their own responsibilities as patrons. I flat told one relative I would not use my talents to possibly get a manager of a restaurant fired when I knew this relative pocketed everything not nailed to the table whenever they ate there.

The first words out of a customer’s mouth, after they do the obligatory tattling, of course, are “How will I be compensated?” In some cases, the customer who expects a business to shave a few bucks for any inconvenience is the same one angry when they are charged for things they know they used. I have had guests in my hotel ask for a discount because the water in the toilet bowl was not cold enough, then look at their bill with incredulity when they have been charged extra for cramming 32 kids into the smallest room available. “How you know them kids was with me?” “I didn’t until you lined them all up after breakfast and started giving them orders about what to do when they got back to the room.” One lady had 17 children with her. Ma’am, you encouraged each of those kids to eat as much of the free hot breakfast as they could so you wouldn’t have to buy lunch later. Now you are mad because the hotel charged you extra, as your contract states we will, for that?

Where is the concept of fairness? because the first thing these folk start whining is abouthow unfair a situation is. Grow up.

Everyone does it. White men get on talk radio and tattle on people of color, often reminding us of welfare, conveniently forgetting the welfare rolls are comprised of white females. Oh, there’s that and the tattling of how hard they work, as if no one works harder, as they conveniently forget America is being beaten at its own game by foreigners who put in more hours and work harder for the dollars we take for granted.

Black men tattle on Black women, trying to justify their irresponsibility or mistreatment because of the way these women talk to them or front them off. Yeah, Pookie. I’m talking to you. Look, we all have arguments, we all say things we shouldn’t, and some of us pay really high prices for that. Your justification for impregnating five other women and beating her ass isn’t flying. You telling on every little thing that she does, thinking it makes you look like a victim and thus expected to act like less than a man, is stupid. Stop tattling. Man up. I had a situation recently where a ball of wax got unraveled, and the man in me couldn’t stomach the idea of finger-pointing and saying, “Well, SHE did this…” Whatever. Hurt and move on. Just keep your mouth shut.

Black women tattle on each other and themselves, letting way too many people into their business. I have marveled at some of my female friends will trust girlfriends, sisters and cousins with really dirty personal information, and then tell every detail of another woman’s dirt over some petty slight. That makes about as much sense as insulting someone who prepares your food.

I have known Asians who tattle on whites or blacks, depending on which is convenient. They tattle on whites for mistreating them as customers and taking them for granted, while it slips their mind they do the same to the blacks that patronize their businesses. They tattle on blacks for not being moral enough while overlooking the vices and violence in their own communities.

These are not generalizations. Sadly, I have experienced all forms of this just within the last two days.

I know someone who tattled on their significant other, sharing what was supposed to be confidential changes to their relationship with a relative. I have heard someone else tattle on their boss, making a case out of nothing, just to get some tattling time in. Of course I hear people tattle on employees, proving that those with power exercise decision and those without exercise pettiness and their gums.

Ya’ll know better. I have a solution.

The mature among us should invest in those spring loaded steel batons they sell at martial arts weapons outlets. They collapse to about four inches, but with the touch of a button, they shoot to over 2 feet of ass cracking steel. Again, these will only be issues to mature folk. Folk who believe in privacy, understanding, discretion, respect and just generally getting along. They must be drama free, as those who like drama often use tattling as a first line of defense. Failed relationships and not so perfect personal lives have no effect on qualification.

These individuals will be trained (I just created a bunch of new jobs without the help of Congress. Thank me later) to strike at pressure points the moment anyone over the age of 20, regardless of age or gender, opens their mouth to tattle on another adult. Telephone tattling will result in the offender being made aware that upon physical sight, they will receive an anti-tattling sanction. The training will be for pressure point areas only. It is understood, that as with police officers who must use their weapon in the line of duty, there will be instances when unavoidable skull crackings will be investigated, with favorable prejudice towards the cracker, and suspicion of the crackee. Comments that begin with "Let me speak to your supervisor" will be considered as hostile activity and permissibly addressed with deadly force.

This is a public service, and I cannot say how long we will have to dedicate ourselves to this mission. The reward for your sacrifice will be knowing you’ve made the world a better place, one where adults to not regress into early childhood, and where other adults are not forced to take childish ramblings seriously at the fear of losing business or peace of mind.

As a sidebar, I would prefer not to know if certain agents have discovered other, erotic uses for the correction rods. It’s been a couple of months. I need no ideas, thank you very much.

That’s all for now.

By the way? Please don’t read this and go tattling to the authorities about my advocating the use of force in dealing with pettiness.

They are already on my side.

Necessary Conversations

2010-02-24T08:19:00.000-08:00

I had seen Dexter more in the last week than I had in the last year.

“Maybe I’m just not shooting high enough,” Dex started.

I had on some chocolate Bruno Magli oxfords I hadn’t worn in years. They pinched a bit. We were in my office. I had my feet up. Dex was leaned back, his head resting on the chair’s back.

“Wha?”

“I mean…look. I keep having issues with mediocre women. “

“Do tell?”

“They overweight. Or they got esteem issues. Or they ain’t the most physically attractive. Or they aren’t educated. Perhaps they are flat chested. I mean, I’m having a whole string of bad luck with women that frankly, people look at me and say, Man, I just didn’t picture you with…her.”

“Nobody’s perfect Dex. We all got faults. Hell. I lost fifteen pounds so far and got more to go.”

Dexter sat up straight, his face twisted.

“No! THAT’S the problem with us, man. Look, JD, this whole ‘grown man I’m easy I’m logical let’s just be mature and understanding’…well, I’ve done that all of my life, and get a bunch of heartache and headache from everyday women…I got boys who are big as us put together and couldn’t spell ‘class’ if you told ‘em it rhymes with ‘ass’ and look…look at what they get? Look at how little bull they deal with from the type of women that models envy! Not these excuse females…”

“Excuse women?”

“Yeah. She’s cute but she round…she just ok looking but she well endowed…she a great package but she a hoe…”

“Hey…watch your language in my office, man.”

“Sorry. I am angry because this is my reality. Look at us, man. Are you happy with this? This life? How much education you got? Ten years ago you made five times what you do now. You were happier being alone than you have been over the course of twelve years a marriage and a couple of relationships that ended on bad notes. Be real: you were more or less left alone by women you atone time would never have even considered being with. People who put way less into it than we do are getting a much better return on investment.”

I looked at my friend. Something was wrong. Something was beyond wrong. This was bigger than material for humor with Brenda, or even for light hearted reflection later. This was not just someone hurting over a failed relationship. He was hurting, and articulating his hurt, in the rawest terms he could because. My friend is a good guy, and life had shown him it could be as unfair in adulthood as it was in the fourth grade. There was something else, but I could not put my finger on it. Circumstances were putting him in an unenviable position: continue being the fairly decent guy that he was and keep getting hurt, or become something he reviled but never be in pain.

“Life is not perfect,” I started slowly. “We have to play the cards we are dealt, man. I ain’t mad at nobody. I have played a hell of a hand. Sometimes you are up, sometimes you bust. What matters is how you kept your head high through it all. There is nothing I have had that, if it is important, I won’t have again. There is no one with whom I have dealt that I regret loving. Period. When I was with them, even during the bad times, they were not the women you describe, but the women I wanted. No model could have turned my head because in my opinion, I had the baddest thing the runways could imagine. Regardless of what was said or how things ended, the level of intensity I brought to the table and the level of reciprocation I experienced made it clear there was happiness, if a lack of understanding, all the way around. I have learned that money is not everything, and I will have it one day again. Sooner than I realize.

“You are a good man. Dexter, you have made some mistakes, and you have flaws like everyone else. The only blame I could put on you can be shared with many decent folk: you are attracted to people who have a lot of needs based on their own screwy pasts and the equally screwy decisions of their present. You have an overwhelming desire to love people that present themselves as unloved. You cannot keep trying to save people whose histories indicate they want themselves in situations requiring they be saved time and again as a means of validating their womanhood, or their need to be wanted. Brotha, you gotta stop choosing women who are just happy to be somebody’s somebody. I head to learn that. You can learn that. And it will be so much more valuable a lesson than only dating women half our age, or becoming some callous fool you’re not, or just losing faith in what this wonderful world has to offer.”

Tears were running down my buddy’s face. I got up and gently closed my office door behind me, giving him his time.

When I pulled into my driveway, something felt odd. I looked around, opened my trunk, and commented to myself how dropping a few pounds made things a bit looser around the back of my waistband. I cautiously walked through the front door, noticing that I didn’t hear my dogs barking. That was strange as well. I went through the door quickly with one hand on the knob, my right hand occupied and more slack in my waist band than a moment before.

No noise. I heard thumping upstairs, in my bedroom. I had a thought: for reasons connected to threats on my place of business, local law enforcement were quite familiar with me and the property‘s owners. Contacting them, however, would require some explaining of other things, namely the weight in my right hand, or might eventually make me look like the kid crying wolf. I eased upstairs. Things felt different, but not bad.

My dogs were in my bedroom, all three of them. They were rolling around and quietly playing with a smallish brown woman who was feeding them treats. My hand hung to my side.

“May I help you?”

“Hey Baby. Good day today.”

I slid my right hand in my pocket.

“Um…”

A sudden sense of peace washed over me, and the dogs obediently went to a corner and began napping, without a word from either of the two people in the room.

Well, one person. The deity that resembled Diahann Carroll walked over and gave me a big hug. All of the air rushed out of my body.

“You were Judy Pace last time…”

“I am who I want to be. We went through that. You are all in my image, so actually, ya’ll look like me, not the other way around.”

My right pants pocket was no longer heavy.

“I do detest those things,” she sighed. “And you know better. There is a lot of trouble for the lender and you as the borrower. I’ve sent it back where it belongs. You have so much work to do and you run around thinking you are playing cowboys and Indians.” She sighed again, smiled, and motioned towards the bed. She wore no jewelry, and her sleeves floated with her arm movements. “Sit!”

If people saw God every day, they’d be a heck of a lot more obedient and nowhere near as rebellious over silliness.

“Did I…call you? I’m doing pretty good after our last, um, face to face.”

She grinned. “I just wanted to stop by and tell you I love you. To remind you things are already better. To spend a bit of time with you. And to congratulate you on having such a good day.”

“It was just another day at the office.”

“Sometimes, I work through you, and have you do things I need. We talked about that.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you.”

“Why?”

“Someone in your life was on the verge of making a very hard decision. I will not control you all. If you’ve read that man Young’s novel, you understand that. But I do try to offer you the best advice so you can make an informed decision.”

“God?”

“Yes, Honey.”

“I don’t understand.”

She threw up her hands in mock protest. “Oy, vey! He doesn’t understand! If they could all get that one through their heads…That they know so little” Dihann Carroll now had Fran Drescher’s stage voice.

“You helped someone today who was going to make a major decision in the near future.”

It took a minute. “Dex? He’ll be alright. Yeah, he was only going to date…well, you know. Would have been a waste of a good guy.”

She looked up at me. “It would have been a waste of a soul,” she said cryptically.

Suddenly, I understood.

“Oh.” I said softly.

“You went through something a while back. I know what you were feeling, I know what you wanted. There are things that I know you will never imagine. While you have done an excellent job of not dwelling and staying busy, you have not truly seen the blessing in your circumstance.”

That was a sore spot.

“You have spent time missing what you are not getting, while not reveling in the blessings you are giving. No, the blank look so is not you,” she grinned again. She grinned a lot. It felt good.

“If you look at the lives you have blessed, if you consider the time you have made available to be there for others in your life that have been in need since the beginning of the year, you will understand what I am saying. You have been there for someone that cannot fend for himself, someone who could not believe in herself, and someone who no longer wanted to be himself. Literally. What you feel has been your own carnal loss has been the spiritual gain of others, including yourself. I am proud of you. I always love you. But I am terribly proud of you.”

I felt like a child who the teacher just gave a gold star. My face was wet, too.

“God?”

“Yes, James David?”

“If we make our own decisions, why is my pocket lighter than it was?”

“Because down deep, that was what you wanted.”

“And how do I, um? I mean, what if, well…”

She stood, smiled, tilted her head back, and opened her mouth.

“Anytime you feel danger or fear, instantly, I will appear…”

It must have been the look on my face.

“What?” she beamed.

“It’s…Diahann Carroll’s body and face and Chaka Khan’s voice…was that a choir I heard in the background? That’s weird when you do that. How…”

She beamed again. “Oh, we sing all day long where I live. Choirs on standby. Who am I, Baby? If you think that’s good, you should read the story about what I did once in seven days…”

I grinned. “I read that one.”

“I love all of y’all, but I have a real special feeling for those of you blessed with the ability to put pen to paper. Some pretty good stories about me. I have less affinity for editors. They’ll leave whole thirds out of a good book of instruction and inspiration. Oh well.” She hiked up her sleeve. There wasn’t a watch there before. Was it?

“Oops, I gotta go Lovey,” she came over, hugged me, and I felt as alive as a newborn. “I have an appointment in an hour.”

“But…”

“Yes?”

“You’re God…”

She wagged her finger. “I still believe in punctuality. Timeliness is one of the most considerate things one can be.”

“Stop time until you get there.”

“Still believe in rules. And consideration. Bye Hon!”

Dihann Carroll had the smoothest walk ever. Was she walking? Yes. I heard a giggle. "Stop! I'm old enough to be your mother...well, I guess I'm everyone's mother!" More giggling.

I could here the steps her heels made. And my head was filled with Chakha Khan, in stereo.

I heard God’s heels on my steps, and then I heard nothing at all.

Observing the Death of a Romantic

2010-02-20T06:53:00.000-08:00

Dex stopped by again today.

I was happy to see him. We only get face to face every so often, but the brother has always been there.

“You have to move,” he told me.

“Why?” We were both standing by my front desk.

“Look…man…”

A young woman who had rented our meeting room for some contract negotiations wiggled by. There was plenty of space. Her wiggle was how she walked.

“She always do that?”

“Been doing it since she got here, Dex.”

“Not too cool with skinny chicks, but those slacks…”

“Yeah. Nice sight. Not too hip with the wiggle though.”

“Really?”

“Nah. The last one I had bounced. Bounce is better than wiggle. She giggled, too. Bounce n Giggle. Sounds like a kids’ store.” I sighed. "Yeah, I miss her."

Dex turned to me, concerned. “How you doing with that?”

“I be OK man. Disappointed. A bit concerned, still. Angry. Hadn’t allowed myself to feel real anger for almost a year. But you know. Every day above ground is a good day.”

Dex nodded sagely. “Well, Ms. Wiggle is too old for me.”

“Yeah. I know for a fact she is ten years over twenty. Plus she has a job.”

“Job sounds nice. Age is a turnoff. Look, I got something I wanna share with you…”

My sister Brenda called me that night to check on J. I don’t know why. I tried to share with her the boys’ plan to assassinate me. She just kept laughing and saying, “You so silly.” She was probably in on it. Assassins need payrolls, and Auntie Brenda ain’t broke by a long shot.

“Dex came by today.”

“Did he now? How is his hunt for coeds over nineteen?”

“He’s not hunting. He’s getting himself together for when he is ready to hunt. He’s lost more weight. Clothes are a wee bit trendier.”

“OK. He still mooning over that girl?”

“Please. This entire exercise is his way of dealing with that situation. This is mooning to the nth degree.”

“Mmm hmm…so what did he want today?”
“I guess he shared his strategy with a friend of his, and she went ballistic.”

What I heard come from Brenda was too cool to be a snort, too funky to be a laugh.

“His response?”

Pause.

“He does not care.”

Now Brenda paused.

“Oh.”

“He, ah, kinda got…cold.”

“Really?”

“He proceeded to tell me that every woman he knows has cheated. Dex made it clear he was speaking of his female friends; he didn’t want to even speculate on intimates. The cute ones. The not so cute ones. The tall ones. The fat ones. The skinny ones. The educated ones. The ones that didn’t finish high school. The sweet ones. He says the sweet, cute ones are actually worse than the mean ones. They really get around, and no one suspects a thing.”

Brenda sighed. “Did Dex ever stop to think, to ask, why these women stepped out on their relationships?”

“Man, I treated him like Bluto in ‘Animal House’. He was rolling. I didn’t interrupt. But he eventually said, you know, why doesn’t matter. If some female came at me with a pipe and I slugged her to save my life, no one cares about why. They care that I hit a woman. Period. Dot. It’s wrong. No exceptions. This is the same. If you choose to be in a committed relationship, you make that choice. You have the other party thinking you are in something exclusive. If you step out, male or female, regardless of the reason, you wrong. Especially if you do it figuring your person will still be there when you come back. He told me about this woman he works with who regularly steps out on her guy. Her attitude, in part, is, well, he ain’t going anywhere. Dex asked if she shared her exploits with her man, and the response: Hell no. He’d leave.

“Dex says such logic has put him in a position where he really does not care what women think. They are going to do what they are going to do, and in many cases, they don’t care about fairness or double standards. They will complain not just when a complaint is legitimate but if they feel it will get them something.”

“I don’t know if I like all of these generalizations, JD. I have never cheated on any man. I am terribly logical and do not stoop to the level of game playing he assumes all women pursue.”

“Agreed. I’m curious Bren.”

“Yep?”

“You do know women like that, right?”

Silence.

“OK. So he is wrong to generalize, but these people exist?”

“I think,” Brenda sighed, “Your friend is still hurting over someone he cared about who was dishonest with him, who manipulated the situation and then when it ended, projected her traits onto him for an audience so he would get some sympathy. I do not think he should indict a gender as a result.”

“Do they exist? Better yet, how many of them do you know?”

“I don’t do those things.”

“You’re avoiding the question, Sis.”

Another sigh.

“OK. So where we are now is this guy has decided to date only young women and where he was once a pretty considerate person his current attitude is one of, Hey, I don’t care what you think, or even how you feel, because you have your own agenda. I have mine. Let me get what I came for and push on. And now I am wondering if your silence cosigns the idea that perhaps he is onto something.”

“You know better.”

“I do. I just hope I never get there. Because this is the LAST person I figured would buy into this, and look…he is there.”

“Sounds like he is headed for Planet Dog.”

“I wonder how many dogs are disappointed romantics? No, I thought about that Bren. Dex’s attitude is abuse he puts out there will come back to him.”

“A philosophical dog?”

“Don’t think so. Again, remember, he has not done anything. These re reflections. He has reached the conclusion, that at least of the women he knows, they only care if you are doing something for them. Whatever it is. Being there so they can cry on your shoulder. Agree with them that life is just so unfair to them. Whatever. He has merely reached the conclusion that if the other team has an agenda, perhaps he should as well. He calls it balance. So he is not out to do anyone harm, but as opposed to always being the guy doing the giving, he wants to reap the fruits of taking, as well.”

“Um.”

“Sadly, I think he may have more success this way. The assholes always manage to get better people and keep them longer than the decent people.”

“Sad, but true. Were there any other nuggets of personal improvement Dexter shared with you?”

I sat up in my chair. I’d been slumping a lot lately.

“You know, he’s been trying to figure out a lot of the ‘why’ lately…”

“OK.”

“He told me about another friend of his. He’s crazy about her. In her corner. Her marriage isn’t working out. Husband is an ass. Kids are grown. She won’t leave. Yesterday, she was complaining and saying she’d do something nice for herself for Valentines Day because she was unhappy about the way he handled it.”

“Which was?”

“He bought tickets to a show and made reservations for dinner.”

“And?”

“She told him she didn’t feel like going.”

“But, if I understand, she was complaining previously about how he never did anything?”

“Yep.”

“And now he’s trying, but to show him, she refuses?”

“Yep.”

“And now she is mad she got nothing?”

“Yep.”

Brenda sighed. “Some of us are our own worst enemies.”

“Dex’s attitude is that sometimes the uncomfortable questions irritate us because they expose the truth. His friend constantly complains she is unhappy. Here is this beautiful woman who looks 10 years her junior with a beautiful personality and she is happy being able to hate this fool she married to who, in Dexter’s opinion, is lucky he got her. She won’t leave. She has shared many similar stories. First the day does not matter. Then it does. Now you mad. Perhaps you just enjoy being angry and there is no better excuse than your person being a fool. It allows you to be mad all the time, and justifiably so. “

“Excellent point. Sad, but true. And before you ask, JD, yes, I know people like that…”

“Dex left me with this story: A man's mother died. Throughout his life, his mother had been kind, his rock, and his support. His father beat him mercilessly his whole life and did everything he could to break his spirit. His mother died. He buried her. His father died, he sobbed uncontrollably and went ballistic. An onlooker wondered why. Well, when his mother was alive, he loved her and did all he could do for her. But when his father died, he had nothing to hate anymore, he had no reason to be angry, and that had consumed so much of his life that its absence greatly disturbed him.”

