Chase them crazy bald heads outta the town…

So, it appears that some fellows from the Duke lacrosse team took it upon themselves to be utterly heinous a few nights ago toward an exotic dancer they had hired for a private party. In the midst of what has been a beautifully insane month of college athletics, these guys took it upon themselves to bring about a disgusting and ugly version of insane. The dynamics for drama are all there: privileged white kids, poor black girl, southern town, alleged sexual attacks and violations. I wish I could say Toni Morrison made this up, but alas, this is non-fiction.

The last few days, I’ve been rather conflicted about the whole incident. So many feelings are assaulting my heart and head that I feel, even now in writing, I do little justice to the situation or emotions that it brought about. On the one hand, assuming a rape indeed took place, I think the actions of those three individuals speaks to who they are as people. In that sense, they not only disrespected their team, but they also disrespected a sport that prides itself on class. If you don’t believe me, stick around after a game and watch as grown-ass men say “rah rah, (insert other team name)” before leaving the field. It’s like that. It’s a gentlemen sport, but now, it will never be able to regain its seemingly pristine reputation. I say seemingly because, underneath those pastels is a culture that does not necessarily befit the reputation of the sport.

Before I go any further, let’s get something clear: I still love my lacrosse duns. They hold me down and I do not think this incident reflects on them as individuals. Now, one can never say for certain that they know the evil that lurks in the heart of men, but I can say I don’t think my dudes have that sort of horrendous behavior in them. My issue at this point is with the darker ethos of lacrosse culture. As someone who used to play the game, I became increasingly aware of the thing that makes laxers both admired, and reviled: they truly believe that they can do whatever they want. They walk into the bar, fist pumping to Bon Jovi and do something funny/rude/outrageous/tasteless and we shrug and just say “lax team.” Game, however begrudgingly, recognizes game. If they like you, cool; if not, you ain’t shit and they let you know it. Again, these are qualities we hold in macabre esteem. I at least know I’m guilty of it. But sometimes, those traits careen across the line of human decency.

Now, there are those that will argue that rape is not part of that ethos and quality set.I would readily agree with that sentiment . However, in a culture that feeds off of believing one is sicker than thou, how soon is it before people truly get hurt? I’m no social scientist, but I’m willing to bet that true rapist- as in people who get their jollies off of forcing themselves on women- are rare. The odds of three rapists of that caliber being on the same team is even more rare. The tragedy is not that these dudes were rapists; rather, it is that they took ‘I can do what I want’ to the pinnacle of villany.

Am I apologizing for these guys? For such a question to be put on the table is outlandish. Though I lack most human decencies, the ones I retain include a doctrine against pounding chicks against their will. I guess my issue is the nature of class and race in the situation. When you peel back the layers of this onion, you can’t help but weep. What is unique about lacrosse culture is not the ‘sicker than thou’ dogma; just about everyone on a sports team thinks they’re a little cooler because of it. The interesting thing about lacrosse is that those that play can, by and large, back up their claim at Bank of America. This is a game of privilege. From a practical standpoint, you need dough just to play the game. And since the activities of people with dough attracts other people with dough, you soon have a caked out culture. This is a culture that is fairly small and extremely well-connected. There’s a reason that lacrosse is considered and East Coast thing. It’s also no accident that all the schools considered powerhouses are academically prestigious as well. I’m fairly sure no other sport has more teams in the academic top 25 than lacrosse. What’s my point? That this culture of was not plucked from thin air. In fact, it’s part of an even greater social structure that is governed by the Latin phrase “we run thangs.” If you wanna know something about lacrosse culture, take a gander at the parking lot on some Saturday this spring.

