The Sound of a Sweet Song...Fading Away in the Distance

If you ask me what I like most about a romantic encounter, I would tell you it is the element of surprise. When you meet someone new, it is like hearing a beautiful song for the first time. You have no idea what the future holds, but you long to have that feeling last for all of eternity. There is what Barack Obama calls the audacity of hope, but I think what drives us the most is the unknown. We have absolutely no idea what the future holds for us...if it holds anything at all.

I know the warm feeling of both hearing that sweet song for the first time and having the audacity to hope. They are synonymous. You remember where you were, what you were doing, and why. I recently heard a song that touched me in that way. I won't share with you the title...perhaps because I fear the retribution that comes with being so exposed and open to public scrutiny. But suffice it to say that for a brief moment in time, I felt that feeling again. And then I began to notice how empty life can be when you don't share it with someone special. Sure, I feel safe cocooned away in my enclave-door locked and the world on the outside. But what should be obvious to most, and what is hardcore evidentiary fact to me, is that I've all but eliminated the audacity of hope in exchange for the comfort of security.

I haven't always been this cautious. Once I dared allow myself to love someone society deemed undesirable. In my estimation, I felt that she too deserved love and who better to love her than someone who understands the devotion required to make love a successful function of a romantic schema? I allowed myself to love her in spite of what others thought. Not only did I expose myself to the perils of love, I accepted all the punishment that one endures when they choose to love someone who does not feel that they deserve to be loved. I still bear the open wounds and battle scars that one acquires when one decides to put down their sword; their shield; their armor; and dare to hope for the best, but accept the worse. And I am a better man because of it.

Love demands so much of us, and most of us fail because we don't fully understand that, unless we acquiesce to those demands, failure is inevitable. But acquiescence alone brings not the promise of success; for the possibility of love unrequited always lurks in the shadows. With so many pitfalls before us, why do we choose to embark upon the quest for love? Simply put, it is the audacity of hope, and whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, hope is audacious. But what would life be without the excitement that comes along with the prospect of risk and reward? In a word, boring.

So here I sit, writing about the possibilities associated with hope, and faith, and belief-yet, I am too fearful to set foot on that path again. I know intimately the company of failure, and I don't know if I'm prepared for yet another visit. I think that I will take refuge within the walls of my fortified fortress, while time robs me of all the gifts necessary to find that perfect love. I no longer see hope when I look into the eyes of women who look upon me with that odd curiosity that once warmed my heart-I know all too well how the story ends. Perhaps I've been here too long. Perhaps I know too much. I try desperately not to sound pessimistic, but I know that I have neither the patience nor the endurance to devote that which is necessary to rewrite the script so that the story ends happily. Such undertakings should only be embraced in the realm of fiction. But in the world of reality, at least for me, what remains are the hard lessons of my past and the pain of watching hope evaporate like morning dew at high noon. One thing I know for sure is that nothing lasts forever. But even though I may be armed with such sage wisdom, I find it ever so difficult to move beyond the walls of this prison I've created for myself. And as I watch life pass me by, I sit immobilized by the wisdom granted me by my past experiences, as the light of hope that once shone so brightly fades away into the distance, like so many of my fond memories of love.

TPOKW

The Rat Tale

A few months ago, I was at my mother's house visiting. There's a lot of brush and vegetation in her yard, not to mention a wood pile from a few eucalyptus trees they had cut down a couple of years ago. As most of you know, these are havens for rats. My stepfather arrived home about midway through my visit and looking out into the backyard, he noticed one of his traps had been thrown. He went outside to inspect and lo and behold, he had caught two rats in one trap. I'm a little on the squeamish side and don't care to see things like this, but he was too proud, and I didn't want to ruin his pride-filled reversion back to his hunter/gatherer days, so I went out to congratulate him.

For many days after, I wondered how such a thing could have happened. I could see it if one got caught, but two? I pondered this marvelous mystery for days, and finally, this is the conclusion I inevitably reached.

THE RAT TALE

Once upon a time, in the wooded pile lived a rat named Travis Ratus. Travis was extremely naive, and his sidekick, Buck, was equally (if not even more) naive but compensated by inventing tall tales that sometimes entertained, but mostly irritated Travis. Travis and Buck had lived in wooded pile as far back as they could remember and rarely did they venture out too far. Travis always had questions about what might exist beyond the wooded pile, and Buck always had an explanation.

"What do you suppose is out in that vast open space, Buck?" Travis would ask.
"Why there's sheer paradise, Travis. There's food as far as the eye can see, and lots of things for rats like us to do." Buck answered.
"Oh yeah, like what Buck?"
"Well there's fancy resorts-not like the boring ones here in the wooded pile, but like the ones they have in Las Vegas-European style!"
"How do you know these things?" Travis asked as a look of puzzled bewilderment invaded is whiskered face.
"You remember my cousin Benji?" said Buck.
"Yeah, that freeloader who always ate my cheese?"
"Yes, that very same one. Well I'll have you know, that freeloader is livin' it up at one the fanciest hotels on the Vegas strip. He hitched a ride on a produce truck headed for the promise land and he ain't ever looked back. From time to time I receive a communique from him tellin' me how fine the livin' is there. A little hot, but they've got pools EVERYWHERE!"
"So how come you ain't hitched a ride?" Travis inquired, a little jealous.
"One day I will. I'm just waitin' for the right time." Buck answered as he ran a paw over his whiskers and gazed up at the sky.
Just about then, the two rats were distracted by a rustling sound. It was Michelle, the finest female rat in the wooded pile. Every rat within miles was interested in Michelle but she only dealt with rats who could bring in the big cheese.
"Hi Michelle," Travis and Buck said in unison. Michelle ignored them both and scurried down her hole.
"One of these days, I'm gonna get that girl." Travis said.
"That'll be the day." Buck replied.
"What, you don't think I can?"
"Look Travis, we're bottom feeders. We rarely take the chances that Michelle's dates take. Some venture out and never come back you know."
"I guess that Paradise you brag about is just too satisfying for them to return, huh?" Travis said a little annoyed with Buck.
"Look, if you don't believe me, go ask Ol' Willard. He's been around forever-he knows everything. Maybe he'll convince you."
"If it's such paradise, why does everyone we know sit around the wooded pile, rooting for worms?" Travis asked.
"Because, worms ain't so bad. Besides, to get to paradise, you've got to cross Hawk's alley and even the fastest rat we know can't outrun a hawk. But once you make it to the other side-it's all good."
"So you say. Look, I gotta run. I'm gettin' hungry" said Travis.
"Yeah, me too. I'll see you around." Buck scurried off in the opposite direction, stop and yelled over his shoulder, "Go see Ol' Willard.

Travis scurried over to his favorite spot of refuse and began nibbling on a left over piece of lettuce and a rotted piece of meat that someone had thrown away almost a month ago. As he dined, he saw Ol' Willard, the oldest rat in the wooded pile, slowly making his way to his hole.
"Hey, Ol' Willard, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, what do ya wanna know."
"What's out past the wooded pile?"
"Funny you should ask" said Ol' Willard. "I heard from an extremely reliable source that just north of the pile, in the shaded area, is a place where you can dine on wonderful treats. Large chunks of cheese, fresh apple slices, and peanut butter."
"Peanut butter?" Travis' eyes lit up. Peanut butter was a rare treat, but a delight if you could get your paws on some.
"Yes son, peanut butter. They serve it on laaarge wooden planks" Ol' Willard answered. "Look, it's time for my nap. If you decide to venture out, bring Ol' Willard back a taste would you?"
"I'll do just that!" Travis answered and scurried off to find Michelle. Ol' Willard gave him an idea. He'd promise Michelle something no rat could resist-peanut butter.