“Ouch. So do you think Dex will realize his own anger one day and move on from his hurt? Because all of this is obviously stemming from that.”

“I don’t know, Brenda. Where he is now appears to be where he is going to stay for some time. He is intent on not being hurt again, and a lot of this reflection is exposing some ugly things about the women and relationships he’s encountered before. Especially this most recent one. The rose colored glasses are off.”

“That’s a shame.”

“It is, Brenda. The world is short one romantic tonight.”

“That’s a shame.”

Looking for Love in...

2010-02-17T14:04:00.001-08:00

It started perfectly logical.

My buddy Dexter stopped by my office the other day. This has been a rough year for him. A serious relationship that was a major pat of his life imploded in the space of thirty days, his job, which he enjoys, just isn’t cutting it, bill wise. Well, he and his ex wife are getting along. I guess every dark cloud has a silver lining.

I leaned back in my new chair and put my Allen Edmonds on the desk.

“What’s up, man?”

“It is what it is, J. Is what it is.”

“You’re looking better, man.” It was true. He’d lost some weight and he was clean. Suit, tie.

“Well, I have a new strategy, man. You know, I’m not into just random encounters. I dig the ladies, though. I’m far from ready to get back out there, but when it’s time, I have a plan.”

He shared it with me. I listened. That evening, I shared it with the first person I knew would listen and not slap me silly. Well, not right away.

“He’s just gonna date twenty year olds,” I explained to my sister Brenda.

“Mmmm Hmmmm…” Bren is a veritable font of wisdom and advice. Her words are few, but oh so powerful.

“They aren’t bitter…they aren’t carrying a buncha baggage…if something goes wrong, they aren’t on some ‘I’m always right it must be you that’s wrong’ page. See, he figures…and by the way? I mean, dude is clearly still a bit confused about his last situation, and reasonably so. I thought that was a definite recipe for happiness. Perhaps that is affecting his judgment.”

Bren sighed. “I remember that girl. If she loved him half as much as he loved her, he wouldn’t be on this silliness now. So exactly WHY is Dex now chasing women half his age?”

“He’s not chasing. When he gets back in the swing of things, he is going to exclusively date twenty year old women attending four year institutions who happen to be close to graduating.”

“Mmmm Hmmm…”

“No, wait…he wants someone who is busy, has some goals, isn’t just looking to get married, etc. “

“And…there are no women his age with which he can accomplish that?”

“Dexter feels not. The last one took the cake. He says he is tired of dealing with women who, when you meet them, their attitude is ‘Woe is me…I’m a good person…why am I alone?” Then, after the honeymoon period, the psychosis emerges, and now you are the devil incarnate, either expected to just do as you are told or take the blame for what every bad jerko they dated in the past did to them. He has that Sean Connery in the Untouchables logic: If you keep getting a bad apple from the barrel, get one off the tree.”

Brenda is 300 miles away. Indianapolis. I could see her look of incredulity via long distance wire.

I continued. “And not HALF his age. We both agreed dating anyone whose age ends in ‘teen’ makes you look like Robert Sylvester. No. Twenty. Young enough to not be disenchanted, young enough to still believe in love and not be jaded into thinking it’s love because they don’t want to be lonely. Old enough to be legal.”

I thought it was humanly impossible to laugh for a straight five minutes.

When Brenda caught her breath, she gasped, “OK, so you realize there are probably gals his age that may know some tricks the young ones don’t…” She started giggling again.

“No, we discussed that. It’s like the guy in the locker room who thinks he is pleasing all the women and doesn’t know the computer nerd is doing his girl. Just because someone believes with age they are super freaky does not mean they are. It’s just what they want to believe. Plus, he figures it’s a win-win. If his twenty year old is out there, then he gets to enjoy some way out encounters with someone who is young and ah…”

Brenda giggled all over again. It took five minutes for her to choke out, “Fresh?”

“Whatever. If she’s NOT out there like that, then guess what? He’s got a pupil. He gets to be the guy who introduces, um, new stuff.”

“OK,” Brenda had it under control, for now. “so what is the appeal?”

“He figures he’s tried everything else. He’s tried women his own age. In too many cases, he finds them manipulative, and immature. He’s tried older women. They are into the whole mother thing. That’s a turn off for him. He has a preference for one type of women, so crossing certain lines is out of the picture.

“Dex wants someone who is going to be nice, and appreciative. Says his luck lately is to hook up with someone who starts off nice and a bit wounded. ‘Why me? I’m a good person.’ Once the relationship progresses, this person starts dragging all of their baggage from past experiences into the relationship. He thinks some people actually LIKE carrying that stuff around.”

Brenda stopped giggling. “Some do. They get off on it. Makes them feel simultaneously they were the victim, AND it was never their fault.”

“Anyway. He says that if he is going to deal with immaturity, manipulation and the whole nine, he might as well take it from someone young, beautiful, unencumbered by extensive drama, or past marriages, or nineteen boyfriends who couldn’t get it right. He figures if eventually he is going to be the bad guy, why not be the bad guy with someone who isn’t yet at an age where they get off commiserating about how evil the opposite sex is, while still chasing the same types of losers that made you miserable in the first place. He figures if he is going to shell out money having fun, which he expects, why not do it with someone who is going to be appreciative, and, hey, may really dig the experience because it’s not their gozillionth time doing something. If he has to be bothered, he says, why not find a group that has not learned to use dishonesty with men as a defense mechanism. Plus a group that still likes to watch cartoons. ”

“Hmmm…”

“He also reminded me of a quote I read once. ‘Men think sex is important. Women know it is useful.’”

“Robert B. Parker?”

“Yeah. Anyway, he admits he thinks it is important, it matters, and he wants to be with someone for whom the act is important, as well. Not just someone acting on urges or thinking they’ll be intimate because they like someone and see they can get something out of it later. He reminded me that when younger women do it, they really like the person. He wants someone who thinks sex is more than just a useful means to an end.”

“Ok. So Dexter has figured out that he wants certain things and assumes no woman his own age is capable of providing them?”

“He likened it to when women decide to only date guys with money. They figure after being dogged and dealing with silliness, they may as well go through it with someone who has something, as opposed to Broke Ass Ray Ray.”

“I hear you. There is some truth to that.”

“What scared me was that he called his cousin at younger Northern and, while scrolling through her Facebook page, asked that she introduce him to ‘all your little top heavy friends.”

“Top heavy?”

“Yeah, he says there’s no way to accurately discern derriere measurements from a Facebook photo…He also said, ‘JD, Moving forward I am only hooking up with 20 year old college gals. I Like these young women. I keep getting older; they all stay the SAME age.”

“That’s from ‘Dazed and Confused’.”

“Great flick. So anyway, he asks her some of these kids’ names, and for each girl, she has, like, nine names! One was T-girl, T-killa, Tyty, Ty-myster, Bffty, or Totally Ty. She was only 18 though. His response? ‘Yeah. See, all that shit is PRECISELY why they have to be 20. I want a woman with ONE DAMN NAME.’”

“He’s hurting, JD. Be nice.”

“Wait…I’m just picturing me and all my creepy 35+ buddies checking our lil sisters' and cousins friends out.”

“Ewwww….”

“So Dex tells his cousin, ‘Yeah. Young women are where it's at. They not all old and bitter. Plus, they happy with Mickey Dees and the little things. Like key chains.”

Brenda and I broke up again. I couldn’t help it.

“Most importantly? Dex wants a GIRLFRIEND. Not a spouse. Not someone to walk off into the sunset. He also figures he has the luxury, when he leaves, of this woman still having some feeling sfor him, since all the women his age still have feelings for the guys from THEIR past. Plus, wives cost too much when they decide to bounce. Dex also sasid too many women have agendas when it comes to marriage. When they're young and want to reach that milestone, they are all for it. When they hit 40, suddenly, marraige is a bad idea, because they don't want someone having access to their assets. Dex says this is sound logic and he, too will apply it, although it will make women mad.

"Dex wants someone to join him at the theater, not parent teacher conferences. He doesn’t want to argue over who raises kids how or feel as if there is any agenda short of them being, well, happy. He just wants to keep it easy, have a good time, with few complications. If things get intimate, he wants it to mean something, not be yet another guy who’s hitting it or worse, be someone who may be getting the sex due to some ulterior motives or a hidden agenda. He wants someone who is going to appreciate the economy is tough and he can’t afford to just ball outta control. He doesn’t want to hear about ex boyfriends, or ex husbands, or have to pay the price because LaMarcus and RonRon messed up. He says he has realized women will complain that is immature, but he finds it equally immature that the women he has known only want to be married to carry out agendas that have little to do with their man or a real partnership.”

“Again…there are no women in his age bracket with which he can do this?”

“Dunno. He was making my head hurt, I was laughing so hard. At one point, he said the fact that he was employed, had a car, liked to go out and was a nice guy would be enough for a twenty year old.”

“Oh, my. So what do you think?”

“Brenda, I think that if you start dating someone that was born when you were seventeen, there are bound to be some issues down the line. Plus, what starts as a girlfriend may end as your wife. You know she’s gonna put his behind in a home one day.”

“Hasn’t happened to Hugh Hefner yet.”

The Year of Crazy?

2010-02-10T12:26:00.000-08:00

The following conversation may or may not have occurred. Names have been changed to protect the insane.

From the Diary of Roscoe Cleophus Twilliger, Esq. Side man to the legendary Fuzzhead Jenkins, Bluesman, Writer, and Daddy. Arch Enemy of Flatbush Jones, Yarn Cat Mass Producer.

I was sitting in my office, billing a client or two, listening to Rachel Grayson’s new CD, “The Return of the Chocolate Love Duck”, when my phone rang.

“Cleophus?”

“Pandora? Hey, what’s up? Lil Zeke alright?”

Now usually, when my ex wife calls, I look for a way to get off the phone. It’s been three years. I am no longer angry, or even hurt. I realized, not too long ago, that what she needed, I couldn’t give her. I no longer have a problem with PigBoy, the man she met online while we were married. I divorced her over her relationship with PigBoy, but things were probably coming to an end anyway. Pandora has a nonexistent relationship with the truth, but I have learned that is more out of fear than anything malicious. She just fears that which has burned her. I am, unfortunately, a truthful man, which I have found is a poor quality for a man that wants to be in love.

Oscar Wilde once wrote, “A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.” Now, although he was married, it is a well known fact Oscar batted for the other team. I can, however, agree with Mr. Wilde on one thing: I am happy, more or less, with Pan now that I am no longer in love with her. I see her deficiencies for what they are and work with her for the sake of raising Lil Zeke, our precocious nine year old. I like Pandora. I would not entertain any relationship with her outside of the one we have, and I still ask for a second opinion when she gives me the time of day. Overall, though, I like Pandora. It was easier to like her a month back, when I was working on my own happiness, but such is life. Misunderstandings happen.

“Yeah,” she sighed heavily, “Lil Zeke is fine.”

Pause.

“What’s wrong, Pandora?”

“Nothing,” she sighed again. “I just miss our life sometimes. We were young, but boy we had a lot of goals.”

I didn’t know where this was going, but I didn’t like the idea of her getting down. Her mood swings were legendary. In fact, they were part of what corroded our marriage.

“I know Pan. I know. You know,” I said brightly, “we accomplished some of them, too. It’s OK, though. Life goes on. I don’t bear you any ill will Pandora.”

"I miss allthe travelling we used to do..."

"Yeah, Argentina was fun."

"I miss the way we interacted as a family."

Sore spot, so I remained quiet. I'd loved another woman since we split, and I had loved her on a level I never loved my ex wife, but every man wants his family.

"And you know what I realized? dating someone is one thing. Living with someone is another. Oooh, Cleophus had his issues, but I could live with Cleophus issues easier than what I am dealing with now. Eight years married to Cleophus, I realize, now: his issues weren't that bad.

“I left before giving it a shot.”

“You left for something you thought was better, Pan. We both were at fault, Hon. I mean, I failed, too.”

“Perhaps I’m just not good at this relationship thing.”

“I don’t know. You found someone who makes you happy. I mean, you all share an address. The kids seem OK with it.”

Another sigh.

“I told him…the other day…whatever he was doing…to stop it. I didn’t want details…but I wanted it to stop. Immediately. Or else there was going to be trouble. He ran and got his computer, as if to prove something to me. Men. You all make the dumbest mistakes. I had no idea what was going on, just the idea something wasn’t right. He got himself caught up with that one. Guess what? Of course you weren’t responding to my emails during the day. You have instant message reports of you talking to some woman while you were telling me you were in a meeting.”

“Oh.”

“Report after report, email after email,” her voice grew strained. “I confronted him.”

“What’d you say?” I was trying to muster up some type of anger, resentment, and some attitude to gloat.

I couldn’t do it.

What is wrong with me?

This woman was once my wife. I faced sure financial ruin when we split. I lost everything. Because she was unhappy. Didn’t want counseling. Didn’t want to talk about WHY we were unable to get along. Never wanted to explain the craziness tat led to us not being able to see eye to eye, things like kicking my family out of our house on Christmas because she disagreed with them on the rules to a parlor game. Left, snuck back in the house and took money she agreed to leave behind for her half of the bills for her last month there. Broke a part a family, forced me into seeing my child half of a week instead of every day. Spent every dime she promised she’d pay me on parties at her new place, a new wardrobe, a new car, as I spun towards foreclosure and bankruptcy. Spent an entire summer being wooed and romanced by some guy she met on the Internet, someone who “understood” her. I knew something was up, but couldn’t prove it until I went on Dick Tracy mode in the end, for once reading my cel phone account bills in their entirety.

Three years ago, I wanted this moment. I waited for it.

Now, I just felt sorry for her. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

“I explained to him,” she continued, “that I knew what he was doing. First they meet on the Internet. Then they talk on the phone, chat it up, laugh, joke, he invites her to lunch, they start hanging out…Oh, he's home every day. He never goes out. Likes home. But there's lunch at work, there are late meetings, there's his fraternity gatherings...

“How do I know? Because he was married when he got with me. He was home every night. He was a listener, he was a charmer, he had someone at home. He started with the emails and moved to the other stuff...

"And that’s how he got ME.”

I listened silently.

I’d recently watched a situation, my own situation, disintegrate and been accused of things that I knew weren’t true, were trumped up and blown out of proportion to make an audience feel something for a supposed victim. Aside from anger and bewilderment there was a certain caution exercised with that situation as I had to call in favors from folk whom I’d rather not owe a thing.

But I never expected to hear this.

Rachel Grayson belted her way through “My Thumbs Are Yours.”

Fuzzhead Jenkins walked in still looking down. What a year this has been.

“So I told him to stop. And when I called him today and asked if he wanted to talk, he told me, Pandora, my day has been going pretty good, and I want to stay that way. Please let’s not make it to where I only ant to come home to sleep and nothing else.”
I listened.

What a year this has been. It has GOT to get better.

Rachel sang “Noni’s Blues.”

I wondered if we should produce her next time around.

The Return of the Sleepover

2010-02-07T16:04:00.000-08:00

“Hey, Dad?”

“Sup man?”

“Can I have some friends over this weekend?”

“Um, yeah. Sure. Who?”

“The usual.”

“OK.”

“OK, uh, can you call their parents?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll call from work tomorrow.”

“OK.”

I like my son’s friends. They are good kids, your typical 9 and 10-year-old boys who go to school, play sports, video games, and make noise. My son’s friends are such regulars the dogs no longer bark when they come by, no matter how much noise they make.

Earlier in the school year, we went through a couple of months where J was always having someone over. That cooled off around the holidays. I guess I am a fun dad. You learn tricks when you have a younger brother and several cousins under you. Like keeping a small water bottle in your pocket. You roughhouse for a bit, toss the football around, then, when no one is looking, douse yourself so it looks like you have really worked up a sweat. Without a doubt, some considerate kid will suggest you sit out, maybe go take a nap. You wearily make it through another couple of plays, and then you excuse yourself, get something cold out the fridge, and slink off to the sofa to read. With boys, it is easy. Feed them and listen for silence. As long as they are making noise, everything is OK.

Eventually, they come inside, and you feed them once again, lay down the rules about everyone showering that evening, AND using soap, before they call their folks and wish them good night. My house is open. If it is in the fridge, eat it. If it is in public, read it, or watch it. My place is pretty kid friendly, although it is small. My sleeping quarters are on the second floor, in the attic, so eventually, I make my way upstairs and allow them to use the main floor to do them. You keep an ear open…much valuable info can be gleaned from sleepovers that you never get with, “So, Scooter, how was school today?” overall, though, you give them enough space for you to monitor them without being all over them. After all, this is about them.

I’m lying in bed, reading, thinking about the nuttiness I got into as a kid, listening through the vents for any valuable intel and listening as they play video games, do karate on one another, and prove once again that for boys, you need wooden and plaster walls. Drywall and Tyvek will not do. After about an hour of hearing solid body thuds and a couple cries of, “Hey! We agreed no weapons, remember?” They calmed down and began talking.

“Termination on the table.”

Was that MY child? Let me inch closer to the vent.

“I don’t know…the food is pretty good…”

“I have another suggestion as well. I think our food, when it is prepared here, is compromised. We are awful sleepy whenever he cooks. You noticed that?”

“OK, so before we discuss termination, we should first agree that starting tonight, any food we eat has to come from outside sources.”

“I’m gonna miss that homemade chili…”

“He puts too many vegetables in it. That’s my point.”

“Roger. OK. Termination on the table?”

“He has lived out his usefulness. It is only a matter of time before he realizes we are training for a takeover and not just being a bunch of dumb kids.”

I heard several murmurs of assent.

“Perhaps not termination?”

“Look, aside from our own mission, he is becoming a nuisance. Also, intel is telling us this guy wasn’t always this guy. He could be dangerous.”

“Dunno. He’s got some good qualities.”

I know that voice. My son’s best friend. I make it out of this alive that kid gets a Corvette for his birthday. From J’s college money.

“I liked the babe, too…She was hot...”

“My point exactly. I think he screwed that up as well. We can’t keep affording these messes.”

“When do we take him out?”

“He snores pretty good. Wait until he’s asleep.”

“The dogs?”

“Canine Support has conferred with them. His recent work schedule and downgrade in the quality of food have put them on our side. On top of that, there’s a new leader of the canine contingent, and he is loyal to me.”

“Is this personal in any way Agent J?”

“He did make me read the other day, even though I explained school was out and I read in school. He banned me from reading comics for that exercise, too.”

More murmurs, this time of disapproval.

“The vegetables…the reading…recent mistakes he made that I felt will impact my future…dammit, can’t you men tell? We need a woman in this house. Pronto. We’re losing elements of civilized living every day.”

“Where will you be based?”

“Agent Granddad has everything in place. He holds a grudge, too. Apparently Rocket Scientist up there refused to sign a waiver exempting me from school so I could practice baseball full time.”

Sounds of shock.

“Agent D?”

“We approach the target, here, once we’re sure he is asleep…” I heard scratching on a white board. “We believe he may be armed, and he is a bit on edge of late. I suggest we send Agent J up there with the old stand by: child has a stomachache. He will come barreling down the steps. We will have elimination specialists on either side of the doorway. Disposal assures us we can make it look accidental.”

“He really shoulda let us win at football that time.”

“He didn’t have to quote every line to that movie while we were watching.”

“Does he really think we don’t know he drenches himself when he gets tired? That’s insulting to our intelligence.”

“He made me cancel my Meez account, and he has reestablished communication with the maternal unit, closing many of my loopholes. And we know his penchant for befriending teachers. He made me read.”

“He’s always done OK by me. His jokes are corny, but hey, he is a dad.”

“None of you have gripes like mine. He made me watch that stupid “Smokey and the bandit” five times, and he made me read. HE MADE ME READ. Do you hear me? SCHOOL WAS CLOSED BUT I WAS HOME READING.”

“Good thing he’s unaware these so called video games are military precision hand/eye coordination modules.”

“OK. We’ll set this up to happen at zero one hundred hours. Stand strong, team.”

“Wait…”

OK. That’s my child.

“Termination off the table. “

“What? Agent J, we’ve greenlit this thing.”

“Negative, Chief. I just checked my calendar. He just got paid.”

“And?”

“I haven’t received my allowance yet.”

More murmurs.

“This is a professional squad. We will do what is best for business.”

More murmurs of assent.

“Motion to make it policy, however, no more home cooked food.”