Still, the issue of race is not a factor I can ignore. In fact, it adds to the sadness of the whole thing. I have little doubt that if this hadda been a white girl, them dudes woulda tossed her around too. In my opinion, the racial issue here is more subtle. Though I’m under the impression that racial perjoratives were being thrown about earlier in the evening, I think people’s perception of the prejudice is a bit off. It’s not to say these kids “didn’t mean it” because, especially when the booze comes out, I think people say what they think. However, I’m coming from the position that this is not Lowndes County racism, but rather ‘I know few to no Black people, so I’ll say something ignorant because it’s outlandish and saying outlandish things makes me siiiiiick.’

Growing up in New England, that’s what I encountered. People didn’t really have the gall to call me “nigger”; in fact, I don’t know that they ever really thought it. It was more like being a small pterodactyl. Now, if you were to walk outside and see a small pterodactyl standing in your driveway, you’d probably be extremely curious about it. You’d also be scared, but probably more curious and your fear would subside as you realized the pterodactyl wasn’t going to do something nuts. Still, that doesn’t mean you trust any other pterodactyls you happened by on the street; they are to be observed from a distance and that’s ok because you already know one pterodactyl and you’re pretty sure he’s not like the others though you have nothing to base that assumption on. The guys on this Duke team know one pterodactyl for sure, but I’m willing to bet they know few others and I can’t help but feel that helped shape the events of the night. I doubt this attack was fueled by pernicious hate. I doubt it was fueled by anything more than “just because.” We should all find it somewhat alarming that more than a few people said that when they heard the news, they were not terribly surprised.

A few points before I go and feel morose about this:

1. The cops should have tested the one Black guy on the team just to avoid the controversy now. However, there seems to be a thinly-veiled argument that, although the girl said her assailants were white, she should not be believed. Let me hip you guys to something: Black people have been known to get each other’s back from time to time, but I’m pretty confident that if he hadda pounded this chick in her ass against her will, his Black Appreciation Card would have expired right about then. That’s just me.

2. The facts are not all out, but some early speculation has been that she’s trying to extort these guys. Although preliminary evidence has shown a rape probably took place, no one can be certain. Let me just say this: those guys better pray the worst that happens is not having enough dough for the grand kids because if they get convicted, the inmates won’t take too kindly to rich white boys that abused a poor black girl. It’s kinda like ‘A Time To Kill’ except they might get sodomized first.

3. At Duke, the lax team is probably only one step behind the hoop team in the Birds That Will Willingly Bang Us Department. I’m slightly baffled as to why this happened at all.

4. I feel bad for the one Black guy on the team. The tug of war between team and ‘team’? It is an easy choice in my opinion, but certainly not an easy existence. For the rest of the squad, I just have to wonder when team solidarity goes wrong.

Rape, in many instances, is about power and privilege. Fucking someone who doesn’t wanna be fucked just because you can is, apparently, intoxicating. It matters little about the body; a spirit was violated and I don’t know that it can be recovered. At the end of the day, we don’t know the facts. If the facts are true, then one young woman’s life has been irrepairably damaged by three animals. If the facts are true, then these low-lifes just made their teammates’ lives hard and made my man Tap’s life a little more difficult. There are great things about this game. It is certainly the sport I loved best. I just don’t know if the game’s reputation or its accompanying culture will be the same after this point. I can only pray that the state of North Carolina does the right thing. Peace to Tim Trautman.

Penultimate Thought: …

Final Thought: …

Every fourth quarter, I like to Mike Jordan ‘em…

So, because my dean is a knocked-up Rusky lunatic who comes from the Michael Brown School of Situational Administration, I had to call the Last Real Niggas Alive when she attempted to jerk me during room draw. For those of you who don’t go to schools that heads of state go to, room draw is that lovely institution gauntlet known to ruin friendships and brings about a foaming of the mouth not seen since that kid had to shoot Old Yeller (admit it. That shit was sad). Honestly though, all is well in the world of the residential college until, a few weeks after Spring Break, you pull number 143 of 145 in the lottery, thus relegating you to the 5th floor of H with that curious Asian fellow you always see in the computer lab. This year’s draw was especially controversial because well, my dean’s a knocked-up Rusky lunatic who has little to no problem assuming zero responsibility for the boondoggle that was room negotiations and the like.