Travis arrived at Michelle's hole and called out.
"Michelle, come out-I have something for you." But Michelle didn't answer. Again, he called out, again, no answer. This went on for 5 minutes until finally Michelle poked her head out of her hole.
"What is it Travis?" she yelled, "I'm trying to take a nap." Michelle didn't have to forage for food too often, there was always a willing suitor who would do it for her. So she slept a lot.
"Well, I was wondering if you'd like to...well, go out on a date with me?"
"On a date with you? Why Travis Ratus, why on earth would I want to do such a stupid thing. You've been dining on that same rotten piece of meat for the past month-yes, I've seen you. I only dine on the finest imported cuisine. Rotten meat is beneath me. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some very important napping to do." Michelle turned to retreat into her hole when Travis blurted out,
"I've got peanut butter!" This stopped Michelle in her tracks. She turned around slowly and with a her eyes as wide as pennies she said,
"Peanut butter?"
"Yes, peanut butter. Ol' Willard told me of a secret spot just north in the shaded area."
"What does Ol' Willard know? He hasn't been out of the wooded pile since his acting days."
"He even shared some with me" Travis lied. He was desperate and at this point would say anything to convince Michelle. Michelle sauntered up whisker to whisker with Travis.
"Look, if you're lying to me, I have boyfriends, lots of them, and it won't take much to convince them to gnaw through that narrow head of yours as though it were rope. Do I make myself clear? Now what time will you be picking me up?"
Delighted, Travis yelled out, 3:30, but then he realized it was already 4 in the afternoon. Gathering his senses, he responded,
"Ahem, I'll pick you up in exactly one hour, and please, wear your finest." Michelle turned and scurried down her hole. She could barely contain her excitement. She had only had peanut butter once before and for days after, she would lick her whiskers remembering what a pleasure it was.

Around about 4:50 pm, Travis began to make his way towards Michelle's hole and he saw Buck scurrying down a tree with a tiny bird egg wedged between his cheeks. The egg made his cheeks seem enormous.
"Where you goin' all decked out?" Buck asked as he dropped the egg from his mouth.
"Got a date with Michelle" Travis replied.
"Oh no you don't!"
"Do too. Ol' Willard shared with me one of his secrets and Michelle and I are venturing out to the shaded area for a little fun."
"He told you 'bout the peanut butter, didn't he?"
"Yeah, what about it?" Travis inquired.
"Damn that ol' rat. I was the one who told him!"
Travis' heart sank when he realized Buck was Ol' Willard's reliable source. "You told him? Who told you?"
"Benji. When he left for Las Vegas, he passed through the shaded area and saw a rat who had eaten himself to death. He was laid out on the wooden plank, eyes bulging. Benji thinks that he ate and ate until he couldn't eat no more. Funny thing was, there was still so much peanut butter left on the wooded plank. Benji ate some, and took the rest with him."
"Buck! Is this another one of your tales of paradise?"
"No Travis, not this time. Ok, I'll admit that I made up the European spa thing this morning, but Benji wouldn't lie. He might freeload, but he'd never lie."
"Well I have no choice now-I've got to take Michelle. Wish me luck, and stay out of those nests-you're gonna get caught one day."
"That's what you always say. Good luck."
Travis made his way to Michelle's hole and to his suprise, she was waiting outside for him.
"You're late, Ratus. Are you sure this is safe? I've never been to the shaded area, have you?" Michelle was filled with excitement.
"Yeah, sure. Buck and I go all the time" he lied.
"That Buck stretches the truth like it's string cheese, Travis. I don't know if I can trust you."
"Of course you can. Right this way M' lady."
Travis extended a paw and the two made their way out of the wooded pile and into the vast open shaded area. They walked for what seemed like hours. Travis felt as though someone was following him, and even mentioned it once to Michelle, but she said that he was being ridiculous.
Michelle talked the entire time and Travis began to notice that Michelle had some very annoying habits. She talked only of herself, and she snorted when she chuckled. She also had an enormous head and she made entirely too much noise to suit Travis, but he didn't have the heart to tell her. Just as Michelle began another one of her boring tales, Travis caught the whiff of a very faint, but familiar smell.
"...and he brought just one tiny piece of cheese..for the both of us. Can you believe-"
"SHHHH." Travis whispered, his whiskers twitching. "Can you smell that?"
Michelle began to pay attention and she too began to twitch her whiskers.
"Why, Travis Ratus, as I live and breathe, I smell PEANUT BUTTER!!!!"
A rat's sense of smell is is extremely sensitive and the faint smell of peanut butter was no guarantee they'd find any. But their excitement grew and Travis reached out, grabbed Michelle's paw, and picked up the pace. Travis noticed that Michelle's paw was cold and clammy and it made him feel uneasy, but now, he was less interested in Michelle and more interested in finding the peanut butter.

As they zig-zagged down the path in the shaded area, the scent of peanut butter began to grow stronger and it wasn't long before the two of them stood before a large wooden plank, almost twice their size. And sitting in the middle was a dollop of peanut butter three times the size of Michelle's exceptionally large head.
"EEEEK!!!" Michelle shrieked! "There it is Travis!" She began to scurry quickly towards the peanut butter, but Travis grabbed her paw.
"Wait, let's walk over together." Travis said.
"Let's not Travis. In fact, why don't you just go back to the wooded pile, we won't be needing you any longer."
"We?" Travis asked. Just then, an enormous rat with paws the size of maple leaves, and muscle that bulged as though someone had pumped them full of air, scurried from the brush and right over to Michelle.
"This here is Brutus, my boyfriend. Brutus, this here's Travis. He was just leaving."
"I...I don't understand." Travis said.
"Silly rat. Brutus has been tailing us the entire time. Did you really think I would date a rat who dines on rotten meat? You're beneath me Travis Ratus, now scurry on back to the wooded pile before Brutus here gets jealous."

Travis grew angry, but the bulging muscles on Brutus was enough to discourage any ideas he might have had. He was tired, hungry, and disappointed. But he knew he'd been outwitted by Michelle. He took one last look at the large mound of peanut butter as Michelle and Brutus made their way over to the wooden plank. It was too much for him to bear, so he turned and started to make his way back to the wooded pile. Just as he did he heard a loud WHAP!!!!!! that scared him so, he jumped 5 feet in the air and quickly ran for cover behind a rock. Peering around the rock he saw a site that both horrified him and delighted him at the same time. Michelle and Brutus' necks had been snapped by a large metal bar, their eyes were now bulging out of their sockets-they both were dead. Travis sat behind the rock for a while, wondering what he should do. He finally mustered up the courage to go over to the bodies of Michelle and Brutus. Picking up a stick, he poked at the metal bar, it didn't move at all-neither did they. He poked at the peanut butter with the stick and scooped up a nice chunk of it and put it in his mouth. It tasted like heaven.

He went back over to the rock and found a leaf. He dragged it over to the plank and began scooping the peanut butter onto the leaf. Not long after, he had removed all but small amount that stuck to the plank. He dragged the leaf for what seemed like hours back to the wooded pile and into his hole.

3 MONTHS LATER
Three months had gone by and not much had changed in the wooded pile. Ol' Willard was still the oldest rat, Michelle was gone but a rat by the name of Regina eagerly stepped into the harlot shoes she left behind, and there was still no shortage of male rats willing to risk life and limb to impress her. However, there were some slight changes. Travis and Buck no longer spent there days fantasizing about the paradise that existed beyond the wooded pile. After returning from his quest for peanut butter, Travis and Buck decided to go into business and supply the rare and savory treat to all who resided in the wooded pile. They were known as the Peanut Butter Hunters. Travis figured out what caused Michelle and Brutus' terrible fate and devised a method of extracting the peanut butter from the wooden plank without losing his neck. He was so successful at it that he and Buck became very wealthy rats, and they would often travel to the Vegas strip to visit Benji. Travis soon found out that most of Buck's tales were indeed false. But there was one thing he was 100% correct about, Las Vegas.