Some murmurs of disagreement.

“We’ll compromise: tonight he has to order a pizza.”

“Agreed. Agents in favor…OK, passed.”

“Guy doesn’t realize how lucky he is.”

“True. This reading thing has to stop, however. Turn on the training module. We’ll make the pizza announcement in a bit.”

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Hangin' With a Non Old Person

2010-01-25T20:16:00.000-08:00

I was going to write about a bunch of personal stuff that I am dealing with, but I had the kind of day that put something else on my mind.

My grandfather will be 82 at the end of this month.

He has been in and out of the hospital for about a year, but he’s a tough old bird. In fact, I am suspecting he will be back at home in the near future.

This is a man who was outside cutting greens for his supper back in September. He likes the greens he grows better than the ones from the store. The ones he grows are his.

When I visit with my granddad, we don’t go into talking about the weather or what ails him. We talk about life.

I ask questions and let him take the conversation wherever it suits him.

It’s probably evident in my writings that 2010 has not shaped up to be anything like I expected.

I have been accused of things and portrayed in a manner that has made me look and ask, “Really?”

I went to see my granddad today. After going through the usual talk about cars and whatnot, I asked him about his life here in Chicago.

He shared tales of being born in the Black Belt here, moving down south, and returning here with his young family.

“I know you going through something,” he said. He shook his head. “I’ve been homeless. Got burnt out of a place. Only had the clothes on my back.

“I didn’t want to buy a house. Especially WAY out in the middle of nowhere. But at the time, the apartments in the city for Black folk? Mainly slums. Plus, I had a family. People saw you had kids, you couldn’t live just anywhere. By the time I paid to rent some house that had been cut up into a bunch of little rat and roach infested apartments, well, it just didn’t make sense.

“So I bought that little house I have. I’d been on at Ford Motor Company for a while. Laid off when work got slow, model changes, or whatever. If I got laid off, I went down to Campbell’s soup and worked for them. Or the stockyards. Sometimes, I wouldn’t even asked what it paid. I found out that it paid every Friday when they gave out the pay envelopes.

“When we moved out here…well, I was finally doing well enough to buy a car. Bought a little car, left it with your grandmother to get the boys back and forth to school, make they runs and what not.

“Me? I built me a car. I went to the junkyard and got a piece of junk. Now, what I did, see, I bought a rebuilt motor at Montgomery Ward, they put that in there for me, and that’s what I drove to work…

“It’s not easy. When you get in a hole, you just can’t jump right out. You gotta dig…but where there is a will, there is a way…I knew guys got laid off, they’d say, ‘I ain’t got no job…’if I had to, I’d pick up temporary work laying grass on the medians of the expressways. Whoo! That was lousy work. Figured that was the closest I came to slavery…

“So without you telling me, I know you are going through some things. I have been there. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t always the nicest person, and I didn’t always have any money. And sometimes, people said things about me that weren’t true. People sometimes would help and then throw it at me that they did. You just have to deal with that. I had a mission, though: I wasn’t never going to be poor again. I wasn’t going to steal anything, and I was gonna be there for my kids…those boys had the luxury of having me there, although I guess we all had a lot to learn as parents.

“My point, though, David, is that if you tough it out, and I know you can…look, you got opportunities I never had…you got an education I could never dream of…them teachers taught me? Wouldn’t be fit to teach school now. All 8 grades in one room. No books…Black folk had it bad down south then. Your daddy and Uncle junior? Their first schooling was a Catholic school. I paid, figuring they were going to get the foundation right…I never did…

“And contrary to what they sayin…this ain’t no Great Depression…I was there. Noooooo. This ain’t it by a long shot.”

I sat and mulled that over for a while.

“I don’t have your book learning…but I know you…I know your daddy…the three of us are real different, but real alike, too. Stubborn. Proud. Sometimes a bit quick to anger…we let things stay bottled up too long, and that ain’t healthy. Not a one of us is lazy…We don’t like people lying on us, and we work to play by our own rules. Sometimes, when you’re that way, you gotta go through some rough patches. They don’t last forever…in fact, I suspect they’d last longer if we just went along to get along.

“You be OK. Me, I’m ready to leave this place. Get home and get me some real food. How they expect me to live on this food? I’m just choking it down to get my strength back. I got here, I couldn’t walk. I’m moving, slowly, on my own again. Gonna be behind the wheel of my Lincoln in no time. Places like this for old people. “

I adjusted my glasses.

“I can tell you this though. Two things, one, you live long enough, you’ll be alone.”

“And?”

“Two? It always works out in the end.”

My Talk with God

2010-01-07T06:03:00.000-08:00

I recently asked God to put me on a planet by myself.

God did not get back to me right away. She was busy saving Lovie Smith’s job. She is, after all, a God of priorities.

I was half asleep; listening to my Cocker Spaniel, Bingo, stalk about my bedroom, tags jangling. Bingo suddenly stopped, stood stark still, and sat down.

“Boy,” I was thinking as I was drifting off, “I wish I could make him do that trick.”

“James David?”

“Yes?”

“James David?”

“Uh huh…”

“C’mon, Love. Talk to me.”

I sat up. Bingo was like a statue. Judy Pace was in my bedroom.

“Am I in Cotton Come to Harlem?”

A smile. “No, Baby. I’m here. I had to stop off by the Bears’ facility first. You asked me to do something for you.”

“You are…you can’t be. When I was a child, I thought you looked like my dad in his Marine uniform!”

“I am what I need to be. Little boys like me to look like their heroes.”

“And now?”

“This is how you need to see me for now. You read “The Shack.” What’s wrong?”

“You’re GOD. You know.”

“No, Love. You tell me. I know, but I need to help you understand.”

I did.

“You left out the end, all of the bad things mutually communicated out of pain and misunderstanding. But that’s fine,” she grinned. “Where do you all learn such language? And why do you use the very things you love about someone to try and hurt them? And you know what? Everyone should feel bad when they have hurt someone who loved them, but you all better remember this: there is blame across the board, and people need to stop thinking that what they do for someone excuses bad behavior.
“Sometimes, Love,” she continued, smoothing her skirt, “pain is really a learning tool. When things break down, it is human nature to focus on your pain, and point the blame at that, which caused it.

“Then you beat yourselves up, analyzing where you went wrong. Sometimes this introspection causes you to identify with the person we once felt wronged you. You know what? For all of the logic you people apply to trying to understand these things immediately following, you are almost always dead wrong. Things are often said when someone feels wronged that may be meant, but usually have the intent of making the other person feel as badly as you do.

“Pain takes on different guises. For you? As an intelligent man, pain for you is not understanding. Not being able to accurately predict. But baby, that’s not your job. Only I see around corners. You my dear, see shadows that usually are not there.
“People’s fears usually cause worse problems than their addictions. Some people are addicted to fear. I know you will deal with that.”

I hung my head.

“Someone,” she said, grinning, looking aorund, “may have issues with dishonesty. A lot of smart people do. Someone who believes they are always open to being misled will find conspiracies in a bowl of Rice Krispies. Being lied to a lot makes you feel like you’re stupid, and your reactions have less to do with others than they do your shame at having what you think is poor judgment.

“Now, I created you in my image…one complementary to my own.”

“So, I’m gonna look like Calvin Lockhart or Curt Flood?”

She grinned. “No silly. I made you to be James David. That’s who you are. Flaws and all. I made you loyal, and honorable, and smart and some other things. I also allowed you to choose your experiences, and they made you cynical, suspiscious and someone who has a hard time trusting.

“But most of all? I am proudest that you choose, regardless of your experiences, to love your fellow humans, even though your trust for them is fleeting, at best, and even though you often misread even the slightest inconsistency as a worldwide conspiracy.

“I know what’s bothering you, Baby. One of the most rewarding feelings is when you accept someone for who they are. The greatest human need is to be appreciated, and the foundation of appreciation is acceptance. When someone tells and shows you they just dig you for you, it encourages you to put your best foot forward. When you accept people where they are, you walk a mile on streets of gold.

“You are still human, however. Only I am into total acceptance. You all still have those issues that make you sometimes irrational. Some of you still see those shadows around the corner. Others are still defensive whenever anyone questions them or their motives. Your insecurities and fears, while you must overcome them, are real and usually rooted in something that hurt us deeply, and the things about yourselves which you do not like...

“Perfectly normal and rational things…”

“Like change?”

“Yes,” she clapped her hands happily. “Like, oh, I dunno, like changes to an existing, well supported plan.” She cast me a sideways look and another grin. “These changes may honestly address legitimate concerns. And Baby they may have very little to do with you. Logistics planning isn’t everyone’s strong suit, and sometimes, the vision gets ahead of the capabilities, or the calendar. Now, such a change may seem to have hidden agendas for someone who has had their trust abused. And to a person suggesting that change, their own issues may keep them from clearly explaining why that change is so critical for them to feel safe. They may say a lot of things that make sense to THEM, but fail to say it in a manner understandable to YOU. If none of that is initially expressed, though, it may make someone who has issues with trust and honesty a bit cagey. What’s going on? We all react differently. A defensive person may get cagey about being questioned for details. ‘Why am I being asked this? Why am I getting this type of feedback? Why do I have to give reasons? Isn’t my asking for this change enough? You have accepted me openly and without question so far…why can’t you accept this is not something I am doing to hurt you, but something I need, that I cannot really articulate?

“I allowed you to be enlightened to some things earlier this week. I put some people in your path after everything to walk you through the paces, to make you better understand. To make you see that what was being proposed made perfect sense if you had all of the pieces to the puzzle, some of which were not provided, some of which your fear caused you to ignore. I am sorry you are hurting, Love, but you could not see the forest for the trees because you were blinded by your own fear. Once I had you out of the forest, then I could send people to you to explain why it was changing.”

“Like angels?”

God laughed deeply, richly. “Honey, I have a finite amount of angels, and they are working overtime. You see I’m personally doing calls to save coaching jobs, of all things. Sometimes I have to contract angel work out to everyday people. They have never failed. You’ve done some yourself. You just didn’t know what you were doing at the time.

“So, now that I see these things everything is OK?”

God smiled sadly. “I don’t work like that, James David. I don’t guarantee you all’s behavior. Never have. Baby it will be what it will be and whatever it is, I promise you, it will be good for you. What I can advise you, though, is to stop over thinking things. Stop feeling as if you failed a situation because you were so accepting and when it got tough, you let your fear get the best of you and you stopped accepting. This was really new for you, and there’s a lot of the story that you will never know. You didn’t fail. You didn’t lose that growth you made of acceptance through love. You made a mistake. You did not understand because you let fears built in you by others from the past affect you now. It is what you all do, because I allow you to choose. What I can promise you, if you never knew, is I always do right by you in the end. Remember: You all are responsible for what happens to you. But usually, that responsibility is less than you imagine it is.”

God stood.

“You keep hanging in there. You are almost through. If you could see what I see, you’d be charging towards the future harder than a rabid bull. You have been low, and you stuck it out. Life is already better. It’s just waiting on you to get there.”

She gave me a hug and I broke down like a baby.

“I have to go now. I am denying your request to put you on your own planet because while you can’t see it yet, I so need you here. I have another call to answer on this same issue, believe it or not. No guarantees, Baby, but that I love you. You’re my smart little man, though. You know that’s enough.”

“God?”

“Yes, Dear?”

“You’re not always a woman, are you?”

“Gender is a limitation. I am limitless.”

“And Satan?”

She shook her head ruefully.

“THAT knucklehead. He was a smart one, too. The smartest. I love him, but THAT was one request for isolation that I happily granted…no, Baby,” she shook her head, “that joker is DEFINITELY a MAN!”

Flight Gear and Dressing Like a Grown Man

2010-01-05T17:13:00.000-08:00

OK, this has to stop.

I can’t fly on airlines anymore.

Do you remember where you were on 9/11? I do. It was a damned tragedy, first in terms of the loss of human life. There were other ramifications, though.

The changes in travel over the next few weeks were drastic, to say the least. A former corporate traveler, I knew things were going to get a lot tighter, to say the least. Luckily, I switched careers at that time.

That career move and those damned terrorists turned me into a slob.

I began my career with a British firm. Casual dress was considered a jacket and tie with khakis as opposed to a suit, and the former outfit was one you’d better wear on Friday only. Upper management was mainly in their early 30s, from Britain, and they believed (and often repeated) that in order to be successful, you had to dress successful. I learned the difference between a seven fold tie and the knockoffs at Filene’s basement, and came to appreciate, especially as a big guy, British tailoring.

Terrorists ruined that. My granny used to fly a lot in the 1950s and 60s, and she always told me stories about how well dressed people were when they flew. Women wore hats and gloves and men wore suits and ties. Part of this, I guess, was the fact that not just anyone could afford to fly back in the day, but I enjoyed walking through airports in smart suits and nice ties, lugging my Zero Halliburton aluminum briefcase, really thinking I was somebody. In my mid twenties, I was far from the youngest business traveler in the airport. Man, we were gonna take over.

Then the terrorists hit, and shortly thereafter, some nut job tried to detonate a bomb in his shoe while on a flight. No more Coach lace ups. Americans had been practicing the art of bummy for a minute, and I had prided myself on being a notch or two above. Now I, too was wearing flip flops to the airport, regardless of weather, like so many other sloppy gen-exers. Ugh.

My next gig had a decidedly less strict dress code. Decidedly. This became obvious when I showed up for the interview in a nice black wool suit and was told to “next time, wear shorts.” OK. It was downhill from there.

When I went to work at an alternative school shortly thereafter, I was still wearing my Fred Sanford airplane “easy check me I’m bomb free” gear. I wore a nice gray worsted to my interview, and a black cashmere blazer and some gray flannels to my follow up. It was then I was told to wear bummy clothes to work, and the student population sometimes got quite rough. Man. I must have worn the same warm up jacket seven months in a row. I later replaced it with two golf pullovers that got slightly more rotation with some dad jeans and running shoes. Ugh.

When I started working part time at my hotel, I was issued a cheesy pullover and told to pair it with khakis. This wasn’t much of an upgrade from previous work clothes, which were so bad that when I’d flown, TSA agents never mistook me for a terrorist, just some homeless guy who wandered in to get warm. They were so ugly they weren’t even comfortable. I overheard one baggage clerk comment the airlines needed to implement a guest dress code. I shuffled off, my flip flops sticking to my sweaty feet, my jeans frayed at the bottom, my shirttails hanging out. I carried a book bag that when I first brought it home, three year old J thought I’d bought it for him.

I told my then manager that I wanted to wear a tie to work. She hit the roof and told me to just be happy working the desk and that only management could work out of uniform. Oooo-kay. I resolved then I would be a manager. I could care less about the work. I just wanted to wear a doggone tie. That polo was quite unflattering.
Plus, I noticed that when I wore a jacket, slacks and a dress shirt, man. I got more respect. Them Brits were right. I walked into a bank once in my Gen X gear with ten thousand dollars in my pocket and was wrestled to the floor before I made my deposit. Two weeks later I walked in dressed like a grown ass man and the bank president walked over, shook my hand, gave me a cigar and wouldn’t let me leave until I promised to take some of the new hundred dollar bills they just unpacked.
I went to my son’s school to pick up report cards and they sent me to the room where interviewees for the open principal position were cooling their heels.

I made the mistake of coming to a parent meeting for his ball team and got instantly nominated to head up the fundraising committee. Gotta take the good with the bad, I guess.

I walked into the federal building carrying my Zero and was grabbed by two guys similarly attired who threw me into a room and wanted to know if I had the new strategy to find the weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. They were gonna let me help water board some schmuck in the next room, but I told them I had to meet M and the Prime Minister later that day. They agreed to give me a rain check and wished me well.

My ex wife passed me in a store while shopping with her guy friend. She left him in electronics and came back to introduce herself before she realized it was me. She ran her hands down my lapel slowly and asked what I was doing later. I told her to meet me. Come alone, I said. I gave her the address to the room in the Federal Building where my new friends were having their fun.

This old new fun has its dampers, though. I prefer to wear black every day. Cashmere or wool sport coat, black slacks, dress shirt. People on Chicago’s Southside see me outside in front of buildings and come, hand wringing, telling me about insurance woes and burial plots. Once I was leaning on a building casually and a long caddy pulled up slowly, windows down. I hit the ground before the first burble from the machine gun.

I stand outside of Catholic churches and old folks walk up and say, “Bless me father for I have sinned…” Middle aged Black women outside of the same pinch my cheeks and say “We gon’ get some CHANGES now.”

The only problem is that I cannot leave the continent. Airline travel, thanks to militias, terrorists and the TSA, necessitates that I dress like an overgrown newsboy in order to travel, and I won’t do that.

So until I can fly on a private jet (taking donations, ya’ll), and a former inamorata has made it clear I am so broke I am barely above homelessness and other destitution, I’m screwed.

I need some suggestions here, ya’ll. I’m trying to go back overseas, but I cannot revert back to my old, sloppy ways.

Anybody got a Gulfstream I can borrow? It’s hard marketing a book just in the continental US. Hell. Not just that, I’m ready to get out and start living again, and the US, Canada and Mexico ain't gonna get it.

Clarity

2010-01-04T16:14:00.000-08:00

The New Year brings moments of clarity.

As a holiday, I enjoy others. The first of January, however, often puts me in a contemplative mood. The dreaded Christmas season is over and there is a chance to start over. Those around me know this, and seek me out for advice on the first day of a new year more than ever. I think I am going to start charging.

Last New Year’s Day, a friend and I sat down over a drink, and he shared some issues he was experiencing in his relationship. Men have relationship issues, too. We just haven’t figured out how to make a cottage industry of it. Anyway, he was engaged to a nice woman who, immediately before the holidays, started suggesting plans that were one hundred and eighty degrees opposite of what they had been. Suddenly, she was curious about how well they knew each other. She basically wanted to scrap the relationship they had built and refashion it according to some template that was more acceptable, a la relationship books or input from other people in her life, many of whom reminded her that she had little success with long term relationships.

This confused the hell out of him. Like many men, he instantly thought some game was being run. You go from something that both parties agree is working well to someone demanding drastic changes that seem designed to push the other party away. He tried to end the relationship, and she raised hell.

“Just because someone doesn’t want you to leave, that does not mean they want to stay,” I reminded him. "Sounds like a long term relationship isn't her thing. She's cool and all, but doesn't sound like she possesses what it takes to really move beyond that period where you're just gung ho about someone. She does not have, it appears, those traits you need to work through something, in and out, up and down, over the long haul with the person she is supposed to love. She may not have the fundamentals to work love beyond infatuation and comfortability.

"People cannot give you what they do not have."

I understand this too well. While married, my ex wife had registered and was actively meeting men on the dating websites, eventually beginning a full blown relationship with one. I confronted her with a mountain of evidence (including profile stating she had no husband, kids, etc.). I then asked her, plainly, if she wanted to stay married. Her answer was an emphatic yes. She moved out less than a week later, and took up openly with her new guy. Even when I filed for divorce, I instructed my attorney to not have her served but to let her pick up the papers to avoid confusion. She neglected to do so, and when she received the papers, called me, angry, demanding how I could seek to dissolve our marriage.

The moral to this story? Sometimes what people say and what they really mean are in no way, shape or form related. Real talk.

After being hit with more and more changes that really redefined the character of their relationship, my friend ended their relationship. “She keeps saying maybe we don’t know each other well enough and these knew things will ensure we are ready. That made no sense to me, as we had really gotten to know each other well already and under the old way, the way we set up, we were learning more end enjoying what we were learning about each other,” he lamented. “Now she all of a sudden wants to redo what we’ve already done, and some of the changes make me feel like I’m being punished.”

Seven months later she was married to someone else.

Another friend was in a long distance relationship with a man she was going to marry. She and I met yesterday, and he shared how his person wanted to change their plans as well. Originally, his plan was to move to her area to be closer to her family and marry her. They were going to blend their families. Suddenly, he suggested putting everything off almost two years, saying that when he arrived, he really wanted to live on her own and “have a place I can retreat back to,” before they married. My friend was angry. In any other situation where a man approaches a woman with that same logic, he is rightfully fifty types of trifling and the wedding is in question, if not in jeopardy. He told her that if she loved him, she would see the benefit in doing it this way. She was confused. She had suggested something similar at the outset of their engagement, and he spent months shouting her down and convincing her otherwise. Now this?

“I love you,” he says. “This is going to make sure we work out well.”

“Something ain’t right. Don’t confuse “I love you” with “I don’t want you to leave…at this time,” I said.

She agreed.

