The (Sub)Urban Explorer

I've lived in this neighborhood for-I just realized it's been 3 years this month! Wow, time flies whether you're having fun or not. I completely missed my move-in anniversary, I guess I'll have to drink to my 3rd year here. Anyway, Saturday I said some unexpected time so I hopped on my human-powered, two-wheel, environmentally-friendly mode of alternative transportation and headed out to chart new territory. I have to set the scene for you: I love overcast days and Saturday happened to be one such day. By nature I'm a melancholy cat, and usually hang dead-center, so when the sun dips behind the clouds, it balances me. I ventured west of the main drag in my city and discovered one of the nicest middle-class neighborhoods one could cycle through. The houses were surprisingly modern and custom. No two were alike. Some were obviously multi-million dollar homes. The tree-lined streets provided a nice canopy and I cycled through amazed at how I'd lived so close and not venture to this part of town.

The street seemed never to end. I rode until I found myself near the 405 fwy and one of my favorite live music spots. The sun was still relaxing behind the clouds and the coolness of the day splashed across my face. Discovering something exciting right in your own city can be a rewarding experience. I had completely avoided the west side. I mostly jogged on the east side near the military installation-a very sad and impoverished area. Who knew such lavish accommodations existed on just the other side of the boulevard?

Today I waited for the sun to set and mounted my bike and retraced my path. The trip wasn't as impressive but it was nice to see people out jogging, walking their dogs, and families cycling in the bike lane. Surprisingly, everyone was friendly; they all smiled and waived as we passed one another, which was unexpected seeing as how I was a stranger in their midst. Tomorrow I plan on venturing down some of the other streets and perhaps even spending some time in the park. I even discovered a public library at the mid-point in my journey which I'm sure I'll spend some time in real soon.

TPOKW?

As God As My Witness....

If I caught a mother of my child doing something like this, there isn't a court in the land that could save her. This is child abuse, pure and simple. Now I understand why black women perm, and glue/weave extensions in their hair. As a child, if I had to endure this type of pyscho-traumatic abuse daily, I'd have a negative outlook on my hair as well.

Constables on Patrol

You've got to ask yourself who's minding the store. It seems like someone sent out an edict and cops have just tossed civil rights and Constitutional protection out the window. Here are just a couple examples. And ya'll wondered why Harvard Professor Henry Gates got a little upset.

Marijuana, the Planted Plant




Not in the Rear End

...and the Academy Award Goes to....

I'll let you decide. I've got one word to describe the nature of some women-duplicitous. When Chris Brown, (in what I considered an act of retaliation), attacked Rihanna, women around the world echoed in unison the following, He should have just walked away! Perhaps, but who am I to say? In the following clips, I really believe these women should have just walked away.

Women have been portrayed as sugar and spice and everything nice for quite some time now, but I think evidence is beginning to emerge that reveals a side of women once solely attributed to men. This post isn't an attempt to vilify women, only amplify the true nature of human beings, having nothing to do with gender.

And the nominees are...

The Rebar Widow



Deadly Dippolito



Granny Hire Your Gun



Thou Shalt Kill...NOT!!

Post your favorite in the comment section of this blog.

Merry Marrying!

TPOKW?

Cory Booker for President!

This is the black man who ALL black me should pattern themselves after. Hey, I know he avoids double-negatives, sagging pants, and the bottles of Cristal, but he is we should strive to be. If you get a chance, check out Street Fight, a film documenting his unsuccessful mayoral bid in the city of Newark, New Jersey. Four years later he returned to defeat the corrupt incumbent Sharpe James. Mayor Booker moved into one of the worse housing projects in Newark, Brick Towers, and lived there for 8 years. A former suburbanite, and graduate of Stanford and Yale school of law, Mayor Booker lived amongst the people whom he has now been helping as mayor.

Folks say Mayor Booker wasn't black enough. I hope we stop that nonsense talk. As Mayor, Cory has reduced the crime rate in Newark by 70%-that's not a typo people, 70%. He struck a deal with local businesses asking that they hire ex-cons if the city trained them and gave them the basic skills to become employable. He is truly one of the best of us and we should all strive to be more like him.

This is What I'm Talking About

This movie is about the corporate take over of the Walmarts of the world.

Anytown, USA

Last month I took a trip to North Carolina for a graduation party for my two daughters. One graduated from Baylor with a bachelors in health sciences-the other graduated from high school and will be attending Auburn in the fall. I am very proud of the both them.

During my visit, I noticed that I could literally close my eyes, board a plan in the U.S., land somewhere else in the U.S. and there wouldn't be anything differentiating one location from the next. America has morphed into a geographical homogeneous cliche of itself. Wal-mart, McDonalds, Jack-in-the Box, Target, Home Depot-everywhere you go, there they are. I remember taking a trip to the island of Maui in 2005 and I couldn't contain my excitement; vacationing on a tropical island paradise. The plane landed, we disembarked, picked up our luggage and the rental only to drive out the airport and right in front of us was a Home Depot, a Wal-mart and my eyes glazed over at that point. Somehow I don't recall seeing a bright-orange Home Depot sign in my fantasy of this tropical paradise.

Why have we allowed the oligarchs to circumvent the artists? Why has consumerism trumped environmentalism, or the preservation of the world's natural beauty? Hawaiians never needed a damn Home Depot. If they did, they would have built one themselves. Home Depot decided it needed Hawaii, and firmly planted itself in the way of my tropical island paradise.

There was a time you could travel to any place in the U.S. and that place would have a personality of it's own. The architecture, the local culture, even the language was geographically unique. Now, everywhere you go you bump into the manufactured M-TV culture that is neither unique nor interesting.

Starbucks (another eyesore on the geographical landscape) was kind enough to install a kiosk in the North Carolina hotel I was staying in and one morning I decided I needed a pick-me-up. I stood in a very short line, and when my early 30's Caucasian barista asked me what I wanted, I answered, "Grande Soy Mocha please." She then looked up at the ubiquitous flat-screen on the wall where John Legend was performing in New York's Central Park and began speaking to me in a vernacular unfitting North Carolina. I looked deep into this woman's mouth (to the point where I could see her tonsils) and wondered to myself if she'd swallowed a sista' from M-TV's hip-hop show 106th and Park. Her dialect was perfect-for someone aptly name Shaniqua. I remember feeling a little sad. I didn't want to hear her speaking that way. And trust me, it wasn't an affectation, that was her normal, everyday way of speaking. What happened to the southern drawl? I know, I know, it often sounds slow and backwoods, but I know better. Southerners aren't anymore intellectually challenged than the rest of the nation.