THE END

Ok, I know I have an overactive imagination-and this couldn't possibly be how my stepfather caught two rats, at the same time, in one trap. But you have to admit, at the very least, The Rat Story was entertaining.

TPOKW

Quotable Quote

"I'm a man with special needs and she's a woman who understands them."

Anonymous

Fear and Apathy

I guess I fake apathy, and I'm too stupid to be fearful of anything (or at least I used to be too stupid). Since I officially declared I was a writer, I haven't written anything. Is it fear? Apathy, perhaps? I don't know. Maybe it's just I haven't a thing to say. Have their been events in my life noteworthy of my acerbic prose? Possibly, but I'm not talking...at least not today.

How's my love life you ask? Thank you for your concern. There isn't a love life. I've been left with just life. Wait a minute, did I just reduce life to a consolation prize? See, I told you I was acerbic. I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm bored here. I'll never pilot a commercial airliner, bang Meagan Good, or become the first black president of the U.S.A. (thanks Barack). So what's left? Wasting my life away selling crystal promotional products to mega-corporations who have more money to burn than the, say, Burundi? And do you ever wonder why they have money to burn? Because the taxes they should be paying are paid by John and Jane Q. Public. They are allowed to make these obscene profits and pay no taxes-how fucked up is that? While the little man, like myself, can't even write off the child support he pays. How did we allow it to come to this? I guess it's like anything else, those who are willing to risk it all and go for broke sometimes fall short, but when they hit, boy do they hit big. How could one have the audacity to, in a country that was founded on the principles of shaking the shackles of tyranny, create tyranny under the very noses of those who would swear on a stack of bibles as tall as the former World Trade Center buildings that tyranny doesn't exist in this country? I mean, come on, our elected officials no longer represent us, the executive branch of the government has morphed into a monarchy, and the judicial branch seems to be at war with itself. In the immortal words of Marvin Gaye, What's Goin' On?

Do I give a shit about my job? Good question. No. I do give a shit about eating, sleeping in a warm bed-inside a sound structure insulated from the elements. So by proxy, I guess I do give a shit about my job, but I'd never come out and admit it. Working for someone can kill your spirit if you allow it. I guess I just believe that my talents should take me somewhere. But I can hear that clock ticking. Too old to be a world renowned rock star. Don't want to grovel to become an actor. I'd love to get my PhD. but I'm a minimum 5 years away from that...so I guess I'll blog and write songs to ease the pain of my fear-ladened, apathetic past.

At first this entry was going to be a litany of excuses as to why I'm where I am in life. I was going to start with the failure to commit because Mr. Charlie always spoils the party excuse, but as I poured my morning bowl of cereal, my argument began to sound extremely weak. I kept seeing the faces of those who'd found success and thinking, "Why didn't Charlie rain on their parade?" Because they didn't allow him to. And if you let someone rain on your parade and you fail to commandeer an umbrella, whose fault is that? With that said, my limitations are not all self-imposed. Could I have become a commercial airline pilot? No, eyesight's too bad. Could I bang Meagan Good? This questions requires our attention. If you do the math, Meagan will probably have 10-20 sex partners in her life. That's less than .00000002% of the world's population, so, statistically, I'd have a better chance becoming president of the United States than banging Ms. Good. There are only 300 million people in this country and a decent percentage of those are ineligible because they are either felons, illegal, or naturalized citizens. But quite frankly, I wouldn't want to be the presiding puppet of the U.S.A. I'd be too tempted to dismantle the Federal Reserve Board, and we know what happens to those who attempt that feat (JFK anyone?).

So here I sit, wondering if this is what life's all about. You spend all of your time trying to stay afloat in an ocean with a constant undertow. Eventually, the ocean wins. Yet we still fight-dream-believe that we can beat the odds. All of the people I know are just treading water, and some of them not so well. So many of us are focused on the trappings of largess, because there is where we find our identity. I want to go back to the day when we lived in huts and life was simple. Sure, I'd miss my iPod, my laptop, and microwave popcorn, but I know I'd find something equally as entertaining to occupy my time. And maybe even that wish is an illusion. Maybe there isn't a time where we didn't struggle against something or someone from somewhere. Maybe to live is to struggle and our only respite in the midst of attempting to survive is the occasional bout of fear and apathy. So no longer will I beat myself up for being too fearful to take a step. After all, this world is a dangerous place. And perhaps a little apathy is just what the doctor ordered because constantly swimming against the tide can be exhausting. I guess I'll just continue to swim upstream until my fins grow weary, or until it's time to float downstream, upside down, with my eyes open and my life complete.

I Am A Writer

It has taken me 44.49 years to say those words. I've been writing creatively since I was 7, but never considered myself a writer. Have you ever read anything I've written? Well you're reading this aren't you? Have I ever been published outside my blog? Yes, I used to write a column back in the 90's and I even had a (potentially) award winning article about Michael Jackson published in a small newspaper in St. Louis a few years back. I am a writer.

Writers write. And I write. I'll write about anything. Politics, romance, love (and yes love is different from romance), war, family, money-it doesn't matter, I'll write about it. Ask me about the great writers of yester-year and I'll admit with confidence that I've hardly read any of them. Who did Mark Twain read? Shakespeare, who did he read? Don't know do you? Well neither do I-which is why I don't read anything the people they read wrote, nor do I read anything Twain or Shakespeare wrote. I'm a writer, not a reader-didn't you read the title of this blog?

Writing is something that was gifted to me. It was recognized in me at an early age and cultivated by those along the way who discovered my ability to poetically express my thoughts through words. Am I a great writer? Hardly-I'm just a writer. That feels good to say-I'm a writer.

I don't know why it took me so long to muster up the courage to say those words, I am a writer. And now that I've said them, I can't stop myself. I am a writer. Will I ever finish a novel? Perhaps, I started one years ago and never completed it-but there is plenty of material to encourage me to continue. I think the very reason I quit was the very reason it took me so long to admit what I've always known-I don't like talking about myself, therefore it was difficult to admit that I was a writer. And what was said novel about? Me. About my thoughts, my hopes, my dreams, my wishes, and I couldn't bare the thought of looking foolish in the eyes of those who mean so much to me. So I shelved the damn thing. But perhaps it's time to dust off the old manuscript and breathe life back into it because I am a writer.

A couple of nights ago, I watched my only brother die. Literally. I was there when he breathed his very last breath on this earth-when his heart beat for the very last time. I watched my mother, a woman whom I love more than life itself, place her hand on his lifeless body, searching for a heartbeat in a chest cavity that would no longer have one. I heard her subconsciously utter the words, "He's still warm." And in the ensuing hours, amidst all the pain and misery I experienced, what did I turn to? Writing. I wrote-emoted, expressed, shared. I laid bare all of my feelings with a momentous fervor I'd never experienced before in my life. I turned to the one thing that could provide me comfort-writing. Did I care if anyone read what I wrote? No, not at all. I just wrote and thought and wrote until I felt better. And then I wrote some more. If you ask me what I feel now I would simply tell you peace. A comforting peace I never thought achievable through writing. Sure, I've written about my life experiences before, but there is something about the finality of death, and it's affect on people that makes you take notice of things you've never noticed before. Why did my brother have to die? The answer lay silently in the thoughts and words that floated around aimlessly in my head. And when I sat down at the keyboard and began carefully selecting the letters and words and nouns, verbs and adjectives and arranging them in sentences that answered the painful questions that plagued me, I realized that I was a writer. Perhaps the greatest gift of all my brother gave me was the gift of writing. Not so much because he taught me how to write, but because in death he showed me why I should write. His death taught me that I should share my world with those who would take the time to step into my shoes and allow themselves to experience life through my written words.

