www.cheers-saleem.com

I think this is much to do about nothing.  I hate PETA.

Season One Episode 1 Taalam Acey & One Wise African
Season One Episode 2 One Wise African
Season One Episode 3 Beny Blaq & Hanalyn Colvin
Season One Episode 4 Love the Poet & Che Ray
Season One Episode  5 E. The Poet Emcee, Naima J. & Fredlocks of Mic Life
Season One Episode 6 Jahipster & Lady Wisdom
Season One Episode 7 Gayle Danley & E Baby

Anybody that knows me and sees that picture probably thinks I’m bigging up my Cowboys also known as Big D.  When my Cowboys beat the Giants this Sunday top of my list was to go talk shit to my boy “Big D” a staunch Giants fan.  I just found out he passed in his sleep a few days ago.  I always find it so suprising and remoresfully sad when someone I know from other realms of life die.  I mean I have friends that have been dancing around bullets for years and when the music stops I go “damn”.  When I heard D passed I went “Noooooooooooo, What??? WTF???”.  It’s one of them unexpected sad, sad things that really shake you.  He was a cool jovial dude who bartended at The Midtown Yatch Club here in Baltimore a few blocks from my house, yet I met him years and years ago when both of us were on the same side of the bar chugging down beers and berating eachother’s teams.  Rest in peace Big D, may God bless your soul–you were definitely loved by many, many people.

This is our new TV show, soon to be broadcast on Comcast Baltimore/Anne Arundel County, but thank God for the internet–here’s the first episode. 

Click here

So I throw a monthly happy hour, social and invite a few fellow bloggers.  It was a slow night, my DJ and a few friends decided to host a concert for some dude named Clifford Smith so the vibe was slightly different, and my crew of lesbian lushes didn’t show.  Fellow bloggers TTD and GTL who are also a couple showed up and we shared a few drinks when we realized GTD works with Micki and TTD works with me–dooo dooo dooo doo– dooo dooo dooo dooo.  Anyways after watching the undefeated NCAA football game and cackling about how one of my boys got clocked in the head with Micki ’s umbrella at 1am last weekend when his girlfriend found it in her car after he gave us a ride home–we headed home slightly inebriated.  Typical night.

Here’s where it gets interesting.  One of my boys who was also at the spot with us with his new girl who left prior to us leaving gives me a call.  He says his girl left and went to a club and was drugged and he just recovered her laying on a curb and returned her home.  Now he wants to go “get the motherfucker”.  I want to look out for my boy and any female taken advantage of but I got a “we will lock your black ass up for 10 years if you ever lay your hand on another human being in the next five years” clause hanging round my head– well for at least two more years.  So he assures me that I have to do nothing–so I tell him if he gets permission from my guardian–I will roll out.  Micki hears the story: “she was drugged??? let’s be out” and I trade in my slacks for something in black and we all roll out to the club.  It was closed.  so we meet up with our boy–an old school rapper from back in the days and we go bar to bar to find this mofo (we had a description). 

Unfortunately encyclopedia brown Micki also had a description of the drugged girlfriend.  Not unfortunate for us but for my boy-the boyfriend.  Micki gets the bartender to divulge that yes his girlfriend was in there with another woman and proudly pronouncing her lesbianism before leaving–undrugged.  Also the club that she claimed to be at–which is notorius for drug misuse–has not been open in weeks.

 Moral of the story?  Don’t try to get shit past Micki–not that I ever tried–I aint that stupid.  And that was our night.

 In other very more important news–I’ll believe it when I see it–baby girl is sposed to come home this weekend-9 years early.  We already paid for the plane ticket.  I am in a perpetual state of balled up emotions and will relapse/explode as soon as I am assured she has set foot on American soil.  Pray for us.

BALTIMORE — Baltimore police are still trying to determine the motive for the fatal stabbing of a 17-year-old city girl near a light rail station. It happened shortly after midnight yesterday morning in West Baltimore near the Jones Falls Expressway. Police and family members say Nicole Edmonds and her 16-year-old brother had stepped off a train moments earlier when they were accosted by three men and a woman who got off with them. Two of the men held the brother, while the man and woman chased the girl and stabbed her.

She died 30 minutes later at Shock Trauma. The attack happened as Nicole and her brother were heading home from their jobs at a fast food restaurant in Linthicum.
This is a sad sad story, but what’s even sadder is my speculation that Baltimore Police are up to old tricks.  Every article I read on this story says the light rail stop was in West Baltimore.  Anyone who lives in Baltimore will tell you the light rail doesn’t let off anywhere that would be coined “West Baltimore”.  By the looks of it the incident had to occur somewhere between Falls Road and Timonium–affluent middle to upper-class neighborhoods that don’t want to have a murder in their stats which may affect their property value.  So this murder will be documented as occurring in “West Baltimore”

Know how I know I’m not? Well as it happens I still read blogs every now and then to keep up with what’s going on in peoples lives. Some old friends some new friends, some folks I never met that I just voyuer across their blogs. So during my blog recap today I notice pics of folks I recently saw out on the town-in my town! I read the blogs and the comments and apparently there was this blog get-together! Clubs, plays, parties etc. Now Bklyndiva (who I’ve known since college–WE ARE PENN STATE!) and Kween who I know thru the artistic circuit in town coulda let a brother know. But nooooo I got read about the folks I saw out having a damn good time this weekend– having a damn good time this weekend. Myself not included. I’m looking at the pics like–aint that the fools that was in my way for the restroom when I needed to drain away like 5 heinekens. I’m looking to see if you can see my impatient arm in some of the pics waiting to run by, while someone yells “one more–take one with mine!”. Oh anyways. I hear TTD and Missy was there as well. Nice to meet yall–NOT.

March 9th is once again upon us, and every March 9th me and my man P-Funk, my favorite and best DJ in the land somehow find a way to pay tribute to Christopher Wallace, AKA Biggie Smalls, AKA Biggie, AKA, B.I.G., AKA The Notorious Big, AKA Big Poppa, AKA Frank White, AKA The King of New York. More often than not we have a show, a party, etc. etc. but this year even though we may attend a tribute show, my homegirl, Brooklyn’s Finest Diva gave me the idea to do it here in blogland. Actually she didn’t give me the idea– it was her idea and being the geek I am, I figured out how I could make it happen.

With that said let me mention my reasoning for my appreciation of Biggie (as I like to affectionately call him as seen in this post). Simply stated, I love Biggie because he sang my life to me. Away in College going from a 100% minority environment to a 3% minority environment– Biggie kept me home, kept my memories of home alive. Negative as they may be, it was like a Roberta Flack song– he was strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words. Sitting in classes, playing badmitton, eating hot wings and pitchers of beer that wasn’t malt liquor, barbequing with no BBQ sauce– all elements of culture shock– had me grasping for Big. Not the luxurius lifestyle but the constant every day grind– the every day struggle– hustling– every single allusion Biggie makes to hustling– I get, I recall it. I loved it because someone knew my story– and made a song about it. Then as I heard more– the robbery allusions and avoiding being stuck up made me think that Biggie was somehow my brother or my best friend who somehow learned to rap and sent the stories we had been through and news of what was going on to me– in song.

Also, Big in my opinion, in the genre, was and is the greatest lyricist of all times. His rhyme scheme was so abstract it could not be metered. A lot of people put Tupac above Big as a rapper–that’s impossible. Big has not and can not be duplicated– his look maybe– his voice maybe– his rhyme scheme and basic abstract lyricism can not be duplicated– there have been 10 or so Pacs-only one Biggie. As a phenom, as an entity, Tupac was way bigger than Big– hell people still see him at Greyhound stations or whatever. I dug Pac, he was our shining black prince, not to align him with Malcolm but he represented the abivalent situation given our generation. But as far as a rapper he was not Big.