It bothers me to see the United States converted into this television culture that is instructed to wear the same clothes, speak the same dialect, shop at the same discount centers, all the while refusing to rage against the suppression of artistic and individual expression. Trust me, a tribal tattoo isn't an expression of individuality if EVERYONE has one. Nor is multiple piercings, colored hair, or the dreaded tattooed sleeve. In my opinion these people aren't trying hard enough. Dying your hair purple is easy-it's far from counter-culture. If you're sitting on your couch in front of cable TV watching The Hills, with purple hair or a tattooed forearm, or a tongue, belly, or clit-hood ring, you're not an individual. You're just a poor imitation of someone who once was a member of a counter-culture but has since moved on.

In her high school days my girlfriend made her own clothes. Bored with the unofficial 'uniform' all other high school kids wore, she designed her own fashion. Was she ridiculed? Yes, she was. Did it pay off in the end? Yes, it did. She ended up being a noted and Academy Award nominated costume designer. And all of those high school kids who looked at her as though she was an alien from another planet, well they're still walking around wearing someone else's uniform.

This country gave the world jazz, blues, rock, rhythm and blues, rap, hip-hop. As controversial a figure as he might have been, we gave birth to Michael Jackson-a global figure who inspired the world up to and beyond the day of his death. Why are we settling for the cookie-cutter imaginings of those void of imagination? What happened to the rebel spirit that raged against the status quo and made a counter-culture art form born on the streets of New York a world-wide phenom? Rap and hip-hop records can be found in almost every language on the planet.

I hope we don't lose our spirit to be free; free from Blockbuster Video, and Home Depot and Starbucks coffee. I hope that we celebrate the individual that lives in all of us and continue to design from our imagination and not from some prefabricated snap-in-place, void of creativity, mind prison. I hope that one day we realize that in order to be one self, one has to listen to one self-not the homogenized corporate radio with the same play list of artist whether you're in Hollywood California or Hollywood Florida. I hope we pull our children away from the i-Carly's and the Hannah Montana's of the world and give them the space they need to develop their own voices without Disney whispering some subliminal message lowering their self-esteem. And if one day we do decide to speak with one voice in this country, I hope it is a voice of our own design. Not one crafted by profit motivated oligarchs who couldn't care less about us, the planet or the future of our children.

TPOKW?

Sick In America

Bill Moyers is one of the few old-school journalists who asks tough questions and get the answers that most Americans need to hear. It might explain why he's no longer a mainstream journalist and is found on PBS. Watch both youtube interviews, or go to pbs.org and watch the entire 36 minute interview with former CIGNA health insurance exec Wendell Potter. Potter recently left CIGNA and is speaking out on the health care industry's grip on the lawmakers of this nation. He speaks candidly about the industry's attempt to discredit film maker Michael Moore's documentary Sicko.

Partially through the interview, Moyers plays devil's advocate and asks Potter what is wrong with a company making a profit and, although accurate, Potter's answer excluded a crucial component of the problem with health care in America. What insurance providers are doing is the equivalent to selling tickets to patrons to see a play and then canceling the performance and refusing to return the cost of the ticket to the patrons. Or more accurately selling you an automobile and when you come to pick it up neither giving you the automobile nor a refund. There isn't a business on the planet other than health care insurers who can blatantly get away with such criminal behavior. And both the chambers of congress, and possibly even the executive office of government might be in the hands of these merchants of death. I agree there isn't anything wrong with a company turning a profit, it' just that people shouldn't have to die in order for them to do so. I believe it is possible for health *(un)insurers to make a profit without harming people-it's just that they've gotten extremely indolent and would prefer to rob people instead of figuring out ways to earn a profit in a highly competitive market.

It has always been my contention that certain industries cannot afford to be privatized. In an environment where company's must struggle to survive, there is no place other health (un)insurers could have arrived than where they are today. The relationship between Wall Street and health insurers is equivalent to the relationship between a Las Vegas bookie and a fixed NCAA basketball game and conglomerates shouldn't be allowed to profit from the intentional mismanagement of a health care system. The same RICO laws utilized to bring down the likes of John Gotti and Sammy 'The Bull' Gravano should be used to break the stranglehold health care insurers have on congress.



*I call them (un)insurers because in my estimation you pay them a lot of money over the years, only to have them uninsure you once you get sick. It ultimately boils down to you paying them huge premiums for them to tell you when you get sick you're uninsured. You can opt out of being insured and know that for free.

TPOKW?

Central Free Methodist

As some of you may know, I was an overactive child. The word 'bad' was bantered around a lot, but that simply was a matter of opinion. Because of my overactive behavior, at the age of 10 I was sent to live with an aunt in Shreveport Louisiana; the idea being that she could straighten me out. The States of Louisiana and California are as similar as milk and mud and I bristled at the cultural differences.

I was enrolled at a private Christian school, Central Free Methodist, but was to soon learn that, although it might have been central (to what I don't know), there was nothing free about my new academic institution. I quickly learned that teachers in the south were actually able to beat you like they were your slave masters. I remember receiving one such beating, coming home and telling my aunt only to receive a second beating, (if someone can find justice in this, by all means please point it out to me).

Ms. Wiley
My teacher, the bloated Ms. Wiley, was an ugly, overweight, viciously angry, manless black woman. She spent at least a quarter of the school day napping, and the rest either beating us, or devising brutal ways to administer her punishment. There were several methods she would use:

1. A tree limb (known as a switch) that would be used either on our bottoms, or the palms of our hands.
2. Wooden or plastic rulers, which were turned sideways so that the sharpest, densest, portion struck the palm and you would feel the impact to the bone.
3. Belts which would also be applied to either your bottom or the palm.
4. Wooden boards that were applied the same as above.

Wiley was evil incarnate but she wasn't alone. All of the teachers beat their students and I was often told that I was lucky to have her as a teacher-Reverend Thompson was worse. It was nothing to see students, male or female, with welts on all parts of their bodies. Hands, arms, legs, and even faces were all open for touches, and I seemed to be the only one outraged by this. The rest of the students humbly bowed their heads and took it. There was student in our class named Bruce Wilson who, as a small child, had been hit by a car. Bruce obviously had a mental impairment-he walked with a limp and, because of a nervous condition, would eat the palms of his hands. His palms were always moist and covered with uneven layers of skin. For a while, Wiley beat Bruce's hands and sometimes they would bleed. She eventually switched to putting Bruce over her lap and whipping his ass. There was no end to this woman's brutality. There were students in our class who rarely received beatings-but rest assured a day didn't pass without someone being on the vicious end of Wiley's rage.

The Beat Club
There was a particular group, of which I was a member, that got beat more often than others. It wasn't so much that I was misbehaving, out of fear I quickly curtailed my mischievousness, but I was later in life able to speculate Wiley disliked me because I was from California. Perhaps California was a place she dreamed of visiting, but found it economically impossible. I might have reminded her of her own misfortune so beating me for the slightest offense may have been the way she comforted herself. She would often say to me in the vilest of tones, "This ain't California."