To wit: she left people out to dry when others, dissatisfied with the deals being brokered, complained. People who wanted doubles (meaning 2-room suites with a makeout foyer before you seal the deal) made deals with people who had doubles. During these transactions, where nice stand-alone singles and players to be named later were exchanged, ole Anna Karennina, in her capacity as glorified babysitter, allowed these goings on to take place. However, when the block got hot, this lady, who has a PhD in something or other (probably Ruskyism), was exposed as foreign at best, imbecilic at worst. Still, she actually had the gall and audacity to have her own rulings overturned in a plebiscite.

Even worse, she did this after making my girl Ashley Banks have a nice little Atticus Finch moment in front of the senior class in the hopes that her friends, Romans and countrymen would lend their ears in sympathy. Ashley was by all accounts, nervous; she had no choice but to stand as the representative for her group seeing as her cohort, Bourbon Street, is muy campo (word to my Castilian duns). By the by: after the class decided the dean’s ruling should be overturned because deals for “choice” rooms should not be made without the class’ knowledge, the girls ended getting the exact same rooms due to the fact that no one took the rooms the girls had made a deal for in the first place. So basically, the senior class made them re-draw numbers on principle. I’m of the opinion that, if you’re gonna be dick enough to shove someone’s face into a doo-doo pie, you should make them eat it as well.

Anyway, Mrs. Drago was really trying to jerk me on my rooming situation. Though she knows I have no plans on being here passed May of 2007 anymore than I have plans to throw a giraffe 71 yards, she acts like she can just put me in the junior class room draw. Mind you, this is after I drew in the senior room draw and with the awareness that I, like so many blue chippers before me, will forego my final semester and declare for the Life Draft. You would think she’d have learned her lesson considering I blacked out on her, High Life hat and all, the first day of move-in this year. All them bloc nation years musta stunted her growth or something. I don’t know. What I do know is that I got Wickford Middle up in that mufucka real quick.

Up until a few days ago, I was generally of the opinion that if you: can legally and patriotically drink Budweiser in the lower 48, remember the original Ghostbusters cartoon or have ever considered not voting in a presidential election because you were tired from a day of retail, phone calls to the people responsible for your existence regarding stuff this ain’t that serious are generally wack. Then I realized that, in circumstances where you are dealing with knocked-up Rusky lunatics and/or insensitive math teachers, it’s important to have people that said Rusky-teachers will not try to have intercourse with.

 Without these equalizers, we all know that these lunatic Ruskies and/or insensitive math teachers would just continue to talk extra greasy. Frankly, I’m trying to keep my cholestrol down. Fuck what you heard, mama and papa bear look out for the best interest of their client; namely, you. And if it turns out that they don’t actually like you, they’re still looking out for their money and investment, so either way, it’s working out for your broke-ass like gangbusters. The Last Real Niggas Alive: Lawyers that I don’t pay. Peace to Mister Merkel.

Penultimate Thought: I hate writing in pencil.

Final Thought: You don’t see bumper stickers on luxury vehicles.

My girl pinched my hip to see if I still exist…

When Denzel Washington wakes up some mornings, I’m willing to bet that he walks to his cavernous master bathroom, looks at his perfectly symmetrical visage in the glass and says, ” 3 6 Mafia has one less Academy Award than I do.” Whether he does his patented ‘one tear hard cry’ I cannot say. However, I can say that gold-toothed, country-fried rap has found an immortal place in the Academy of Arts and Sciences and I couldn’t be more thrilled about it. They were deserving in their victory. As their driving yet melodic arrangement pumped through the super-futuristic THX speakers in movie theaters from our nation’s capital to Spokane, viewers understood, however briefly, how hard it truly is out there for a pimp. Whether you deal in the gritty business of prostitution or hedge fund consulting, 3 6 reminded us that pimpin’, in whatever form it’s done, ain’t easy.