This is my 2006 tribute to Biggie, by blog. Check out the tracks I have here, there are some tracks I guarantee you have never heard, for example Biggie & Frank Sintra tracks mixed, and a never before heard Big song that just surfaced this year “Biggie Got the Hype Shit”. Enjoy– the greatest of all times.

OBJECTIVE:
To obtain wealth, maintain my health, and achieve the highest level of knowledge of self while maintaining myself, achieving the potential of self while being myself, so I say to myself � self: who am I and why �and why is it so hard obtaining wealth, maintaining my health allthewhile being myself. And myself says�”self: just be yourself”.

EDUCATION:
1972-1990 School of the Hard Knocks

The streets of Philadelph, Illadelph, make sure you don�t kill yourself
Major: Survival � Degree: Denial

1990-1995 Penn State University � I know you heard of me–40,000 plus �but that was none of us�Culture Shock, Ock

Major: Political Studies, Liberal Studies, Journalistic Studies, Communication Studies�or basically whatever I could study– studies

Degree: Baccalaureate of the “You must be artful to use this degree” arts �with smarts in African America studies.
Don�t expect monies �cuz uh actually you aint from or never been to Africa and you aint guaranteed all your rights as an American
So forget all you can while you attempting to claim African and or American in the meantime being played by the man.

WORK EXPERIENCE:

1972-1985: workin on my momma nerves

1985-1992: hustla, playa, convict too misguided youth partime �half conscious blackman fulltime

Duties including but not limited to the following: Gambler, scrambler, coke dealer, gun dealer, genocidal killer, money peeler
And the girl at the end of the block�yes I am feelin her

1992-1995 bustin my ass to thrive and stay alive
learnin schoolin�showin the nonbelievers I aint foolin— around
I aint that same clown that stayed locked down�robbin all the sweet vics around town
Penitentiary or hellward bound�
but best believe�Tif is still down

1995 to the Present: You wouldn�t believe how far I went�psuedo member of the establishment

Duties including but not limited to the following:
ass kisser, non butt kicker�no more malt liquor�finger off the trigger, pockets are thicker, opportunities are bigger, exemplary figure
But yet and still I know�I�m still considered a nigga

AWARDS AND ACTIVITIES:

Unwilling volunteer: young black man in a society that hates me, bates me, degrades me�blames me
And whose fate we can all see through the disparity�but then again maybe �it�s just me

AWARDED:

Over 25 years of life and that�s no hype�a purple heart for all that got lost in the fight and still continue the plight and neglect factors�white

Member: strong black man club
Member: I was amongst a million club
Member: I aint never gonna give back my black club
Member: Praise God Above and profess my love club

AWARDED: A baby girl. Life, L-I-F-E, eternity, my destiny, bringing out the best in me.
Fate, F-A-T-E, eternally through paternity I will be the best that I can be�and you will see the me that: My momma sees, see that my dramas relieved
See the me that my daughter needs�see the me that God feeds,
See the me beyond me, see the me that is really me.
That�s who I be�it�s all in me.

ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
PEACE, P-E-A-C-E�maybe temporarily or sporadically nonetheless– Peace � Peace of mind peace of soul peace of what I know
And with every little bit of my baby girls glow
Grimmly reapin my sow , I remember the words my grandma tole
“First come God then come you”
Even though that you meant me�I�ma maintain that philosophy and my you will be we and that we will be�a society in search always of that place called free
To mankind above and beyond
all the nonsense
Living by the true meaning of my name �common sense
For my Lord, myself, and my fam�
I�m going to be who I am
Through all the adversity
Whether learned through street or unviserity
I�m going to be � to the best of my ability
With or without stability– me
And we will see the me that is you and the you that is me –that we all may be
Is we�phenominal, multi faceted , people that�s who we be
I�m every one of you�you�re all in me.
Outsandting black man that�s who I be

References Available upon request

co. 1999

*note in my laziness I decided to add a poetry section and eventually put all my old crap there

Gordon Parks died recently at the age of 93. This man was a true Renaissance man, the photography, the poetry, the Life magazine covers, Shaft– what more can one man do. Rest in Peace elder.

Being lazy I will add my comments on the Three-Six Mafia Oscar performance from Rell’s blog rather than make it a post. I may expound on it later.

Let me start by saying I “hate” on southern music, hell I “hate” on all music, I hate on bafoonery, and I also support the claim that black actors are more appreciated in stereotypical and negative roles from Haddie McDowell to Morgan Freeman, I researched and made this a speech in college. But I have to disagree with Rell. The movie (Hustle ‘n Flow) was very good in my opinion and gave me an appreciation of Southern music– not a like of Southern music– just an understanding. It made me compare it to hip hop as we back East see it and at the time when it was the CNN of the ghetto. The movie made me aware of Southern “culture” and the sound was so applicable it could not be ignored as best song for a movie this year. Not that the song is good at all– it embodies that movie moreso than any song has in years. Straight up Menace (MC EIHT, Menace to Society) was 10 times better a song and it spoke the movie– but it wasn’t as influential as this song. I think the Academy is really appreciating the art, I think this is a boundary broken for urban music and art.

Interesting Post Article

In one of many of my artistic endeavors, well ideas– sometimes the thoughts don’t immediately come to fruition, I wrote a one man play entiled “The Soundtrack to My Life”. It was a musical theatric one man show detailing my life accompanied by my favorite songs. Well strolling through Angie’s spot– who coincidentally I have met, I came across this lil meme. I’d be interested to see Micki or Bill’s answers.

A favorite political track. People Get Ready, Curtis Mayfield
The song you’d use to tell someone you love them. Could It Be I’m falling In love With You, The Spinners
A song that has made you sit down and analyze it’s lyrics. American Pie, Don McLean
A song that you like, that a two year old would like as well. Whoomp There it is, 2 live Crew
A song that gives you an energy boost. Notorious Thugs, Biggie & Bone Thugs
A song that you and your grandparents (would probably) like. One in a Million, Larry Graham (one of my grandma’s favorites)
A song that you really liked when you were 14-16, and still really like now. Candy Girl, New Edition
A sad song that would be in the soundtrack of the movie about your life. Change Gone Come, Sam Cooke
A peppy song that would start the opening credits of the movie about your life. Rebel Without a Pause, Public Enemy
A good song from a genre of music that no one would guess that you liked. Red Hot Chili Peppers (Under the Bridge)
A song that you think should have been playing when you were born. Greatest Man Alive, Three Times Dope
A favorite artist duo collaboration. Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell, You’re All I Need To Get By
A favorite song that you completely disagree with (politically, morally,commonsenically, religiously etc.) Secret lovers, Atlantic Starr
The song that you like despite the fact your IQ level drops several points every time you listen to it. The Whisper Song, Ying Yang Twins
Your smooth song, for relaxing. Ellington/Coltrane, In a Sentimental Mood
A song you would send to someone you hate or are mad at. I Don’t Care, Audio Two feat. Milk D.
A favorite track from an outfit considered a super-group. I don’t know any “super-groups”
A song that makes you reminsce about good times with a family member. Better Days, Diane Reeves
Your favorite song at this moment in time. Redemtion Song, Bob Marley

I got this from narrowcast and find it utterly hilarious. FYI I despised the last Puffy Biggie creation, I really hated the dope verse Puffy spit on the one track. Only reason it was dope is because Eminem wrote it. Puffy gotta be the smartest, richest talentless mofo on the face of the Earth.

Ebony, by Lerone Bennett, Jr.