Denise Brown sat at the front of the class and was also a member of the Beat Club. She was a small, honey-colored girl with a sweet face, but an extremely mean disposition. Denise spent most of her time with the boys and could hold her own in a physical altercation if necessary-she had our respect. One day something possessed her to put a tack on Wiley's chair. The entire class watched, but out of fear or solidarity, said nothing. When Wiley sat down, she immediately popped up and yelled, "Oh Lawd!", then searched her blubberous fat ass for the offending object. My crew and I knew better than to laugh, but knew during recess we would celebrate and laud Denise with much praise if she survived what was surely to be a vicious beating. Wiley searched the faces of us students and asked who was responsible-no one spoke. When the recess bell rang, Wiley dismissed the class, with the exception of the usual suspects. John Dixon, Antonio Carter, Denise Brown, Otis Ray Washington, and I were held back.

As we sat silently in fear, Wiley explained that she was going to beat us all until someone either ratted or confessed-I was to be first. Otis and I had been friends since my first day of school and we'd made a pact to never cry no matter how badly we were beaten. I stood up from my desk, looked over at Otis for moral support, and walked to the front of the class to receive my undeserved punishment. Wiley's weapon of choice for this occasion was the switch. She grabbed my hand and said, "I know it was you, wasn't it?" I replied, "No ma'am." WHAP! Wiley brought the switch down hard on the palm of my hand. I stood still, occasionally flinching at the searing pain that tore through my body. I stared directly into her eyes-a blatant act of defiance. WHAP! The switch was brought down again, and again. The pain was unbearable, but my desire to show no weakness forced me to stand firmly planted. Finally, she was done and I returned to my seat and Otis was called forward, then John, Antonio, and finally Denise. The cycle continued until finally, Denise confessed.

I thought that we would be released, but Wiley had a different plan. She called us four boys to the front of the class and made us stand in a semi-circle with she and Denise at center stage. She then grabbed Denise, pulled up her dress, pulled down her panties, and whipped Denise's naked ass right in front of us-Christianity can be a strange religion. We all stood petrified, refusing to believe what we were witnessing. After she finished, with the exception of Denise, we were all dismissed-she offered no apology. Out of fear, none of us ever spoke about the incident.

Brian Chisolm
Brian Chisolm came to our school mid year. Brian was big for 11 and built solid. He was about the same height as Wiley, but she clearly outweighed him. Brian was a cheerful kid who liked to do magic tricks and during recess, there was always a crowd of students around him being entertained by his slight of hand. Wiley immediately disliked him and couldn't wait to beat him. Brian had seen the rest of us receive beatings but had something entirely different in mind. The day finally came when Wiley felt she had a flimsy enough excuse to indoctrinate Brian. Brian stood trembling before her at the front of the class, (we were always beat at the front of the class). He began crying and pleading, I recall thinking at the time how pointless pleading was. Wiley commenced to giving him the beating of his life. After a few strokes, Brian lost it. He grabbed an empty desk, threw it across the room, and went on a terror. He screamed at the top of his lungs and behaved like a mad man. We members of the Beat Club looked at one another in amazement-none of us had ever thought to do this before. Wiley immediately stopped as Brian ran around the room like a Tasmanian devil. A student was quickly dispatched for help and Reverend Thompson came to the room to subdue Brian.

Afterward, we discussed the incident amongst ourselves and eventually we began to fear Brian. No one surrounded him during recess to watch his magic anymore-we believed he was crazy. One day, Wiley decided to test the waters again, and Brian was summonsed to the front of the class. He immediately began winding up-Wiley tried to take control of the situation, but Brian quickly grabbed the upper hand. Wiley struck him once, and what was once fear turned to rage! Brian grunted like a wild animal and tore through the room tossing occupied desks aside like they were empty cardboard boxes. One of the classroom rules was you didn't leave the room without permission-to do so would result in a beating. My desk was right by the door, and Brian was making a bee-line for it. I sat petrified as he barreled toward me like a runaway freight train. He approached my desk, tossed it aside as well, burst through the door and disappeared. The classroom fell silent; it looked as though a tornado had torn through it.

Wiley absurdly screamed at me, "Why didn't you stop him? Go find him." To me, looking for Brian was worse than receiving a beating. Wiley's actions, although painful, were predictable. No one, including Wiley, knew what Brian was capable of, and I, of all people, was appointed to track this wild animal. I slowly stood and looked over at Otis, but he wouldn't look at me-no one would, I was a dead man walking. I looked at the classroom door and, in a strange twist of irony, feared what awaited me on the other side. Eventually, I pushed the door open and stepped out into daylight.

Central Free Methodist sat atop a hill on a very small plot of land. There were only a few places Brian could be. I entered the building that housed the chapel, cafeteria, principal's office, and teacher's lounge. The lounge door was normally open, but now it was closed. I kneeled down and peeked under and saw movement-all the teachers were in their classrooms, it had to be Brian. I went back to my classroom and told Wiley that he was in the teacher's lounge. She asked me what I said to him and I said, "Nothing." She then yelled at me and told me to go back and tell him to come back to class-man, that was the last thing I wanted to hear.

I took my time getting back to the lounge. It felt good to be out of class and for the first time since attending the school, I actually felt free. I wanted to just keep walking and never go back, but I knew that was impossible, so I accepted whatever fate Brian had in store for me and stepped inside the building. Again, I peeked underneath the door and could see Brian's shoes. I stood and slowly opened the door. Brian sat calmly in a chair doing one of his magic tricks. He looked up at me and smiled and at that very moment I realized, it was all an act! Brian would pretend to lose his mind and Wiley didn't know what the hell to do with him. I smiled back and said, "Miss Wiley wants you to come back to class." He stood up, and followed me. Neither of us said a word, but he knew I knew, and his secret was safe with me. Brian might not have been a genius, but he was definitely creative. He wasn't afraid to go against the grain and he taught me something that day.

Eventually, Brian was transfered to Reverend Thompson's class and from time to time I'd see him on the playground doing his magic tricks, but something was different about him. Reverend Thompson was known to be a brutal man and I'm sure Brian's antics were no longer effective. One day Brian's mother ended his misery and took him out of CFM. I was sad to see him leave, but I was happy that he'd escaped the hell we kids were forced to endure.


Kim and the Phone Call
One day a new girl came to our class. Her name was Kim Tyler and she was by far the cutest girl I'd ever seen. I immediately began flirting with her and before the day was over, I had her phone number. Later that evening, I called Kim, only to have her mother answer the phone and scold me for calling. I have to admit it was a rather bold and inappropriate move for a 10 year old, but I couldn't resist-not to mention the fact that, at the time, I didn't see any harm in it. I hung up the phone feeling a little uneasy, but didn't think much of it. The next day at school, I walked into the classroom and Kim wouldn't even look at me. Wiley was no where to be found, and the whole vibe felt weird. I took my seat and awaited Wiley's arrival like the rest of the students. Eventually, she opened the door and when she did, she looked right at me and summonsed me to the front of the room.