I am no longer ashamed or afraid to utter those four very precious words, I am a writer. I've watched my older sister pursue her love for writing with a passion unmatched by me. She too has the gift and she has decided not to let it go to waste. I am a writer. Will the words that I write ever feed me? I don't know, nor do I care because if I did, that would make me something less than a writer-that would make me a hack. I am a writer and writers write. And from this day forward, if someone asks me what it is that I do, I will look them squarely in the eye and say to them in life what my brother taught me to say through his death, I am a writer.

TPOKW

Things Borrowed

I'm 44-in 6 months I'll be 45...another 12 months I'll be 46, and so on. Last year I experienced a major loss-my wife and I separated....I lost my wife. Less than 24 hours ago I lost my only brother. He succumbed to lymphatic cancer. From where I stand I begin to wonder what really belongs to me. Is it really my life if one day I'll have to give it up? Was he my brother or was he just a life on loan to me? I mean, yes, he was my beloved brother, but what really belongs to us? Or is it that nothing really belongs to us. It's not our life; she wasn't my wife; he wasn't my brother-they were just on loan to me-things borrowed.

One day my mom called me to tell me that my brother was ill-he had cancer. It hurts too much now to discuss the details, but writing has always been my catharsis and I write now to put this all into perspective. My brother and I hadn't seen each other for quite some time-his life was his own and he chose to live it privately. But he was still my beloved brother-my big brother-my only brother, and now he's gone. My mother said that she was going to fly up to San Francisco and spend some time with him and I told her that I too would come up to visit. She left Wednesday and my plan was to come up after work on Friday. But my brother needed me sooner. He didn't say it verbally, he spoke to me in ways I cannot explain. I specifically scheduled my flight to leave on Friday. When I looked at my itinerary, by some twist of fate, my flight departed Thursday morning at 8:05 am. I was angry at the time, but now I regret being upset that I didn't get what I thought I'd purchased. Had I left Friday morning, my mother would have had to experience my brother's death alone. Fortunately, the gods, my mom, and the will of my brother brought me sooner.

I arrived and my brother was in extreme pain from the chemotherapy. We talked. Surprisingly, he didn't look too bad for a man who had cancer throughout his body. I walked through the door and his first words to me were, "Little brother!." He rarely called me by my name. As far back as I can remember I was always "little brother." My visit was brief. It wasn't long before my mother summonsed his doctor, his vitals were checked and the prognosis wasn't good. His medical team went into action trying to stabilize him. We still had no idea that he would leave us so soon. He was rushed to have a CT scan and then to intensive care. The doctors spoke to us-telling us that he was in really bad shape and that they were doing everything within their power to save him, but they didn't give us much hope.

My beloved brother died at 1:56 a.m. January 25, 2008. By his side was my mother and I. I watched as his blood pressure dropped to dangerously low levels and his heart rate slowed to a fatal 30 beats per minute. He was dying. But he was sedated and in no pain. I remember sitting in the chair next to his bed and having a wave of emotion rip through my body so strong that I could no longer contain it and I weeped uncontrollably. I was angry at myself, I'd come to be a comfort to my mother and here I was being comforted by her. My brother was dying and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted to tell him that he'd always been my great defender when we were younger-no one touched his little brother.

My mother told me that he held on long enough to see me and I love him so for hanging in there so that I could see him one last time-to hear his voice; to hear him say those precious two words to me one last time, "little brother." I promised myself I wouldn't "what if" or "if only" myself to death over his demise. I would accept it for what it was and help my family and myself heal. My brother held on long enough to give me the gift of his protective cloak. As long as I was his "little brother" I had nothing to fear. There were nights when I was a kid that I would be afraid, and I would climb into his bed and he'd always move over to make room for me. He was 7 years older than me and he watched over me and my sisters like a doting parent.

I'm going to miss knowing that I have a big brother in the world-just a phone call away. But I now understand that all things are borrowed, up to and including my own life. One day I'll have to return it to it's rightful owner. Our stay in this world is temporary and those who cross our path are on loan.

My mother and I have been comforting one another. She's talking non stop and even she knows it's to keep herself from focusing on my brother's death. From time to time she'll talk about it-she stops herself, and I encourage her to continue. One thing I do know, she is going to need me more than ever now. Fortunately I can devote the time. She told me today that I was her Ace. When her mother died, I flew out to Louisiana to be there by her side. I told her last night that we have to stop vacationing like this. I want her to know that she can rely on me come what may. It's a never ending circle. When I was a newborn, she took care of me, and now it's my turn to be her rock.

I don't want to preach to or lecture anyone. I just would like to ask everyone to take a look at the people who you've borrowed, or those who've borrowed you. Take a look at those who are on loan to you and appreciate them, for nothing truly belongs to us. Our wives and husbands, brothers and sister, mothers and fathers are simply on loan to us-and us to them. Cherish every moment.

Lamarr Marcus O'Neal
April 21, 1956-January 25, 2008

Rest in peace my beloved brother.

TPOKW

MLK & Greed

Martin Luther King fought for more than just civil rights for black people. Watch below.



It's real simple people-we have to buy back America. We outnumber them. We have to get together financially and buy the country back-otherwise, they'll strip the place and nothing will be left.

TPOKW

Watch This Before April 15th-But Still Pay Your Taxes

Slave Day Trading

Every now and then an errant memory will pop into my head and I'll wonder what the hell were any of us thinking at the time the actual event occurred. Like the time my three friends and I were at Disneyland in Anaheim, California and we were watching this 3-girl group onstage. The girls seemed to be staring right at us as they sang their songs and we were all blown away that these 3 beautiful young ladies were showing us all this attention. It never dawned on us that we were the only people watching them, so who the hell else were they supposed to sing to? Young minds are easily led astray-anyway, that's not what I wanted to discuss. Around about the same time, maybe a few years prior, my 2 friends and I were in junior high school and one of the annual activities we'd have was slave day. Yes, you read correctly, slave day.

On slave day, we'd all go to the assembly area and we would auction off certain students (of all racial make up) to the highest bidder. Of course the cute guys and girls usually went for the highest price. There would be chains manufactured out of construction paper, and the highest bidder would retrieve their slave for the day.

I never bid on anyone (I don't think the slave would participate in the events that existed in my deviant mind), nor would I allow myself to be humiliated by being auctioned off. The day always left a sour taste in my mouth. And this morning it dawned on me, (some 30 years later), how ridiculously insulting such an event was. How could you actually have a school in America, with approximately 3/5 of the students of African descent, participating in such an awful event. Yes, I know it was in fun. But to me it would be synonymous with having a Holocaust day where we put students on trains destined for concentration camps, and conducted simulated exterminations of students in gas chambers, all in fun. There's not a Jew on the planet, not one, that would stand for such ridiculousness. So why is it that we had almost 100% participation in this event? I'll answer it for you, we're an unconscious people. I admit I didn't care for the day at all, but I wish at the age of 13 I would have launched a protest. I was a pretty Afro-conscious kid. I once challenged my history teacher to an impromptu debate in front of the entire class regarding America and her supposed unblemished war record. I summarily reminded Mr. Rhett Gray that America had just had her ass handed to her in the Vietnam war. The impromptu debate abruptly ended. Final score- Young Black Impoverished Student-1, Uninformed Propaganda Spewing History Teacher-0.