New Book Says Most Famous Act In American History Never Happened

THE presidential campaign of 1860 was over, and the victor was stretching his legs and shaking off the cares of the world in his temporary office in the state capitol in Springfield, Illinois. Surrounded by the perks of power, at peace with the world, the president-elect was regaling old acquaintances with tall tales about his early days as a politician. One of the visitors interrupted this monologne and remarked that it was a shame that “the vexatious slavery matter” would be the first question of public policy the new president would have to deal with in Washington.

The president-elect’s eyes twinkled and he said he was reminded of a story. According to eyewitness Henry Villard, President-elect Abraham Lincoln “told the story of the Kentucky Justice of the Peace whose first case was a criminal prosecution for the abuse of slaves. Unable to find any precedent, he exclaimed angrily: `I will be damned if I don’t feel almost sorry for being elected when the niggers is the first thing I have to attend to.’”

This story, shocking as it may sound to Lincoln admirers, was in character. For the president-elect had never shown any sincere sympathy for Blacks, and none of his cronies was surprised to hear him suggest that he shared the viewpoint of the reluctant and biased justice of the peace. As for the N-word, everybody knew that old Abe used it all the time, both in public and in private. (Since Lincoln supporters are in a state of constant denial, I have not used elision in reporting his use of the offensive word n–r.)
[full story]

Reading a story in the Philadelphia Daily News I was reminded of a story I have retained over the years. I was told the story by my father’s brother, Edward Torrance, BKA Fast Eddie, about his son (or step-son, things are still sketchy), who was my age when he was arrested years ago. The only particulars, coming from Fast Ed himself, was that his son was railroaded for a murder kidnapping charge and something about a body in the trunk. Fast Ed, my favorite living family member, told many stories. He escaped a life of crime, and drugs in the early 90’s to the immediate South. He told stories of robbing banks, and being arrested for killing someone who turned out to be himself in a gang fight, where he legally died. He told of the Black Mafia and of The Sound of Philadelphia, he spoke about pimpin’, conked hair, wearing capes and carrying canes, and gang warring in North and South Philly.

Here in the immediate South where I escaped to join my uncle, father, sister, and cousin– running from a life of crime and drugs, I re-met my uncle, and this is where he told these stories to me. He tearfully spoke of a youngster that got caught up in the wrong thing at the wrong time. He told me to guide me because I was once a hot head youngster at one time, a youngster that “lucked up” and never had the “activities” I partook in as a wayward youngster result in someone being kidnapped and killed by the hands of someone much more mature and street-wise and deliberately dastard, than the eager kid who wants to “be down” and make a few dollars like I was.

I never met my cousin Stacey, and my reluctance to visit the walls of justice that once held me, will never allow me to do so. By my uncle’s encouragement, and not my father’s–we never really bonded like that– I made of myself into someone as did he– we did it together. Fast Eddie (moves now at a snails pace) is a legend here in the closest major metropolis to the South than Philly, as a Chef, a friend and an overall good guy. His prot�g� (me) armed with a college degree, became a business owner, a 3 time Fortune 500 worker, friend and peer of senators, mayors, lawyers, etc. love, respects, and appreciates what he would later learn and pass on to me.

It’s too bad Fast Eddie hadn’t ascertained and passed on this knowledge to Stacey at the time. Fast Eddie changed, I’ve changed. I still believe in the streets’ “eye for an eye” but Stacey was just a 15 year old kid who’s only direction came from an actual killer– who killed the man Stacey is spending his eternity in jail for being a part of the killing.

Fast Eddie regrets it. So far, he’s saved myself, Eddie Jr. (an exec at a major food chain), my cousin G, and I don’t know about them but I’m pulling people from the hood (mainly my neighborhood of Nicetown/Hunting Park) out, moving them here, giving them the life skills that they need and letting them fly like a butterfly.

Stacey Torrance does not know who I am and probably doesn’t have memory of Edward Torrance. But because of Stacey’s situation, a lot of my family and friends are neglect of the degradive cycle of nothingness we were destined. For that reason alone I think he should be given a new chance at life–his intent may have been skewed, but I guarantee his intent never was murder. I think he should be given a chance, because he gave me a new chance and every and anybody I get in an earshot of a possible chance. Think about it, he’s the only convicted murderer we know of that has never killed anyone. And at the same time, unbeknowingestly stopped a lot of people from killing people. Is he paying too high a price for his role? He deserves a refund– that’s justice.

*actual letter sent to the Philadelphia Daily News

Can this organization stop effing up?

WASHINGTON Feb 12, 2006 (AP)� Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally shot and injured a man during a weekend quail hunting trip in Texas, his spokeswoman said Sunday.
Harry Whittington, 78, was “alert and doing fine” after Cheney sprayed Whittington with shotgun pellets on Saturday at the Armstrong Ranch in south Texas, said property owner Katharine Armstrong.

Armstrong said Cheney turned to shoot a bird and accidentally hit Whittington. She said Whittington was taken to Corpus Christi Memorial Hospital by ambulance.

Cheney’s spokeswoman, Lea Anne McBride, said the vice president was with Whittington, a lawyer from Austin, Texas, and his wife at the hospital on Sunday afternoon.

Copyright 2006 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

Good thing he was hunting quail and not deer therefore using birdshot and not deadly buckshot. *sigh

*

So, my main man the Baba man has been out of town on work and vacation forever, he texts me about meeting for happy hour. We usually drink up at least thrice a week, so I text him back and agree to meet him for happy hour at a slightly posh spot that offers a two-for-one-anything for happy hour. It�s pricey, but it�s two for one-anything, including top shelf. So if you order a $13 dollar drink�you get two�well worth the cost. I know my baby is downstairs at the gym so I stop by to extend her the invitation, to which she agrees to meet us as she is almost finished and only has to shower. She is in tight fitting sweat pants and a sports bra�sweat glistening all over her Cleveland. This was so sexy to me�I tickle my boobies and pat my booty�give her a smooch and tell her I would see her later. So damn sexy she is. On the way to the establishment I decide to text her. (For All the impaired this is text dialogue via cell phone)

Me: I got a woody
The Baba man: Good 4u
Me: ooooooooooooooh shit�sorry Dawg, my bad, wrong window!

Yes, my text went to Baba instead of my baby. It was hysterical to me even given the implications�glad it was the Baba and not a co-worker.

No-homo

*Although this is basically what I see when she is on the treadmill– this is not my baby: IMG courtesy of nsI from ElementsParty.com

OK, Friday night, just got paid, me and the lady live it up– all the time. We’re at my buddies club, same club (former owner) that gave me a bottle of Moet because I told her I was a one woman man now, same club I met Indie Arie twice, same club Derek Jeter, Ray Lewis can be seen in. So we get it in, last I know tab is over 100– which is not much but alot for a non-celbratory regular Friday. The club is closing the missus is hungry she goes to the late night pizza parlor to get something to eat.

Micki : Tif, do you want anything to eat?
Me: No
Micki: Are you sure, we’ve been drinking all night, we haven’t had dinner?
Me: I’m good, I’ma meet my man at the bar and you hit me when you have the food

So I go have a drink with my man approximately 100 feet where she is ordering food, we do this often, I have a nitecap while she gets some late night vittles. So she calls me, I join up with her and we’re a few blocks away from home when we have an argument neither one of us can recall. We also do this often, the stubburn Taurus in me vs. the Ivy League “I’m always right chick” — add alcohol and it’s a terrible combination. We argue all the way home and she has to use the restroom upon entry in our house. I say “I’ma eat your cheesesteak!”–in spite, as I was hungering about the time. She says “you better not!”. So the night ends for the both of us, as we are too drunk to recall what happened.