"Did you call Kim's house last night?" she yelled.

"Uh, yes ma'am." I replied, both frightened and embarrassed. Wiley went berserk. She yelled and beat me at the same time.

"She gave me her number!" I pleaded.

"I don't care! Don't you be calling any little girls in this classroom, you hear!" she replied as she beat me mercilessly.

"Yes ma'am." I uttered in between her vicious strokes.

After my beating, I walked pass Kim's desk gave her the evilest stare I could muster.

"I was so mad when he called me Ms. Wiley" she said. To me, this was treason, and at some point there would be a price she would have to pay.

Free at Last
I don't really know how much that year at CFM affected me, but I did become a lot wiser with how I conducted myself. What I do know is on that last day of school I saw my classmates behave in a manner I'd never seen before. The entire day was spent at a local park with a lake and boat rides. There was food and lots of fun. We all ran and happily played all day like children are supposed to. I have to admit the day was tinged with bit of sadness. I knew that most of these innocent kids, the majority of whom were really good kids and didn't deserve the treatment they received, would have to return to this hell the very next school year. I was going home, back to a place where teachers didn't have the right to physically abuse you, and in some ways I wished I could have rescued them and taken them all with me.

The day finally ended and we were loaded onto the bus and taken back to CFM, where parents awaited and kids anxiously milled around, excited about the beginning of summer break. Otis and I said our goodbyes-it was to be the last time I ever saw him. There was a sadness in his eyes, and I'm sure he saw it me as well. We'd been through a mental hell together, and like comrades in war, we'd survived. On my way home, I passed our classroom, Wiley stood in the door.

"Come here," she said. I followed her into the empty classroom as she walked to the front where we'd receive our beatings. On the floor was a cardboard box. Wiley reached into the box and pulled out a small marble paperweight. Atop it was a blue, metal plate with a stamp of my name, the school name, and the school year.

"What's this for?" I asked.

"Attendance. You only missed one day of school the entire year," she replied as she handed me the award.

Without saying anything, I turned and walked out of the classroom. I no longer felt the need to acknowledge her-her control over me no longer existed; there was nothing left to say. As I approached the long stairway that lead down the hill and off the school campus, I noticed two girls sitting on the sidewalk playing jacks. One of them was Kim Tyler. As I walked past her something overcame me and I exacted my revenge by stomping her hand with as much force as I could muster, and without missing a beat, I ran as fast as I could down the steps and on to the street-never looking back. And as the distance between Central Free Methodist and me grew greater, and the blood-curdling screams of Kim Tyler grew fainter, I was overcome with jubilation. Finally, I was free!

TPOKW?

KRS-One

I know many of you have probably seen this already, but it is well worth checking again!





TPOKW?

Cheated In the Game of Life

When does a man lose the urge to cheat? If someone would have asked me that question 10 years ago, I would have answered never. But lately I've pretty much lost the urge to even look at women (other than my own of course). The idea of breaking the ice with a stranger unnerves me. I have no interest in hearing the pointless stories that have been retold in bars and bedrooms and restaurants to the many men who endure them only hoping for what some consider the ultimate pay off-in the end, we mostly just want to fuck. But lately, I've have no interest in fucking strangers. No, lately I have no interest in the thought of fucking strangers.

It's never the fucking that ever matters, it's the thought of fucking that's the most interesting. The mere act, well, is sometimes better observed. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the act, but it means more on an ethereal level than I allow myself to admit. Reserved now best describes my position. But trust me, it's an acquired position-a path down which women have recklessly lead me. I would have opted to have ended up someplace else-but I'm here. I would like to have held onto those beliefs, you know the ones innocently believed at a time long ago. But those thoughts were unfairly tainted with wishful thinking and naivete. I look back on those early years and smile inside-how foolish was I? But I'm certain I'm not the only one. I'm sure many a man has found himself here and wondered how he allowed himself to become so deluded for so long.

I hear it in the voices of the young-and wonder if it would be fair to ruin what may otherwise be perceived as a happy ending. There is no happy ending-sorry. There's just a series of misadventures that continue until you either opt out on your own, or are relieved of duty by some unpredictable twist of fate. And in the rear view mirror, your past stares back at you and for a brief second you wonder if there's still a chance-a glimmer of hope for the future. Sure, you would have preferred a lifetime of bliss, but you'll settle for a decade, or half, or less. In the end we rise from the game table of life, count our blessings, and comfort ourselves with the handful of fond memories we walk away with. And we tell ourselves if we had the chance to do it all again, we wouldn't change a thing-but that's just what we tell ourselves knowing deep down inside we would change it all if someone would just give us the chance.

TPOKW?

Voices From Beyond

Someone very close to me sent me an email one day of a video. I watched the video, enjoyed it but delved deeper into the source. This brief explorative journey led me to TED. Now before you get all homophobic on me, let me explain...I am not a homosexual-TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design (www.ted.com). It was as though I'd stumbled into the minds of some of the most brilliant people on the planet. Some I'd heard of, but most I had not.

I don't mention it much, but I am an artist in my own right. It took me a long time to be able to first think those words, then say those words, and if my memory serves me correctly, this is the first time I've ever wrote those words in a public forum. Why? Because I rejected my artistry. Or better put, I tried to pimp my talent-but deep down inside, I knew I wasn't being true to myself, therefore it never really panned out. Yet, I continued to try to improve as a musician/songwriter/performer-and I still have a long way to go.

What does any of this have to do with TED? Well, this morning I checked my email and there was a video from TED featuring an author, Elizabeth Gilbert, whom I've never heard of. My normal reaction would be to click next, but I decided to honor her and listen to her presentation titled Burden of Genius. Ok, I have to confess something here-I had just finished watching a Southpark episode about rapper Kanye West who considers himself a genius. When I saw the title, it all kind of tied together in a bizarre kind of way. For those of you who have a spare 20 minutes, (which might encompass a great number of you in this jobless economy), take the time to glimpse into the mind of the creators of artistry and watch this video.

I have commentary that I would like to share with you which you may read now, but will make sense to you once you've watched the video.



Commentary
Elizabeth spoke of the origin of modern day genius and juxtaposed today's views with ancient Rome and Greece. I'm not going to offer my beliefs on those societies, but when she stated that during those periods people viewed creativity as voices from the gods or daemons (which, incidentally is the archaic spelling for the word demon), I could immediately relate. I've had fellow musicians ascribe the term genius to me and some of my work and I, in a masked fit of rage, reject the term. My experiences are entirely too limited, and my time in this physical body is too short for me to claim responsibility for that which passes through me. I don't know where the inspiration comes from but I do know it doesn't come from within me-it passes through me. Sometimes I capture it and record it, but most often I don't. I know firsthand the fear that it may never pass through me again-but then again, I'm aware of the fact that if I listen-really sit still and listen, they always speak to me.