In retrospect I do know why I didn't launch a protest. First of all, I didn't really understand how systematic racism was. I thought it was based solely on individuals. For instance, Mr. Gray is a racist, but Miss Brandsberg isn't, (that's because Ms. Brandsberg was too busy being a pedophile...seriously, but that's an issue for another blog). When you slice racism up into small bite-sized pieces, it's much easier to swallow isn't it? You have this notion that you can pick and choose the people you associate with. You can work for companies where racism is nonexistent. But what the mind of a 13 year old doesn't realize is that racism is built into the very fabric of American society and the only way you can get around it is to a). leave, like so many did in the 60's when they emigrated to Europe, or b). dismantle the entire racist system.

It took years for me to accept that racism would never go away in this country; that it would always be a part of my every day living. I would always have to be conscious of the fact that my skin is dark (beautiful, but dark), and that my actions would always be judged based upon a perceived notion that black people are all lazy, shiftless, unintelligent, criminals steeped in anti-social behavior. When I walk into a department store, I'm going to be watched. When I sit down at a restaurant, the assumption is that I can't pay for the meal I am about to consume-and everyone (including myself) breathes a sigh of relief when I pay. I will always have to answer for the crimes of other blacks and the level of trust I might of earned from my coworkers and non black associates has been reduced to zero because Johnny Cochran got O.J. off, or the Rodney King riots, or the Jenna 6 were released. I will always be viewed with an air of suspicion because to be black and accused of a crime in America is as good as being guilty.

When you infiltrate the minds of young people at an early age, it's easy to get them to accept certain things in life-be those things positive or negative. Just as easily as we participated (without protest) in the slave day festivities, a young mind can be persuaded to start a business or focus their attention on the more positive aspects of life. Those early years are extremely vital. Although I didn't protest the slave day, I definitely didn't care for it. I can see the difference between some of my former classmates and myself-we definitely have entirely different views about the world. They seem to have accepted their station in life, whereas I've always raged against the machine. I've always tried to rally people to institute change. Maybe not so much in the world in general, but at least in the small world in which we live. Alas, I've exhausted myself trying to not only drag the mule to water, but also have him drink. Now, I'd like to simply walk away from it all. From the slave days; from the Jenna 6 situations; from the racist mindsets that compel white people to scream "OJ did it!" when it was the very system that they designed that freed the man.

I get exhausted when I think of how ignorant and naive the majority of us all are. Who knew that our big brains could be so flawed? How is it that in the 70's, not long after a decade of intense struggles for civil rights, that we would voluntarily participate in mock slave trading? How could this happen? We were supposed to be the successive generation to further the struggle-and there we were, participating in a mockery of the tragic events our ancestors were brutally forced into. To this day I am ashamed. Not so much because I participated, but because I didn't stand up to the establishment and tell them to knock that fucking shit off! No matter how you sliced it, this event was an abomination.

Perhaps the 44 year old me is being too hard on the 13 year old me. But if you knew me at 13 you'd wouldn't agree. I was a militant and I had my ideas and beliefs about the establishment-and often I voiced them. I remember once when I was about to whip a white classmates ass, an African-American kid intervened...on behalf of the white kid. I never looked at that boy the same. To me, he was a race traitor and at the age of 13, I decided if ever I was in a position of power, I would imprison him for his treason. Fortunately for Noble, that day never came.

It makes me wonder at times exactly what the black students of today are experiencing in school. What else have they slipped under the radar that is a mockery of our experience here in this country? What I do know is this: we've definitely been tarnished by our experience here. It has shaped us in ways we don't realize. It might not have changed our physical appearance, but mentally, we've become something other than human. And we don't even know it.

So today I am officially announcing my plan to expatriate myself. I'm not sure where I will settle, but within the next 5 years my goal is to leave the United States. Europe comes to mind, but I haven't decided. Paris or Spain would be my initial choices, but there might be a place in a warmer climate that I might prefer. One thing's for certain, I have no intentions of being buried on U.S. soil.

TPOKW?

Who Will Officially Welcome Us to the 3rd World?

Before I get started, I would like for those of you who take the time to read to watch the video below...and then ask yourselves the title question.






My answer is probably no one. But one thing I know for certain is, you don't lose $2.3 trillion dollars and not feel the effects of it. The real question is, was it lost at all? Of course not. What is now taking place, and what has been taking place since 9/11 is a looting of the coffers. The current administration is lining their pockets and the pockets of their friends with your hard-earned tax dollars. When they leave office, they will leave this country in state that will make the depression era look like a picnic. When they pull back the curtain and reveal what they've been working on for the past 8 years, we will wonder how we allowed them to pull the wool over our eyes-but by then, it will be too late. They will be comfortably nestled in their air conditioned palaces in the United Arab Emirates, or Dubai, counting their ill-gotten wealth while the populace of this country settle old scores and annihilate one another in search of food, shelter, and the creature comforts we've all grown so accustomed to.

We are going to ask ourselves who was minding the store? And how did the wolves get into the hen house? I'll tell you how, they dressed up like sheep and baaaa'd their way in. Unlike Little Red Riding Hood, we ignored the large ears, big paws, and large teeth. We simply labeled them sheep and ignored the carnage-even when it was happening right before our very eyes. Enron was just a trial run-a reflection of what was to later happen to the government of this country.

When someone cannot account for $2.3 trillion dollars, someone should be sitting in jail until they can explain where the money went. I mean from the rooter to the tooter. The top guy and everyone he hired should be jailed until someone talks. When Rumsfeld made this announcement, it should have been followed by his resignation and a congressional investigation complete with independent oversight from an agency selected by the public.

Our representatives no longer represent the people. They talk at you and promise you the sun will come out tomorrow, but they have no intentions of fulfilling those promises. America will become a 3rd World country-and if there happens to be any civil unrest, Blackwater will be here to quash it, and not in a nice way. People will disappear, starve, become animalistic in their behavior and a lot of people are going to die. The anecdotal footnotes we hear on the evening news about civil unrest on foreign soil will be right at our doorstep, and most of us won't be prepared.

I urge you all to update your passports and keep a small amount of cash ($4000 or more) on hand, because just like in the depression era, when the banks close their doors, your money will be something of a memory.

TPOKW

Mama's Baby, Papa's Maybe

I like to come home during my lunch hour, make me a sandwich, and watch the court tv shows until it's time to go back to work. Yeah, I know it's mindless garbage, but it's about as much TV as I'll allow myself to watch so I think I'm in no danger of having my I.Q. drop. One of the constant themes is the paternity shows. Everyone seems to be getting a gang of mileage out of them. I admit, unless he is just a total asshole, I root for the male. Call me sexist if you wish, but my support for men in these predicaments goes beyond loyalty to gender, it has more to do with knowledge.

Women know how many men they've had sex with. Simple. If a woman misses her period, unless she's a streetwalker, there's no mystery in her mind how many guys she's been within the past 30 days. If it's just one guy, unless she's Mary, mother of Jesus, there should be no question in her mind. But if she's had multiple partners, it becomes a guessing game on her part. But this doesn't give her a license to pick the one she likes the best. Sadly, prior to DNA, all a woman had to do was pick a guy out of a line-up and the burden of proof was upon him, and unless that child was a different race or the potential dad was on another part of the globe, his ass was stuck. Bottom line, there's no way for the dad to be sure unless there's a DNA test.