The next day and the week following, she jokingly retells the story of how after everything I stated above occurred, she returned from the bathroom and apparently I ate her entire cheesesteak. I think to myself: “damn I must of been mad at her, no way I can choke down an entire cheeseteak in 5 minutes.” She thus went through the fridge and ate every leftover I had in spite. Made for a funny story to our friends because I never eat an entire meal at one setting, and how I ate her cheesesteak that she waited for at about 3AM in the morning– out of spite.

Micki brang this story up several times during the week. Everyone laughed and chided me for being an asshole, yaddy, yadda, yadda. She also brought up the fact that I hadn’t Spic ‘N Spanned the kitchen because it had a smell. I had cleaned the kitchen and had no idea where the smell was coming from. On Saturday I do a thourough cleaning of the kitchen, and behind a sign that her sister had given us that states “Tresspassers will be given a shot”, I discovered a wrapped object. There behind this sign that graced our kitchen “island space”– was a cheesesteak.

I guess I hid her cheesesteak to spite her, and to humble her furious argumentation ,and forgot to tell her I was just joking– here’s your cheeesteak.

Oops my bad.

So, I reach into the mailbox today and grab the mail, some “have you seen me” crap and a magazine, it wasn’t mine, it was Micki’s so I didn’t pay much attention. On the elevator ride up I look at the cover, it’s Cosmo and I’m thinking, wow that is a cute white girl. I get to my place grab my keys, sling the mail on the counter and take off my coat and shoes, grab a stool and a beer and decide to find out who this cute white girl is. Some may have issue with my “cute white girl reference”, so that will be addressed in the second part of this blog. I scour the cover and low and behold it’s Beyonce Knowles. Now this isn’t the first time I’ve experienced this– it seems her ethnicity varies depending on what magazine she’s on or in. There’s white Beyonce and Black Beyonce. I’m not pointing the finger at her, I’m pointing the finger at Cosmo, the bible of European beauty, and Vanity Fair, etc., the magazines that make the girl up to look like a white woman to don the cover of their magazine. Now some may say Beyonce is damn near on the cusp– but being a yellow Negro in the know– there’s no way in hell she’s passing.

I’ll touch on that light skinned dark skinned good and bad hair never dying monster later, right now this is black and white. Late in 2005 there was some prime time specials on Black women not getting the cover of magazines and constituting X amount of the readership yet appearing on the cover something like one percent of the time. Some Black women’s advocate agency spoke up, they got some drops from Tara Banks and the thin lipped girl, umm umm Gabrielle Union and some other folks, and contacted some magazines and I guess the mojo was in motion. The next few months Ms. Knowles is everywhere albeit absent the infamous “money maker”. Yet not only was the laffy not taffied, her skin tone was several shades lighter, hair bone straight and the lips and the nose looked like modern day Egyptians had taken a chisel to them. Not to say Beyonce doesn’t get her unbeweavable Euro look on– the chick is blonde half the time, but Black-blonde, sorta like a stripper hoe or a really cute Lil Kim. Now to further complicate this “black/white” thing, I do not wish to assert that white magazines portray her as white and black magazines as black– several white magazines appreciate the bodacious bronze beauty– just not your John Q. “the white woman’s godliness is the standard of beauty, why you think we started the Klan” Whiteman mags. Some may argue that the ilk of the magazine may deternine her “look” but she can be Black and sophisticated and classy.

Now I’m no card carrying member of the Beyonce fan club like most dudes I know, I can’t front she looks damn good, but I would never grab some lotion and a rag, lock a door with screams of “oh Beyonce, oh Beyonce” filling the air, so don’t think this is a worshipping admirer’s defense or anything. I just think it’s some bullshit– major bullshit. For a Black woman to don the cover of Cosmo she has to rock the Elle McPherson look? Do an image search and when you find white Beyonce look at the source, and do be careful, there is a porn star that’s named Beyonce and in comparison even while naked she looks like a rash with a weave. Well that’s just my honest opinion. I’ve added a few mag covers below.

White Beyonce on the cover of Vanity Fair

Black Beyonce–Juice Magazine

Black Beyonce–Rolling Stone

Which brings me to part deux of this post. Up above I said “cute white woman” as if it’s an oddity and white woman aren’t cute. That’s simply not true and not what I believe at all, my preference just happens to be for Black women and white women don’t get the drool glands working or Mr. mojo rising. It has nothing to do with how I was raised or some Black power shit or anything, I just can count on my fingers the white women I have found really attractive to me. I can see how other people can find them attractive as in some are so attractive they just exude attractiveness and you can’t front on how banging they are (see: husband stealing, pregnant, chronic adopter). So for me it’s not a Black/white thing, quarterly me and the lady might get into an argument because she thinks I have a thing for Hispanic/Latin women. Hispanic/Latin women or light skinned women to hear her tell it. Now my only thing is her, but to be fair, I did have a preference for fair skinned women.

Before you guys head straight to the comments page “Tif you just spewed all that b.s. and now you hating on dark skinned sistas you light bright and damn near white house nig..”– I said preference. And I honestly believe Freud had some major points and I think my preference is Oedipal. Not that I have or had any desire to– ick I won’t even say it– with my mom, I think I am a human being that always envisioned their partner in the image of their mother. A fair skinned curly haired, thin woman. Now my mom has put on the grandma weight, yet I have no “fair skinned graying, grammommy weight” preferences, but I think my youth inked in my head what I liked and it was in the vision of my mother.

Therefore it takes a special look on a white woman or a dark skinned woman to attract me. I was thinking about this the other day and thinking of the chocolate sisters that I’ve found myself attracted to: Kenya Moore and the chick from House Party and Class Act that disappeared off the face of the Earth. I think she quit acting and joined the CIA, because if Google can’t find your ass, you don’t exist. Google is like God’s website– if you aren’t Googable to some extent you are a symptom of metaphysics. As I digress, I’ve tackled a few things here that may be hard to swallow if you don’t chew with an extremely unbiased mouth. Let’s talk about it.

me: (cleaning my monitor with wet wipe)

Old Guy: Why are you in DOS?

me: I just wanted a black screen so I could see all the spots

Old Guy: Tif, you know you could of just turned the monitor off.

Tif <– turns red

I mean I like Kanye as much as the next man, definitely more than the no homo guy (after I looked up his page I noticed he blogged about the same thing I’m blogging about this second). I love his music, I love his comment about the president, but c’mon– this pisses me off and I’m not even Christian. Then again, I guess it can be considered art, it pisses me off, but I’m not pissed with a passion.

I was strolling by Nia’s spot and I read her Stereotype of a black male post and the comments associated with it and it provoked a lot of memories and even more thought. Being a black male from the inner city you come to grips with the fact that at any time you can have your human rights violated by an officer of the goddamn law at any point. Now I was an admitted bastard growing up but most of my run ins with the law occurred when I was a matriculating undergrad student. I’ve blogged about being arrested for robbery and being locked up for months mistakenly. These things are an oddity but the everyday profiling and harassment by power hungry policemen is really out of hand. Currently here in Baltimore, city council is meeting with the mayor and police chief because the police have a habit of arresting people “just cuz”. Arresting them and offering no charging documents, just arrested Negroes to be arresting them.

Nia sympathized with black men and I’m glad she’s aware because not everyone has experienced this harassment and may think it’s a NY or LA thing. The love of my life had to witness first hand how a black man has no rights against the law as stated here in the Fells Point story.

Another instance, once in a traffic stop back home I was nervous and wasn’t aware of the mechanics of my buddies door lock when I was told to get out the car, so the officer pulled my skinny ass right through the window and laid me on the ground.