There have been religious frauds who over time try to cast out demons. Why? In my most humble opinion, they don't want you talking directly to God, or the gods, or whatever divine spirit that may guide you-they just want you listening to them. I am not a religious person. I used to say I was agnostic, an ancient Greek term that supposedly means you are without knowledge of the existence of a God-but lately I'm beginning to reject the term. Not so much because I've found God, but more so because I really never lost God. And when say God, I don't mean a white-haired bearded dude who, for some odd reason, has been frozen as an old man for....ever, but God as in knowledge. I'm not going to try to explain it all here-it would require a more in-depth analysis, but my life mentor, who incidentally was the one who broke my ties with formal religious dogma, came to me one day and said that he could prove God's existence. When I asked him how, he simply said, "Everything man did not create, God did." As my younger bretheren would say, Marinate on that for a minute.

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Waxing Philosophically and Dealing From the Bottom of the Deck (or what you write when you have nothing to say)

I can't quite remember the exact time or date I realized I was a man. Manhood was never something I felt I needed to seek-I figured it would find me when it was time. I do, however, remember when I realized no matter what, you couldn't take manhood away from me. I was thinking about doctors, lawyers, politicians-(you know, important men). I found myself feeling a little uneasy because I was none of the above. And then a voice came to me and said, They are no more a man than you are.

I guess what I realized is we shouldn't necessarily judge man by his achievements (said so eloquently by the world's greatest underachiever). I sometimes have to ask myself if it's just the concept of sour grapes I grasp to make myself feel better, but I know deep down inside that's not the case. Man is man-be he butcher or baker or candlestick maker. There was a time when a man was cool if he was the milk man, or a garbage man, or a shoe salesman. People actually used to support families with those careers. Now we mock the garbage man or a shoe salesman-and milk men, as far as I know, don't even exist anymore.

Achievement can be a tricky thing. For instance, you can ascend to the highest office in this country, and still fuck it up (I'm not pointing fingers or naming names...I'm just sayin'). I bet some of those presidents, at some point in their lives, wished they were just some average Joe (the plumber) that no one knew or gave two shits about. Which, in some ways, probably explains why I wallow joyously in my mediocrity-I don't need to climb to the mountain top to know that eventually I'll wish I was back at the bottom.

I was at the grocery store today and was having a conversation with the lady behind the deli counter about working from home (which I will begin doing as soon as I pack up all my shit and stop showing up at the office). She asked me if I thought it would make me lazy-my reply was, "Are you kidding-you don't get any lazier than me. After this comes death." I often mislead people in my attempts at humor and their gullibility is usually tied directly to their IQ, (suffice it to say the lady behind the deli counter really believes I'm lazy, which is fine by me).

I guess you can say I'm a closet overachiever. I love to push myself, but not too far and certainly not in front of a crowd. I hate when people say things like, "Oh, he's so talented at that." No I'm not-you could do it too if you weren't so wrapped up in meaningless activities (I'll have to remember that one the next time I say someone's talented). I guess I don't care for the attention and it's been that way as far back as I can remember. When I was about 4 years old I would always get compliments from the church ladies about my eyelashes. It was the most embarrassing part of the day for me (even more so than walking in front a room full of people putting money in a collection plate I had other plans for. It used to piss me off because my mom would hand me the dollar and I'd have it just long enough to walk up and put it in the plate-why couldn't she just do it herself, after all, she was usually right behind me with hers). But I digress-back to the church ladies. I got so tired of them with their cheek-pinching and their compliments one day I went home right after church, marched right into the bathroom, and cut my eyelashes off. My mom was livid! Needless to say, they grew back and the church ladies resumed their annoying behavior.

It took me a while to settle into the man that I am-and for now I'm comfortable. I've always done things my way-even when it appears I'm doing it someone else's. I make sure I inject a little bit of me in everything I do-it's the human equivalent to pissing on a fire hydrant. My female companions are usually unique in some way; toe-the-line types and I usually don't last long. I know I won't always be who I am now, but I when I look back, I'll understand who I was and hopefully that will explain who I'll become. One day I'll be an old man whose plumbing may or may not work; who may desire the young ladies but will be so repulsed by the difference between us the desire will seem ridiculous; whose accomplishments, although personal, may go unnoticed-but that's okay, I'm an audience of one and I really only need to please me.

Mike Tyson, (that philosophically intellectual pugilist), once said in an interview, "The only thing that matters in life is that dash on your tombstone-the one between the day you were born and the day you died and what you did in between". I thought that was pretty profound coming from a guy who gets hit in the head for a living. But it's true, that is all that matters. And sometimes it matters to others, but mostly it should matter to the person whose name tops the tombstone-and to those who loved them.

I don't know what they will say about me when I'm dead or how my loved ones will judge me. I guess I used to try to live my life in a way that allowed me to write my own eulogy, but what fun would that be? Why should those in attendance at my funeral be bored with my myopic view of myself? No, I think those who knew me should have their say-be it good, bad, or indifferent. And I hope that I've surrounded myself by those who'll be bold enough to give an honest account of who I was and what I stood for. For what it's worth, I did the best with the hand I was dealt. Life deals us all 5 cards from the deck. It matters not the face value of those cards-what matters most is how you play them. Winning hands come in all sorts of configurations. Ask yourself this question: could a pair beat a 3 of a kind? And the answer would be, it happens all the time.

TPOKW?

The Last Time We Were Together....

Was in the 60's. When I say we, I'm referring to black men and women. If my memory serves me correctly, it was the 70's that drove a wedge between us (Women's Rights Movement). We were hit even harder in the 80's with the introduction of crack cocaine to our community. In the 90's black women gained their independence and excelled in the work place and began to look down on black men for not excelling at an equally rapid pace, driving an even greater wedge between the genders. Now, just about a decade into the new millennium, the rift that separates us seem insurmountable.

Nothing could be more of a testimony to how far we've gotten away from one another than the latest debacle between Chris Brown and R&B singer Rihanna. Women believe that Brown crossed the line when he allegedly attacked Rihanna. Detractors say that Rihanna, who has spoken in the past about striking her younger brother in the face with a bottle, attacked Brown first. Some women believe that, even if Rihanna struck first, Brown should have just walked away.

For those of you who choose to ignore nature and her purpose, there is a reason why men are physically stronger than women-because typically we are slower to anger and under normal circumstances we use physical violence as a last resort. Women have much shorter fuses and are more emotional. I have theory as to why this is.