Something about the New Year makes people really look at the bullshit surrounding their situations and say, “Damn.” I have more conversations with folk who, once the hullabaloo of the holidays is over, realize they want something else. What they forget is the same clarity that has befallen them has also befallen their person. It behooves people to have honest conversations with one another and at least part without their former person adding “deceptive” to the list of negative adjectives they use to describe their former flame.

Clarity extends to other areas of life as well. Another friend made it clear the changing of the annual calendar presented her with an epiphany regarding her job. Throughout the year, she had brushed off, or hadn’t noticed, how she was doing a job head and shoulders above everyone else. As is the case in such situations, the bosses came to expect that 150% from her while allowing others to skate by with the marginal input. Her requests for a raise were met with the usual hemming and hawing about the company’s numbers, which her overachieving directly impacted. She decided yesterday she was leaving. Not only do I wish her good luck, her former company has my deepest sympathies.

Yesterday, I listed several concessions that I believed I needed to accept in order to have a more fulfilling New Year. Some of you wrote me, concerned. What’s wrong? Nothing. As I grow a bit older, though, I refuse to be jaded, but I have learned the value of having my eyes as wide open in April as I do in January, is all.

How much further would you be, and at how much more peace would you have, if you stay as clearheaded for the next six months as you are today?

Think about it. Be decisive, but don’t be drastic. Be fair, but don’t be no fool.
Ya’ll know betta.

New Year's Concessions

2010-01-04T16:11:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

I have been funny. I have dealt with the holidays and every other type of merriment and celebration and festivity. It is 2010. Let's deal with real.

Last year, I made one resolution: to live the Serenity prayer. I am proud to say I succeeded in regards to that resolve. For most of last year, my decisions were influenced and my worries assuaged by applying those basic precepts to almost every tenet of my life. I am not perfect, but that one decision strengthened my resolve, and my faith in ways I never imagined.

This year is a little different. Every year, we resolve to do something different, to change something about ourselves that we have accepted, but realize is not in our best interests.

I am done with resolutions.

This year, I am working on concessions. Just accepting some things as they are, losing scenarios or not. It is somewhat tied to last year's resolution. Sometimes, you have to accept some things are as they are.

1. You have to concede that people usually are only interested in meeting their own needs. Now, this is regardless of conversation that occurs when they are on the outs with life. Once they are feeling better, however, you just have to accept it is usually all about them, and govern accordingly.

2. You have to concede that for some people, being right is usually more important than being fair, or even being happy.

3. You have to concede that life is messy, and as a result, the folk living it are not usually the neatest, either.

4. You have to concede that money is not everything, but you better have some because it may be all upon this earth upon which you can depend.

5. You have to concede the fact that all of the sacrifice and hard work in the world still may not get you what you want.

6. You have to concede that children do not always understand and you may wind up playing the fall guy. Permanently.

7. You have to concede that even well meaning people lie.

8. You have to concede that if you have a reputation for being stable, there are folk who will depend on you to remain so even as they throw the instability and madness of their world at you.

9. You have to concede some things are just a bad idea, and when you know this, let them ride. Cool peace always feels better in the long run than hot drama.

10. You have to concede sometimes, Terrence Trent D'Arby's 'Right Thing, Wrong Way" is just as much lesson as it is comedy.

11. You have to concede that in this life, some folk only know two things: dog, or be dogged. They are comfortable with nothing else, and it behooves you to keep your distance.

12. You have to concede that sometimes, it just isn't worth it.

13. You have to concede taht past is protocol and what happened before you can happen to you.

14. You have to concede that you play a role in your own bullshit.

Still My Story...and I'm Sticking to It

2010-01-03T03:01:00.001-08:00

Usually I’m smooth, debonair and quite the ladies man.

Well, not really.

To quote one of my favorite authors, “Everybody wanna be action/adventure. Cain’t be. Somebody gotta be romantic comedy.”

It was supposed to be my day off. A friend really didn’t want to work Saturday night alone. Since I was single, and with no life, and J ditched me for his friends, I decided to put seven years of college to good use working the front desk. As I have written previously, I had learned to spot certain types of guests just by looking at their registration cards. Scanning the forty or so arrivals that night, one stood out.

“Hey, Janelle, you see this card?”

“Uh huh.”

“She’s gonna be trouble. I bet she’s a pool partier.”

OK, there’s a bit of stereotyping here, but experience does that to you. Unpronounceable first name, obviously American surname, room paid in advance. Saturday night only. I was waiting on this chick, just so I could tell her no parties were allowed. Captain Meanie. That’s me.

Janelle and I spent the next few hours checking in guests and laughing at ourselves when a short, bespectacled young woman walked in, a small child in tow. She didn’t look like my typical Saturday night guest. I almost felt a bit sorry for her. During the week, we primarily hosted corporate types. Some of our Saturday night crowd was a bit…earthier. She didn’t look earthy. Honestly, she looked a bit too nice to stay with us. I almost sent her across the street. I was tired of checking people in, but this woman was cute, so I jumped to give Janelle a break. I mean, co- workers should share the load, you know? If the guest had been a guy I would have lectured Jan on work ethic.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m checking in.”

“Sure, what’s your name, Miss?”

She told me. My blood went cold. It was the party lady.They are usually not this cute, I thought.

“Um…”

“Is there a problem?” Her eyes flashed behind her glasses, and she went from sweet and vulnerable to fierce pretty quickly. Suddenly, I felt like the help.

“No, ma’am. I’m just trying to pronounce your name.”

“Rak-kie-yuh.”

“Oh.”

My brain was coming up with all kinds of smooth lines. My mouth was open in an “O”. Finally, I handed her keys and blurted out, “Why yo’ parents give you that African name? Know you from Cleveland!”

Her eyes flashed again. “My name is Muslim. My parents are Muslim.”

Smooth move, Ex-lax. What you gonna do next? Talk about her momma?

“Oh…ah…”

“I’m not Muslim anymore. That’s my married last name on the card.”

Oh.

“I’m not married anymore.”

Oh. Me neither. Lot of that going around.

“Sign here and here, ma’am…”

“What am I signing?”

“Registration card. Just says you won’t set my hotel on fire…have any parties…you know?”

“Please. I’m in town to see my momma.”

“So your mom doesn’t have any wild parties…” Dude, you just talked about her momma.

“My mom is an English professor at the university.”

The little girl glared at me. I wanted to glare back. I’ll fight a little kid, and have on several occasions. I’ve even won a few.

Mom looked tired, though. Suddenly, I was Conrad Hilton.

“Well, ma’am, if there’s anything my staff or I can do to make your stay more pleasant, you let me know…little girl, would you like a cookie?”

Always solid sense to brown nose the kid. I dumped a woman once that I felt acted funny towards my son.

“She doesn’t really like cookies.”

Damn. Guess I’m not batting a thousand.

After she left the desk, Janelle showered me with mock adulation.

“YOUR hotel? YOUR staff? Man, I can’t wait to see when they show up, Mr. Big Shot. And what was all that talk about letting her know the no party policy, Mr. Hotel Police?”

“Um, yeah.”

I was divorced. Not “baby-you-know-I’m-married-but-we-separated”. Divorced. Courts, judge and all. I had that post divorce rebound relationship; though I hadn’t figured it was a rebound relationship. She did, though, so that ended. Badly. I didn’t have anyone, and wasn’t looking. I was at a point where I’d been 10 years ago, living alone and loving it. J and three dogs don’t quite constitute alone, but he does spend three days a week with his mom, and dogs don’t talk. At least, mine don’t. I was enjoying being back in school and just doing me. I am the first to admit I love me some Black women, and the last to understand why I have such crazy luck with them. I used to joke with a friend that I was good for about six months, and then it was best that I get in the wind.

Besides, forget her. She treated me like the help.

Well, I did make fun of her name. And talk about her momma. Kinda.

Janelle left for the evening. I agreed to work late. I didn’t have anywhere to be, and honestly, I was hoping to see that guest again. I wanted to apologize for being such an jerk.

She flounced in that evening and I tried to appear cool. Like “Shaft Works the Intercontinental”.

“Hi!”

“Oh, hey,” I was going to pretend to be smooth, but that hadn’t worked so far. Guess I gotta wing it being goofy ol’ me. “Please Lord,” I prayed, “don’t let me do anything extremely nerdy like start quoting books. In fact, let’s pretend I’m illiterate, just for this night, and I’ll go to church for the next month and only pray for other people and orphaned children and not for Lotto numbers. And please don’t let me tell her I am a writer. Let me be something more exciting, like a professional Black bungee jumper or bounty hunter.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Why do people do the things they do?”

My divorce taught me the most valuable skill I have learned to date. I listened to every word and let her talk. About everything. About anything. I didn’t offer any judgment, and reserved feedback until she was finished. It took a while. She could talk. I mean, she could REALLY talk.

Let me not lie. Heck. She was talking to ME. All that mattered.

She could listen, as well, and was willing to hear logic and counter it with more sensible logic when appropriate. I'm kinda used to being right, but I'm quick to enjoy the company of someone smarter. Espescially if she's pretty. And nice. And paying attention to me.

She must have spent over two hours at the desk that night. I didn’t mind. I actually was bummed out about going home.

I came in the next day at about 3pm. By 4 we were talking again. About everything. I had spent a good part of the night convincing myself that trying to make a connection did not mean I was a stalker. It wasn’t easy. I knew that she lived in Michigan. I knew she came her to visit her mother. I knew a lot about her marriage. I knew that at the very least, she found me to be good, free therapy. I didn’t know how to begin to ask if I could see her again.

Not just that. I did much better listening to her than talking. How could I tell her, “Hey, I’d like to see you when you come back to town?” without sounding like an ass? The relays between my brain and mouth were on strike that weekend, that much was sure.

I'm not good at much else, so I decided to sit down and write her. This would give me the option of editing anything stupid I might say. I wrote honestly, telling her it had been a pleasure meeting her that weekend. I also told her not to let the past keep her from being happy. "Living well, " I concluded, "Is the best revenge. Live well long enough and revenge doesn't matter."

Sunday came and Janelle decided she had jokes. “Your girlfriend is in the pool with her mom and daughter.”

This was her last day in house. I did want to see her and, I don’t know. I also had the surprisingly strange male habit of enjoying half naked women.

A young man suddenly stopped by the desk and asked for pool towels. Some of ya'll don't believe in God. That's cool. I do. God pities babies and fools, and I'm 37. This was the Almighty's way of giving me a shot, since I'd blown so many so far.

I dutifully acted like an overgrown cabana boy, laying out towels.

“Hi!”

“Oh, Hey, you. Enjoying the pool?”

“I’m not in it any more…”

I can see that.

“How is your day going?”

Don’t ogle her bod. DON’T. You didn't get this opportunity to undress her with your eyeballs, Buddy.

“Good. Last day?”

“I just decided that I may stay at my mom’s for another week.”

“Oh, OK. Let me get these towels out. I’m off at 7 and Lord knows I am looking forward to getting home.”

“Bye!”

I was mad at myself. (1) I didn’t ask to see her again and (2) I didn’t even ogle her bod. Loser.

As I was packing up my stuff, she walked up to the desk.

“Uh, hi.”

“Hey…I know you’re leaving at seven. I just wanted to stop by and say ‘bye.’”

“That’s nice of you. Thanks.”

“And thanks for talking to me. Well, for listening.” She giggled. “My mom and my daughter say I’ve spent a whole lot of time at the front desk this weekend.”

“Sure. Um…”

“Yes?”

“If you’re…well, when are you coming back? I could really get you a good price on your room…well...”

“Yes?”

“Look. I wrote you something. It’s in this envelope. I’m happy you stopped by. Here’s my business card…OK. Look. It was a real pleasure meeting you. I gave you a hard time, and I'm sorry. I've enjoyed talking to you this weekend, adn I'd like the opportunity to talk to you again.”

"I'd like that. I didn't want you to leave without me getting a chance to say goodbye, and thanks so much. Don't worry about that other stuff. Sometimes, I take things too seriously. I really appreciate you listening. Here's my number."

Hmmm...She had that ready pretty quickly. She scanned my card. Suddenly I felt like a dork.

“JD? I thought everyone called you Mac.”

“Long story.”

“I don’t like Mac. What’s JD stand for?”

“James David.”

“I like that better. I’ma call you that from now on.”

And she has.

Yosef and Yami: A Love Story

2009-12-19T11:36:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in Palestine, a long time ago, a young Black man named Yosef opened his news papyrus and scanned the day’s headlines. The usual. Clubbing over by the Sea of Galilee. Authorities still looking for info. Some donkeys boosted halfway to Samaria. Cops won’t even touch that one. Damned Samaritans. Bringing the property values down wherever they lay their damn heads. Ghetto Hebrews.

Something Yosef spied made him do a double take.

“Miriyam?” He called to his wife. “Yami? Baby, read this.”

A dark, beautiful woman entered the room, obviously pregnant, and eyed her husband warily. Yosef let the news bother him too much, and the baby was kicking. Plus, he was a bit paranoid, and this morning, she wasn’t up for it. She had discovered yet ANOTHER stretch mark, and for all his talk of helping with the household stuff, lately, Yosef got in too late from his carpentry shop to do anything but flop into a chair and yak about the day’s goings on.

“What’s up, Yo?”

“Baby, that daggone Herod is on garbage. This sell-out so-sold Hebrew is…woteva. Look, first, he sold the donkey parking meters to that outfit outta Egypt for peanuts. This is on top of the Hired Cart scandal. You know, where we were supposedly doing set asides for all of these female and non Roman companies? The ones where the Romans actually had their wives fronting the companies?”

Miriyam nodded warily and sat down.

“Baby,” she started, “Perhaps…I mean, your shop is doing well. If you spent less time worried about these politics, then, maybe we could save up enough of a down for a nice place, instead of renting this one…”

Yosef prattled on as if she hadn’t spoken.

“Now this fool hints he wants everyone to bring their first born son to the capital to get some kind of immune…imomnin…”

“Immunization, Honey.”

“Yeah. Dat. Like I’ma risk my boy!”

“Yo, we don’t even know it’s gonna be a boy.”

“I KNOW it’s a boy…”

Better to leave it alone, Miriyam thought. Yosef wasn’t much around the house, but he was very excited about this baby. Excited, and excitable. Recently, Moishe and Shmuel Avram were joking around with Yosef about how the baby probably wasn’t his. After all, Miriyam HAD become pregnant before their marriage, but these things happen. Anyway, Yosef blew a gasket, and began pummeling Shmuel. Moishe jumped in and soon, he too was getting the worst of it. Yosef David was no punk. He was from a hard tribe, worked in a hard field and beat ass on the regular. In the village, the term “Avram” became a verb thereafter, and Moishe and Shmuel both went on soft food diets.

“We movin’…”

“We just got here…”

‘Forget the census. They never count Black people correctly, anyway. We leavin’ before Herod can get his hands on my baby…”

Miriyam sucked her teeth. HIS baby? Was his chest sore, his abdomen tight, did he have to pee all the daggone time? Plus, politics took time to put words into action. What was the rush?

“Yosef,” she started gently, as if explaining to a child that genies were not real. A child who had genie toys scattered about his room. And one in each fist. “Your business is really starting to do well. Why, if it weren’t for your political leanings and the money you keep sending your mother…”

“Yami, stifle…”

“We could get a nice place, with a yard for the baby…”

“Baby ain’t gonna need no yard we let Herod stick ‘im. “ Yosef was bustling around the house. “We up. Whatever I can raise by Sabbath.”

“I think our future…”

“Look, I know you a woman, and you wise and all, but if it’s one thing men get, it’s safety. This ain’t about no conversation. This is about my family’s safety. Now, if you gon’ ride all the way to Egypt with your mouth poked out, lemme know now. Regardless, you goin’!”

“Egypt?”

“My cousin Mordecai Yehia lives there. Got a buncha hair shops. He owes me some favors. Plus, we can get ya hair done for free. You know Egyptians can do some Black hair.”

“But why Egypt Yosef? And wait…I know you not talkin’ bout my head…”

“Cause in Egypt the only way you can tell an Egyptian from a Hebrew is if he opens his mouth. We all look alike to them.”

The day after Sabbath, true to his word, Yosef packed his wife and a few belongings in a new sturdy wagon with extra strong suspension. His beloved Yami made it clear that if she had to ride to Egypt and feel every bump, Herod would seem like a day at the oasis compared to her.

The weather was nice that time of year. Yosef thanked the Almighty his baby wasn’t due sometime like December. The winters in his area were so ugly; they would have made outdoor travel miserable.

The trip got off to a rocky start. Yosef, to amuse himself, kept singing while Miriyam was trying to sleep. It was worse than when the donkeys broke wind.

“Could you cut that out,” she grated.

“What?”

“That stupid singing!”

“It passes the time!”

“It’s worse than when the mules pass gas! And what stupid lyrics! ‘Ease on down, ease on down the rooooooad.’ How nonsensical!”

Yosef muttered something to himself, remained quiet for a minute, and then resumed his singing, just softer.

Midway through their journey, they came across three men travelling together, dressed in finery.

“Please allow us to ride with you,” one man implored. A good Hebrew believes in being hospitable, so Yosef thought about it. A good Hebrew also ain’t no punk. He was about to slap the reins after muttering something polite when Miriyam, fully awake and annoyed, invited them in. If Yosef could do that stupid singing…

The trip was slowed down by the three extra bodies in the wagon. Two of the men played Uno with Miriyam, and the third kept telling Yosef he needed to slow down. On a mission, Yosef ignored them. If one of these fools cracked wise, however…well, ass beatings occurred in Egypt, as well, and he had his staff with him to even things out.

The ride was uneventful until they got to the Egyptian border.

“Guess we’ll catch ya’ll around!” Joseph said, pulling out his papers for the border guard to read.

“Oh, we’ll be OK. We like riding with ya’ll.”

“I mean…what about the border patrol? Egypt been buggin’ lately, because so many Babylonians keep crossing the borders. Honestly? Egypt’s carpentry industry is FULL of them. They hang outside of Pyramid Depot and underbid all us union guys…”

The wagon pulled up to the patrol hutch. A mean looking Egyptian guard in dark glasses and a cheap cloak scowled and barked, “Your papers!”

One of the three guys in back leaned forward, looked at the guard and said, “You don’t need to see his papers.”

The guard mean mugged and said, “I don’t need to see your papers.”

“He can go about his business…”

“You can go about your business.”

“Move along.”

The guard motioned harshly. “Move along!”

Dumbfounded, Yosef hustled the donkeys through the checkpoint and picked up speed. Just outside of Cairo, the three visitors departed, for a quick drink in a small bar bustling with music. Yosef went to his cousin Mordecai’s shop. Mordecai reminded him of one of their three visitors.

“Chile, “ Mordecai said, “So GOOD to see you! You look JUST like yo’ Daddy. Look, I know I owe you, cousin, but now is a bad time. You probly wanna go back to Judea, chile, this gubment is TRIPPIN’! Let me give you some money, and let me see that pretty wife you got. Miriyam always was such a sweet girl! Is it gonna be a boy?”

“Yep!”

“Name it after me!”

“I don’t know. Boys in our family named ‘Mordecai’ ain’t too manly.”

“True dat. Let me get you this money and get you to safety. Love you cousin! Ya’ll come back and see me before dat baby turn two! OK? That’s gonna be real important. I must bless him BEFORE he turn two!”

Yosef hugged his cousin, got back in the wagon. Miriyam got right angry when he said they were going BACK. She dealt with it, though. When Yosef went to check for their three guests, they were gone.

Before they could reach Nazareth, the pains started. Yosef pulled into Bethlehem and tried to get a room for his wife before he hunted up a midwife to deliver the baby. The North Star was shining brightly, and it guided Yosef to the middle of town. Miriyam was starting to moan from the contractions, and Yosef, like any sane man, wanted to first get her comfortable, and then get as far away from her as possible until his bundle of joy arrived.

“Yo?”

“Yeah Baby?”

“You will NEVER touch me again. EVER. If you even LOOK at me…”

“Yes, Yami.”

Yosef hit every hotel in town, only to be told there were no vacancies. At the last one, he got so fed up that he asked the clerk, a large, bespectacled man with a big head, clad in a black cashmere cloak, to let him speak with management.

“You got ‘im,” the man said, looking up from whatever he was writing. He looked Yosef over. This guy looked like trouble. He might be a Samaritan. On top of that, he had the look of someone who settled a lot of problems with his fists. He and his wife probably had a gang of kids hiding in the wagon, and once the room was paid for, they would descend on the inn like a horde, running up and down the halls, overflowing the pool.