Still, there was something troubling about this moment for me. After the fact, I couldn’t help but notice how many people were asking each other, “How did you feel about 3 6 winning?” Considering the songs it was up against, I guess I felt nothing about it; their song was the one that best fit with the motion picture that accompanied it, regardless of genre or artist. The Academy, which, the last time I checked, is not predominately Black nor influential in hip hop, nonetheless recognized this and handed out the award accordingly. When I mentioned this, the inquisitors generally shrugged and agreed, transitioning to another topic of conversation. As the question continued to be asked, I began to realize what was at issue. This was not about the fact that a song entitled “It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp” won; rather, it’s that people took exception with 3 6 Mafia winning.

Few will come out and say it, but underneath the nervous laughter and condescending amusement, many people were asking themselves, “How did these ignorant muthafuckas win an Academy Award?” Now, at this juncture in the commentary, a lot of people would play the race card and say, “well those people are just hatin’ because they’re Black.” I would like to agree with that, but that’s just too easy. Had Dolly Parton and her country ass won the Oscar, lots of people would have had the same grumblings and I would make the same argument I’m about to make. The thing that bothers so many is not that the song was not worthy of credit but rather the feeling that the songwriters and the way they comport themselves were not. People, both Black and White, cringed as fitteds and Jesus pieces accepted an Oscar. Forget the fact that they displayed raw, visceral elation after being recognized for a job well done; the Uptowns among couture gowns just wouldn’t do. Forget that, in years prior, Cuba Gooding, Jr. all but refused to leave the stage after accepting his award while an Italian director, in abject joy, walked across occupied seats to receive his; three men brought the Memphis humidity to the dry climate of cinematic achievement and it made people uncomfortable. On a night that celebrates make-believe, 3 6 Mafia was a little too real.

I’m of the opinion “keeping it real” is an unshackling of the spirit. It is a moment in which we un-tether our essence and let it take us as high and as far as it can. As we know, there are times when it flies too high and too recklessly and realness goes wrong. On that night, 3 6 Mafia exemplified when it goes right. They were not an embarrassment; this was a snapshot of the human spirit. We have been taught to fear this spirit because, above all, it embodies honesty and this honesty is not always kind or couth or politically correct. So we shackle the spirit; straining the muscles or our face while we fake smile our way through cocktail parties we didn’t care to attend in the first place and hold our tongues when we want to scream. It is not to say we should let the spirit govern us autonomously, but it is that as we’ve buttoned up and buckled down, we have slowly silenced it.

To a certain degree, I feel we no longer understand seeing that honesty in others. As we’ve been Westernized and Anglicized, we’ve learned to shake our heads disapprovingly; embarrassed as the slip of another’s spirit shows. Are we embarrassed because we find it truly inappropriate or have we become so well versed in social grace and savvy that displays of raw honesty and truth make us uncomfortable? Have we danced the dance of insincerity so long that we cannot conceptualize those who do not care to do so? Some would say it’s a matter of showing class. I would argue that we too often confuse class with over-restraint. Had these gentlemen come out, cursing and grabbing their manhood, I cannot say I would find that appropriate.

But that’s not what happened. At a moment of personal pride and achievement, no one understood the gravity of the situation better than DJ Paul, Juicy Jay and Crunchy Black. Three country-ass niggas from Memphis, Tennessee were inducted into an order of distinction few are party to. Three people achieved greatness by flinging caution to the wind and refusing to compromise the essence of their collective spirit. In their moment of triumph, they could only express themselves through the very avenue that brought them to that point. As they smiled and hugged, gasping their thank-you’s in drawled disblief, are we to expect them to betray their essence because it was not in a bow tie? We’ve placed such relativity on realness, that I do not know if we even know what it is anymore. In life, our moments, perhaps the last vestiges of realness, come at a premium. I just hope that, in our moment of triumph, we will know enough to let loose the tethers of the spirit and let it fly. Peace to the blues.

