4.29.2008

Timing is Everything.


We Americans are something else, aren't we?

Out of all the countries in the world, we are the top whiners. We whine about things we already have, problems that aren't really problems, issues and shortcomings that would be considered successes in any other part of the globe.

Personally, I blame the Dollar Menu.

Seriously, if you think about it, McDonald's can be blamed for a lot of things. (And I'm not saying this because my midsection is slowly expanding...) Because of this instant gratification prescription that we've given ourselves, we are in a mode of getting what we want, when we want it. Which is usually NOW.

Apparently, this is nothing new.

Remember being a kid, and watching all the "big kids", wishing that the growth process would just hurry up already HAPPEN? Remember being a young-buck, waiting for the hair to grow on your upper lip/chest/et cetera, wondering why in the heck it was taking so long? And it doesn't even stop there...

Remember when you were on Apple's website the other day, staring lustily at that new MacBook Air, wishing that someone in the payroom would just make one little mistake on your paycheck and add one little zero?

There are so many instances in our lives that we tend to want to rush for. We want so much to happen to us, when things usually tend to happen in their own time. I also know this emcee who put in such a neat way:

You rush to get to the top
so you clawing away
You rush to get to that job
you hate more every day
You rush to pick up your order
rush to eat, but you tired
Rush to get you a quarter
'fore your meter expire
You rush to give him them drawz
Cuz he rushed you to hit it
You did it
Now ya'll fussing while you rush to the clinic...

We rush to get a car, we rush to have sex, we rush to move out of our parents' houses, we are in such a huge panic to get somewhere that's not really...going...anywhere.

And I know this Great Guy who said that there is a time for everything. Indeed, it is. No rush to the poon, the opportunity to lay the pipe will present itself, most likely in a better set of circumstances. No rush to getting that new whip, because chances are, there will be a newer, better (faster, stronger) car that will be coming out soon.

Granted, it's really hard to just...wait. But sometimes...that's the quickest, easiest route to living a better life.

Besides, some of the best conversations take place in the car on the way to Mickey D's.

4.14.2008

If That's The Case...

I've been wondering about something these past few days.

(Real)Hip-hop is known for his truthfulness, its authenticity. From Kool Herc to Mos Def, the longest lasting artists in the game are known for simply keepin' it real, at art form truly perfected by those in the game. And you can bet, if there's any b*tch*ssedness going on in Hip-Hop, there'll be some kind of noise about it. Somebody somewhere will do any interview/diss track/mixtape about it, directed at fake cats.

My question is, what happens to these fake, frontin', foolish emcees? I mean, everybody talks about them, about how they never did half the stuff they rhyme about, how they never sold drugs a day in their life, they're still a virgin, et cetera. Why haven't we weeded these suckas out yet? You'd think that with all this complaining, somebody would be getting the beat down. But it doesn't seem like anything is being done about it.

I've got more than a few ideas about who these wankstas are, but when do we start naming names?

All I'm saying is, there doesn't seem to be any reduction of lameness. There should be some kind of public beating for these fools, just so we know that something is being down about this.

Or is just all accusations? Is hip-hop just pointing fingers at who "seems" fake? Like Papa Doc/Clarence from 8 Mile, its time for someone to get put on BLAST. That's all I'm saying.

Snatched up...

I've heard that lots of bloggers to this, so I don't feel so bad about what I'm doing.

I found this link from Truth Bombs, which was linked from Deutlich. So I figured I'd grab it on up. Feel free to follow suit.

And if it's cheesy to do this, blame it on the mucus buildup in my chest. (Equals, I'm really sick.)

1) Finish this sentence with precisely one word:

“I am __________.”

The word cannot be a name.

2) Illustrate that single word with a photo you took before you ever read this entry.


I am wound-up.

Have at it, folks! And, leave me a comment if you do try it. This, I wanna see.

Triangle Pt.2

So, here's the next installment of the Triangle series. Read the first one here to catch up. Comment and critiques are always welcome.

Gabrielle

A week later…

I decide that I might as well get the situation at hand over with. I slowly walk out of my car, dreading the moment I am voluntarily walking into. I mean, I can try to front like I’m not nervous about seeing Gabrielle again, after such a long time. I can pretend like my heart isn’t about to exit my chest in a particularly bloody fashion. But we all know that I’m about to shit a brick.

I don’t even know what I’m so freaked out about. I mean, I haven’t seen Gabrielle in about a year, so I don’t really know what to expect. We’ve been talking on the phone, and we done one of those webcam conference things, but there’s a difference in seeing a person face to face. That, and, well, the fact that I’ve been in love with this girl since the 2nd grade.