The Prince's Gender Theory
Throughout nature the female of most specie are responsible for the care of offspring. Our offspring are our future for without them we cease to exist. Nature, being the wise designer she is, knows that whoever is responsible for the protection of the offspring has to be someone who will act first and think later-enter the female. Females are emotional and they have no problem expressing their emotions. If they are upset, they may cry openly. If they are happy, they express their happiness. If they are angry, hell hath no fury. Nature needs an emotional guardian. Encroach upon the young of any female animal and, regardless of the size difference, that animal will attack. It's an emotional response. She doesn't take time to contemplate the danger involved and sometimes she loses her life defending her young. Male animals are a more analytical-a trait nature cannot afford when it comes to defending the young. Let's say there is a male in charge of the young and a predator encroaches. The male is going to size up that predator and contemplate whether or not he can defeat him. Secondly, he will begin to calculate the distance between he and the predator and whether or not he is close enough to truly be considered a threat. Lastly, he will consider ways he can salvage the situation without actually having to fight physically. A female would have already engaged the predator by now-and most likely sent him or her on their way.

With that said, men-real men, are relatively hesitant to use violence. If this wasn't the case, you would see far more violence perpetrated by men against women. Domestic abuse occurs, I'm not trying to say that it doesn't. But I think that domestic violence, just like immigration, is a political hot button and is sometimes used to manipulate the public. Women have also falsely reported domestic violence. I once dated a woman who was upset because she saw me sitting between two female coworkers at a bar. When I came home, she barricaded the front door of our apartment. I, knowing we never locked our 2nd floor patio door, climbed up on the balcony and let myself in. She then attempted to push me out, but I just walked past her, undressed and went to bed. Moments later, there was a police officer shining a flashlight and a handgun in my face telling me to get dressed. This woman told the officers that I came home and attacked her. The officers separated the two of us and began questioning us. It wasn't long before the officer questioning my ex walked over to his partner and said, "She's changed her story 3 times already. She's lying." I was asked to leave my own apartment and stay the night someplace else-I went to my mother's house for the night and the very next day while this woman was away, moved out of the apartment. Had she been a better liar, I would have most likely been arrested for domestic assault, and worse yet, convicted.

How did we end up this way? Why is it that men find it necessary to violently abuse women or vice versa? Why is it women defend or excuse their own irrational behavior? I have a theory.

The Prince's Theory of Gender Separation
As I mentioned earlier, women are emotional creatures and spend very little time analyzing situations. If it feels bad to them, they're done with it. If it feels good, even though they know it's not right for them, they'll go for it. That's not to say men aren't the same way, they too will do things they know that is not good for them. The difference being, men calculate the amount of damage they may have to endure and weigh the consequences. When I was a child and embarked upon an adventure in mischief, my excuse was already prepared and I determined if the risk was worth the reward. Even as an adult male, the few times I made the decision to cheat in a relationship, I asked myself if it was worth the risk of losing that relationship-it was never a spur of the moment decision. Often I would contemplate for weeks, sometimes months. I always wanted to give the person an opportunity to turn things around before I committed to straying because once that cat was out of the bag, he's extremely reluctant to return.

Back to my theory. During the women's rights movement, women fought for equality. Equal pay, equal access to jobs, and freedom from domestic duties. I can't prove this, but I believe that the women's rights movement was a lesbian movement and heterosexual women were emotionally co-opted. I believe that lesbians hid behind heterosexual women for their own gains. Now that lesbians have the access they desired, heterosexual women find themselves out in the cold, separated from their male counterparts trying to figure out how this occurred. Some 40 years later, if you ask the average woman about equal access to jobs, what you'll find is many of them long for the days when they were domestic engineers-not having to answer to over-bearing bosses, fighting hour-long commutes, and paying ridiculous monthly fees to day care centers. They were the masters of their homes and most ran a pretty organized and tight ship. Men weren't the ones who threw women out of their roles as domestic engineers-they heard the cry from women who had no use for a husband and joined up to become their own (and their family's) worst enemy. Heterosexual women now view men as oppressors, violent abusers, rapists, etc. (lesbian speak), and to their credit, there are men in all of those categories. But for the most part, the majority of men simply want a wife, a nice home, and a family they can be proud of. Lesbians managed to highlight and amplify the worst of men to drive home their point, and women, being the emotional creatures that they are, fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

Women must now find a way to lose those negative images of men. Sure, some of us abuse, rape, oppress-but the majority of us don't. And if we're going to judge one another by the behaviors of the worse, it would be just as easy for men to start with their long laundry list of negative female attributes. But that would cause nothing but more gender separation. For every Scott Peterson or O.J. Simpson (whose guilt I still question), there are a thousand Denzel Washingtons, Bill Cosbys, Barack Obamas, or John Does who don't murder, rape or abuse their mates-and they deserve the spotlight more so than the abusers.

I know many of you will denounce my theories and call me insane, but take some time to do a bit of research and see if there is any validity to my belief. One thing we can all agree on is the moment women left the home and began trading their labor for money to buy things they didn't really need, our children became the target of advertisers, and once there was a time they looked to their parents for guidance, they now take their cues from corporate sponsored product salesmen.

TPOKW?

The Matrix and Faith-Based Nonsense

This is going to be one of those mashed posts where I combine two separate topics I'd like to discuss. Hopefully I'll find a way to tie the two together before the end and come out looking like a literary genius.

The Matrix

This may come as a surprise to most, but 99.9% of us have never had an original thought. I can hear some of you out there arguing with me before you even contemplate the concept. Give it some thought-most of what you say, you've either read it somewhere, heard it on television, heard it from someone who either read it or heard it on television, or observed someone else exhibiting a behavior and commented on it. Not one original thought amongst us. The communities we live in? Designed by someone else. The jobs we work? Designed by someone else. The movies we watch, the books we read, the foods we eat, the cars we drive, the clothes we wear, the languages we speak, the schools we attend, our political parties and affiliations, our religions-this list could continue into perpetuity-all designed by someone else. So, in the grand scheme of things, how important is an individual if he or she just regurgitates that which they are told? Sure, you may disagree with a certain concepts, but immediately you adopt an alternate position- designed by someone else.

If you really evaluate the world we live in, it is the Matrix. A moment of the day doesn't pass without your senses being assaulted in some way shape or fashion, and often those assaults take place in the form of an advertisement; someone, somewhere telling you that in order to be a better person you should buy this product, shop at this store, dine at this restaurant, vacation at this resort, invest with this firm, bank at this bank, marry or date this type of person, listen to this type of music, attend these schools, live in this neighborhood-are you beginning to get the picture? In the midst of this assault, how can we be expected to devise an original concept?

This Matrix also has a built in protection mechanism-it encourages members to punish anyone who is doing anything opposite of the flock through ostracism, ridicule, and an assortment of other negative behaviors designed to encourage dissenters to get back in line with the rest herd. It manages to use internal emotions like jealousy, anger, and hatred against us. In essence, we police ourselves. But this mechanism isn't fail proof-whenever someone or something arises that won't be reherded, the Matrix then co-opts that individual or movement and popularizes it-reducing its effectiveness, (think Jesus, Martin Luther King, The Hippie movement of the 60's). Once these effective movements are stripped of their inherent power and reduced to fad status, they'll either fade or exist harmlessly amongst the immunized herd.