“Dude, I need a room. My wife is in labor outside. “

“I’m full, man. Nothing I can do. Sorry.”

“You got to give me a room! If not , my wife is gonna deliver this baby without a midwife. Feel me, brother. I am NOT going to witness that, nor am I gonna hear all the evil things she gonna call me.”

The inn keeper thought about it.

“Look, man. I feel for you. Honestly? You don’t want your baby born here. The manger down the street is cleaner than it is here, and warmer. The boss here stops paying TelAviv Gas once April hits. You see there’s no heat.”

“You want me to take my wife to a stable to have my baby?”

“It’s either that or see something you spent most of your life chasing stretch to proportions that will make you feel insecure for the rest of your life...”

Yosef went in search of the manger. Minutes after he left, a flashily dressed couple came in, ordered a whirlpool suite, and were promptly provided service. The inn keeper charged them twice the normal rate and went back to his writing.

The Almighty has cursed hotel management ever since.

When they got to the manger, Miriyam had passed out. Yosef gingerly carried his tiny wife into the manger and set her down on some hay. She sniffed and awakened.

“Oh, no you didn’t…”

“Yami, let me explain…”

“Oh, NO YOU DIDN’T!”

“Miriyam, baby, look, it’s not what it seems…”

“First, you drag me to Egypt in my condition…then you drag me back…all I wanted was to stay in Nazareth, where we had a business, and buy a house with a yard…but noooo!!!! You have to drag me across Lord knows where! And now, where are we? Where has your sense of “male safety” brought us? To a manger of all places. YOU KNOW I DON’T LIKE IT OUTSIDE! Owwwwwwwwwwww…..”

A contraction hit. Yosef grabbed for his wife’s hand.

“Don’t you EVER touch me again!” Her breathing returned to normal. “This…ooooh, this ain’t gonna…you are of the Tribe of DAVID! THIS IS TE BEST YOU CAN DO? Other women get midwives and comfortable surroundings in their own homes! I am in a doggone stable! What would your ancestor think about that? Aren’t you ashamed?”

“Well, baby…I mean, word is he sent his best friend to the front to be killed so he could do his wife…I mean, I haven’t done anything on that level…”

“You should be happy there is no war on and you are no king’s best friend, because I’d have a suggestion or two…Oooooowwwwwwwwwwww!”

Yosef jumped up to go get a midwife. As he headed for the door, he heard screams of, “Yosef David! Don’t you leave me in this stinky place to…Owwwwwwwwwww! I never liked yo mama! Ooowwwwwwwwww!”

At the door, he bumped into the three visitors from earlier. They were followed by an older woman. Not knowing her but knowing dilation is something a man should never see, Yosef pointed in the direction of the howls. She bustled off.

Yosef looked at the three men.

“Where…how?”

“We followed the star, young man.”

“Most importantly,” said another, “We came to bring you these…”

“What’s this? “

“Valuables. We know we didn’t put in on the ride you gave us to Egypt, but we were able to get a charter to another area, and we wanted to pay you from that…”

“A charter?”

“Yes, as will one day be detailed in an American film, the Egyptians pioneered space travel. We have some work to do…out there. Initially, we were summoned before Herod, but he has corrupted the Senate and frankly, it’s time for us to jet. We wanted you to know, though, that boy? He is going to be something else.”

“I knew it was gonna be a boy!”

“Work with him. Bear with him. Fifteen whole years of his life will go undocumented. That will be to keep history from hating you, because he is gonna test you. But that boy. He is the one.”

“Really?”

“He’s not gonna bend no spoons. He ain’t gonna fly. But he is the one.”

“Will he take over the family business?”

A pause.

“Yah…kinda.”

The screams had stopped and they heard crying. The four men all walked forward. The three visitors knelt as they came closer, revealing, under their robes, foot long silver cylinders, hooded cloaks and sturdy boots. One had a lock of his hair tied in back. Yosef went to his wife and kissed her. Then he looked at his boy.

“We’ll call him…” he choked, looking at the little brown face in front of him, “Immanuel.”

The shortest of the three visitors whispered, “So glad he didn’t give that boy no Mexican name. Let’s go, Master. “

“In due time. Alderaan will be there. Where else would it go?”

Miriyam looked at Yosef with love.

“I’m still not letting you touch me again.”

"I’m not sure I’m responsible for all of this. But you know what? This boy is gonna be special. I’m gonna train him to be a carpenter, and a rabbi, in the line of our tribe. He’s gonna make you proud one day. The visitors said he was gonna take over the shop. Yosef and Son. I was gonna go into the junk business, but no, carpentry is where it’s at.”

“The house?”

“Soon as we get back to Nazareth,” he promised. “And we ain’t getting’ him immunized. But I promised Mordecai we’d bring him back for a blessing before two.”

“Sounds good.”

“Anything you want, Yami?”

“Peace. Love for our child. And oh. Something GOOD to eat. And maybe a glass of wine. It’s been nine months.”

“I’m on it. I saw the Yekezhkel’s fried kosher goat sign down the street. Hot or mild sauce?”

“Mild. And Yosef?”

“Yeah baby?”

“I love you. Even if I meant what I said about your mama.”

“Love you too, Miriyam.” At his son, he smiled. “Take care of your mother. The weight of the world is gonna be on your shoulders from this moment on, Immanuel.” He hurried off, singing, “We are family…”

Making American Dreams

2009-12-14T18:48:00.000-08:00

Kumar Pradanesh comes from India. He is a little rough around the edges. No, Kumar has the social graces of a rabid rhino suffering from hemorrhoids. He managed to save up enough money to come to America from his poor village in India. Once here, Kumar worked some lousy jobs. His dream? To one day own his very own hotel. Kumar scraped, saved, and then got married. As opposed to looking at this as a blow to his dreams, Kumar incorporated his wife into his goals. Granted, coming from a poor village in India, Kumar wasn’t one much for women’s rights. His wife, Paani, eventually bore Kumarh six children. While he loved his kids, Kumar remembered a hard life of poverty in India, and vowed his children would have better.

Pradanesh worked hard, and eventually, after cutting some deals and doing a shady thing or two, he got his hotel. He worked 18 hour days. His wife worked the desk, he did all of the maintenance, and as his children grew old enough, they were given jobs to do around the property. Not chores. Jobs. Kumar didn’t play. When they weren’t working, he had them studying. Kumar didn’t suffer grades below an A, and there were times that old school Indian discipline came out. You can do damage with a bamboo cane, the Pradanesh brood learned.

Eventually, from that hotel, Kumar sent all of his children to Ivy League schools. They all poses graduate degrees, and four of them have formed a consortium that purchases and manages hotels. Their property portfolio is worth hundreds on millions. Whenever they are asked to speak, the first thing they do is talk about their dad’s example of discipline, dedication and following a goal at all costs.

Jaime Rodriguez grew up on the wrong side of Ciudad Juarez. That’s like growing up on the bad part of the low end in the Chi. Or the west side of Hell. He came to the US legally and worked as a migrant worker, then decided to get into lawn care. Rodriguez bought an old lawnmower and signed himself up to cut lawns in the wealthy Caucasian areas miles from his home. He shoveled snow in the wintertime. Jaime married Sonia, and they had a multitude of kids in a short period of time. Jaime was not a nice guy. He got up early, worked long hours, and spent what little time he had coaching his sons’ baseball team. Very competitive, Jaime wasn’t above a jolt to the head or two to reinforce that losing sucks and keep order in his home. Once, when fifteen year old Julio came in late, drunk, and decided to tell Jaime about himself, Jaime showed Julio the difference between growing up in Ciudad Juarez and East LA. East LA lost. Terrified of Ciudad Juarez after that, Julio spread the word to the rest of Jaime’s boys the Latin gangs had nothing on Pops. The kids never joined up. The old man was gang enough. Baseball, anyone?

Jaime pushed his boys hard, and extra money went to baseball camps, equipment and the like. Jaime didn’t miss a game, and was at every awards banquet. The umps and scouts knew him, the coaches respected his opinion. When Julio signed with the Yankees, the first person he thanked was his dad, Jaime. He also thanked his big brother, who signed with the Astros two years earlier, for making him the catcher he became. The other brothers didn’t make it to the majors. Medical school, law school and a high school principalship called. Oh dang.

Roy’s family in Appalachia made white trash look like the Rockefellers. Abuse of every kind, and alcoholism is a given on both sides. Ray watched his father shoot his mother over the last of a pint of corn.

Roy grew up a hard man. He supported himself working in the coal mines and married young. Patterns repeat. Roy never beat Amy, his wife, but he was hard on Lil Zeke. He had to be. The area where they lived was poor, and dangerous. Black gangs make the television and get cable shows made detailing their existence. White gangs become “militias” and blow up federal buildings. Zeke had potential. He could read, something his father couldn’t do, and he was captain of the debate team. If he had to, Roy would keep a foot in Zeke’s ass as long as necessary to get him up outta their West Virginia town and into somewhere respectable.

Ezekiel Roy Hawkins eventually grew to respectability. When he took the oath for the United States Senate, his father stood beside him, tears in his eyes.

Mothers are necessary. Nothing can compare to the love and compassion a mother shows a child. No, I take that back. The love of a grandmother surpasses that, but not by much. Mothers show a child how to love, accept and understand. Some mothers have to do fathers’ jobs, and that’s hard. Part of being a man, and especially a father, is putting love and compassion aside and being able to make those hard decisions, realizing what hurts today can motivate tomorrow and catapult to success the following week.

We always lionize mothers, and we should. We often forget fathers, forget the sacrifices they make, and trivialize their importance. It’s kind of funny, though: when the kid wins a scholarship, it’s mom’s doing. When he goes to jail, it’s Dad’s fault.

As a society, though, we acknowledge that when kids, especially boys, come up from nowhere, make it through rough times and rougher areas, that balding dude in the shiny suit who resembles Junior gets his props. We happily embrace those men, not for doing what they should do anyway, but for beating the odds and living to tell the tale. When that tough love and discipline and pure drive help push kids to heights few attain, we can’t help but look at that father and be proud.

So what’s with the double standard? We can applaud every nationality whose kids do the impossible, we can thank that Almighty those fathers were fathers, but we get mad when Black fathers do the same and achieve the same results? Other races can celebrate the achievements and share the credit between the genders, but in too many cases, Black fathers who do their job (and yes, there are plenty out there) are treated like, “How dare you say something to my child?” As the prison rolls continue to swell? As our Daddyless daughters continue to keep getting pregnant earlier and earlier in life. And our sons value sneakers made in sweatshops more than human life.

Starting with Joe Jackson and ending with the Williams sisters’ dad, Richard, and cats all in between, apologies are in order.

Men Talk Back on JD Radio

2009-12-07T19:51:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the JD show where what you feel is what we air…I am here this evening with three members of the African American community, Mark, Irwin and a Mr. F. Buford Jones, who are here today to share their frustrations on Black women and relationships.

For the record, it should be known that I am happy that I am in a rewarding relationship. OK, Honey, I said it, now remember we agreed it’d be the Black one tonight....

Howdy fellas!

Mark: Good evening.

Irwin: Hayay!

F. Buford Jones: Sup Nigs (drinking noise).

Irwin: That suit is a nice shade of purple on you. Custom?

F.Buford Jones: Saville Row. Man fitted it direct to my body.

Irwin: Do tell.

F. Buford Jones: Gotta hat that match. With a feather in it.

JD: OK gentlemen. Apparently, you all feel that Black women have gone too far, and that we all need to talk. Is that so?

Mark: We need to just lay out some stuff and put some fallacies to rest. I am running into too many women who believe, for whatever reason, they are super beings capable of dealing and doing everything on the same level as their less refined counterparts.

JD: Now, I will give credit where it is due. Since Black folk were brought to this country, it is the women who have demonstrated the unity, love and frankly, forward movement of our people. I am on record as having stated that Black women were at the forefront of every demand in our history to be treated fairly. I said it Ruqayyah. Remember, you promised. I am not one of these hating brothers on my show who are more interested in truth than experimentation. Please, do go on…

Mark (pushing glasses up nose): The reason they were really good at that, up to say, the last twenty five years, is they were women. They knew where their strengths laid as women, and part of that was working with the men they obviously loved, supported, and yes, controlled. All was good.

JD: They knew their roles?

Mark: Right.

JD: Not that I am endorsing roles. I’m just clarifying. And a role does not necessarily mean you are subservient. OK? Women? I said it. Having a role does not make you subservient. I mean, it's not like saying "Obey" in your wedding vows. Do go on, Mark.

Mark: Then something happened. I don’t know. Something got dumped in the water and a lot of us, of both genders, stopped looking at each other like we were meant to be in the other person’s corner. Women started viewing men as competition and men started viewing women as…something.

Before I go any further, let me make this clear: I am not romanticizing the past. Times were not always good and much of what ails society today was a part of what ailed black marriages and relationships for a long time.

The record, however, speaks for itself. There were more coherent families and we were producing a better class of people before this current “let me get mine it’s all about me” mindset became prevalent. Infidelity always existed, from a man having outside kids to people muttering how a family’s new baby “Sho’ look like the mailman.” Again, just looking at the results, some changes were not for the best.

JD: OK. Well, Irwin, you are looking a bit confused. Care to join in?

Irwin (nervously looking over his shoulder at the male intern): What we now seem to have is men who have basically just reverted to something that exists in every man, but that society and home training forced us to keep under control.

Mark: We have women who are quite open about insisting it is all about them, and who are quite happy to use both their money and the system to fulfill their own goals, one of which appears to be crushing men who were once key in fulfilling the same goals, whether they be marriage, parenthood, or financial stability.

JD: OK, we’ve established some of what you, as men, find frustrating. To our studio audience: Please don’t write me saying my program is stereotyping. I know a bunch of women who appear to have it together who are no good as hell... Well, no, I only know one, she is easily recognized as a streetwalker, and every other woman I know is perfect. They deserve whatever we give them and then more. Why, truthfully, there are NO bad women…except white ones. And the only bad white ones are those that date rich Black men and force everyday sistas to have to marry everyday guys like me, which really shouldn't be their fate…and of course, the ones I had sex with before meeting my honey are evil, too…please continue…

Mark: I know women who are truly out for self and have run over some really decent men because it was “time for a change”, and used what influence they had to stop just short of destroying the same. I know men who have made it clear that if they are going to be relegated to serving as a cog in someone’s machine, they are out for the things they want and will acquire them, regardless of the emotional cost to the other party. They act knowing the system is not on their side, and demonstrate a “take no prisoners” attitude that has left a lot of respectable women devastated.
These perpetrators have justification upon justification for selfish, anti social behavior, and hide behind the collective of their respective genders and a lot of silly logic that may make them feel better, but are not necessarily true. Worse, they are influencing another generation to behave in an even more pitiful manner.

JD: I can dig it. Being honest, what you are, you are going to be. I have yet to receive a petition from one of my three dogs stating, “We are going to be canines moving forward. Please understand this and allow us to do so.” No, they are dogs. That is what they will be. No number of baths will stop my baby Rudy from rolling is as much dirt and dung he can find, nor my main guy Bingo from chasing (and occasionally killing) whatever wildlife annoys him and gets too close. It won’t stop my eldest, Nikki, from being territorial as hell, going up against dogs twice her size over what she figures is hers. She’s the female, though, so it’s OK. Females rock.

Mark (looking askance at JD): So there has to be a certain amount of give and take here, because we are different. Women and men value different things, and the trick, I believe, is in finding what complements who we are, not someone who is going to mirror our images. We have confused ourselves into thinking that what we believe about the opposite sex is what really is. Sadly, it ain’t. The numbers support me on this.

I hear women saying, “Well, if he wants the pleasure of my company, he better pick up the check.”

Irwin: I agree.

F. Buford Jones (lazily): I never pick up a check. I make it clear I ain’t taking my wallet when I leave home.

Mark: Then you overhear this nonsense: “And we better go somewhere I like, and you know I only like the best…And he better not be talking no silliness…and I need blah blah blah…Now, he needs to court me…”

Gentlemen court ladies. Your behavior and attitude do not indicate you are such. You are an opportunist with two X chromosomes.

You crazy. If I invited you, we are going to the nicest place I can afford. I am not going into Chapter 7 to impress someone who clearly, good job, child support checks and buildings inherited from her parents, makes four times my salary. You may want to decide before accepting my invite whether that is an issue for you.

JD: I dunno. I’d go into bankruptcy for my woman, who is at home listening with her momma. I’d go into it twice in 7 years, if I could.

Mark: I know women who want to put fifty million restrictions on their men, but assert that to be independent women; they should have no restrictions but be allowed to use their judgment. Sometimes, this double standard reveals some really bad judgment by these independent thinkers. The kid of judgment that if it were practiced my their man, would have him getting beaten by a golf club as he tried to fell the driveway late one Thursday night.

F. Buford Jones: That was messed up. If he’d laid that pipe right that woulda never happened. And she dumb. You don't brain the golden goose...

Mark: Sometimes, I listen to people basically try to plan how their person can act. As if this is their child.

When women say, “We have to let our men be men”, I laugh. Baby you are sorely mistaken. Any man you have to let be a man truly doesn’t deserve to pee standing up. Any man who is concerned with your opinion regarding his manhood is a fool.

Where your real issue lies is here: a man is going to be who he is. His power lies in whether or not he will be bothered with you while he does.

JD: I would never leave my woman. No matter what. If she orders me around, it’s because it’s good for me. Let’s be honest: Look at how good we have it with our women in control? Emasculated? No. Empowered. THAT should be our battle cry.

Mark: If I find you incompatible because being with you clearly makes me feel like you are trying to compete with me for something that isn’t even in contest, I won’t argue with you. I won’t debate. We ain’t seeing Oprah.

I am leaving you.

“That’s a good woman!” other women will cry.

No, she’s a good woman based on what you thing a man should be. I am a man. I am not interested in caricatures. I am interested in women. That’s a few rungs down from my interest in my child, my household, and me being me.

While your girls may value what you bring to the table, you cannot force me to value those things that, inherently, I take for granted I’m going to do for myself.
You owning your home is beautiful. It’s wise. But it isn’t making me look at you like a good catch. I got my own address. My mother laments to this day how once I left (at 18), my ass was gone. I am not going to value in you, as a partner, something I feel every adult needs to do for themselves anyway.

Irwin: I still live with my momma. She’s my special friend.

F. Buford Jones: Wherever I lay my hat is my home.

Mark: You need emotion and understanding. I need loyalty. We’re Yin and Yang. The minute I start providing what your girlfriends offer, we got issues.

And vice versa.

A lot of time, I hear my female friends gripe that men just aren’t up for dealing with strong women. Man, I hate to tell this to women of my generation, but your strength has nothing on that of our mommas and grand mommas. Your ability to max out your 401K and keep Mercedes Benz’ numbers growing have nothing to do with strength. That’s like me equating my manhood with the number of babies I can create and subsequently abandon. Just because believing that nonsense makes me feel better that does not mean it is true.

F. Buford Jones: Says who? How many shorties you got? It’s a fact a man’s endowment grows with the birth of each illegitimate child. It's a muscle. Grows with use.

JD: What about love? Don’t men have to provide love for their children? After all, the kids ARE the mother’s. The father is just there for the ride. What good is he? I mean, without him, it’s not like the kid woulda been flushed from her system. Fatherhood is about doing what the mother tells you. Mothers really are the only parent that matter, no? I mean, who ever heard of a father setting an example? Where would we be without women?

Mark: I have long believed that motherhood is about love. Fatherhood is about responsibility. If you are doing it on your own, I commend you. But what I am doing when I raise the boy that bears my Daddy’s name is prepping him for the world that will kick his ass one day. You don’t stay down for no entire fight. But a rule of fighting is the other guy is gonna give and take some lumps. My job is to teach you how to take them and give them when it’s time, and walk away feeling you gave your best. There’s not a whole lotta love in that. There is, however, some survival that I believe doesn’t have you living with your momma at 35.

Irwin: But I really like my momma.

Mark: After a recent basketball practice one evening, a mom’s car wouldn’t start. I tried to jump her car, and when it didn’t, I waited with until Dad could get there, despite her assuring me she’d be OK. When we left, I pointed out to J.” You see Dad got in the car that got jumped. He put mom and son in his car.”

“Why?”

“You don’t put your woman and kids at risk. End of story.”

“What if it breaks down on him?”

“If he gets stranded, he can handle it. Part of being a man, boy.”

“Got it. Daddy, me and my wife just both have to have new cars. Cuz it’s too cold to be stranded out here.”

Irwin: I guess that’s one way to work it.