Yeah.

I reach the front door of her house, and as I knock, I want to turn tail and run. It was one of those moments that you regret the minute you do it. And I didn’t even do anything wrong; I just wanted to go back home and jump in my bed. Maybe give Mya a call or something. I guess I just hit upon a moment of extreme nuttiness.

A face peeks out of a window next to the door I’m in front of. I hear the clanking of the locks of the door and a few seconds later, the door swings open.

A cheery elderly voice calls out, “Hey Brian! How’s it going, baby?”

“Hi, Sis. Starr. How are you doing?”

A woman steps out of the house and snatches me in a bear hug that really threw me off guard, despite her petite size. “Oh, I’m fine now, honey. I haven’t seen you in a long time! How’s college treating you?”

I’ve noticed that everyone likes asking me that same question. And quite frankly, I get tired of trying to come up with a new response, so I’ve come up with one that should satisfy everyone’s thirst.

“Oh, y’know. It’s...different.”

She smiles knowingly. “Oh, don’t worry baby. Don’t worry about it. Just rely on God, honey.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She continues to ask me about other little aspects of my life, and I start to get really comfortable on her porch until Gabrielle steps outside in a big grey Tupac t-shirt and really, really, really short shorts.

“Hey Brian. Whassup?”

I don’t know if Sis. Starr noticed that her granddaughter was outside in her nighties. She smiled at both of us and said to me, “I’m gonna leave you kids alone. Ya’ll probably have a lot to talk about.” And she walks in the house, leaving us alone on her front porch. I could be slightly paranoid, but I think she winked at me before she departed.

Feeling increasingly awkward, I respond to Gabrielle’s original comment. “Hey G, what’s up with you?”

“Oh. Nothing much.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

I’ve known Gabrielle ever since we were kids. I remember her being the outspoken one in Sunday School, but I was always aware of this part of her. Ever since she’s been able to speak, she would always do this thing where something would be obviously bothering her, but she’d try to silence me by saying in a nonchalant manner, “Nothing.” It would piss me off to no end. The part that really ticked me off was the fact that I always knew that something was going on with her, without fail.

This time was no exception.

Obviously trying to thwart me and my inquisition, she says, “You haven’t changed much. You look healthy.”

“Healthy? What, is that code for, ‘Hey Brian, you’re turning into Al Roker’? You know how hungry I get...”

“Right, I know…I just…yeah…”

“Yeah.”

A moment of silence passes by. She says she has to run inside to get something to drink, which I suspect is a tactic of hers to buy more time to come up with another pacifying tale. She comes back out with a glass of pink lemonade.

I’ve never been one for beating around the bush, so I decide to stop the game playing and just dive in. “So, Gabby. Does he still hit you?”

She looks at me with the eyes of a trapped animal. Defenses high, she slowly relaxes with a heavy sigh.

“Not any more. I left Joe last week. I was starting getting tired of it, tired of getting pushed around like a doll. I finally told him to f*ck off. I was sick of it. It’s done.”

Beat of silence. I respond, “Well, that’s good. It’s about time.”

Out of nowhere, she blurts out, “I’ve really missed you, Brian.”

Gabby and I have a very long history together, regardless if we were in relationships with other people at the time or not. As a matter of fact, one of the first times we met was in the 3th grade. Ironically enough, there was this little punk of a kid that was messing with her.

Stanley Fisher. 120 pounds of youthful malevolence.

Without even knowing how to spell bravado, I displayed it when he started pushing her around. I think it was over the last carton of chocolate milk, or something of the sort. I retaliated by throwing one of those red rubber balls that they use in dodge-ball at him.

His nose bled for twenty minutes.

Over time, Gabrielle have formed one of those “beneficial friendships”. As the years passed, we’ve been through quite a few things. We’ve always been close, but in the recent years we’ve gotten closer. A lot closer.

“I’ve missed you too.” Stopping to reflect on my thoughts, I continue. “A lot more than you know.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much have you missed me?”

“A lot. You really don’t know how much you’ve been on my mind.”

“Try me.”

She looks at me with half a smile on her face, as if she didn’t know if she should believe my denial of the notion that I actually thought about her a hell of a lot more than I should.

Motioning to her to sit with me on the porch hammock, I let it all out.

“You are like…the rhyme for that poem that I stay searching for. I know how corny that may sound, but its like a truth that I can’t shake. Like, too many times, I’ve woken up in the morning with you being the first thing on my mind. The very first thing that enters my consciousness! Who does that? I don’t know about you, that’s pretty freakin’ scary!”

She avoids looking at me, so I continue.