The advent of modern technology (i.e. the internet), has produced the Matrix with one of its greatest challenges-controlling ideas that run counter to its current system of control. According to the blog, Wired, China, Burma, North Korea, Vietnam, Egypt, Iran, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Cuba and Tunisia restrict internet access and often prosecute users for what they post online. The United States didn't make the list, but we are all aware of the National Security Agency's (NSA) unconstitutional monitoring of our online activity. The system simply cannot afford unfettered usage of such a dynamic and powerful tool-censorship will eventually be the order of the day.

Those of you who either have now been enlightened by this post, or who may already have known this information might ask, "Well what does one do about it?" which is a very good question (to which I have no answer). The most important thing to do in my estimation is to make as many people aware of this phenomenon as possible. After all, our participation, to a certain extent, has been voluntary-not that, should we all awake, it will continue to be.

Some of you may also say, "Well this concept that you've just introduced is an original thought-you're contradicting yourself." and I would have to disagree. What I've introduced, even if it was original (which it isn't), is merely an observation of what is occurring around us. It's no different than an archeologist observing some obscure tribe in the rain forest. His report isn't original, it's just an observation of something that has existed for hundreds of years, unbeknownst to the masses.

Faith-Based Nonsense

When I was 17 I joined the United States Air Force and, not long after my 18th birthday, I was shipped off to an air base in Spain. I admit I didn't know much about the world in which I'd just stepped into, but I was soon to discover how much I really didn't know. I did, however, possess a firm rooting in the teachings of religion. Born a baptist, I knew a majority of the biblical tales, but not much else.

In the military I was a law enforcement specialist (more commonly known as MP), and one day on my way to work I noticed that the names of the streets seemed to be alphabetical (Del Amo, Cadiz, Barajas, Alicante). When I arrived at the armory, I quickly went to a map of the base and discovered that all of the streets that ran north and south were alphabetized, and all of the streets that ran east and west were numbered (1st st., 2nd st., etc.). It was then that I realized that someone, not unlike myself, had logically planned this. And because military bases are nothing more than small cities, I concluded that someone had planned all of the cities I'd ever lived in. Soon after I began to understand the role of a city planner and all of those signs I used to see on people's front lawns that read John Doe for City Planner made sense.

"Where am I going with this?" you may ask yourself. Well, here it is: an individual should never have to

A. figure this out for themselves and,

B. find this out at the age of 18.

I don't recall this information EVER being taught in any class that I took-not even the ones I used to ditch (I did read the books even though I opted out of attending the class). But rest assured that somewhere, in some school in the United States of America, this information is being taught, and it is being taught to those who seem to be preselected and groomed to be the next city planners, city attorneys, mayors, police chiefs etc.

What does ANY of this have to do with religion? I'll answer that for you now-why is it that we put so much emphasis on teaching children religion when, unless you're going to be a minister of some sort, it doesn't benefit you one iota in building and maintaining a community. Most people don't even know who to turn to in their municipal, county, or even state and federal government when they have problems. But we know where the church is. I know this is going to rub some of you the wrong way, but I don't really know of a problem that you'll have that Jesus will really solve. Jesus couldn't, wouldn't, or didn't help the victims of Katrina. But I guarantee you if those in the Lower Ninth Ward knew how the political machine of New Orleans functioned and actively participated, they would have been better equipped to deal with the crisis. Most of our problems aren't God/Jesus made problems-they are the result of a man-made system vulnerable to mismanagement (either intentional or otherwise), greed, and corruption. In my most humble opinion, I don't think God is who you should turn to in these matters. I know it may pacify us emotionally to turn it all over to God, but while we're looking to God to solve problems we could solve ourselves, there are those who are lined up at the proper agencies making sure that they and theirs get the resources that are lawfully and rightfully theirs-and the lions share of what those who choose not to be politically active leave on the table. Communities are supposed to receive government funded services because these communities and municipalities pay taxes. Property taxes fund schools-other taxes fund other services. But if you're unaware of how the system works, you'll continue to pay taxes while those services are either under-funded or unfunded.

I don't blame the black community for not knowing these things-but I do fault them for contributing to their own insanity. It is said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly expecting different results. In recent history, the church has been nothing more than a tumor on our community. It extracts a minimum of 10% of income from its parishioners and contributes absolutely nothing but entertainment in return. It's modern-day snake oil. Walk in with your bible and a prayer (oh, and not to mention that 10% tithe)-walk out with all your problems solved. We all know that there isn't a place on the planet where this works-so why have we convinced ourselves that this is how it works in the church?

Quiet as it's kept, Jesus was a man of action, and all this singing, tithing, and praying we're doing would probably piss him off. It is one thing to have faith, but without action, it's useless. Yeah, I know the Christians now tout this very saying, but this is a new phenomenon.

Lastly, I think the worse thing a people can do is follow a dead guy whom they've never met, not quite sure what he really said, and most likely won't be back. The original followers of Jesus, some 2000 years ago also believed he'd be back-and some 2000 years later, he's yet to return. I can't think of a better way to paralyze a people than to have them sit idly awaiting the return of a deity when others around them get shit done. Do I believe in God? I don't know-nor do I think it matters. What I do believe is sitting around waiting for God to do for you what you can do for yourself is no better than sitting on your ass waiting on a government check you did nothing to earn. White people turn to God after they've done what needs to be done. They invent a monetary system first, and then lie and print In God We Trust on the back. They create a country, and then write a song asking God to bless it. Anything you ask God for, he's mostly likely put here already-all you need to do is stop asking him for shit and get up off your ass and go get it.

I'll leave you all with these two thoughts that hit me this morning and inspired this blog:

Amidst a cloud of ignorance, you can convince people that anything is possible, even when it is not.

and,

Faith is what we rely upon when we fear facing reality.

E'nuff said.

TPOKW?

Anna Deavere Smith

I once studied acting at a repertory in California and this phenomenal woman was my acting instructor. At the time I was too young to realize what a great instructor she was but in retrospect, I am awe-struck by her and wish I could have appreciated her instruction when I had the opportunity. On our first day of class, we all were to bring a monologue to recite and at the time I was reading I Tina, a book about Tina Turner's life with Ike. There was a chapter that described what Tina experienced the night when one of Ike's women shot herself in a bathroom. I decided to recite this passage. When I finished, Anna asked me, "Where have you studied acting before?" It was my first acting class, and at the time I felt she'd paid me the greatest compliment a teacher could bestow upon a student.

Pay close attention to her Korean Grocer bit. Exceptional!

The Wings of a Butterfly

When I was a boy, I once caught a butterfly-something I'm sure we've all done at one time or another. I didn't mean it any harm. I was just curious, as most boys are. When I finally let it go, it could no longer fly. I'm not quite sure what I did, but when I released it, it simply fell to the ground. I didn't think much of it and quickly moved on to something else. Now, as a man whose years have accumulated, I think back on the life of that butterfly and how delicate it was. Had I known at the time that I would have such a profound and devastating affect on its life, I'd like to believe I would have let it be.