Penultimate Thought: Sometimes the North Face fleece isn’t warm enough.

Final Thought: My brother’s almost 30.

When I chirp shorty, chirp back…

So, since spring break has afforded me the opportunity to sit on my ass without having to do a reading response in return, I’ve been watching a lot of the tube. Outside of realizing for the 47th time that, at any given moment, most tv just plain sucks, I also came to realize that it’s tattoo time again. Time is this sense is an extremely relative term considering I have to first pay of my bookies before they break my other leg, but still. I don’t know if it’s the watching of ‘Miami Ink’ or planet Earth’s tilting back toward the ole hydrogen bomb, but I really desire to hear the slow drone of that needle as that ‘what the hell am I doing?’ feeling settles in the gut.

I have to admit that I did not always like tattoos; to be more accurate I didn’t really think anything of them. From what I saw, most tattooing consisted of scantily clad women (like dude’s forearm tatt from ‘Pete and Pete’. Nickelodeon holler) or various forms of demonage and goblinry. Not my brand of Kool-Aid. Not to mention that said adornment was usually found on ZZ Top’s roadies from the ’88 tour and their tangential sub-species. Again, not the kind of Ecto-Cooler I was drinking (Sidebar 1: If you must know, there isn’t one flavor of Kool-Aid I don’t like. Apparently though, I haven’t been preparing my Kool-Aid correctly. According to my southern affiliates, one must add sugar to the already sugared Kool-Aid mix {as you may recall, there was a time when you HAD to add sugar to the Kool-Aid mix}. And yes, the whole lot will be type-2 diabetics in 6 to 8 weeks).

At any rate, that all changed when the barbed wire tattoo phase rocked the countryside in around 1996. Suddenly, body art seemed hip and chic and, as a level-headed pre-teen, I knew that I was going to get that treacherous battlefield equipment wrapped about one of my pythons just as soon as I was able. Then as the barbed wire became played out, I naturally transitioned away from popular culture and thought I needed a tattoo that was edgy, original and most importantly, timeless. After much soul-searching, I came to the conclusion that it would only be fitting for me to have the Oakley “O” permanently etched into my dermis. Unfortunately, the laws of the Ocean State, in conjuction with the bulls set down by The Last Real Niggas Alive, were dead-set against stopping my shine; I was thus forced to wait on my O (like girls do).

Oddly enough, by about the 10th grade, I’d lost all desire to have the Oakley “O” needle-sharpie’d on me, and there was little more than a passing interest in such a procedure. But then I met my buddy D Hy that year at Po Ab. Quick description of D: hood and smarter than you. Tatted, Uptowned and Girbauded with an intellect sharper than his wardrobe. Background-wise, we couldn’t have been more different, and that worked to our advantage. He helped me dress better and talked to me about the realities of the hood. I tried to help him navigate the whole prep thing while showing him Black folks outside the hood ain’t from another planet (entirely).

I don’t know if it was his being a trill ass nigga who was a good buddy that made tattooing seem more compelling or what, but his presence made me see tattooing differently. On his arms were his beliefs and love and sorrowful memorials. For a person that loved history as much as I did, this was right up my alley (no Cage aux Folles). He taught me about tattooing; not as the result of a fleeting moment of courage or stupidity, but as armor for life. You only got something that really mattered. That resonated with me. From the first to the fourth, no tattoo has been meaningless for me. Some have been gotten as a pick-me-up; others at the simple joy of youth and love. For me, tattooing runs the gamut of emotions that feed into the human condition.

