Long paragraphs, zero pictures, song lyric titles. If that wasn’t enough, I’d leave to random thoughts at the end of an entry, lest someone be starved for my thoughts on ‘Space Age Pimpin’ (still the greatest rap slow jam in history if you as me). These were the days when I told a version of the truth that was either the real McCoy or close to it; watering down out of concern for public image mattered little then. Sure, I had my fair share of “wow, he went there” material, but I was no one’s Hunter S. If you had to ask me, I’d say it was all in the delivery.

Then, one day, I blinked.

I became aware of the audience; the stakes for who could get hurt or how I could hurt myself became palpable. I got safer and safer. Was I a better writer? I think so, but there was certainly some piss and vinegar missing. I started thinking about what I was going to write; thinking about how to make it really cook. I was thinking about the reading experience rather than just saying “fuck it” and letting it rip. I forgot how to write freely.

Not too long ago, a friend asked if I’d kept a repository of my old AIM away messages, which were replete with salt being thrown on skinny girls. (Why the skinny girl hate? Because, despite the fact I have little against the skinny in actuality, I felt it necessary that someone tell them they’re not thaaat tight). Anyway, I said I didn’t, nor did I remember many of messages. My friend lamented the fact that I had and quipped that they’d make for a great book. I agreed, but as I saw the pages of my skinny girl hate book flutter away, I was struck that the thought had even crossed my mind at all. Yes; a bit more maturity certainly (hopefully) gives you a better sense of perspective. Cherishing memories is something that seems to grow in importance with each passing day. Still, the whole thought process seemed rather sad to the writer I used to be. Hating on skinny girls amused me at that moment. Nothing more or less. Perhaps I should have seeing as I fell into the trap of dispassionate perspective anyway.

There’s so much more texture to my life now, yet as I scroll through the pages of my old blog, I find myself saddened by what I lost and troubled that I might never find it again.

Peace to…

Penultimate Thought: While I enjoy ‘The Best Man’, I can’t help but get hung up on this point: Wasn’t shit gonna go down either way between Taye Diggs and Morris Chestnutt? I mean, dude was gonna read the book eventually, right?

Final Thought: Skinny girls are like drinking out of a colander: Useless.

INT. — DAY– D’ANGELO’S

Jon and The Feath are enjoying delectable submarine sandwiches while Juice lightly drools on herself in her car seat. Having finished her 100% real lobster roll, The Feath leans back in her chair and stretches, sated and content. Jon looks across the table at her and shakes his head.

The Feath: What?

Jon: Nothing. Just…your boobs look HUGE.

The Feath: Yeah?

Jon: I mean, the shirt helps, but they’re look hefty.

The Feath: Right.

Jon: Wanna hear something really sad? Just now I was looking at them all big  and thought: “Man, her boobs look big. Maybe she needs to pump.”

The Feath squeezes her boobs to see if this is true. It is not.

The Feath: …You didn’t wanna motorboatin’ ‘em?

Jon: Nope. I’m washed up.

SCENE

INT. — NIGHT – THE LIVING ROOM

After a long day and dinner with Jon’s parents, Jon, The Feath and Juice are sitting on the couch winding down.

Jon is tagging long-overdue wedding photos and The Feath is reveling in the glory of successfully settling Juice, who’d had a bout of the grumpies due to a fit of gas post-feeding.

With Juice calm, The Feath looks at the fruit of her loins, caressing what many have noted to be a perfectly-shaped head.

The Feath:  (Smilingly lovingly) Her head is just so…throwable. Like a little duckpin ball.

SCENE

Book of Odds: Swearing In

As a lover of language, I have rarely deleted a good expletive when the circumstance has allowed. (Read: I have home training and I don’t just go swearing any old place. I mean, do you know my mother?)

According to The Feath, who is less curse-friendly than I, my use of foul language is melodious; it has a rhythm and a tempo smooth enough to be missed in the flow of conversation. “You,” she says, “are no John Malkovich.”