In Grand Central Station post 911 I was harassed by a black cop for having an open container when everybody knows you can buy beer in Grand Central and drink on the trains. The irony here is, it was a black cop and when the other officers got wind of “a situation” brewing they drove their little buggies over to kick some zero tolerance ass or to drop 41 bullets into me. They get pissed: “open container???” They left in disappointment. [Walking away] “We can’t kill a nigger for open container can we?” “Don’t think so Bob, it’s not in the manual”. “Let’s go, no fun here”. I was being facetious (ala the late great Richard Pryor) on that last part but you get my point.

Now I can go on and on case, incident, etc. I’ve even sat on panels on the subject. I was scheduled to speak at an ACLU event on racial profiling and the night before the event we were “pulled over”. I had some friends come to pick me up to go out, they were parked outside, I go jump in the car, a SUV that was in park. Before my buddy could start the car the sirens sounded and they were barking instructions. There’s no way there was any violations as the car was in a valid parking space in park. Well to a cop there was the SUV, the dreads, the bald head– that’s cause for harassment alone. They ask several questions as to what we were doing in this neighborhood, etc. etc. and eventually let us go. I had to change my entire speech to reflect this. Excerpts were actually aired on the local news channels.

Philadelphia and Baltimore with the current rises in murders are contemplating “jump out” techniques where officers randomly search people for weapons. I seem to recall an amendment or something that was supposed to guarantee us against this “unlawful” act. Philly claims they would never do it, Baltimore currently is fighting for the right to illegal search and seizure.

So boys and girls, black boys regardless of age or socio-economic status, will always be at the mercy of the boys in blue. It’s just a part of life that many of us have learned to accept. Imagine how humiliating and emasculating it is as a human being to know that there is the inevitable chance that you will always face the possibility of being punked by the boys in blue– regardless of their skin color.

Appendix I

The last sentence reminded me of the scene in the movie Crash where the officer played by Matt Dillon (I don’t want to be a spoiler) does the thing and the Hustle & Flow dude is rendered helpless. That is an entire blog that I will post sometime later, and describe the entire scene as not enough people read this blog for it to be too much of a spoiler.

I love basketball. I really do. When I was younger I used to eat and sleep basketball playing from sun up to sun down, and then our impoverished neighborhood got lights and we played maybe 12 hours a day. I’ve played with NBA players like Pooh Richardson, Dough Overton, Rasheed Wallace, Aaron McKie, Chris Webber, etc. I’m no good but where I’m from you had to play ball or you were a thug. I tore my ACL junior year and I then discovered girls, booze, and how to make $1000 in a day. That was the end of my basketball career.

So when my daughter leaves me a voicemail asking me to come to her first basketball game, I first am flabbergasted (she’s 6) and then wondered when/how my lil prissy micro-computer (she’s been reading since 3) got into sports. Then I wonder how do they do this, 6 foot goals? One of them mini balls that you shoot into the mini basket for $5 at Dave and Buster’s or your favorite sports bar? How was this going to take place?

We get to the gym and there are bleachers full of parents and a boys game going. These boys had to be a bout 10 or so and they had a real full court game going with two referees, scoreboard, the whole 9. So again, not being sexist but where is the 6 year old court? So the boys game ends and my daughter who had already greeted me and Micki ran onto the floor with her team in tow. Seven little girls so cute in their sweats. They didn’t have uniforms like the boys but they matched in pink.

So as I await them to pull out the bumpers for bumper basketball and keep my eye on the door for the new equipment and glance at the ceiling to see if they are going to lower the court, the teams set up for a “jump ball”. I think “you gotta be kidding me”. So as they set up and my daughter’s coach walks on the court to place each girl where they need to be for the jump, I think –what the hell? My daughter wasn’t on the court, she’s a bench rider like her daddy. To my defense the folks on the court and on the bench next to me were always the best players in the country– hell we were #1 in the nation my senior year. Now before I begin, I’m not saying I’m a stellar athlete– but two things I know in and out like the back of my hand is basketball and boxing. I’m not the greatest of ball players and lord knows I’m not the greatest of boxers– but I know the game.

So the game is about to start and it’s an obvious opportunity for the boys to score two points off the jump, so I try to get the misplaced girls attention then look to their coach who is looking at a clipboard with a basketball illustration on it. yeah right these folks have got to be kidding me– this geezer is gonna try to get some 6 year olds to run a play? Let’s watch. They jump ball, the boys (or their center) being no b-ball guru missed the obvious chance at an easy 2 points and did what any 6 year old would do when you hold a basketball in front of them and throw it up– smack it. So they scramble around for the ball and the boys pick it up run down court, throws up an inadvertent air ball and it’s the girls turn.

So like almost any basketball game in the hood you have to have the obligatory token white kid. There was a white girl on my daughter’s team and for some reason this white kid was “the point” or “the one”, i.e. the kid that distributes the ball to the other players. Now I understand sportsmanship and things of that nature but if you gonna teach the kids, teach them right. Plus this kid was a lil rotund, her roundness would be better served in the paint (under the basket). But alas, the lil round white girl was the point and she commenced to commit may 30 turnovers in the first 6 minutes of play. I get a little over zealous and yell “who made her the point!” and Micki shushes me and points to the only other white people in the building sitting two feet behind me.

But this girl was bad, and they had another little girl who could control the ball better. She would dribble–well sometimes she would–depending on what kind of mood she was in and how close her defender was, because she would oft times pick the ball up run ten feet and dribble again– this being no apparent infraction on kiddie court. Anyways she would somehow get across half court, stop and throw it to someone on the opposing team. Never fail. Another thing the girls could not understand was coming to the ball.

When it was time to inbound the ball there would be just one girl there with the ball, and the referee would have to coerce some other teammate to come get the ball. This was very frustrating because I could tell the reason: they were poorly coached. Now I know what you’re saying “they’re only 6″, but girls develop faster than boys and the boys seemed to get the gist of it. When my daughter found her way onto the court, I wanted to tell her what to do but that would be breeching the first rule of sportsmanship– it’s coach’s ball team not your parents, not your homeboys. You can get advice before and after the game but while you are on the floor there is only one commander and chief.

Another thing is at 6, you can really groom a person into being a good ball player– they haven’t had to chance to learn themselves and thus screw up their fundamentals like I did with my golf game. I learned basketball fundamentals at a very young age. Anyone from my neighborhood close to my age and anywhere in as much as a three miles radius of my neighborhood knows who Mr. B is. He’s basically “Coach”. He taught literally thousands of children how to play basketball– not for a fee–for the hell of it. Every morning at 6am we were ringing each other bells to gather and meet Mr. B in the park. He would already be there ready for us, shooting foul shots. We met at 6am to avoid the impending sunshine.

Mr. B taught us the fundamentals of the game before we even were allowed to shoot– rules, basics, etc. The basket was irrelevant at this point– kinda like how Mr. Miagi taught Danielson. We would run chest pass drills, bounce pass drills, shoulder pass drills, dribbling drills, figure eights, learned how to use your weak hand as much as your strong hand. If you got fancy and did some behind the back crap, you did laps. We didn’t see an actual game for maybe a year, besides scrimmages amongst ourselves and pickup games after Mr. B. left.

Irregardless my daughter is being “taught” basketball by some geezer who throws them into a regulation game against boys without any systematic training. And even with the hand he was dealt he did a horrible job. I saw a million ways for the girls to make opportunities for a chance at a shot at the hoop– which they had maybe 3 all game. I’m not sure if more than two of the girls had the upper body strength to propel a regulation male basketball (even the WNBA plays with a smaller balls) 11 feet into the air into a 10 foot basket. The final score was boys 8 girls 1– after four quarters of play. Teach them kids to play, don’t just throw them on the floor.