Ther’s something ceremonial about it that is perhaps as important as the tattoo itself. The mood, the music, the people…it all matters. From the excitement at seeing the outline come out of the printer to the foreboding as the executioner prepares his tools (Trust me. At the moment of truth, you always get a little, tiny ‘what am I thinking’ right before it all starts), there is something so ‘present’ about the whole thing. There is no conjecture or pontification. There is only you and the tattooist and the needle and the pain; the pain that, at that very moment, reminds you of the armor you are earning and why you wished to earn it. Pink once said she likes to get tattoos because, during and after the process, she is reminded she’s alive. That’s pretty accurate. In some ways, tattoos are ‘season’s greetings’ cards for the skin.

I know at this point I sound like some earthy, patchouli shooter who loves moonbeams and communal living. That’s not quite accurate, I mean hippies smell, but I can appreciate the spiritual aspect of tattooing. Oddly enough, I get less questions about my desire to get tattoos and more about how I plan to get a job. True story: I was getting dressed to go out a few Harvard/Yale’s ago and, as I was reaching to get my shirt, my buddy from Harvard saw the tattoo on my forearm. After gasping audibly and inquiring into whether it was in fact real, he asked me how I was going to get a job. He was just so shocked. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought I told him I like getting priestly with small children.

Let’s get something abundantly clear: I’m going to marry a rich white girl and sit at home all day with the children I made her pregnant with. But, if for some ungodly reason a job is that much of a concern, I’ll wear long-sleeves, comforted by the fact that I am not gully enough to get hand tattoos. The face? Forget it. The neck? Only if I’m liquid enough for it to not matter (and if I am, the tatt might just say ‘fuck you’). Honestly people, if I’m wearing short sleeves at my job, I’m either: A) the boss strutting about in a polo or t-shirt (short sleeve button-downs are for insurance salesmen) or B) I’m also wearing a nametag while trying to convince you to Kahuna-size your meal for just 79 cents extra. For the life of me, I only know of one job where sleeveless dress shirts are acceptable and it involves screaming middle-age women and sweaty dollar bills. Peace to D Hy.

Penultimate Thought: Popeye’s Value Wheel (that screen thing at the register) is a stroke of sheer genius.

Final Thought: Jerry Seinfeld was the worst actor on his show.

All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey…

So, today while riding in The Last Real Niggas Alive mobile with said group’s male delegate, I had an epiphany of sorts. Granted it’s something I’ve kind of considered before and, indeed, others have opined on, but it really hit me today. Before I can bless you with knowledge, I think the means of conveyance deserves a little recognition.

Pop duke drives an ’85 Chevy C-10 pick-up and let me tell you, when you ride in it, you just feel like a G. Now, I’m not one of those gear heads who can tell you how many cubic inches the engine block is (don’t even know what difference it makes) or even what the horsepower is, but I can say that this is a badass mobile that would come out on the winning end of a tango with your Audi. Nothing real special in the way of outward appeareance; just a matte beige paint job, but just like that so-so girl who is an absolute monster in the sack, she gets it done where it counts. This is just a machine that makes you wanna blast down the road bangin’ AC/DC with a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dash, a beer between your legs and a gun rack looking back at you in the rear view. No prom queen, state-of-the-art quasi-metal polymers about this rig, just full metal American balls.

Anyway, as we’re riding along, I made a move to turn down the radio, but thought better of it because I didn’t have that extra two inches in me (no Capote) that it would have required to turn the knob. What pray tell, made the expanse that much more vast, you say? The fact that the radio was angled toward the driver. And no our radio ain’t been ripped out and put back in badly, it’s purposely angled toward the driver. And when I stopped and thought about it, I realized in a lot of old cars the radio was angled toward the driver. Why? Because manufacturers knew the driver had the first, seventeenth and last say in exactly what was gonna be heard and how loud the box was gonna play it. Then something changed. Passengers were given some sort of rights and the radio, the tv remote of the car, was moved to the middle. And you want to know who precipitated this crime? Women.