That makes sense. My biggest influences in that regard weren’t as interested in the percussive use of a blue note; rather, there was a melodious improvisational feel that made the words seem like cool linguistic accents rather than utterances that would get you in trouble. As I grew up, my parents made it clear that the language Richard Pryor used was not to be flung freely about their house, but they didn’t go so far as to demonize it. How could they? Some of the playwrights and poets they respected most have been known to use language that would make a sailor blush.

Check out the rest at Book of Odds

Pitts Think: J Day + 24: Apparently, She’s Not a Duke Fan

Someone was very excited about the USA-Ghana World Cup match and saw a good opportunity to share her thoughts on Blue Devils Nation.

Check out the massacre at Pitts Think.

Might try to get up the Convos that I’d threatened to do last week and neglected to do because I’m me.

And with that, I’m off to attempt to organize my professional and personal life. Until next week…Huzzah!

INT. — NIGHT — JON’S PARENTS’ HOUSE

Jon and The Feath are at the kitchen table with papers strewn all about. Their wedding is a week away and there are still many things to do for what they hope will be a special weekend for all involved.

Having battled over the guest list and the seating chart, the pair have turned their attention to the reception music. Music holds a very special place in their hearts. It was music that brought them together in the first place.

Unlike the other phases of planning, the music selection process is going fairly well. All the dances have, for the most part, been accounted for. Now, their brains are racked in pursuit of an entrance song.

Jon makes the following suggestion

The Feath: I mean, it’s alright. It’s just–

Jon: That’s the smooth shit! I wanna come out to something kinda slick but, you know, endearing.

The Feath: Uh, I mean I like the song, but I’m not sure it’s a wedding song, ya know?

The song begins to wind down, a winding down that includes Bootsy speaking in the end, imploring the woman in question to believe that he’s sincere, sincere in a way only Bootsy Collins knows how.

The Feath: …Did he just say “you can see me coming, coming all over you”?

Jon: Yeah, but we can fade that part out.

The Feath gives Jon a blank stare from across the table.

Jon: So…how about Willie Hutch?

SCENE

The Re-Education of JPW: The Untouchables

The first day I got back from daddy leave was my last day working for The Root. Having done my morning posts, I got a curious email which evolved into a “we’re going a different direction” phone call. For whatever reason, I wasn’t mad when I got the word; fifteen seconds into unemployment, I knew there wasn’t any time for that. Really, the hardest part was having Juice there as an unwitting witness. I was on the day shift that morning and she interrupted the phone call with a cry of hunger. My former boss asked if that was the baby. I answered yes, momentarily puzzled as to who else he thought it might be.

Check out the rest on Book of Odds

Pitts Think: J Day +16 ~ Giving Propers

One day, I hope my daughter thanks me for being the strongest, smartest, most handsomest daddy in the whole wide world…

Check out the rest on Pitts Think

The Buzz Morning Headlines: 6.21.10

Oops.

Busy week coming up. Should be able to bang out a few Conversations, which I anticipate will be rather amusing. Stay up.

The Re-Education of JPW: Juice on Delivery

Nervous and excited, Jon can’t help but take in the sight. The Feath is about give birth and is surrounded by a room of six or seven women totally committed to her pushing this baby out. Despite the delivery room’s modern bells and whistles, Jon can’t help but feel as though he’s been invited to an ancient rite.

Check out the rest on Book of Odds

Pitts Think: J Day +10: Jai Ho!

As Juice browns out, she’s starting to take on a certain…’Slumdog Millionaire’ quality.

Head over to Pitts Think.

The Buzz Morning Headlines 6.14.10

‘Karate Kid’ Does Big Box Office; Karate Still Not Chinese

World Cup May Silence Vuvuzela Horn; Wu-Tang Clan in Mourning

Tightening the Velvet Rope: Janet Jackson’s Weight Loss Journey

AZ: “Constitution? We Don’t Need No Stinking Constitution!”

Rebirth of Slick: Obama Plans Fourth Trip to Gulf

Check more of my headline fresh at The Root

That’s about all for now. I’m continuing to work on the Mixed Magic season schedule and feel confident we will be doing awesome things. For this summer, keep an eye out for Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Greatness of Gospel and a very special guest comic who will likely get our non-profit license revoked

Until next week…

My daughter has been born. I feel like a very big deal. My wife? An even bigger deal.