If a guy has doubts as to whether or not he is the father of a soon-to-be-born child, the great likelihood is, there's only one place that doubt can emanate from-the mother of the soon-to-be-born child. Sure, he can be a jealous, insecure individual suffering from paranoid delusions, but I'm not factoring in mentally ill people. I talking about those of us who function at an acceptable level of sanity. If you expectant mothers have had a sordid and questionable past, are morally challenged, or just a plain 'ho', how can you expect the man you've selected to reproduce with not to have doubt? I don't understand why women come on TV, scream and yell about the man doubting. If you're 1000% sure, (which is stupid because it's impossible-100% is the total sum, therefore 1000% is impossible), why not just sit down, shut up, and let the test do the talking? Why not just ask yourself, "Is there anything I've done in my past to cause this man to question my commitment to him?" If that answer is yes, then you have however many months left to your delivery date to go through whatever there is to go through-you've earned it. By lying and cheating, you've earned whatever animus he feels toward you. And when the baby is born, if you're so certain he's the father, now is the time you have to remove all doubt. But until such time, whorish behavior is most certainly the mother of his doubt.

There's no question who the mother of a child is, for obvious reasons. And knowing that the 'X' factor in childbirth is always the father, women should behave in a way that doesn't tarnish a man's view of both themselves during pregnancy, and the child thereafter. Women are in a tremendously crucial position to set the tone of the relationship that all parties experience for the rest of their lives. That position shouldn't be taken lightly by women. Talk about power? That is more power than any man could ever wield. A chaste and respectable woman will be the gem of any man who chooses her. She's in the driver's seat and literally controls the fate of their family. We men need to learn to respect those types of women and do our best not to harm them-lest they see no reason to behave morally.

That is all.

TPOKW

You've been hoodwinked. You've been had....

We all know those words to be those of the late, great Malcolm X, one of the 20th centuries' great phenoms. I am going to borrow them for a while, (with the expressed inferred consent from one freedom fighter to the next), for this blog entry. I awoke this morning from a quasi-bad dream. I dreamt that I was, once again, breaking up with Lexi's mother. We're not in a relationship, but in the dream I guess we were. And you know how stubborn people can be in bad relationships, well this dream was no different. I don't know why I had the dream, (maybe it's because Lexi's here with me for the weekend), but I had it. This is going to seem like a complete non sequitur, but the dream had absolutely nothing to do with the title of this blog, nor its subject matter. I just needed to get that dream off my chest. The anxiety associated with another break up was overwhelming-even in my dream. I awoke exhausted.

Yesterday, on the way to pick up my daughter, I was listening to listener-sponsored KPFK, a radio station that touts itself as the voice of the people. Obviously they've never heard what the people in Orange County, CA have to say, otherwise they would specify exactly whom they are the voice of. But I digress. There was a female M.C. being interviewed who goes by the moniker Medusa. At the very end, they played one of her tracks and I liked it. Very original, nothing canned and thrown together like what's out there already. The fact that they put the track at the end of the interview was her redeemer because I was going to completely write this chick off prior to hearing her music. The interviewer asked her a question that I don't quite remember, but I do recall her responding something like this, "It's time women shine and express our individuality and take our place at the very forefront." When I hear talk like this, it's like someone has taken their fingernails and scraped them against a chalk board. I just wanted to put my hand on her shoulder and tell this person, "Honey, those are words of death." What am I saying? Read on, I'll explain.

Like Malcolm X said, she's been hoodwinked. Individuality guarantees one thing, the death of the human species. Now, I know I'm not a scientist-and although I fancy myself a philosopher, we all know I'm not. But think about it, men and women truly need one another to survive. We've gotten so wrapped up in this individuality nonsense, we've forgotten that the very basis of our existence is the family-and some sort of communal living with other families. Yes, I said communal living. Sort of reminds you of the word communist or communism doesn't it? Well it should, they all are derived from the same root word. It is sad that that intellects allowed politicians to vilify the word communist. Without much investigation, the American population allowed themselves to be scared witless about a group of people who didn't really want to harm Americans, but protect themselves from American invasion. Anyway, it is communal living which is the very basis of human existence. We have a version of it here in the U.S., but it only mimics a true community in the close proximal living of its human inhabitants. How many of us have lived in a neighborhood where we didn't know our neighbors? That clearly cannot be considered a community.

Rugged individualism is not the true basis of a decent human existence. When you have a true community, everyone is connected to the success and failure of that community. This is what makes it so unique-everyone has a vested interest in its survival. But we don't even have that in the country that we're living in-it's a global community according to the powers that be-again, we've been hoodwinked. Most of us in this country know absolutely nothing about the residents of, say Uganda-so how is it that we're a global community if we know nothing about our community members? It's another attempt at divide and conquer and the Medusa's of the world are blindly leading the charge. What is it that any individual has to say or prove that is so important that it trumps the existence of the human species? What if Medusa and her time to shine feminist get their way, but the price to pay is the discontinuance of the human race, I wonder if they would think it was worth it? Ladies, look-I know that the feminist have told you that you got a raw deal and that all men are the devil, but such is not the case. First of all, speaking as a black man, in America, black men have never been in a position to systematically disenfranchise you, relegate you to a less than status, deny you employment, etc. So we should be removed from you list of devils. I bet you not one feminist has ever considered the statement I just made. But I can hear their response already, "Yeah, but given the opportunity".... Don't be so sure of that.

Individualism makes no sense. It would be synonymous to your engine, as an individual component being more important than say, your car tires. Now perhaps it's more expensive, but one flat tire can render the entire car inoperable-one tire. So how is it that an individual part can be more important than the sum of the whole? When you have a flat, your engine is fine and unaffected-and in all truthfulness, your car can still run, but in the most inefficient way imaginable. So one part can't be more important than another-but let one part fail, and the entire unit has now been affected. The same logic applies to we humans. Their are two main components to just about any life form-a male and a female. They make a unit, and when those two units are functioning properly, things run smoothly. But start to play with the dynamics of their interrelations and you begin to undermine the basis of their existence. I just don't think most of us look at it that way. Truthfully, their are no free moves in life. Our actions have consequences. And maybe those consequences don't manifest themselves right away-maybe they take some time, but you can rest assured that there will be a reaction to your action. And this game of one-upmanship we're playing is having dire consequences. Most American women don't even want to be mothers anymore. So now where will our future generations come from? I often hear women say that they don't want to be bogged down by some screaming brat. First of all, if you don't want a brat, don't raise one. Babies don't come out of the womb brats. they emerge, test the waters, and if there is no parental resistance, a brat is born. I am the father of four-none of whom were ever brats. They were and still are pretty obedient because they knew that, when I spoke, I meant business. I took my duties as their guardian seriously and I knew that there was no way that, with their lack of worldly experience, they should be allowed to behave as they saw fit. But maybe that's what a man brings to the table which is why a couple should raise a child-both have something to offer.

I so fear that I'm speaking into a vacuum and that no one hears me. But I've resolved myself to accept the fact that we may never get back to an existence where we are in harmony with one another, and with the universe. The ecosystem has a way of eliminating that which doesn't live within the rules of the universe. There was a time when we believed we could destroy the world-we've now realized that the only thing we have the power to do is make it uninhabitable for ourselves and species with similar survival mechanisms. Armed with that knowledge you'd think we'd stop with the nonsense-but we continue with self-destructive behavior. We all look at the drug addict, the alcoholic, the bulimic, and point out their obvious faults, but there are those of us who are being equally as damaging in our behavior, and on a grander scale-we're not just harming ourselves, but the entire human race. Yes, an individual has the power to do that (just like one tire, or a fuel pump, or a leaky hose has the ability to disable an entire automobile). Sadly, most of us don't know we wield that type of power. We are not only connected to one another, we're connected to the ecosystem and to the universe.

I don't know if we'll ever wake up and realize that there are no benefactors to the rise of individuality-it only creates animosity and fosters in-fighting. Not even the wealthy 1% of the population, who truly believe that the current system benefits them, are going to benefit in the long term. They don't hide the fact that they would like to see the world population diminish. And we could probably benefit from lessor people on the planet, but their agenda to enslave the rest of us while they live lives of luxury will only be short-termed. Eventually we will find a way to make this place eco-unfriendly and the masses will wonder how they allowed that wealthy 1% to convince them to discount one another and fail to see the necessity for unity and harmony, not only amongst ourselves, but with nature. Medusa, and those like her, may one day achieve individuality, but at what price?