Think about it: With womens libbers, Title IX, the right to vote and the rest, men have slowly had to relinquish everything we have held sacred. If we couldn’t beat them up, they might really guilt us into world domination. Do you really think the Lifetime channel woulda flown even 20 years ago? No, no it would not have. But the infiltration has been thorough. Guy Code dictates that you never touch another man’s radio unless you have security clearance to do so. There is usually a discussion, or ceremony; something to let you know your standing as a passenger. But it used to be that, just in case that discussion wasn’t had or you were found in a transitional phase, the radio was angled toward the driver as a deterrent against passenger foolhardiness. See when guys are riding with guys, you are either A) listening to what the drive wants, regardless of your opinion, B) given the opportunity to make a request which the driver may attempt to fulfill or, C) allowed to actual touch dials and make a selection yourself.

Needless to say, choice C is the most golden, but rare, of geese. Most guys are given and content with B because it’s understood that if you wantonly touch a man’s radio, you might as well give him an over-the-panster right then and there as well. And really, who wants an over-the-pantser? Not this guy (unless it’s administered by a scandalous young women in a public forum). Unfortunately, women don’t understand or respect Guy Code and really, that’s our fault. We let them stand in front of the TV with three seconds left in the game, we watch ‘The Notebook’, and most rashly, we let them have the remote sometimes. We let them feel that intoxicating power, but we also let them wield it like a drunken butcher (Sidebar 1: Honestly, I used ot think it was exaggeration, but I’ve come to find out that women are really the worst at active television watching. They stop on shiny things, or anything with that soft Barbara Walters light…Just terrible. I’d rather watch tube with my cousin Tyrus and he’s going into first grade this year. I think). Just no regard or respect, and even worse, they brought it to the motor vehicle.

The radio-changing universe was fine until the day Sandra Dee or whoever first felt the need to personally investigate whether the radio got ‘Ramblin’ Ray’s Rock Til You Drop Hour’ on 1230 WBKU out of Topeka while Danny drove them safely to the ice cream social. Horrified at the sight and thought of his radio, the remote control of the car, being compromised, Danny and his crew cut wrench the wheel toward the ditch and that was that the prequel to Chappaquiddick. Do you see what I’m saying here? How many young ladies drove their man into hysterics before the Big Four got together and decided to save the lives of millions of decent young men? Yet in a move to safety, an undermining of guy code occurred as well. Among men, it has created tension that a simple angling once assuaged. “Are we good enough friends for me to just check the presets? Can I freely press seek?” These are the questions that wrack the male brain as we ride in awkward silence because feeling-sharing is for sissies.Gone are the days of courteous passengers. Now, you’ll be lucky if there has been one button left unpushed before you get to Olive Garden. That’s why I don’t go on dates. That and not having a car or money, but still. Peace to Guy Code.

Penultimate Thought: ‘Batman’ was one of the most dark and thoughtful cartoons ever. I’m surprised it’s not on Cartoon Network.

Final Thought: I just got a “save the date” card from my buddy who’s getting married this June. He’s my age. And no, the girl isn’t knocked-up.

Cover your tracks, stay prepared, I don’t care if no one’s spared…

So, I’ve been home all of 5 hours and I’m already ready to call my local FBI headquarters on my upstairs neighbors. It’s not that they are terrorists per se, but I think you should be suspicious of any white women married to an African unless he is: a medical student that drives a cab at night to put him through school or plays on the Senegalese national team. Since Senegal didn’t make the World Cup this year and around here cabs are only driven by my hispanic duns (viva la raza!), one can only come to the natural conclusion that Othello and co. are enemies of the state.

Now, it may seem harsh for me to go dogging this couple out, especially since I too am going to marry a white woman myself, but there’s a big difference between my situation and theirs. For one, I’ma do like my man Tony and marry a rich white girl. The emphasis on rich and white (which should go without saying) must be noted. For two, I will in no way waste my time contributing to a society that can’t tell the difference between African and JB anyway; instead, I will build on the example set by Black males that were luckily not my dad. So many before me brought nothing to the table while in a relationship with a women of color that brought nothing to the table financially. I’ll do the same except I’ll be a closet deadbeat with financial security. That’s what the true stay-at-home dad should aspire to. To wit: she’ll be rich and I’ll be at home as a parental figure (read: watching our nanny watch the kids) while Heather/Beth/Laura/Katie/Molly (pick one) is off taking tennis lessons or pilates or some such. Dude upstairs went about it all wrong. I mean, if you’re gonna be with someone who can’t get you anywhere, she may as well be colored, right?