In semi-related news: As I’ve really started finding a rhythm over at Pitts Think, I believe I’m going to start making this site a repository of what going on with me: writing on other sites, Conversations with The Feath, the goings on at Mixed Magic and, of course, a few sprinklings from my personal life. When the mood strikes to do an original long-form piece, I’ll do it here.

Thanks, as always, for taking the time.

INT. — DAY — BEV’S HOUSE

The Feath and Jon are at the home of a family friend, Bev, celebrating Juice and taking part in Baby Shower of the Century, Part III. Surrounded by friends and family, the expectant parents are again humbled by the love and generosity being shown to them as they embark on what will surely be an epic journey.

Following the gift opening portion of the shower, everyone has moved into the kitchen area for the cake cutting. Standing by the kitchen table, The Feath is the picture of fertility and health. Her stomach blossoming beneath a pink dress, her pearls and shoes a brilliant white, she looks every bit the beautiful vessel. Smiling as she does so regularly, The Feath suddenly furrows her brow and freezes in place.

The Feath: My water…

The buzz in the room stops abruptly as every head turns in her direction, eyes bulging. Jon, who is standing next to The Feath, instinctively takes a step back; not only size his wife up, but also to avoid the splash of uterine fluids on his shoes.

Moving slowly, The Feath reaches for her purse and pulls out a bottle of Poland Springs.

The Feath: Oh, here it is.

The Feath bursts into a devious cackle as every butt in the room gets untight and, between ragged breaths, joins in the laughter. A cacophony of “Man, that ain’t funny!” and “Loooooord, I was ’bout to have a fit!” echoes through the house as The Feath, still pregnant, finally cuts the cake.

Kagan is white and Sotomayor is not.*

Let me explain. For the type of people who are fond of profiling, Kagan fits the description: white, unmarried, intellectual, not terribly “attractive”. Black or Latina women that fall into that same line aren’t questioned on their sexuality because they don’t “seem” gay; they’re just cast as accomplished yet pitiable career women who have little hope of snaring a mate with whom to settle down.

In the American conscience, to be a lesbian of a certain age is really just shorthand for being a feminist; a card-carrying member of NOW and an acolyte of Betty Friedan. While I won’t go so far as to say the sexual aspect of the questions regarding Kagan’s sexuality are irrelevant, I will say I think these inquiries are more a petty and contemptuous probing of her feminism. (I strongly doubt the president would have the stones to nominate a possibly gay man for the bench
since male sexuality whips people into a different kind of frenzy).

It’s the radical feminist menace that ruffled the old boys’ feather and the representatives of that menace were overwhelmingly–and often deliberately–white.

The feminist movements in the United States had parallel histories split between the predominantly white–and highly exclusionary–narrative and the one that included women of color in this struggle. The former was able to set the tone in many regards and became the face of “what a feminist is.”

For many, feminists are merely smartypants white women that hate men and don’t do as they’re told. Given this perception, the “oh, well she’s probably a lesbian” coup de grace wasn’t/isn’t exactly a leap. In many ways, it’s the white version of being called uppity.

The logic:
- Kagan = Unmarried White woman intellectual of no particular beauty.
- Lesbians are unmarried White women intellectuals of no particular beauty.
- Feminists are unmarried White women intellectuals of no particular beauty.
- Feminists hate men.
- Lesbians hate men.
- Feminist = Lesbian
- Lesbian = Feminist
- Kagan = Lesbian = Feminist?

*A friend brought up the great point that the reason Sotomayor wasn’t questioned in that regard is because she was married once before. A reasonable point, though not bulletproof. A previous marriage certainly lends itself to avoiding certain questions, though marriage is by no means proof of being straight. Perhaps the figure of Condi Rice is more appropriate in this regard. The questions regarding her personal life were, more often than not, framed as, “Why doesn’t she have a man?” rather than “Is she gay?”