F. Buford Jones: That's stupid. Please. You put her and them other ones to work and they keep YOU in a new car. With roadside assistance.

Mark: Now, I am a firm believer in just doing things certain ways. There are things which I value deeply and I will not deviate from those values. There are other things that other people, especially many of the women that I know, are angry that I won’t change.

Too often, when dealing with my female friends, they want to be assertive, aggressive and downright rude when dealing with men, especially those with less education, money etc. Should they get the same in return, they suddenly want to retreat into womanhood. How could he? I’m a female.

F. Buford Jones: Never happens to me. My backhand is too quick. I make a Pimp Named Slickback look slow. Honestly? Goldie from “The Mack” was modeled on me, and I wasn't even born yet.

JD: Sorry. No matter what we should not disagree with women, and even if she is pointing a gun at you, you never touch a woman. Except when she says it is OK. And even then, double check.

Mark: Women deserve respect as such. But baby, if you come at Marcus like Lamont might, he is going to treat you like Lamont. That’s him being what he is.
I was explaining to a friend recently that men and women, gosh, are very different. As opposed to trying to eliminate those differences, perhaps we ought to celebrate them. Consistently.

Irwin: I don’t know. Some men have a lot in common with some women.

F. Buford Jones: A bitch is a bitch. Male or female.

Mark: If I am out somewhere and there is a bunch of guys, we don’t do a whole lot of arguing. Perhaps it is because from the time we are children, we understand that force is usually all another man respects. Women aren’t like that. They’ll talk about you and your momma, make fun of you, but seldom will it deteriorate into anything physical.

We’re just not like that. I know that if I get into an altercation, once the testosterone starts building, there is a very real possibility someone may die.
That forces me to avoid confrontation unless it is necessary, and to deal with it swiftly.

Irwin: Can’t we just talk?

F.Buford Jones: Dude what the hell wrong with you?

Mark: There is no let me go back and forth with you. As a man, I inherently understand we don’t do that.

Some single moms wonder why they can preach and preach to their sons, but a man says the same thing once, in five words, and it becomes gospel, and the kid adheres.
That kid understands: mom loves me. Dude here may very well put a foot in my ass.

JD: Again, the children are the property of the woman. Any man who ever puts his hand on a child should be sent to prison, where he will become special friends with Pookie the Packer. We’re running outta time guys. Any last words?

Mark: I just want women to realize that we’ve lost some balance, and eventually, a man’s reaction isn’t to argue or deal with your silliness. He’ll leave you miserable and go find someone willing to be part of a team. Nobody is trying to deal with someone who is disagreeable just because they can be. No one wants someone who pushes only for what they want. Husband. House. Kids. Then uses the system to keep the goods but saddle someone else with the bill. You can write all the angry books you want. You are what’s messing you up.

Irwin: Can’t we be friends?

F. Buford Jones (on cel phone) Yeah, Baby, meet Big Daddy downstairs with the car. This was lame.

Irwin: Was that a working girl?

F. Buford Jones: Hell yeah. My bottom babe, and my accountant. Look, I don’t know why ya’ll invite me. I think these broads gon’ be broads. Accept that and be the man you is, and they fall into line. If she can roll with yo' flow, keep her workin’. If not, the name of the game is cop and blow. There’s some other broad out there willing to star. Half these women givin’ ya’ll the flux cuz you lettin’ them. Every one of them that think she running something done had somebody run hard game on them and turn them out. They just doin’ what was done to them, tryin’ for revenge on the weaker they run into. This ain’t rocket science. Be you, be fair, be fierce, and be about that money. Be Internationally Known, Nationally Recognized, and Locally Accepted. I’m Flatbush baby and I’m out.

JD: Well. That was a mouthful. We want to remind my 95% female audience the opinions of the guests are not those of the show and that I personally find anything said against women and general and Black women, who are always right, in particular, offensive.

F.Buford Jones: You got a blooming career in the ministry ahead of you you keep this up. You ever stop to think yo' girl you tryin’ to patronize learned whateva she gon whip on you tonight from a cat that just told it like it is and did him? Perhaps it ain’t them it’s y'all.

Irwin & Mark: Hmmmmm…

Thanksgiving I

2009-11-25T13:35:00.000-08:00

A long time ago in a galaxy not too far away, a vessel baring brave souls alighted upon territory thought unsettled.

The settlers wore funny hats and clothes not durable enough for their new world’s lousy climate. It rained daily on the island from whence they came. Because they lacked GPS and the Weather Channel, they encountered snow upon alighting these shores. Their descendants would search in vain for centuries before finding somewhere the rain and snow did not touch. Unfotunately, that land would move underneath their feet, but life is a series of trade offs.

Upon arriving in the new land, the settlers quickly gave thanks to God. Choice of how to worship the Almighty was a large part of why they left the rainy island. They poked around the new area, and decided that while cold and snowy, it beat facing decapitation for going to church.

“Hey!” shouted a little boy. “An animal walking on two feet!”

The adult male settlers readied their muskets, hoping to score their first protein fix in the new land. The animal stopped, jumped up and down and waved. Three muskets fired, but none hit their mark. Had the settlers been better shots, perhaps they could have used force to acquire religious equality. As it stood, the animals shrugged, screamed “Fugheddabout it!” and ran off.

The settlers stayed on their ship, initially venturing forth to carve out their own community. Things were not the best. Their diet consisted mainly of sea fowl and mussels, things they could find by the boat. They were unable to keep fires going. Many died from starvation. They thought, “We got cold and no food and this big ass boat and God ahs forsaken us! Why?”

Not a week’s travel south, on a cotton field in Florida, there were a group of dark skinned slaves groaning, “What we wouldn’t give for a break from this heat and a boat and some open water leading outta here! This day camp SUCKS!”

One man’s dying and rising is another’s bread and wine.

At that time, Little Half Pint was annoying his mother and sisters. Too young to hunt, too old to get into anything but mischief, he went exploring to kill some time. As he was bumbling through the woods, he ran into Myron Chesterfield, same age, same headaches. As little boys do, they made up a unique new game, Cowboys and Indians, for hours. Neither knew cowboy nor Indian the first, but it beat starving the last few months or getting yelled at around the wigwam.

When they were done playing, Myron noticed the position of the sun and said, “Dude, I better get going. Almost supper time. Not looking forward to that one.”

Little Half Pint, not wanting the game to end, said, “Hey, Dude, no rush. Why don’t you come back to our place for dinner? My ma always cooks more than enough. “

They walked the block or so back to the Wampanoag community. Myron was astounded. “Dude, all this is here?”

“Yeah, where else would it be?”

“Wow. I mean, you all have homes, schools, discount stores…”

“Where else would we get our clothes?”

“Back at home we were taught that natives were savages and ran around naked.”

“My baby brother Chubby Rabbit says he wishes we could run around naked. Too cold for that. My other brother, Too Hungry, gets pretty savage around dinner time, but that’s it.”

Myron was welcomed into his friend’s home and ate like no tomorrow. He said, “Please” and “Thank you”, had seconds, and then thirds, and was invited to return. Out of shame from being on the wrong side of the tracks, he nodded when he said he’d bring his parents around for tea, but had no intention of doing so.

Back at the Pilgrim camp, it was same nonsense different day. The settlers were sitting on a couple tons of gunpowder and ammunition, but no food. Big John Cavendall had a bright idea, making a fireplace out of gunpowder. He wasted two whole barrels and his remains were strewn around the camp. The pilgrims decided to leave them in hopes they would attract animals they could eat, but no go. Little Suzy Meadowmaker was explaining to some of the older boys her idea for earning a bit of extra rations for her family, but the lads were too tired from near starvation to take her seriously. The men were walking around with their chests puffed out but frustrated, as their women had cut them off from any feminine charms until they collectively got their act as providers together. Only Suzy was available, and half of them were related to her by blood or marriage. Plus she had a twin brother, and no one wanted to get full of grog and wake up the next morning having forgotten which was which.

Myron ate with Little Half Pint’s family for weeks on end. He became a regular in the Native village. Finally, one day, the little Pilgrim boy had to admit why he never let his friend come home with him.

“Everyone in my village is gay.”

“That’s OK,” Little Half pint sighed. “The spirits make all kinds. Shoot, my Uncle Happy Tush is like that. Hey, they’re a solid voting block.”

“OK, for real,” Myron sighed, “Everybody in my village looks like me but they are poor and starving and struggling…”

Little Half Pint’s eyes bulged. “You mean the white trash with the big boat in the front yard done yonder?”

Myron was almost in tears. “Yes.”

“Dude, why didn’t you tell me? Gee, my Cousin Stalking Bear showed up over there the day ya’ll moved in. Tall dude, fur coat. Kangol? ? He said ya’ll threw rocks at him. We laughed and thought he was lying. He hasn’tbeen the same since he lost his hunting scholarship to bow engineering school.”

“Oh. They thought he was an animal.”

“Cuz of the fur? Those were his hunting warm ups. How ya’ll stay warm?”

“I don’t know ‘bout them. I come here.”

When they parted for the evening, Little Half Pint spoke with his mom. While she wasn’t really interested in getting too involved with “those people”, she did like the little boy, Myron. It seemed a shame to let them starve.

“The Harvest Party is next week,” she said. “I’ll speak with your father. Perhaps we can invite the pale savages to dine with us. Show them the finer things.”

Little Half Pint did not like the slur, but he held his tongue while Killa Full Pint Swiftly, his esteemed father, pondered and then approved the decision. When he shared the news with his friend, Little Half Pint was surprised.

“Let me get this straight: your folks want us to come there?”

“They insist.”

“OK, we’ll bring the food.”

The appointed day came. The natives arrived in their finest, and the Pilgrims had cleaned up their homes and attire. They moved the mayflower to the backyard and made it up like a jungle gym. The Native men, a bit put out they would miss the Eagle Catching playoffs, eventually warmed up when the Pilgrims showed them the only good they’d been able to produce that year: ethyl alcohol. Soon, the men were all having a riotous time, telling jokes about clergy and the ugly women they knew. The females of both groups compared household tips and recipes, although the pilgrim recipes were a bit strange, as they consisted of bark, grass and leaves in many cases. They also compared evil stories about the men.

The Pilgrim women listened, but argued that heated five room wigwams with two horse stables had to be worth the headaches. “I mean,” one said, smoking her pipe, “we deal with the same male silliness and have half the stuff you do…” A quiet rift started then.

When it was time for the meal, the men led the grace. Myron’s father intoned, “Dear Lord, thank you for our new friends. May we always live in peace and harmony, and never turn our brothers into drunks, or drive them onto reservations, or almost make them extinct from your planet. If it is your will Lord, let us always be grateful for their assistance on this day, and not turn it into a mockery and example of how people with arms can prevail against people with good intentions. Amen.”

The native men looked a bit puzzled, but attributed it to the grog.

“Say,” Clawing Tiger asked a Pilgrim as he passed the turkey. “What’s all the gunpowder for?”

“Oh, we’ll figure something out,” came the reply.

Dinner went well and the promise was made to get together at future dates. Myron and Little Half Pint were a bit put out. Here it was THEIR idea, and it was no longer their secret.

“Maaaan,” Myron groaned.

“I know,” Little Half Pint agreed, “Could be worse.”

“Oh, trust me, these are grownups,” Myron said. “They’ll wreck a good thing soon.”

As they were leaving, hugging and saying goodbye, Little half Pint’s mother said, “Nice people. But shake out your clothes. They look like they got roaches.”

Reparations

2009-11-22T16:54:00.000-08:00

I’m baaaaaaaack…

Sorry, the others are getting prepped for publishing. I just keep missing riffing about the things that make me go, “Hmmmmm.”

Plus, Ruqayyah got tired of me laughing so loud during "Bridezilla." Too many parrallels. So it was time to share an opinion or two. Again. Sorry.

Being a Chicagoan, the whole reparations debate is front and center more in my Midwestern city than it is in most other areas of the country. That’s irony. The country’s most corrupt city being the headquarters and centerpiece for one of the most valid, enduring arguments.

For the record, I believe reparations are in order. Also for the record, I think Black folk got about as much chance of getting dollar the first as I do of having Flatbush return the $100 I put up for his bail last time he was arrested.

I do believe, however, that it was wrong to take people from their homeland (man, don’t tell me about who sold them to you…talk to me about the benefit you received from their labor. Don’t get it twisted) and use them to hell and gone to build the infrastructure of a country. The business of America is business. We do it better than anyone else on the planet. This is business. Debts are owed. Come at me with a payment plan.

If Native Americans can get tax free casinos for almost being wiped off the face of the planet, the descendants of America’s slaves deserve more than we been getting. Give it to us, and we’ll gripe no more.

Now, I don’t want reparations for the usual stuff. Slavery was bad, but lord knows poor record were kept in part to confuse those public officials who would look into reparations centuries later.

Oh, for the record: if you are a Black public official, you automatically forfeit your right to reparations. You already got yours. You, your kids, their kids.

Ditto if you are a preacher.

Or self proclaimed civil rights leader. Ya’ll paid already. In fact, perhaps ya’ll owe us. That’s another essay.

Oh, by the way, white men: please don’t equate welfare and other programs that have helped waaay more white people than minorities as payback for slavery. Your women were never enslaved, yet the numbers show they benefit more from both affirmative action and welfare than any Black person ever has. Whole sects of fundamentalists Mormons are practicing polygamy and living off of my tax contributions to the welfare system while still thinking my Blackness is a curse. At least Shaneequa will speak to me in the grocery store.

Something to consider, however: none of us was a slave. None of the white folk we know owned any. You may not like John the next cube over but believe me, he's not owning any plantations. This isn’t about the past, but who is accountable now.

No, I want my brethren paid, during these hard economic times, for the contributions we made to furthering this society while getting the shaft on the return on investment.

General Motors: Black tax dollars were among those that helped bail you out. Beyond that, be honest: whole divisions (Cadillac?) have been heavily subsidized by Black people for decades with no return save questionably reliable vehicles. You have fudged credit requirements and told dealers break whatever rules necessary, just put them darkies in those Escalades. Payment is due. And contributions of product to preachers ain’t acceptable. We fell for that banana in the tailpipe already.

Nike: You know I don’t care what deal Jesse struck with you. Sure, white kids wear ‘em, but every American acknowledges Black folks are the arbiters of American style. It’s part of why white supremacists dress so bad, as a statement of rebellion. Seems to me we have allowed you to keep making millions from both our direct sales and our indirect influence. Phil, I read “Swoosh: The Untold Story of Nike and the Men Who Built It.” Ante up, brotha. Don’t get me started on the athletes, mainly Black, who helped build your brand.

Hennessy: Champagne that was then distilled? Sounds like a precursor to Malt Liquor. There are far better brands of ‘yac, like Kelt, that Black folk don’t drink. Yet every Friday night, you can count on Negroes drinking up and increasing your profits. When they graduate from Colt 45, they move up to you. Recognize. Your contribution is expected, or I’ll personally lead the revolt to have Negroes switch to single malt scotch. Or better yet, abstain altogether, as my Muslim brethren do. Be real: without Black Americans, the profits of spirits manufacturers in this country would be equal to those of Steve & Barry’s over the past year. Don’t play with me. A check needs to be cut. NOW.

MAC: Time to let the cat out of the bag. Black men aren’t looking so much at their women’s face as their bodies. Baby, ditch the makeup but hit the gym for three hours a week. How much makeup you wear on your booty? But every red blooded Black American man is watching you switch by and having fantasies that would make Hugh Hefner shudder. Listen up, makeup manufacturer: we want ours. This is your last warning.

Black Hair Dressers: Ditto.

Makers of high fructose corn syrup soft drinks: Lord knows we support ya’ll. Look at the obesity epidemic? Don’t make this hard. I can make Black folk start juicing overnight, making Jack LaLane a nice profit and bankrupting you overnight.

Insurance companies: We are the most heavily insured and least paid. You hate the idea of national healthcare for more reasons than are imaginable, most of all because, dammit, it will mean no more taking our homes once our conditions from afore mentioned obesity push us into foreclosure homes after we’ve maxed out our benefits and your sharks start to sue.

Gyms with contract memberships: C'mon. We keep yall in business. You earn more from us deafulting cuz we have to work so hard for our Caddies and Nikes than you do from active members. We the most athletic people on the planet. We work out when we get time. Plus, why all your facilities in our neighborhoods got the lousiest equipment and the least cool classes? Where our racquetball courts? Why we gotta bring our own balls to hoop? If you don't want a million Black fatties who look GOOD marching on your juice bar, you better work something out.

Finally, Black radio: our music stations are exempt. History shows we like our entertainment, and honestly, only a fool believes everything he hears as entertainment is reality. Black talk radio, however? You have fed us bullshit conspiracy theories instead of real information for decades, to the tune of millions in endorsement dollars. Where are the publishing companies you could have bought from those profits? Why is it when historically Black companies are sold, you take to the airwaves begging and bitching instead of coming to the boardroom tables with bids? You owe us. We have supported you and you have only feathered your own nests, buying summer homes and expensive cars and funding your kids’ drug habits and abortions with the money we gave you to keep us informed. Don’t trip: when the axe falls, you are the first to go.

That’s reparations, JD style. I think this is a more workable plan than anything else. If you have a better idea, let me know. WE don’t want anything other groups can utilize. You gave up the casinos. We want tax free control of all concessions at professional sporting events, including all Olympic help on US soil. We also want a check. If you are the descendant of a slave, you should get a fair allotment that will allow you to boost the economy by continuing to support the industries I mentioned above.

Fair is fair.

The End of the Beginning

2009-11-19T11:57:00.000-08:00

I started “Ya’ll Know Betta” as a means of disciplining myself to write a book of essays over the course of a year. I initially planned to write a couple a month and build a total of thirty five to prepare for publishing. This, my final essay for this project, totals seventy. Actually seventy one, but I’ll address that later. I have been writing narratives and opinions since the ripe old age of seven, but I have learned that growing up is truly embracing what you are meant to do, and just doing it. By the time this posts, the entire collection will have been received by the US copyright office, beginning the first step towards publishing.

The best thing about doing all of this has been watching as a 9 year old who bears my father’s name laugh at the idea that his dad is actually a writer. I have drafted essays while sitting outside of karate classes, while sitting in the school parking lot, and while cooling my heels at various athletic practices. There are times when I’ve been too preachy, but he has always reminded me that humor is the best medicine and most effective teaching tool. Sometimes, just watching his interaction with folk provided inspiration. Espescially listening to the exchanges between he and his favorite person in the world, his namesake.

J: Hey Grandad, you know, I realized today that if I could get in more practice time, I could turn those triples into homers every time.

Grandad: I realize that Buddy. Boy, some of those other kids on the team are really slowing you down. They play like they’re nine.

J: They are, but that’s no excuse. At the very least, they could work harder at being close to my level. I mean, they’ll never get there, but they could try. (Shaking head).

Grandad: Agreed. The Sox would probably draft you by 12, maybe 13, if we could get you some more practice time. You know what’s even worse (pounding steering wheel)? That doggone school keeps eating up a good six, seven hours a day we could be at the cages…

My mother and I laugh at these two. In my opinion, they are the Black version of Kip and Uncle Rico, and provide me with more humor than any man ought to have for free.

I have tried to be true to my convictions for the last nine months, no matter how controversial or even contradictory they might have been. I believe in law and order, but as a parent, would do whatever was necessary to put food on the table. I believe in the Almighty and recognize the great works churches have done, but have the same scorn for educated church people that Jesus of Nazereth had in his day. I believe in relationships, but have learned the hard way that both genders play games, and a person’s level of income, civility and education have no bearing on their morality or plain sense of fairness.

I applaud Black education but abhor the way so many of us who have attained it treat those who may not have been so blessed. I know racism exists and is alive and well, but travels have shown me this is still the best country in which to live at the current time. I love family but truly understand Richard Pryor’s quote, “Family…is sometimes like having to serve a life sentence for a crime you didn’t commit.” Rich had a way with words.

I have been accused of being a hard on Black women. Perhaps. I have only offered what I thought were fair examinations of inconsistencies from my point of view. I long for a day when these double standards can cease. Black men and women were all transported here in the bottom of boats like animals. Perhaps it is time to work together instead of always making one gender take the brunt of the heat for the race’s problems. The double standard is what I have tried to expose here. I can write reams about trifling Black men and never hear a word, but 500 words detailing how some Black women are really out for self has sometimes caused an outcry as if I murdered someone. I am a Black man. I work at being a good dad, I’d like to think I was an OK husband (even my ex seems to think so, now) and I try to be a good fiancé. I have my issues like everyone else. Being a Black man, I’ll never see the world as anything but, because this is the skin I am in.