What’s even worse is that they brought a tragic mulatto into the world. Now it’s not worse because there is anything wrong with light-skinned people; they’re a docile race that make fine pets and/or companions, however, it is problematic when you claim he’s extremely ill (I’m talkin’ John Goodman, St. Jude’s Hospital ill) and then I hear Gymboree going on intermittenly for 10-12 hours a day. I mean, is he a lunger or not? I don’t remember Val Kilmer being laid out on his trundlebed in ‘Tombstone’ then getting up on the half hour to play ‘Camp Town Races’ and jig about at the Women’s Auxiliary Club cotillion. It didn’t happen. He got off his death bed and told Johnny Ringo he was no daisy after allowing a bullet to find a cozy nook in said bad guy’s cranial facilities. Then after that he still didn’t go canoodle at the Women’s Auxiliary cotillion. He went and kicked the bucket at a sanitarium.

Now, I’m absolutely not saying I want the little guy to die, light-skinned or not. Nobody deserves death wishes until at least the age of 17 and even that’s dicey if you believe in karma. What I do find inappropriate is explaining how sick dude is when we politely ask you to cease and desist with the ‘Flashdance’ re-enactment matinee. I just don’t appreciate it and neither do this guys lungs if he’s sick like you say. And before any of you pro-life, ‘re-open Ellis island’-ers even begin to open your traps, try to imagine what from 10-10 most days I’m home. The ceilings and walls are thin. Thin. I mean, at night when I have to use the bathroom (which is right next to the Lasties room) I have to just hope for the best. I prefer to stomp through the hall and hopefully interrupt whatever isn’t happening anyway because the Last Real Niggas Alive don’t ever ever ever ever do that, seeing as Ma Dukes is tight with Mary and all.

Anyway, every sound from above is like an avalanche of knees and elbows and feet. More interestingly, this miserable cacophony has the ability to rumble the entire length of the ceiling. Sometimes, it’s fascinating to guess how they even accomplish such a thing. My theory as of right now is that they place lil’ man in a human-size hamster ball and try to pinball his ass off every piece of furniture they own (I hear a couch-hassock-armchair combo is worth like 75 tickets). After the Wallendas are done with that little stunt, they set up junior’s toys and allow him to re-enact all 33 of Godzilla’s destructions of Japan, with mom as Mothra and dad dubbing the voices over (Sidebar 1: Japan is one interesting cookie. On one hand,the Enola Gay couldn’t stop its shine. Still, after the fact, somebody though it would be a good idea to make movie after movie about a mythical creature razing cities left and right because, you know, it wasn’t quite scary the first time it happened).

And every single time, it’s the same story. You go up and they blame the kid’s lungs. No shit he’s winded, you just put him through the Family Double Dare obstacle course (which, to this very day, I am convinced I would have merked by the by). I swear the collective english in the room just gets awful. He gets all Sammy Sosa and forgets how to speak english thus reverting back to clicks, and she…I don’t know. She gets the sniffly, B actor Lifetime-television for women- ‘I’m trying my best for my baby’ thing and eventually, you just shake your head and close the door, knowing the circus will have its show under the big top at 10:00, 10:45 and a special evening performance starting at 6. Peace to Barnum and Bailey.

Penultimate Thought: If I could be a white man, I would be George Clooney.

Final Thought: I don’t know what was funnier at the Oscars: hearing people repeatedly say “It’s hard out here for a pimp” or the saying “3-6 Mafia”.