TPOKW

She's Not As Mad At You As You Think

I have the luxury of coming home for lunch everyday from work-I live about 3 minutes away. My routine usually consists of making a sandwich and watching about 45 minutes of the court shows-you know, Judge So-and-So. Today I was watching Judge Christina and there was a young girl who was suing the father of her child for the cost of diapers, formula, etc. This is pretty typical behavior of a certain ilk, but I'm not judging, just saying. The young lady made a comment that struck me as odd. Her baby looked like a newborn, she couldn't have been more than 3 or 4 months old. During the testimony, she lobbed an assault at the boyfriend and told him, "You don't care about the baby, you never ask how she is." I thought about that statement for a few seconds because it didn't really make any sense to me. I mean the baby is 4 months old-how altered could her existence be that someone would have to ask how she is? She just got here, and she's still got the wobbly neck and eliminates waste at the most inopportune times. Common sense tells us she'll be that way for quite some time. Furthermore, is there some list of behaviors that women have that informs them whether or not a man cares about his child? If so, I would like a copy so that I could rip it a new asshole. I don't know how many times I've heard women say, "He don't care 'bout this baby, he never calls." Never mind the fact that the baby's 1 year old. Yeah, I guess there are those who would consider a man who sits on the phone with a unintelligible baby for more than 2 seconds a loving father, I consider him an idiot. Besides, don't you have something better to do with your time, like earn a fucking living? I mean, come on, your family does have to eat don't they?

But back to the "You don't care about the baby" statement. First of all, that statement was not directed at her boyfriend, it was directed at her absentee father. That's right, you heard me, her father. She, in my opinion, is expressing the feelings of abandonment that she felt as a child. Think about it, the statement makes no sense. The baby isn't even a year old and already she's written him off as an uncaring father. Not to mention the fact that she put another man's name on the baby's birth certificate. What kind of retarded bullshit is that? You put another man's name on the baby's birth certificate and I'm supposed to act like you didn't. Someone please teach women the law of cause and effect. If you list someone else as the father, how the hell am I supposed to feel all cozy with the baby? Doesn't that cast even a slight suspicion of doubt? I just don't understand some women today. I'm required to behave in a certain manner and not deviate from that behavior no matter what you do. It's the same philosophy women have about men hitting them. They can hit you all they want, but a man's not supposed to hit a lady. I know we're not supposed to, but if you hit me, next week might be when you regain consciousness because in my book, you're not supposed to hit me either. And if our government can kill innocent men, women, and children all in the name of bringing democracy to a country that didn't ask for it, I can retaliate against someone who has struck me. Am I a woman beater? No, but I'll defend myself against anyone attempting to do me bodily harm-only a fool would do otherwise.

Men, when your women says some shit to you that, for the life of you, you have no idea where it came from-know that she really meant to say that to her dad; the man that abandoned she and her mom years ago and she's been waiting to make someone pay for that shit. And here comes your unknowing ass, all in love and looking to build a family with someone whose sole intention is to make you pay for some shit somebody else did to her. When she tells you If you love me you would... those are the things that she expected her father to do, but for whatever reason, he wasn't around to do them. Years and years of anger, frustration, hurt, feelings of unworthiness and abandonment have built up inside these women and when someone of the same gender as their dad shows them any attention, she lets you have all of that pent up emotion.

Think about it. A father is supposed to protect his daughter and make her feel safe. All she has is her mother-who is just as scared as she is. They are two frightened beings in a household unguarded by a male presence. Yeah, I know they yo all of that I don't need a man nonsense-and to a certain extent it's true....'til it gets dark. That fear sets in and anxiety builds. Sure, if there was an intruder you might be able to blow his head off, but you also know that having a male present in the home is often a deterrent. If you think about some of the behaviors of, okay I'm going to say it, black women, it's what frightened people do: loud talk-unnecessary bravado, quick to anger. All of that is to mask a fear of being alone in a world that is dangerous and, to a degree, unstable. Imagine being raised in an environment where there is constant fear. When a young woman finally grows up and gets with a man, there a sense of relief and a feeling of security-and then she gets mad because she never had that growing up and in ways she can't discern on her on, is asking you where you were when she was growing up. How come you didn't make her feel this way back then when she was 8 and frightened every night because she sensed that her mother was frightened as well and there was no security to be found-just fear as a constant companion. Not the way you want humans to grow up.

If there's one thing we can take from this as men, it's we have to stick around to raise our daughters. Why, because they grow up stable and feeling secure and in turn raise better men. One of our generations is going to have to bite the bullet and take the brunt of the black woman's anger. Yeah I know it wasn't you that made her feel this way, but it's going to be necessary that you pay the price for someone else's nonsense so we as a people can flip this thing back around. I'm guilty of not wanting to hear the bullshit and pay the price too-I walked out on plenty of them in my day. But I didn't know any better. Yes, she is mad, and she's scared, and she's insecure, and she overeats because she's denied all other creature comforts. We as men have got to do better by our women. We're denying them the one thing that Maslow said that we all need to develop into fully functioning human beings (see diagram below). In Maslow's theory, the needs on the very bottom rung of the hierarchy have to be met before the individual can advance to the next level. If a person doesn't have food, water and shelter, there's no way they can feel secure-which in turn means they can never advance to a level of love, so on and so forth. And many of us today are stunting our children's development by unknowingly denying them some basic needs necessary for development.



No wonder she acts a damned fool-she can't even ascend to the level of feeling love because she's too damned scared. There's too much knowledge out there for us not to turn this thing around as a people. In the very near future, we're going to need one another more that we've ever needed each other in the history of human existence. And if we don't begin to prepare now, while we have a little free time, we may be torn apart forever.

TPOKW

Responsibility

This is definitely going to be a random entry-but before you turn tail to go watch reruns of Seinfeld, read on, it'll be juicy. Wednesday night I was having a conversation with my youngest daughter's mom and she made a comment that I've heard before, but let slide. She mentioned something about all the shit I'd done to her. After I hung up the phone, I started thinking about that statement-what the hell is this bitch talking about?

I then devised a solution for this dilemma. She should write a list of all the shit I've done to her, and on the right hand side of that list write one of two words: Proactive or Reactive. I'll bet you the ratio would be 9:1 (9 R's to 1 P). I think what she, and most people fail to realize is sometimes you unthinkingly do or say things that set other things in motion. You don't recognize what you've done to precipitate the reaction, because most of us walk around mindlessly just doing shit. It often reminds me of a phrase I used to use when working in the music studio with friends: Like in a nuclear facility, there are no free buttons. You can't just go randomly pushing buttons in either a studio, or a nuclear facility without something occurring. Now of course the consequences of doing so in a nuclear facility are far more dire than doing so in a recording studio, but I think you get what I mean. If you don't, let me break it down to you in it's simplest form and then we'll work our way back up to the more complex.

Let's say you're sitting in your living room watching Living Single reruns, eating bon bons, and curled up in your favorite blanket. It's about 5 p.m. and you had the day off. All of sudden, the lights, T.V., and every other electrical appliance in your home ceases to function. First thing you do is peek out the window to see if anyone else lost power. You see the familiar glow or your neighbor's T.V. through her front window, so you know it's not a community problem-you power's been cut. You pick up the phone and dial Southern California Edison (or insert your local power company here) and you ask them if there is a problem. The rep politely replies Not on our end. But in the same breath she informs you that, since you didn't pay your bill, well, your service has been suspended, (I like when they use that word-it seems so courteous). Now you commence arguing about SCE's billing system-BUT WAIT!!!!! Did you pay your damn bill? What was that? You were going to but your boss didn't give you time off to go on that skiing trip so you shopped your ass off to make yourself feel better and figured you would postpone making the payment another 60 days. I have one question: Is there anything you've done in this scenario to precipitate the suspension of your electricity? AHH-AHH-AHH-wait, nothing about what your boss did, or about the power company, this question is directed at you and is solely about you. What was that? A little louder-did I hear you say you should have paid your damned bill? I thought that's what you said.