Sidenote: If what my mother tells me is correct there is a hefty weekly cost to be a part of this “team”. As I suspected before, just another case of some Negro with a racket. *sigh. Kinda like the “modeling agency” that my sister enrolled in as a child with hefty fees, tons of money for headshots, etc., yet they never found an opportunity for her. “Maybe if she tries some of our modelling courses she will be more friendly with the camera”. People should burn in hell for taking advantage of ambitious parents and kids. I won’t mention it to her mama. Me challenging her decision would kinda be like announcing Sharon’s death. Well, long as my daughter is happy.

Police in Brazil kill hundreds, yet stir little outrage
By Henry Chu
Originally published January 8, 2006

RIO DE JANEIRO, Brazil // The five bodies in the bar were riddled with bullets fired at almost point-blank range. Four of the dead were boys no older than 16. The admitted gunmen: police officers carrying out a raid in a squalid shantytown.

But in this seaside city that has become hostage to gruesome acts of violence, the Dec. 3 killings barely caused a stir, in contrast to a bus burning by suspected drug traffickers the same week, which also killed five people. That incident was front-page news.

The lack of outrage illustrates growing public indifference to alleged police brutality in a society that is increasingly accustomed to such harsh measures and even, at times, supportive of them in the fight against rising crime.

Brazil, the biggest country in Latin America, has one of the highest homicide rates in the world. And the number of killings by police has climbed steeply, even though, activists say, the authorities’ use of lethal force has failed to put a dent in crime.

In Rio de Janeiro state alone, police killed nearly 1,200 people in 2003, according to figures compiled by the local nonprofit group Global Justice - an average of more than three people a day. The overwhelming majority of victims are young black or mixed-race males who live in the city’s favelas, the teeming slums that blanket Rio’s hillsides.

The favelas have become personal fiefdoms of drug kingpins. Fearful residents find themselves caught between the iron rule of local drug lords and the repressive tactics of police who regularly invade their neighborhoods in military-style operations.

“The people in the favelas are victims twice over,” said Marcelo Freixo of Global Justice.

Residents of the slums, most of them poor workers who provide services for Rio’s tiny upper crust, routinely hear gunfire outside their homes or firecrackers set off by scouts to warn drug traffickers of the presence of police.

Nighttime raids by heavily armed police commandos, sometimes backed by helicopters, are common. Research released last month by Amnesty International said police often exceed the limits of their powers by using single search warrants to sweep through entire communities.

“They are issued by judges against the spirit of the law, and they basically give police carte blanche to go and search houses in whole neighborhoods,” said the human rights group’s Patrick Wilcken. Putting up a fight can result in injury or a fatality that is classified as “resistance followed by death,” Wilcken said.

In the Dec. 3 raid that left four boys and a young man dead in the suburb of Niteroi, officers said the youths had ties to the drug trade and had fired on them.

But after hearing the officers’ conflicting accounts and visiting the bar where the killings took place, members of the state’s human rights commission said there were “very strong indications” that the boys had been summarily executed - that the only shots were fired by the police.

One of the victims was 11-year-old Wellington Santiago, who had stopped at the bar with friends to buy sodas for a birthday party they were on their way to attend.

“He was shot five times, in the head, in the stomach, which destroyed his internal organs, and the arm,” said Fernanda de Oliveira, his mother. “He was killed in such a brutal way. So very cruel.”

Wellington was a conscientious student who had nothing to do with drugs, de Oliveira said.

She described police incursions as a constant horror in Morro do Estado, the favela where she lives: “They invade all the time. The schools are constantly closing” because of confrontations between police and drug traffickers.

Twelve officers have been detained in the killings.

Whether any will be punished remains to be seen. Brazil’s judicial system grinds agonizingly slowly, with the result that cases go untried for years.

But the worst rampage attributed to rogue cops in Rio state occurred in March. A group of gunmen, believed to be officers who were upset about an internal investigation of some of their colleagues, mowed down 29 people.

The state Ministry of Public Security did not respond to requests for comment on allegations of widespread police abuse and impunity.

But police officials have publicly defended their department’s actions. While acknowledging the presence of wayward cops, whom they say they are trying to root out, the officials note that their officers’ lives are in constant peril, threatened by drug gangs and other criminals who are often better armed and increasingly ruthless. Last year, 52 officers were killed in the line of duty in Rio de Janeiro state.

Many members of the force are uneducated. Police complain of being poorly equipped, poorly trained and poorly paid, contributing to the well-documented history of corruption within their ranks. Officers struggle to support their families on a salary of about $380 a month.

This year, the government of President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva cut the federal budget for public security. That marked “the first time there’s been a reduction,” said Freixo of Global Justice.

Officials have encountered no sustained public outcry or pressure for a thorough cleanup of the police. Protests by shantytown dwellers are not infrequent, but their grievances carry little weight with politicians who are beholden to richer, more powerful sectors of society.

In fact, it is not uncommon to hear members of Rio’s middle and upper classes express support for a harsh approach to law enforcement, describing the loss of lives as the price that must be paid for safer streets. However, it is rarely the well-to-do who pay, activists note.

“Perhaps this is the gravest consequence of Rio de Janeiro’s public security policy: the trivialization and acceptance of violence by police against residents,” Freixo said.

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�One ever feels his twoness-an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.� W.E.B. DuBois

OK, I’m not hood– but then again I am- I have denounced the hood– but I was once hood. It’s like a lesbian or a gay guy claiming they aren’t female or male perspectively, so even though I haven’t had myself scientifically altered, I am not hood– yet and still, I guess I am. What brought on this dilema is after celibrating my recent engagement, and the New Year, one of my boys was killed a day later. A real bummer, I’m floating amongst the clouds and a day later one of my boys is gunned down. And the worst thing about it, I had no clue who it was for over an hour. Originally this post was intended to be about my ups and downs– for every good thing that happens to me something bad happens, etc. etc. etc. but, as my studies gear me, as my heart and anger lead me, my own personal belief that everything a Black man endures is related to the above DuBoisian issue of double conciousness, (which I extremely over-use)–I will go that route.

After mentally mourning and being visibly shaken terribly after getting “the calls”. Let me briefly explain what the calls are. I’ll take you back to 1992 sophmore year of college. No one back home really had long distance, it was like $10 a call in those days, and for all you young folk there was no such thing as “free long distance”. So me and my roomie had the clicheic answering machine with the message that started off with us talking: “Whassup?, hello?” and then yelling “AHHH we’re not here, we got you!” Well several times that year I would get several messages from home from several different people saying “call me”. Now, hood rules– you just can’t leave a detailed message of someones death on an answering machine. So I eventually found out in college– if I had three or more messages from home– someone was dead.

Fast forward 21st century, cell phones, free long distance– regardless, the hood aint never really used the telephone except to say a quick ‘’this-that-and-another”. Guess you gotta be hood to understand what that means, that could be illicit activity or a booty call, but in the hood a phonecall is a “this-that-and-another”– that’s it, no extreme discourse. So Tuesday I get “the calls”. I get the calls often with the onsought of cell phones, whenever someone’s NFC East team beats my NFC East team. Aside from that, “the calls” are still bad news. It’s not always a body, sometime it’s someone getting locked up, which is still not good news.

I get the calls from 11pm to 3:15 Am Monday night. I wake up shower, get dressed, check my voicemail. I get the “Yo, you hear what happened? Call me!” from my CNN/MSNBC on site affiliate who’s out of the game too, but alas still in the hood. I know what this means. But who was it? My ace, my brother, my cousin– could be my oldhead– sometime these calls come for folks over 60. I tremble brushing my teeth like it’s -10 degrees outside. My fiance tells me “relax honey, it could be nothing”. Nothing? That’s a pipe dream, I’ve been through 15 years of this shit.