“I’ve tried to get you out, but it’s like God doesn’t want you out of my head. And I don’t understand it. I know that you and that douche bag are, or used to be a couple, but that didn’t stop me from…thinking about you. You own a good portion of my head, and it doesn’t look like you’re planning on moving. I just…I don’t get it.”

Wiping off the thin layer of sweat that formed on my forehead during my brief tirade, I say, “How was that?”

She says nothing.

Then, she grabs her glass of pink lemonade and slowly sips. She leans towards me with caution, although none is needed. I’m feeling a little more than vulnerable at this point, but I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t intrigued.

I decide to meet her halfway and I move toward her. When we are no less than an inch apart, we both stop at the same time. Staring into each other’s eyes, we mouth two words that are known all throughout the world, refined in that moment.

“Only you.”

She reaches one hand out to take mine. We draw closer, never removing our glance from the other. When our faces are about to meet, I take my other hand and trace the outlines of her eyes, her nose and her mouth. It’s this little thing we’ve been doing. It started out as a line in a poem I wrote to her.

I finally move in. My lips reach hers in a moment of timelessness. The flavor of tangy-sweet citrus fruit is full on her lips and tongue. She holds my face, as if drinking from the coolest fountain.

It’s a little hard to describe this without getting a little too descriptive and graphic, but I’ll try to do my best. We were making out, like two hungry lions. I know it was nothing but a bunch of lips and tongue and whatnot, but there was nothing you could do to convince me that it was anything short of divine.

This was something that felt like what I had been waiting my whole life for. Ever since I had known this girl, I had dreamed about kissing her, which was the strongest way I could show her what I felt for her.

And believe it or not, this was the first time we have actually kissed. I mean, there were a few times in the past where we came pretty close, but there was always some kind of deterrent. Either somebody decided to walk in the room at that precise moment, or she started to sober up.

Just kidding.

Finally we release, and for a few extra moments, we stare into each other’s eyes, lingering, as if waiting for other to propose. When I finally turn to leave, she grabs onto my hand. I know what she’s thinking before she says it.

“Stay. Please. I…I need you now.”

I want to. I want to stay. I want to hold her and caress her and kiss away all her worries and cares and fears. I want to love her all over, from the bottom to the top. I want to whisper love ballads in her ears and watch her sleep at night. I want all of this and more. But I can’t. Because duty calls. I’m actually running late for work, and I can’t afford any more of those…

There’s actually more than that. I don’t really trust myself alone with her for long. I’m not saying that I can’t control myself, but it gets really hard (no pun intended). I mean, we just made out. Her house is right here. There is no way that my emotions were ready to deal something of that magnitude.

Giving her one more kiss, I whisper into her ear the same thing I begin to write in her palm:

LOVE.”

Without looking back, I let go of her hand, turn around and head towards my car.

At this point, I don’t think I need to say it, but I will anyway.

I love her.

4.09.2008

A Super Power Unlike Any Other...



My Question:
What kind of damage would you cause if you had this effect on people? Or, to whom?

4.07.2008

Oh, To Be A LadyFace...

I couldn't be a female.

Obviously enough, I am not, but I don't think that I could take it. I'd probably be a lesbian or something, but there's no way that I could take on the monumental day-to-day bidnis of being a ladyface. Sorry.

There are parts of being female that astound me, some parts that disturb me, other parts that make me shake my head and thank God for these testicles that so dutifully swang low.

For example, there's the HUGE issue of the societal demands. Everywhere you look, you see all of these skinny, size 0 models. (Note: Allow me to clarify. If you are just naturally small, then props to you. My beef is with the ad agencies that promote this as the only acceptable form of beauty. Personally, I like my women like I like my soup: Chunky, but healthy. But I digress...) I honestly feel that it is rather unfair. And that's not to say that guys don't go through the pressures of looking like some diesel; however, in my own personal journey, I realized that...I...don't...care.
But back to the topic.
I don't know if I could handle those kinds of demands. You've gotta have this skintone, be this old, have this much booty, this much boobie, not too much thigh, just enough hair, blah blah blah.
This is why I love the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty. Seriously, I think there need to be more campaigns like this. Enough with the super-dooper skinny skinny template of beauty. Let's throw some 36s in there. A couple of (Natural) A, B, C, D cups.

Now that I think about it, I think that the issue is to advocate self-appreciation and self-esteem. Feeling comfortable in our own skin. Which leads me to my next point...