We humans do this a lot-tilt the balance of nature for no apparent reason but to satisfy our own curiosity, or because we are unaware of the change the slightest of our actions can set into motion. There have been people that I've met along my life's journey who have impacted me both positively and negatively. My nature has been to focus more on those who have affected me positively, but lately I've been thinking about those who, without knowing, derailed what might have otherwise been a perfectly happy existence (if such a thing exists).

When I was in my late teens, I met a young lady in her mid-20's who probably had the most negative affect on me as anyone I've known. This woman and I created a child, and when that child was born I believe I understood the world in its purest form. We eventually separated, but the bond I had with my child was deep-my world was now defined by his existence. And then one day she took that child away, disappeared without a trace. No letter, no phone call, nothing-she and that child just vanished. And what remained inside of me was a gaping wound that, 'til this today, has never completely healed. My life was now defined by that wound, and like someone who has been encumbered by a handicap, my every action thereafter was hampered by it. I temporarily lost the ability to think and behave rationally. I drank heavily, and unwisely drove afterwards. I made many bad life-altering decisions during this period. I spiraled out of control.

I don't know if this woman knew the affect this would have on me-perhaps if she'd have known, like me and the butterfly, she would have done something entirely different. And I wasn't fully aware of how much my life was shaped by the incident until one day, about a year or so ago, a close friend of mine and I were having a conversation about his son. During this conversation he said to me, "Man, I don't know how you survived losing your son back then. If someone were to take my son away from me, I'd lose my mind-I don't know if I could take it." Hearing him say those words felt like someone had lifted a ton of bricks from my chest. Just to know that someone understood the depth of the pain I had experienced, and to some extent was still experiencing, gave me relief. I smiled inside, not really knowing why. Perhaps I was happy that someone heard me back then-that someone cared enough to listen. Up to that point, no one had ever mentioned anything about it to me; for the most part, I suffered silently.

Six years passed before I was reunited with my son. But by then we were strangers-neither of us sure how to move forward. We managed through it, but deep down inside I knew that a crucial bonding period had been lost and we would never have that true connection one shares with someone they've known all of their life. And in the dark recesses of my mind, I still struggle with feelings of guilt, shame, mistrust, distrust, anger, and powerlessness. The only solace I experience is when I remind myself that I am free, because had I found her during that six year period, I can't honestly say what I might have done to her. It was like my son died and I would have wanted to make her pay for the pain she'd caused.

My every relationship since has been shaped by that experience. I am always ready to let someone go, whether I want to or not. I've since learned that, like the wings of a butterfly, people and relationships are extremely fragile, and the slightest of our actions can alter them greatly-either positively or negatively. Over the years I've analyzed why she did what she did, and I've long since forgiven her. I no longer speak to her, for reasons having nothing to do with severing me from my child. One day I just decided there was no reason for us to ever speak to one another again, and we've not uttered a word to one another since. I harbor no resentment towards her, she was burdened with unimaginable demons long before she met me and knowing this gave me all the strength I needed to forgive.

If there is a lesson to be learned from this experience, I think it is to be fully aware of your actions and how they affect those around you. There are no free moves in life, and what you may deem an innocent gesture might result in catastrophic consequences for someone else. I often see people walk through life with a cavalier, devil-may-care attitude and I wonder whose lives they may be unknowingly destroying. Sure, there's always asking forgiveness, but I think life would be so much better if we behaved in a manner that never required us to have to ask for forgiveness.

We should all walk through life as though each misplaced step shattered a dream.


TPOKW?

"Where you been?" they keep asking me.

Good question. I've, err, ughh...been busy. Truth be told, I've been swimming with the sharks. I had some really juicy stuff to talk about, but I got cold feet and decided that my arrest last November wasn't anyone's damn business but mine. Since the cat's out of the bag, I might as well speak on it.

I'm not going to go into detail but suffice it to say, my girl was ripped off by a contractor, then he vanished. We managed to locate him, went by his house and left a note. We then went back the next day and he was home. I asked him when he planned on finishing the fence he was handsomely paid to build and he went through several gyrations before going in the house, calling LAPD, then coming back out and getting all up in my face. My initial response was to hit him, but I knew this wouldn't be a productive thing to do. So I just stood there yaking back and forth with him. Just then, the boys in blue rolled up, he yelled, "He hit me", I was cuffed and arrested. TRUE STORY!!!

Bail was $50k-420 pc, communicating a threat, (after the cops decided that me allegedly hitting him was flimsy, my nemesis claimed I said I was going to assemble my 'crew' and come back and kill his entire family).

Some of you may doubt this version of the story, but if I gave you the full details, you would believe me even less. My girl couldn't believe, in this day and age, an out and out criminal could rip someone off for several thousand dollars, and then get away with saying someone hit him and have that innocent person arrested. This man stood at least a foot taller than me and outweighed me by at least 70 lbs. But you know us fierce negroes have to be watched-we're known for our super-human strength. We've been rumored to have the strength of ants (relatively speaking).

Don't get me wrong, I've mixed it up with guys much bigger than me before-most of the time successfully. But come on, at my age, I have no business fighting a cold. Fighting wasn't anything I was interested in-hell I wasn't even interested in being there. I just wanted to help my girl rectify this problem.

And the boys in blue? Ohhh, man the quality of cops has gone down. These aren't very bright individuals who can think on their feet. Even the detective that contacted my girl to interview her left a note on her door-she called him back in less than 15 minutes and said, "you left a note on my door," and he still didn't know who she was. Wisely, she told him, "Call me back when you figure out whose door you left a note on," and hung up the phone. Fifteen minutes he calls back and says, "Why didn't you just say who you were." Great detective work Sherlock. No wonder so many crimes go unsolved.

I'm not saying there aren't smart cops on the force, I'm just saying every one we dealt with during this episode shared a collective IQ of 50.

Incidentally, no charges were filed against me. But for the 10 minute ride to the station and about an hour and half of less-than-luxurious accommodations, we were billed $4000.

You would think something like this couldn't occur in the bustling metropolis of Los Angeles, but guess again. Am I bitter, not as much as I should be. The incident damn near tore my girl and me apart, but we made it out ok, both of us more cautious about what we say and do. Neither of us cared for strangers before this incident, and we like them even less now.

So that's my story. Remember, next time you decide so talk to someone who may have ripped you off, video or audio tape the incident-it may keep your ass out of jail.

TPOKW?

A Little Comic Relief During Tough Economic Times

This is definitely worth a laugh!

Jesus Christ, White People Can Fly!

The title is not meant to be racist, but complimentary. Lebron and Kobe may own the hardwood, but these cats own the sky!

Enjoy!

TPOKW?


wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.