There were seventy one essays. One was removed. I had a standing rule that once published, I would edit essays, but not take them down. One posting, however, drew the ire of my most beautiful fan. While I felt it was satire at its finest, my fiancé took real issue with my fictitious accounting of how we met. Knowing the wisdom in keeping your woman happy, I pulled that posting and replaced it with a blow by blow truthful account of our meeting. It wasn’t anywhere near as funny, but the last thing that I want is Ruqayyah sad, hurt or worse, mad. I removed the posting but saved the essay. I still think it is hilarious, and it may make it into the book.

Thank you so much for reading. My next effort, also on Blogspot, will be the further (mis) adventures of one Flatbush Jones. For the record, Flat is real, and most of what I have written happened. I hope you’ll join me as I work on my next project, theflatbushfiles.blogspot.com. This has been a real pleasure. To paraphrase a man I admire greatly, "The words and humor have been God's. Only the mistakes were mine."
Cheers!

19 November 2009
Chicago

Flatbush's Revenge

2009-11-19T11:21:00.000-08:00

Due to the success of my hip hop album and its number one track, “I Don’t Care What Everyone Else is Doing (Get You’re A** On Home)”, it was time to let the press get some face time with me, D.Addy. As you may recall, my last talk with the media did not go so well, with me being accused of not being a real Black man because my video showed a Black couple on a date in a restaurant without a wall posted menu. My Blackness was also questioned because I slipped and mentioned my divorce, which of course meant I had once been married. We know Black men do not marry. My street cred was shot to hell in just one afternoon.

It was obvious that I needed someone to run interference with those wily dogs of the media. Since I only know one real live publicist, and she charges money (the album didn’t do THAT well) I was forced to use those meager, questionable resources that I call friends.

Irwin, my attorney buddy, was busy. In addition to practicing law he is a local elected official for a small village that has tried, unsuccessfully for a couple of decades, to get its own post office. Irwin was drafting a brief to sue the US Post Office for discriminating against Black mail receivers. So he was a no go.

Irwin’s brother, Mo, is a cop. No. He is one of those tactical, M-16 carrying come-through-your- window-on-a-rope -like Shaft cops. As such, he has little patience for the press. After my last interview he gently chided me for not shooting the reporter. When I responded, “I don’t own a gun”, he looked at me as if I’d espoused bestiality. If I have him manage my interview, music reporting could quickly become a high risk job.

My buddy Mark was game, but after a reader suggested we run for governor of California as opposed to taking over a small country, he’s out west doing some due diligence. Plus, he’s a real sensible kind of guy. To boost sales he would have had me have carnal knowledge of a goat at McDonalds, and I ain’t going out like that.

Well, not yet.

My phone rang as I was pondering how to best deal with the media. It was Flat.

“McCallum!”

Flatbush Jones was just a bit too happy to talk to me.

“Uh, hey man. How you?”

“I’d be better, if you let me help you.”

“Say wha?”

When Flat starts talking really slow, enunciating every syllable, you know some bull is in the works. He’s like a drunken person that believes that if they speak slowly and loudly, they will appear sober, as opposed to drunk, retarded and loud.
“I know you’ve been working on this rap thing. Now, while I think you have it all wrong, you feel free to do your little thing and make a name for yourself. I think reaching out to the kids is cool. I think your little blog thing is OK, too, but honestly? Ain’t nobody trying to hear what you saying. The difference between you and me, McCallum, is you want things and people the way they should be. As a nigg…”

“Don’t go there.”

“OK. Fine. That’s part of the problem. You have a problem being what you are. I accept what and who I am, and trust me, life is just fine. You get your drawers in a bunch, talking about people know better. Of course they do! If they really wanted to DO better, they would.”

“What can I do for you, Flat?”

“Let me run your next interview. I got the publication lined up. Understand, you and your little rap/blog what have you really don’t warrant much, but you my boy. I can’t let you just go out like that.”

I agreed. Synchronicity, even with Flatbush P. Jones, is nothing to be ignored. I took down the address and agreed to meet him the next day.

I’ve never done any interviews in a basement apartment on the low end, but perhaps this is what was meant by “underground publication.”

The room was well lit, and an attractive woman sat down and smiled.

“This is really a pleasure…”

“No problem.”

“I mean, you turned to writing, with all you’ve accomplished…”

This made me feel a bit uncomfortable.

“How’s your family?”

“Good.”

“And your other family?”

Huh? Best to roll with it. Flat was nowhere in sight to screen these questions.

“Uh, everyone’s doing great.”

“Good! Look,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “I just want you to know that I always found you soooo sexy…You look SO good in uniform!”

What the hell?

“Let’s start the interview…” She slid into her seat and asked some very normal questions. It was quite positive. She shared how she had attended my alma mater, as a journalism student, and started her own publication. I was impressed. We had a very good conversation. A photographer took pictures of us sitting down, and one of me alone.

“So, how did I get this arranged?”

“Oh,” the interview over, she was back in vamp mode. If I’d been single, I would have pursued her. Something wasn’t right, though.

“Flatbush and I used to get together, you know?” She made a wringing motion with her hands.

“OK.”

“He really wants me to pub his collection of erotic stories: ‘Never Flat, Even though My Eyes Are Beady’."

Flat a writer? Who woulda thought? Although, if anyone would write something under that title, it’s be him.

“Well, that’s nice.”

“Flat’s not your level of celebrity, though. You know? I mean, you have history, and now you’ve got this positive rap thing and you’re writing under that name…”

“No. JD is my real name. It’s not a pseudonym…”

“I understand. No one in your work uses their real name.”

Huh?

“So anyway, I told Flat I’d give his lil book a mention if he could score me an interview, or even more, with you…”

Uh huh.

“Well, it’s been a real pleasure…”

“Pleasure was all mine…”

“Good luck with your writing, Big Sexy. Flat is SO lucky to have a friend like you. You’ve slimmed down quite a bit over the years too…”

Huh?

“Tell Flat I’ll be including his blurb…it’s not everyday I get to interview the father from ‘Family Matters’. You have a GREAT day!”

This ain’t over Flatbush. Your life is about to become a whole new blog. I got you, man. I got you.

Child Discipline New Millenium Style

2009-11-18T09:42:00.000-08:00

People need to learn a thing or two about disciplining their children.

Having taught at an alternative school for a number of years, I have witnessed my fair share of kids who are out of control. Kids who cuss you out. Kids who throw desks at you. Kids that want to fight you because it’s 9am and you are blowing their high with that strange thing called “Spelling”.

And those are the kids that like you.

Many of you would suggest going old school. Grabbing whatever is handy (notebook, eraser, brick) and hurling it at the youngster before completely losing your mind and jumping on said child’s head, hollering things like “You musta lost yo’ mind…” My mother had several of those moments during the Seventies, the era where women wore those ugly sandals with super hard wooden soles…

I learned something working with young people. You can only beat so much ass, and usually, with kids like my students, you’ll never do as thorough a job as gets done at home. I had kids who got to stay out all night but got wrecked for drinking the last of the Kool-Aid. I took a young man home once who begged me to drive past his house. This kid was hard as all get out. No amount of anything moved him.

When I explained that I had to take him to his house and leave him with an adult, he almost broke into tears. Minutes later, I understood why. Mom was sitting on the front porch sharing a forty and a blunt with some dude who couldn’t keep his hands off her extremities. No, “How was school?”, “Did lunch suck today?” or my personal favorite, “Did yo’ little friend’s momma ask about me?” Mom kept sipping and puffing. The guy kept fondling, not even acknowledging the kid. I mean, as a man I understand why he was preoccupied, but would it have hurt to say, “Hey man, left you some chips on the counter in there. We busy here on the porch having grown folks time. Go watch Sponge Bob.”

Be honest: What amount of butt whoopin’ is going to fix what’s wrong with that child? It was in his response, however, that I had an epiphany.

Please spare me the whole “My grandparents did it this way…” schtick.

There was a time when parents, especially Black parents, had to use very harsh forms of corporal punishment to drive points home. Because if your child crossed the line in that society, he might die. Period.

Even those circumstances didn’t produce the best results. Our grandparents raised the Baby Boomers, a generation so well disciplined it gave us the heads of the most notorious street gangs, the drug counter culture, and a general “It’s all about me” attitude.

I am not against disciplining children. I am forced, however, to quote Ali ibn Abi Talib (no, he was not a hijacker): Raise your children differently than you were raised because they are meant for a different time than you.

See, I’ve been looking at parents lately, and let me tell you something: my generation? We make some good looking moms and dads. Admit it. We dress well; we have all our own teeth. We are the reason butt beating doesn’t faze our kids, because we are entirely too cool to really lose it, a la Rita McCallum circa 1975.

So if we want to really get under our kids’ skin, we have to try another tactic.

Shame.

It used to be almost everybody’s parents were ugly. I mean, later in life, as you started to look like them, of course you drank the “My folks were really beautiful people” Kool Aid.

Now kids tell other kids at the drop of a hat, “Your mom is a five star hottie!” And they are not lying.

We gotta get away from that.

We have to save our children. Our appeal is hindering our effectiveness as parents.
Ladies, the next time you get called to the school, stop on your way home from work. Change out of your cute professional gear, and change out of your jewelry. Even the earrings. Roll around in the bed for about five minutes. Yes, baby. Wreck that do.
Then put on the oldest, most tattered undies you can find. Over that, I need you to put on a house coat. The old polyester kind you get from K-mart with a button missing between your bosom and your hips. You may have to alter it yourself. Put some fuzzy pink rollers in your hair, ditch your contacts and find your glasses. Gargle with some Nyquil.

Most importantly, put a cigarette in your mouth. Kools. Only Kools will do. Even if you don’t smoke, have one dangling from your lips and shove the pack into your tattered brassiere.

NOW go to the school, white men’s sweat socks rolled down and your feet jammed into old school slippers. When the principal asks you to come in, stand in the hallway instead, and only answer in grunts. Like, “Huh. Huhn? Hem!” Lean over and look your child in the eye often, showing the gap from the missing button and a bra that can only come from the Salvation Army.

The social devastation will allow you to impart many nuggets of wisdom on little Shay Shay the next time she wants to tell adults exactly what she will and won’t do. In fact, you may be able to convince her that boarding school is the way to go, after all. Yes, your relationship will change. You will now be forced to endure her groaning in fear whenever you leave the house together. This one event is worth a year’s worth of butt beatings.

I won’t leave Dads out. We never get much credit and we get the lousiest gifts ever, but we can make it up in spades.

Stop showing up to coach with your FUBU warm up and new Ones. That’s why Junior won’t listen. He sees you are cool, and he figures it’s on him to emulate that. That’s part of the problem. There is no separation between “child” and “adult” anymore.

First, we’re gonna stop hiding that gut. You earned it, it probably matches your wife’s (but she got an excuse, like childbirth). Lil man will stand up and listen intently to every word you utter the first practice you arrive in a t-shirt two sizes to small with a hole ripped just above the navel. If you are in good shape, wear one of those sleeveless t-shirts that show off those deodorant caked afros under your arms.

Enliven your ensemble with some old, super shiny sweat pants (you may have to buy new ones and wash repeatedly with sand and borax) and black dress shoes.

Let your fade get a bit rough. Better for you to jam a baseball cap with “Ty’s Manure Hauling” emblazoned on the front and one of those mesh areas that cover the back of your head. Think “Smokey and the Bandit” meets “Dolomite.”

Most important is your entrance. No more smoothly pulling up to the school or the game, sliding out your ride and sauntering over.

I personally prefer to make my car pretend like it is backfiring while blasting the sounds of one Barrence Eugene Carter. That’s Mr. White to ya’ll. Then I heave myself out with all of the aplomb of a high school linebacker gone soft and do an exaggerated daddy dance bop over to the game site. I punctuate every sentence with a high pitched, "Woo woo woo!" That's hard if you hear my voice, but what is parenting if not sacrifice?

At first, the other parents thought I was on drugs. Now they too are showing up in house coats and shiny dress shoes matched with sweats or shorts. We look like some damn clowns but our kids are very attentive and well behaved, without us having to go crazy, wear out our arms or be on hypertension medicine.

These are tough adjustments, but I believe in doing anything for the sake of our kids. So let’s stop all of this hollerin’, puttin’ kids on punishment and thinking we are really making a difference when administering whoopins. Be honest with yourself: you don’t have it the way your folks did, and shoot, even with their child beat down skills (read: ABUSE), what were the results? Man, we have more gangbangers and easy teenage girls than ever before.

I’m telling you, I’m on to something here.

Plus, just try and have Family Services haul you into court over embarrassing your kids, they way they try to get bold when you done put your hands on ‘em.

And if that don’t work, please.

Grab a belt and beat they behinds silly. In front of their friends. THAT’S always a winner. If you gotta go to court, make it for something entertaining.

How to Break Up with Someone

2009-11-11T10:35:00.001-08:00

A friend of mine is in the process of breaking up with her guy. Apparently, this individual is not the type of person likely to get why she’s leaving him. He’s smart, understanding, and the like. He just isn't for her, for a variety of reasons she shared but I will hold in confidence.

One thing that I advise friends, male and female alike, is that just because someone is a good person, that does not mean they are good for you. I know the likes of Steve Harvey and Terry McMillan (neither of whom should be allowed to write relationship books, in my opinion) would argue that most people out there are on game, but that's kind of like a certain group of well heeled leaders telling folk the crime and issues in their community ain't their fault.

It just isn't so.

Don't forget to put some cash in the plate, and we'll see you next again week to tell you how none of this is your fault.

I digress. There are good men and women out here. I have beaten this drum enough over the last year. There are scum buckets of each gender out here as well. Who you continue to end up with has more to do with your selection criteria and process than either gender's seemingly inherent flaws.

That said my friend is ready to exit her relationship. I support this move simply because as my friend, that is her right to do. If you aren't happy, make a change. Having acted as both dumper and dumped enough times in my 37 years, I thought I'd offer a bit of advice to make this transition smooth, easy and law enforcement free. In the end, a relationship is emotional, but a breakup is pure business. Keep it that way.

Rule #1: No breakup booty (we are all grown...we all know it happens...we all know it seldom changes anything). Nothing is worse than having someone you need to leave alone blow your mind. Or other parts of your body.

Rule #2: No public places. Unless he is a serial killer, and that is why you are breaking up with him. If his being a serial killer has had no impact on your relationship, and you are leaving him cuz he won't wash his behind or pick up his socks, no public places.

Rule #3: No hanging up on her. It's rude and confusing. Plus it might make her cry or more than likely, say something about your mother that will drive you to commit felony assault.

Don't call and have the happy, chirpy, "Hey!" tone in your voice. You are breaking up. This is business. Use the tone you use when your friend that always borrows money calls. Not quite telemarketer/bill collector, but not "Hey what's good, Babygirl?" either.

Don't wear the cologne she loves or those jeans he just dies to see. Be fair. Dress like you're going to a funeral, or even sweats. Don't look good for a break up. It's unfair. Ugly up as much as possible. Mention your new found crack habit if necessary.

Don't say "We have to talk." People know when it's over. You really don't want to talk, you need to make a declaration. You utter those words and you create a whole lot of anxiety on both ends. You're now anxious to tell them it's over and they're anxious, already knowing what's going on, and hoping it isn't so. You have created the relational equivalent of the pee-pee dance.

Do have certified funds for whatever money they have lent you. Don't be shysty about this. They lent you the loot under the guise of ya'll being together. You are no longer togehter. Give it back. If you cannot afford it, have a realistic payback plan and their address. This is a bill. Plan on mailing in all payments. How much face to face time do you give the gas company?

Do have the sit-down in person. Word of advice, though: wear track shoes, but leave any weapons at home. Some of the dumped like to fall out and foam at the mouth, and when the law shows, you need to be able to stand a frisk.

Don't go into detail about what a great person they are. It's just they are the wrong person for you? Please. A person leaving you does not add to your self esteem. Period. Without much emotion, just express that you choose not to continue the relationship. Explanation creates room for rebuttal. Rebuttal will get you off focus. Draw a cartoon if need be, but keep conversation to a minimum.

Regardless of what they say, don't get angry. You are bearing bad news. Be understanding. Also, you are assuring them they will have to hunt elsewhere for sex. That alone can really ruin a person's day.

Some of these rules, like ingredients in any good recipe, can be modified to taste.

Understand, as you are the dumper, you are in control. It behooves you to remain calm and professional, regardless of what invective you encounter. Richard Pryor once noted when his wife left him, that he retorted, "Fine! I'ma go get some new..."

The response? "If you had three more inches you'd find new here!"

Obviously, Mrs. Pryor didn't have the luxury of reading this blog; otherwise, she would not have been fodder for multimillion dollar comedy routines for years to come.

Leave without a hug or a handshake. "Goodbye" is sufficient, "Good luck" adds a nice touch.

Resist the urge to tell this person what ended the relationship. It is not your job to build a better person for the next individual. People are who they are, and probably are not going to change. The trick is for them to find someone who loves them for their quirks. Any changes they make are probably going to be temporary, and you'll be right back at square one. Plus, this can backfire. My friend Jamal left his girl because she is overweight. She got in shape and is now a personal trainer who sleeps with all of his friends.

Once the breakup has set in, remember to avoid being in their presence while under the influence. More break-ups that are starting to solidify come undone this way.

Finally, it is best, in my opinion, to sever all contact with the person once you leave. Don't take her phone calls. Vary your daily routine. If he shows up on your doorstep, find your BB gun. The usual "get back in" is the old, "Can't we at least be friends?" No. You can't. If you really think they want friendship, try telling them about how much you enjoy sex with your new partner. Most of your friends will listen, or at least be envious. Not so in this case. Friends are usually people you haven't enjoyed naked. Remember that.

Breaking up with someone can be very hard to do, but there's no reason it can't be calm, professional, and eventually, a win-win experience for all concerned.

Oh, I almost forgot: When they win the lottery/sign a pro contract/inherit Uncle Abu's sizeable porn industry fortune, don't be funky when they refuse to take your calls. It's just business.

Also remember: if you're married and you do this, hire a lawyer. If you're engaged, prepare to enter the Witness Protection Program. I warned you.

My Story and I'm Sticking to It

2009-11-05T06:29:00.000-08:00

Coming to a Country Near You

2009-11-04T09:49:00.000-08:00

My buddy Mark and I have had an understanding since college. The day would come when I would take over some small country in need of a dictator, set up a bunch of my friends in plush government positions, and then place myself under house arrest in my mansion while one of my guys takes over.

It could happen.

Mark hit me up on Facebook this morning. Apparently, the lousy economy and the onset of another Chicago winter has Mark rethinking this undergraduate fantasy.

“Look,” Mark started, “There is an absence of real leadership in so many countries. This could be our chance to get paid. We’re gonna need a twist, though. Instead of you running the show, you’re gonna need a front man.”

“Excuse me. This was my idea. Why am I going to need a front man?” I was picturing myself posing for my presidential portrait, Ruqayyah, Katherine and J smiling around me, my dogs being still and obedient for once.

“So you can pull the puppet strings. Shadow governing is where it’s at. Who wants to be the figurehead? Be the man behind the man. Be like Don King with Mike Tyson. Only you don't your dummy say whatever he wants.”

I though about that for a bit. Man, this thing has promise.

“Our issue,” Mark continued, “is who is ripe for takeover?”

“Oh,” I responded, “We’re destabilizing governments in the name of democracy and profit all over the place. It’s a big planet. Choose somewhere. Do some research?” Then I added a caveat. “I wanna live somewhere the seasons change.”

“Done.”

“I can’t do hot year round. I can’t lead the place less it’s full of Black folk and we act a fool when it’s hot. Plus, I like to wear blazers. Hot is out.”

Mark mused, “How about the middle east? Like, near Afghanistan, but not quite?”

“Hell naw. For a variety of reasons.”

“You may be right J. Plus, we need someplace where they got babes. Hard to figure your babe factor if you’re covered up.”

“You’re the only one who needs to worry about babes. I got mine. You know what, though? My lady has nice legs. First act as president, I’ll outlaw long skirts and slacks.”

“Good, I need to see some ankle. Maybe some ankle and shin. Bhurkas are out, and we’re just taking over the government and looting the country. We don’t want any social upheaval. OK. Rule Number One: No national dress code except the elimination of long skirts and slacks. The nakeder the better.”

“Ok. Should keep my enemies busy. Oh, we’ll allow jeans, too. Sistas can wear hell outta some jeans. Now, look, Mark, I want us to be open to capitalism. I need some World Bank loans to finance my extensive Archie comic collection.”