All that make-up? Couldn't do it. I guess I'm an au naturale brother. There's no need for all that face goop. There was a girl in college that I remember especially. I remember her, because her face looked painted on. There was one event in particular that I remember. We were in the pool, acting a bunch of fools. One of us saw her and watched her. We noticed that she still had make-up on. I don't know what the other guys were looking at; I didn't thinks she would jump in the pool with all of that cake on her face.
Alas, she did.

Even better, as she emerged from the pool (after about 30 minutes of frolicking around and whatnot), her make-up was still glued onto her face.
Have you have been putting on the Vaseline or Cocoa Butter in the morning, but then tried to wash it off? It's hard, isn't it? Because, something about the way the Vaseline/Cocoa Butter is made, it just...indestructible.
My friends and I nicknamed her "The Maybelline Queen". Why? Not because we were mean...okay, maybe it was a little rough.
Long story short, I know that sometimes, a lil' bit is all that is needed. And by all means, a lil' bit will get the job done. But I'm way too ignorant to be worrying about applying some gunk to my face all the time. What you see is what you get.

Not to mention the nasty surprise we get when we see what the person actually looks like underneath it all (Kinda like the famous picture to the right depicts. Surprise, Ja Rule!).

And then there are all the obvious things:

1. Monthlies
2. The Incessant Need for Accessories
3. ....Monthlies...

But then I realize, I may just be a lazy bum. Cuz, seriously, who would rather go through all of that? Seriously. Tell me you wouldn't rather laze around, scratching unmentionables and being gross on purpose!

You're lying.

4.03.2008

This or That Pt.1

In the realm of psychology, the infamous Sigmund Freud has come up with three facets of human nature that split up our psyche.

The Id.

The Super-Ego.

The Ego.


The Id is the force that makes us crazy, carnal creatures. The Id is what makes males want to lay the pipe any day, any moment, any where, no matter what. The Id doesn't care about the rules of society. The Id snatches up food without paying, sex with/without playing, fun without pause or pretense. The Id gets high, drunk, crunk, wild, stupid, giddy, and happy, all with orgasmic pleasure. Hence, tt's our "pleasure principle", our humanity, our weakness, our...IDGAF (I Don't Give A F*$&).

The Super-Ego is the policeman, the pastor, the one who says not to. The Super-Ego, also known as the Party Pooper or the Cock Blocker. The Super-Ego crashes the Id's party, making everything STOP.
Put down that weed.
Don't have sex with that girl. No, not even head.
You are not supposed to lie on your 1040. Because those are not your kids.

The Ego is the mediator. The Ego compromises. The Ego is the one who tells you that you can't get high, but you can do something else to give you a high. The Ego's job is also usually the hardest, because it has to establish a balance between the Trifling Id and the Uptight Stup...I mean, Super Ego.
Fornication vs. Abstinence
Sobriety vs. Intoxication
Honesty vs. Mo' Money
The ego is the mediator between the id and the super-ego, trying to ensure that the needs of both the id and the super-ego are met. It is said to operate on a reality principle, meaning it deals with the id and the super-ego; allowing them to express their desires, drives and morals in realistic and socially appropriate ways. It is said that the ego stands for reason and caution, developing with age. Sigmund Freud had used an analogy which likened the ego to a rider and a horse; the ego being the rider while the id being the horse. The horse provides the energy and the means of obtaining the energy and information need, while the rider ultimately controls the direction it wants to go. However, due to unfavorable conditions, sometimes the horse makes its own decisions over the rocky terrain.


The problem comes with the decision that has to be made. We all have an innate sense of what is right. Because it's right. Right is right is right is right. Period. In the same vein, wrong is wrong is wrong is wrong. Maybe it depends on how we grew up. Maybe we're establishing this as we speak. Whatever it is, we need to choose between the three, and usually, its the Ego that's getting the workout.

How is one to choose? When does Common Sense become practiced?

In this world, it's getting harder to choose. I mean, c'mon, something are obvious (rape is not good. love-making is good.), but when the lines get blurry is when ego takes a beating from some things and employs some defense mechanisms.

But we still know what's right. As a Christian, I know what's right. With a slight edit on what Dave Chappelle said, every Christian is a qualified paralegal. We know. Exodus isn't that complicated.

What am I trying to say? I don't even know. I guess I'm just expressing my frustration at the whole thing. A dictionary full of do's and don'ts, but no one tells you when/how/if the lines could/should get crossed. I'm frustrated with worried about what I'm not supposed to do. And its not complicated either. Something are really, really simple. Life moves on.

I feel like I have so many questions, but so many of them are silenced because of the Super-Ego. Or because I know what the answer is already, but I don't know the answer.

Whatever. I guess the Super-Ego is best anyways.

Something.

I don't know.

I'm hungry.