I call around and get voicemail after voicemail. I finally find someone, and they tell me it was my man Key. Now I haven’t seen Key in about 6 years, follow me: because he took a bid for shooting some broad that boyfriend killed my other buddy. He took it like a champ, even though the man that actually shot the chick was incarcerated, and probably could of run his sentences concurrently (along side his own sentence), yet Key didn’t “snitch”. His cred (credibility) in the hood was top notch. Before he went down (locked up)his cred and my respect for him, and his for mine impressed me. His relationship with my brother was much tighter and any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine, and he treated me like a big brother.

“When keeping it real goes wrong”–Dave Chapelle

But as I digress, I was sorrowful and mourning Key as I hadn’t seen him in a while and wanted to build with him when he got out. I was a tad too late as somebody else in my hood didn’t take a liking to Key beating their ass New Years Eve, and shot him in the head this past Monday.

In an effort to make this simple, let’s say I’m an indifferent Eagles fan and I know that T.O. kicked McNabb in the balls several times causing his season ending injury– not the story you heard on ESPN. Now, for the slightly stupid I have no inner knowledge of the Eagles lockeroom, but I know who kicked McNabb in the balls, where he lives and where he may be, and McNabb is my man, and I think T.O. needs a bigger kick in the balls, yet it’s not my job (being out of the locker room) to do it, (nor do I want any of my former teamates to do it a)because they may become permeanately retired b) they will become a target for a serious nut kicking c) it’s gonna be some nut kicking retalliation for every nut that’s kicked–and we’re all in the same locker room!

Question arises– should I go to the league or a coach? I also fret that me and my brother being coaches/prime time running backs are more fond of McNabb than T.O.– so will the other members of the team try to “tackle” us before we “tackle” them– even though we have no intention of “tackling” them and basically we’re kind of fond of them as well? Will we become targets for going to McNabb’s going away party? Will we be targets at other parties? Will we be targets by the”officials” and questioned before/after the party, thus being labeled as “snitches”– even if we don’t speak or offer information, and becoming targets by default? Will we be targeted/arrested for carrying weapons/wearing body armour, in around the place of ceromony– and being in danger around places such as our MOTHER’S home.

“Stop Snitchin” –unknown

I danced all around this post with inuendo and bullshit. The bottom line is some cat killed my man and I know who he is and where he may lay his head. Options are, handle my business, turn him in to the cops, or avoid it completely. My answer, avoid it all together. Some of you may say– act. that’s not my job, I’m 33 years old– if you want to keep it hood–I’m not the one- i’m a grown ass man.

At the bottom of the internet news article detailing my boys killing, it said, “if you have any info call…” My new ego debated with my inner id on whether to make the call. Myself told me that I could never make that call– hood or no hood, this is about integrity. My integrity says the hood governs itself. I saw all the ignorant DVD’s and T-Shirts and plum stupidness involved with the Stop Snitchin campaign. None of that shit mattered to me. The hood spoke to my mentality– it didn’t exactly say “stop snitchin” but it said “that’s not what you do”. It said to me snitchin will cause a whole lot more killing that they will never see, nor honor, nor defend you– when you have to defend yourself. Snitchin will turn your family, your elders, your community against you– your trust, your word, you’re good in the hood– becomes bad.

I don’t fear for anything but God so the reprocussions aren’t the dilema. Then again they are– I’m eons away from the hood– I make that “other call”, a man is locked up and someone is labled a snitch (not me)– and some innocent person is targeted because I didn’t obey hood rules. My DuBosian two-ness divided, regardless befuttles me– my duty as an “American” or my duty as a human being. It’s not a concern of my breathing– it’s making a decision that will keep the more many people breathing.

If Saddam was killed this war on Iraq might not of cost so many lives, if Saddamn wasn’t caught, it might not have cost many lives. Saddamn is caught and alive and there are lots of lives continually dying. He might be worth alot more to many people’s love one’s dead. You can say the same for George W. Bush. It’s the same in the hood, and all hood rules apply–in any hood.

Regardless, there’s a war brewing and I love people on both sides. Kind of like being a muslim and an American. My two-ness has boiled down to me and my squad. Give them peace and you have peace from me.

My question is– what would you do? Confront the guy, turn him in, live your life?

I’m really interested in hearing.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” “Yes, but they were all bad” Arnold Schwarzenegger (in acting role)

She weeps

OK where, shall I start, I won�t bore you with the details on when I planned this or how I had the ring picked out for about a year (because I didn�t), but here we go. We are in the Poconos staying in a rented cabin with five other couples that went to college with me. (Sidenote, we play our bowl game tonite�WE ARE�PENN STATE!) We have reservations for 12 at a place called Sam Snead�s Inn, and me and a few of the fellas argue who Sam Snead was. I said a �famous gangster� another friend said a �porn star�. I�m totally internet dependant, and in the woods with no connectivity, we agree to disagree.

We get there and it�s apparent that he�s a famous golfer. This makes this the perfect place since me and the lady are golfers. Golf paraphernalia everywhere and clubs of other famous golfers, Arnold Palmer, Bobby Jones, everywhere. I take the first seat at the table and ask that we sit facing our mate as we sat next to them last New Year�s and I don�t think that would be conducive to my plot. So we�re sitting around the table, eating, drinking and having a merry old time. I go to the bathroom which I thought was 3 flights down, but that�s because I�m an idiot and should of realized there were bathroom�s on every floor. On this bottom floor was a bar, a band, and a bunch of table parties, party favors, hats, the whole 9. I think, wow this is where the fun is, because we were upstairs in the seated dining area. So I go to the bathroom lock the door and stare in the mirror and pull out the ring and ask myself �am I really gonna do this?� At that moment as if on cue, the band goes into Phil Collins �In the Air Tonight�. If you aren�t familiar with the song the lyrics start like this:

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord
I’ve been waiting for this moment, all my life, Oh Lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord, Oh Lord

Once, they got to that guitar riff, it was over, I was hyped and ready to do the damn thing�but how/when? I go back to the table and looked to my friend who I had stayed up until 4:30AM the prior night and the only other person in the house that knew I might be up to something, to no avail, he was enjoying his dinner. At that moment someone suggested we go down stairs to watch the ball drop�I think perfect I�m more comfortable down there anyways.

We get there and we all have a flute of champagne in our hand, so at about 11:55, I propose a �pre-New Years Eve toast�. You don�t know how hard it is to get 12 people together who have been drinking and are anticipating a ball dropping any minute now. I finally get the last wife�s attention (I yelled at her�I apologize) and thank everyone for another great New Years gathering, blah blah blah, and then took the knee, and pulled out the ring and said �I want to ask my girlfriend to marry me�. Micki � has some sort of conniptions or something fanning herself backing into the servers entrance to the kitchen. I have to crawl forward on one knee to keep up with her, at that point I thought she was going to be the runaway bride.

By now our party of 10 go crazy and this gets the attention of the entire lower level who are cheering and yelling �what she say??� I thought the ball had dropped there was so much commotion. She said yes to me and I could hear her but it was sort of like a panicked yes. Finally after more yelling�still spazzed out she yells �Yes! Yes Yes!� So everyone yelled �put the ring on her finger!� I reach to grab her champagne flute which is empty (she told me later she pounded that puppy like a sailor) and slid the ring on her finger (wrong hand, we were corrected later). At that point I was swamped by the wives who had to get a look and pictures. My boys were dapping me up when somebody yelled �10-9-8..� The ball dropped we hugged and kissed and got a congratulations from everyone in the place. When we got back to our table the entire third floor knew and were congratulating us. Even the servers and the owner, and the management on the way out.