“What the hell? What kind of militant Black leader reads...forget it...Again, if we go north of Afghanistan, the United States could pay us off to use the country as a point of easy interest. They invade, bomb the place, and by the time they're done, we're rich and can leave just before they pull out.”

“Naw. I don’t trust DC. Just our luck they pull out midway through our looting. This is like any other investment. It has to be for the long haul to really pay off. Plus, I don't want the Afghanis mad at me. They almost as tough as the Israelis.”

I heard Mark punching calculator buttons. “They won't know. You're just the Minister of Information, remember? Don’t forget the plan. The fall guy will take the blame. The rest of us are just victims of a corrupt dictatorship.”

“Man, don’t bet on it. The Afghanis know all. They’re scarier than the Mafia. Is there anywhere in the Mediterranean we can take over?”

“Perhaps.”

“That’s probably safer. Sounds better. Plus the food is really good.”

“Ok, that’s fair, but the Mediterranean doesn’t offer extensive desirable natural resources that China can exploit.”

“You’re right, Mark…I wanna be cool with the Chinese, too.”

“You think? Hmmm…what gave that away? Them becoming THE world economic power?”

“There’s that. Plus, they can show us how to counterfeit stuff. It’s all about the bottom line, baby.”

“Damn good idea, McCallum.”

“Seven years of college homey. I can count! Also, I need a side hustle for my lady while my kids are in expensive European boarding schools. I want the Red Cross to name her like, nicest lady or something. She looks good in red and white. Now comes the hard part. We need someone dumb enough to be our puppet.”

“Hmmm…We need natural resources, trade alliances with world powers, some IMF loot and a World bank loan, and most importantly, a dumb puppet…Is W available?”

"Who's Minister of Defense? I want someone hard ass. The Moshe Dayan of the Afro people. I know this sista I used to date who could hold it down. I was gonna name my boy Tyrone, he crazy. See, then I figured he could be assistant minister. He'd wanna nuke folk over nothing. My minister will be more laid back, but when we met with foreign governments, if they tried to get hard, we could give them a choice: negotiate with Ty or someone more reasonable."

"First, we need a puppet for president. I'm happy you wanna nuke the world we intend to exploit. Maybe later."

“Honestly, Mark, I was thinking Flatbush would be good.”

“I gave that some thought, but Flat only plays dumb.”

“You talked to him lately?”

“Think about it. You can't hustle for as long as he has and be completely stupid.”

“Again, have you actually talked to him lately? He’s getting worse. True. He wants Black folk to now refer to themselves as ‘Afliens’. Not getting caught that often don't make you a genius. We can handle him.”

“No, but not getting caught makes you smart enough to know when someone is trying to play you. Actually, I was thinking Irwin.”

“Irwin is a small town politician with a struggling law practice…”

“He’d be good. More money, less accountability. He probably needs a break from being responsible. Plus, the rumor is he walked his last client to Death Row talking some, ‘It ain’t that bad…just a prick and then you fall asleep.’ No, we put Flatbush in charge of trade negotiations. Exploit him for what he's good at. Irwin will jump at the chance to be in charge of something and make a decent buck.”

“Eventually, though, when either the revolution comes or other governments get involved, they’re gonna execute our puppet. I like Irwin.”

“We’ll have Irwin deposed in a friendly coup. He will be succeeded by Flat. Flat will be executed. We’ll openly support amnesty for him from exile but in reality we’ll push for death. The slower the better.”

“That’s harsh, Mark. It’s been ten years.”

“He did something funny to my sister. More importantly, he still owes me for dinner at Izola’s that time.”

“You too?”

“This is business.”

The Name Game

2009-10-27T13:41:00.000-07:00

I think it’s time for a new name.

By my math, Black folk in America have been “African Americans” for dang near two decades.

Now, let’s see, we were “Black” for about two decades before that.

We were “Negroes” for a long while before that. There was a short period where we were ‘Afro Americans” between “Negro” and “Black”, but that was kind of a fad. Kind of like lava lamps.

It’s time for a new name.

I kind of want the input of so called Black leadership, since they value the style of what we are called over the substance of what we become.

When I put out feelers, however, I was rebuffed and learned these individuals have become a newly named race unto themselves.

I think it’s called “Paid”.

Back to the drawing board.

Desperate as I was, I put in a call to none other than Flatbush Jones.

Flat had been low key lately. I had to track him down through Baby Momma Number Two, who had an email address for Current Girlfriend Number Nineteen, who was angry with him and sent me to Current Girlfriend Sixteen, who, it turns out, had a burnout cel number for Flat that he had just swiped from Threesome Partner Number Four.

“Who dis?”

“Flat?”

‘Yeah, who dis?”

“It’s me. JD.”

“Heeeey, McCallum! I was just thinking about you!”

“Hey, man. What you up to?”

“I been thinking about our people, man, and that last conversation we had.”

Uh-Oh. Please no Homey King discussions.

“Oh. OK. Look, Flat, I been thinking, Black people need a new name…”

“Funny you should mention that. Me and the bros here been on that same thing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. After we all got together and did that mass wave to urge the kids to school on the first day, we sat down and formed a committee to see how we could best further our people.”

Pushing for education? Collective support of each other’s businesses? Basic respect for each other?

“We really thought Black people could step into the new millennium correctly if we had a better name.”

Oh. Man, haven’t been in the new millennium for ‘bout a decade? So, what are your suggestions?

“Well, we thought, initially, that our new name should showcase WHO we are as a people. African Americans? What the hell we got to do with America? What we do in America?”

Hmmmm…A buncha years of free labor produced many inventions we take for granted? We built the economic infrastructure of the place? I shouldn’t mention those one or two cultural things that we provided that, hmmm, influenced culture in the whole damn country?

“We were thinking “Kemetics”. Like the old Egyptians? I mean, we did some stuff in Egypt. We built pyramids, pioneered space flight, and built the pyramids! That’s some stuff which could make Black Americans proud!”

Um, ancient Egypt is probably the biggest example of Black on Black crime in history. A Black ruling class enslaved a bunch of Black people in a horrible fashion and made those slaves build the same pyramids, then murdered the survivors so they could have slaves in the afterlife. That’s a couple thousand years ago, though…
“OK…how about we revert to tribal names? We find the name of some defunct tribe and use that?”

Huh? Just what we want, to remind our brothers and sisters worldwide of the decimation of an entire group of people?

“Strong is a good name too…”

“Strong?”

“Describes us to a tee. ‘Strong’. One word. Powerful. Resolute."

Dude, that’s stupid. I can see the news now. “Today, in the news, on Chicago’s South Side, two members of the Strong community were arrested for attempting to stick up a corner store with a gun made of soap…”

“Well, you know, the task force was brainstorming on that one. Try this on for size: Sepia.”

No.

“OK, Brother Smakamu came up with this one: Atramentous.”

That’s the boy copied the dictionary while in the joint?

“Yeah, he only got 60 days, so he only made it through the “A’s”.

I shook my head.

“Ya’ll must have a lot of downtime at work or something. Geez. How do you come up with this stuff?”

Silence.

“Oh.”

“Brother, we are taught that a name means everything. Without the proper name, something can not aspire to be what it really is.”

“Oh.”

“Because you are caught up with the white man’s idea of how things should be labeled, you don’t understand.”

No. I do. I hate the fact that spoons are called, well, “spoons”. There isn’t a better name than that? Why do I use something daily and I have no say in what it is named?

‘Our original African names are a prime example. What could we do if we were named properly.”

“My daddy named me. His named him. It was fair. I named my kid. We all got the same name. Easy to spell.”

“But if you had the right name…”

“We’ve been here before. No dice. Looking at the numbers Black folk were doing better amongst ourselves when we had to respond to “colored”. When we “African Americans”, we stomping each other to death on 111th and blaming the white man for it.”

“Well, we’re not doing “colored.” Nobody colored me.”

“And Flat, you ain’t never been to Africa…”

“The man keeps us from wanting to go home…”

“The man makes millions flying jets in and out of the continent every day. So give: I know your committee came up with this new name. What is the name that is supposed to help us reach our glory?”

“First, we have to break it down: We are the descendants of Africa…”

“True…”

“And we are alien to this land…maybe this world…the ancient Egyptians pioneered space travel. Didn’t you see The Fifth Element? That part of it was true. W may be so superior because we are from outside this galaxy and chose, upon arriving, to live in the most resource rich place on this orb. THIS name describes us and will allow us to be given our place in history.”

“Give.”

“Afliens.”

Silence.

“Outkast was playing?”

“It was a marathon on BET.”

Hmmmmm....Perhaps Clarification is in Order

2009-10-26T21:12:00.000-07:00

I was working on an essay regarding the racial naming of Black folk when an old friend caught me on Facebook. She was a bit disappointed with my “Hell to da Naw” posting. Another reader whose opinion I really value made mention of the fact that I painted Black women with a broad brush, and that was unfair.

Now, for the record: I haven’t beaten any female up. I haven’t called any woman out their name (well, I have a friend I refer to as “Butthead”, but that’s mutual.) Please don’t do the “We’ll destroy you a la C. Delores Tucker” thing.

I wrote down some words based on what I saw. I haven’t perfected this word thing, though, so yeah, I admit, perhaps what I meant and what I wrote weren’t quite in sync.

The gist of my essay was this: “Brothas Ain’t S**t” was a cottage industry for a while. There were enough knuckleheads to justify it. True. Pookie. Tyrone. Broke Ass Ray Ray. Their cousins and uncles. What I noticed, though, and I went from a teen to a grown man while this cottage industry was thriving, was that seldom were there real defenses of the men who aren’t those losers. There were some pretty decent guys out there. Be real: enough of ya’ll dated them, married them, they were your dads, your brothers, your nephews. You knew super promiscuous Armaniqua, Airhead Cassandra and ball breaking Patrice existed. You were quick to tell us “I don’t like her…she ain’t good enough for you.”

Now, where was all of this defense and revelation that we existed when certain writers, TV producers and film directors were making gazillions painting everyday guys like somehow, we were all part of the problem? One a them movies damn near coulda funded the launching of a space shuttle, so many tickets were sold.

I understand some folk felt that perhaps I oversimplified the dynamics between Black men and women. Perhaps. I can admit that. I can also admit to pointing out there are two feet that can wear shoes. Let me tell you: those dynamics don't seem oversimplified to the guys on the receiving end. I was one of them. It was funny when the women in your life were willing to look out for you but were unwilling to go against the collective.

I am blessed with a ton of female friends, and they know I love them all, but there’s always this weird silence when I point out the double standards.

So let’s try this again. Bear with me. I am getting older and sometimes humor comes off as just plain meanness. We all got our faults.

Once upon a time, there was a little mean ass fairy named Nippy. Nippy was pretty and could sing her heart out. Nippy was friends with another little fairy, Wobin, and together they enjoyed the fruits of Nippy’s success. One day, Nippy met a real slow bear named Bob. Bob was pretty slow, no, wait…Bob was damn near comatose, and he was so dumb. Nippy and Bob got married. Using the fact that (1) Bob was SLOW and (2) Bob was a bear, and bears were quite unpopular at the time, Nippy was able to hide her mean fairy ways from the rest of the forest. Whenever Nippy would get particularly mean, Bob would go do something, well, Bobbish. After all, he was pretty much his own worst enemy. He wa a walking disaster waiting to happen.

That doesn’t make Nippy an angel. She was still the meanest fairy everyone knew, but she made a bunch of gnomes a lot of clover, and they were willing to let the world think Nippy was a nice fairy, even though she and Bob would beat each other up when he gulped fermented honey and she blew really good pixie dust. Eventually, everyone ganged up on Bob and believed in the gnomes’ magic: Nippy WAS a nice fairy! Why is she losing so much weight? Where is her voice? If she is so smart, why did she marry Bob, of all people? Why a bear at all? She’s such a NICE fairy! That ol’ Bob! Bears really, really suck! All fairies are good, nice fairies, but those bears…even the good ones are kinda bad, and she chose the worst one available…

One day Bob found his own group of gnomes, and they bankrolled him to tell everything he knew about Nippy, AND Robin, and blow the lid on the gnomes’ whole damn con. Bob has an axe to grind. Some of that may be legit. Bear in mind, though, Popeye the sailor would beat Bob in an IQ contest. Bob has never been good with money. He is not the average bear. This is not going to turn out well for Bob, Nippy, nor the dwellers of the forest.

On the edge of the forest sat a handsome yet bigheaded bear that favored cashmere blazers, French cologne and tortoises hell glasses. Truth be told, he favored the darker female folk in the fairy galaxy (although his was kinda yellow), but that’s another story. He sat banging away in his tree on his laptop, musing on things that didn’t seem quite fair. He had his issues, but he wondered why he and his fellow bears all got lumped into the same “bad bear” category, but no one was willing to question whether some fairies were good fairies, like Frankie and Brenda, and some were just mean toads with wings, like Nippy. It seemed to this extraordinarily astute bear that perhaps he should write about it.

Perhaps, however, he should have had some fermented honey himself that night. Had he done that, he would have relaxed, and remembered: by and large, his readers were pretty hip. He was preaching to the choir. The very people who couldn’t discern good fairies from bad were reading other sites and jumping onstage at awards shows, making asses of themselves and besmirching the name of the Chicago forest. Or writing books about bad bears before realizing the bear they married were same bear oriented. Or were bears who got a kick out of destroying their own communities and stepping over good fairies. No, the bespectacled bear reasoned, perhaps everyone didn’t realize how bad a rap bears got ‘cause of dummies like Bob and meanies like Nippy. He should’ve known better. Smart folk don’t generalize. Usually. Ya know what, though? We all know the bad bears are out there. And we all know that even glowing songbird fairies can be rotten to the core. Lastly, we all realize that pretending those people don’t exist just isn’t as smart as plain staying away from them.

He dropped his pen, so went the glory and this is the way I have to end this story…

Hell to Da Naw!

2009-10-24T07:26:00.001-07:00

Bobby Brown has written a book.

Well, I’m sure there were other folk who wrote it. But the Bobster had a story to tell, and publishers, the honorable, ethical lot they are (remember what Q-Tip said about record company people? Ditto publishers) were only too happy to print what the star of “Being Bobby Brown” had to say.

Funny, while I don’t want to read the book, I’m kind of happy Bobby wrote it.

Let’s be honest: white people in general, and Black women in particular, were willing to believe that poor, pure Whitney fell in with the wrong kind of Black man, and he dragged her down.

I never bought it, though.

I remember Ebony magazine quietly pointing out when it covered their wedding that ol’ Whit was several years Bobby’s senior.

I also remember seeing some interviews with the King of Stage, and, well, how can I put this nicely? He didn’t strike me as the brightest bulb in the box.

Hence my sneaking suspicion that perhaps a ghostwriter may have been involved in this project. Just a thought. I got a feeling ol’ Bob had someone recite his lyrics to him for memorization, back in the day. “Prerogative” is a long one to read. Draw your own conclusions.

I think Bobby was thrown a loop by Whitney.

She’s older, she’s obviously infinitely smarter. She’s way more aggressive.

A quote from Bobby’s book states, “Now, I realize Whitney had a different agenda than I did when we got married... I believe her agenda was to clean up her image…”

You think, Robert?

Here is a girl from the hood. Straight from Joysey, ya’ll. The projects of Newark. Brick City ya’ll! Her professional life is the product of a truly blessed voice and some spin that would make a top envious.

Clive Davis and company sold America on this beautiful songbird, and you know you don’t kill the goose that lays that golden egg.

If Bobby and Whitney are so incompatible, if he was such a bad boy and she was such an angel, how did they wind up together?

Don’t tell me women like bad boys. Bobby is definitely not the sharpest blade, but he’s no DMX. He’s an overgrown kid who was with a boy group, which means he was used to being taken advantage of from way back. His career fell off and he never figured out how to grow up.

Part of my “Hey, I don’t think it was all Bobby” mentality stems from two things.

First, the cable show, “Being Bobby Brown.” I saw a guy who was his wife’s, ah, well; it rhymes with “itch.”

He seemed to be a decent enough dad. Without a doubt, he loved his kids.

He also seemed to be a guy that was stuck. His wife paid the bills, his career was fifteen years in the toilet, and he was aging badly.

Bobbo often appeared quite drunk at times, as well.

Everybody ignored Newport chain smokin’, “Hell to than naw!”in, cussin’, flakin’ out Whitney. Beautiful? Yes. Five words out her mouth, though, and it was obvious Ms. Whitney ain’t exactly Lark Voorhies.

In fact, I wondered how often Whitney punked Bobby in real life, off air. She had it like that.

My 9 year old son probably woulda punked Bobby, too, and he ain’t the punking type.

The second thing that made me reconsider this relationship was the book, “Bad Girl, Good Girl” by Kevin Ammons, who was a Houston bodyguard who worked quite closely with Princess Nippy and her family. Ammons contended years back that Houston was an angry, drugged out nut job that’s truly ghetto attitude was passed down from her father, John, a hustler among hustlers.

According to Ammons, Bobby wasn’t much of a dopehead (that’s like being halfway pregnant). That was Whitney. Bobby, it appeared, was a drunk. That jibes with the episode of “BBB” that shows our hero going to visit one of his kids and popping the top on a Bud at somewhere around 10am. Word of advice, buddy: While it IS America’s beer, it’s probably NOT the breakfast of champions. There’s wheat in it, though.

What’s behind all of this?

I just wanted to say this: the empress wears no clothes.

What I saw happened to Bobby Brown happened to an awful lot of Black men over the last several years.

The public ganged up on them. Why shouldn’t they? For about a decade, Black women had a field day. Everything wrong with society was Black men’s fault, and the women that bore them, had their babies, and looked like them cosigned without discrimination. Black women had a better lobby than the Israelis. You could criticize, shame and damn Black men all you wanted, but if you even questioned what you saw Black women do with your own eyes, the results could be serious. The spin machine painted a picture that every Black woman was a God-fearing, struggling single parent doing the best she could to compete professionally in a world where her own men didn’t want her. They had no choice but to hook up with dopehead losers who beat them and fathered a bunch of kids out of wedlock. If it happened to Whitney Houston, you know it was happening to Shaniqua and Jerron.

White America was more than happy to have a new excuse for, “I’m not racist, but…” If your own women will throw you under the bus, why shouldn’t we? Why shouldn’t we believe them?

I'm not saying forget irresponsible Tyrone and his loser homies Pookie and Man-Man. And don’t forget Broke Ass Ray Ray.

The problem is that everyone conveniently forgot super promiscuous Armaniqua, she of the four babies by five daddies fame. No one wanted to remember Airhead Cassandra, who consistently chose the wrong man based on the wrong things, or ball breaking Patrice, who saw nothing wrong with soaking every guy she could for as much as she could take and still professing it was her right as an independent woman t play the field. Keep it real. Most of us were related to, involved with or friends with these women, but we never saw them on Oprah. We just saw poor Whitney. So talented, so beautiful, and doomed to such a hard life with ol’ whatsisface.

Hmmm…let’s do some math. She made the money. She owned the stuff. She had the career. She has the looks. She had the guts.

If she was there, she wasn’t stuck. It’s because she wanted to be.

Being charitable, not so bright drunken fornicatin’ dopehead losers are pretty easy to control, especially when you’ve made it to the top in a tough as nails business.

Historically, social pendulums swing both ways. I have noticed a quiet trend lately, in family court, in writings, and in public attitude, that the days of “You poor Black woman, how bad you have it!” are coming to an end, and the final result may be socially disastrous.

Although Kevin Ammons’ book was published in 1998, I don’t think it got anywhere near the press Mr. Houston’s, oops, Mr. Brown’s, will.

I also got the feelings a lot of Ammon’s juicer dirt wound up on the editor’s floor. Not so this time around.

You heard it here first: after almost twenty years of watching, listening and laughing while Black women tore Black men apart, mainstream society is pulling a 180, and is going to get their entertainment watching the hunters get hunted.

I don’t think it’s going to be very productive.

We all got some issues. There is dirt under all of our fingernails. Basking in the glow of someone else’s praise while we side with them on their issues with us isn’t productive. We have to find other ways to address the things that keep us from being who we want to be without this Willie Lynch mentality.

Putting ourselves on front street, though, isn’t the way to do it.

Neither is falling for the okeydoke.

There is a saying in the Quran: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Let’s remember that this time around. Anyone who sides with you against your own probably doesn’t have your best interests at heart. Best to work out family business within the family, at home.

2009-10-22T11:14:00.000-07:00