Micki wept and kept this �what the hell just happened� look on her face for another half hour or so. I think it went rather well. Darn sure she was surprised.

Close friends email me and I�ll forward you pics.

Still on my knees- does this mean yes???– unhand my chin woman!!!

I’m sitting home lonely on Xmas, the lil lady is home in Tennessee, as I said earlier for the first time in five years I didn’t take the trip– that won’t happen again. I mean I’m Muslim and the church services, and the 40 hours in malls kinda takes a toll on a brother, so I passed this year. So I stock piled the house with what I thought I would need stuck in here with all businesses closed for the holidays. I took an inventory of what I acquired and realized– I have no food. Not intentionally, well I guess subconsciously, I’m a liquid dude. Maybe it’s why I’m so skinny. So a quick gander gave me this list of items:

Merlot
Pinot Noire
California White Wine
Bloody Mary Mix
Triplesec
Egg Nog
Apple Cider
Coke
Milk
Vodka
Yuengling Beer
Heineken Beer
Grolsh Beer
Champagne
Belini Mix
Hawaiin Punch
Deer Park Water

I had to stop myself from making Kool Aid. So if I get real bloated and drunk and starve to death tell my baby I love her and miss her, and her momma’s Turkey.

Appendix I

I’ve added Hot Apple Cider and Spiced Rum to the mix– I am Toast-eee!

If you can’t tell by my discourse or by the friggin title of this blog– I am an asshole. I just am. But sometimes I humble myself for the sake of mankind, and I think this is one of them times. So I go to one of my favorite watering holes with my baby on Friday for drinks and vittles. This is the place in the previous blog where the mean black tranny got into the argument with a John Q. whiteguy typed dude– it was friggin hilarious. This bar is not a gay bar, but like any bar in a gay neighborhood– gays frequent it. I like this bar because it is truly diverse and I’ve met some of my bestest friends at this one bar. In this bar you can find a young thug and a millionaire in heated debate over firing the Ravens quarter back or Intelligent Design. I’ve seen many movie stars stumble across this bar, it’s just one of them cool ass bars. I used to live directly behind this bar and me and Micki basically lived in this bar. I’ve held meetings in this bar, had debates, gotten into fights, passed out drunk– everything you can possibly imagine happen in a bar, so basically it’s my “Cheers”.

We’re at the bar spending some time together before Micki flies to Tennessee, I usually go with her but for the first time in the past 5 years, I’m not– we’ll tackle that at a later date. So the bartender a friend of ours has some broken fingers/wrists and is in a sling. Apparently her and her boyfriend, a mammoth of a guy 6 foot 7 a few hundred pounds– linebacker size– not fat– had an accident during sex. They were being creative with a chair or something and the end result was he was unconscious and fell on her hand. You gotta love a bar with a bartender that still works her shift after a sex act gone wrong. So I decide to take it easy on her and ask the other bartender for my Martini. This bartender is a 40-ish white chick who tries to look youger, she’s blonde and wears pig tails. She’s been fired from this place once but was brought back somehow because they were short staffed.

Micki sat directly to my left and a bar tender who just got off her shift to my right. Since I frequent this bar so much everyone knows what I drink– even the new bartender, but today she on some other shit. So me and Micki sit there mouth watering staring at her ass sit in the corner 4 feet in front of us. So I finally say “can I order a drink?” She looks at me stoically and I look at the off-shift bartender to my right and she just shrugs. I say may I have a dirty Stohli martini no Vermouth. She goes “all you had to do was ask”. I once again look around for assurement that I am not being an asshole at the moment. So a guy I know says “I don’t think she heard the no-vermouth part”. I yell to her “No vermouth”, she looks at me in confusion, I say it again, “No vermouth”. She still looks confused, we all say it, me, Micki, off-shift bartender, and guy at the corner of the bar together in cadence “No vermouth”. She gets pissed– “I heard you the first time!” We all look at eachother and shrug. She brings the martini– Micki tells me “she made that with rail vodka” Now, I’m no prude, I’m going to probably make me a rail vodka martini after I complete this post- but if I’m in a bar and there’s only a dollar difference– I want my premium vodka. For those non-drinkers, rail equal gut rottening hangover vodka usually made from potatoes, premium equal smooth no-hangover vodka made from grain.

Me: excuse me what type of vodka did you use in here
bartender chick: the kind you asked for
Me: what kind was that
BC: the kind I put in there
Me: and what would that be exactly
BC: rail
Me: No I asked for Stohli
BC: you asked for rail
Everyone Together: he asked for Stohli

So at this point she gulps a huge chunk of the rail martini down–and anyone that knows anything about a martini– that’s alotta vodka in one gulp, and declares “taste fine to me”. Why yes but I asked for Stohli, I think yet I didn’t say it– that would of been assholic. She goes across the bar and asks “who snitched” and the ladies look at her like “what the hell are you talking about” and Micki announces, “that was me, I saw you pour from the rail”. So BC grabs the martini shaker and a bottle of Skyy Vodka and starts pouring. Everyone yells “he wants Stohli!” She yells “I quit and storms out the back door”

Now at this point we all are utterly confused and wait to see if she was kidding or not. I’m worried she may come back with a knife because she ran out the kitchen entrance. We wait and ask the sexual acrobat bartender what’s the deal. She is slightly mad at me because SAB (sexual acrobat bartender)and OSB (off-shift bartender) know I am a complete asshole and let’s just say we’ve broken eachother in. So SAB is like “Tif, if I have to work a Friday night shift with no backup and one hand I’m going to kill you”. OSB stands up and says “I’m out of here”. So we’re sitting around waiting for the chick to maybe come back and she does– grabs her jacket (that’s the thing about a storm out– you forget things) and runs out the front door with SAB on her heels to no avail.

So one of my favorite bars was/is short staffed– was I an asshole?

Appendix I

I found out yesterday that another employee of the same establishment quit the same day as BC, and she quit because of BC and other factors. I was feeling sorry for her until I realized she was getting boozed up in the same place she had quit the day before, so there couldn’t be any hard feelings. Also her keys had these tabs on them with addresses. I asked them what they were, they were her houses. She has five. I couldn’t help to think what is a waitress doing with five houses in the hood, then she told me she was jewish and it made perfect sense. Well kind of.

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OK I plan for a simple night. The sexified Micki goes to her office party– is it because of the recession that companies don’t invite spouses to these things anymore? Anyways I’m sitting at a bar minding my own business sipping on a martini and this drunk girl keeps bumping into me, apologizing, starting conversations, quitting mid sentence–ok, whatever. So the girl is with a group of maybe 5 guys and one of the guys comes over to me and tells me he is conducting an experiment.

So, I live in a gay neighborhood and am not much for experimenting–at all. But I hear him out. “Dude we just left 5 bars. At each bar we pick up someone new. We go to bars that we wouldn’t normally go to and each bar we drink something different and you can’t repeat the drink.” The guy goes on to say the only stipulation is no gay bars are involved.

My motto on getting drunk is: Micki’s away– hey OK! So the girl who was way drunk takes a while to leave as she places her breasts on every dude in the place, and she tells you “I’ma just put my breasts on you”. Whatever lady but I forewarned you not to do it and when the lil woman comes around I am not responsible for whatever occurs if she finds you “putting your breasts on me”. So we finally pry her away from whoever she was “putting her breasts” on and go to the bar of my choice to recruit the newest member of this crawl. We get there and we are immediately joined