Now if this scenario was on my ex's list of offenses, she would have to scribble reaction. SCE reacted to you proactively not paying your bill. Are you all with me here? Good, now let's get back to my ex's imaginary list.

It would probably read something like this:

1. Cheated on me (R)
2. Tight with money (R)
3. Impatient (R)
4. Mean (R)

And I'm sure there are more but I don't want to bore you. The (R) would indicate the offense was a reaction on my part and not a proaction.

CHEATING

Ahh yes, a lady's choice. This is the one that women just love to tout as an irreconcilable offense. But let's take a closer look. Were you fucking your man or giving him the attention he needed from you? Or did you use your pussy as a weapon against him? Ladies, I'm going to highlight a well-known fact here. If you won't fuck your man, unless he's Quasimoto of hunchback fame, there is an entire community of women out there just waiting to fuck him for you. And I guarantee you some of them are either related to you, or shop with you, or party with you-you get my drift. I am going to say this publicly, lest someone one day says that they have not been warned: If I'm dating you, and you choose to use your pussy as a weapon, I will neutralize your attack by fucking somebody else-don't take it personal because I won't take it personal if you refuse to fuck me. Now if you're ill, having social, sexual, or mental difficulties I understand and the rule does not apply. But if you're being spiteful because you didn't like a comment I made, you'd better be prepared-I'm back into my hunter/gatherer mode.

This is a major difference between men and women. A man will fuck you even if he's angry you-to him it's like refusing to breath because you don't like hot days. If he's decided not to fuck you, you can pretty much figure he's done with you and whosoever you decide to fuck at this point, matters not to him.

TIGHT WITH MONEY

Your honor-guilty as charged. But why am I tight with money? Because you have to put money away for those times when the transmission goes out on your car, or you lose your job unexpectedly, or someone falls ill. Money is the lifeblood of this society and without it, you pretty much can wrap it up-you're done. Spending it frivolously will have you like the individual in the previously mentioned scenario. Besides, you don't need those new shoes anyway, you've got a closet full of them.

IMPATIENT

I stand accused. And that's because when I'm ready to do something, I'm ready to do it. Case and point-a couple of weeks ago, my ex and I took our daughter to her school's Fall Festival. My ex knew I would be at her house around 1 pm. When I arrived, I waited at almost 2 hours before we walked out the door. Now mind you, none of this was my idea-it was her idea to take our daughter together as caring parents-how could I refuse? But at least be ready when I arrive. If you know I'm impatient, why test my impatience? Secondly, the very next day when I was bringing my daughter back to her house, I told her I would have her back around 3 p.m. I get a call around 2:30 informing me that no one would be home 'til 7 or 8 p.m. Now, mind you, I'm already on my way. Why wasn't I informed of this the day before when we discussed when I was bringing her back? Or maybe a few hours earlier? I believe I've justified the (R).

MEAN

Most people who know me personally know that, by nature, I'm a kind and warm-hearted person. But make no mistake, I can be meaner than a rattle snake on hot desert sand if you push-and you really don't have to push too hard. My ex has pushed me and sometimes without realizing she's pushing me-because like I mentioned earlier, some people go through life unconscious of the moves they make and the consequences of those moves. When I interface with people like this, I usually make concessions. The only problem then is, if the consequences haven't occurred because I've preempted the action, I'm painted mean. Once my ex told me that I was stingy. My reply to her was, "Yeah, and you're broke-you decide which you'd rather be." I know it sounds harsh and I'm such a bad man, but my responsibility is to make sure that my family has all of what it needs-now and in the future. And if that means I have to be stern and frugal, I'd rather be considered mean and stingy than to sit at home wondering when SCE is going to turn my lights back on.

In a lot of ways I'm a no-nonsense guy. I like to have fun like the next guy, but not the expense of food, shelter, and necessary amenities like electricity. Have I been irresponsible in my day? Yes, there were times when I fucked around and didn't pay bills on time-but I never complained when my shit got cut off, because I distinctively remember tossing that final notice in the trash the day it arrived in the mail. So who's really to blame? Hell, they even sent the notice on bright pinkish-red paper, how could I miss it? And the excuse I usually get is, "Well, you even said that you were irresponsible at one time. Give me time to correct my mistakes-like you had." Let's say your traveling down the main thoroughfare in your fair city and you cross over into the path of a semi truck-how much time would you like to correct your mistake? If you're aware you're making errors, why prolong correcting them? This is what my mother refers to as trifling. And it's also what sometimes makes me unpopular with women I date-I will highlight an area that is in need of correcting-and I hope you will do the same for me. Because I hope you're not telling this to berate me, I hope you're telling me out of love and the want for the both of us not to have to dig ourselves out of a hole.

As I mentioned in my opening, this was going to be random-I guess I'm just venting. But hopefully you've all gleaned something of use from my rant.

TPOKW

The Pu**y Hunt

I was on my way home today from a weekend with my youngest daughter and I began to think about the beautiful bond that she and I have. I had deep reservations about becoming a father again, but that was 6 years ago and I have an obligation to be a father to her-no questions asked. But it's not a one-way street, spending time with her is more rewarding to me than words could ever express. But I can't help to think that if I was the pussy hunting type, I might not take my obligation to her so seriously.

Some of the men that I know, and some that I don't but hear in conversation, are truly on the hunt for pussy. I'm not saying that I haven't been in my day, because God knows I've hunted (and captured). But there was always a caveat-if you were someone who proved themselves to be a decent human being, there was always a chance that our encounter could evolve. In fact, some of my casual tryst did evolve into relationships-some of them even long-term. I never looked at a woman as just pussy-I was always prepared to take her in her entirety. I've slammed black women in the past about their present behavior, but it's time to speak to black men. I don't know what came first, the attitude of black women, or us reducing them to just pussy. Who doesn't want to be loved in their entirety? And if pride is to be found in the hit & run, why wouldn't we as a community end up where we are now? Black women raising our children alone. It isn't fair to black women, nor is it fair to our children. And as quiet as it's kept, it's not fair for black men to do this to themselves.

I liken this whole thing to a relay race-once a runner completes his leg, he passes the baton to his teammate and then he runs his leg until the race is complete. But when runners drop the baton, the entire sequence gets out of whack. Now I'm not excluding myself from this chastising. I too am guilty. Seeing my kid on the weekend and during holidays doesn't cut it. I witness the anguish in my daughter every time I walk out that door-she cries and sometimes has to be restrained in order for me to leave. Not only does that hurt me, it has to be destroying her inside. Not only does her mother and I not see eye to eye, we don't even use the same body parts to see. But I would seriously consider reconciling with her for my daughter's sake. I would make that sacrifice-I know it would be a miserable existence, but that would be a suffering I would deserve. My daughter doesn't deserve this pain.

I know I'm breaking ranks by saying this, but we men have to grow up and stop reducing women to just pussy. And we wonder why they walk around with their asses and titties hanging out-that seems to be all that we're interested in. I'm not saying all of us, but we all know that there is a badge of honor bestowed upon the ones that get the most pussy. That is such an adolescent view of manhood and I wish we could do away with it.

I can honestly say that I wasn't on a pussy hunt when my daughter was conceived. I had been in an off and on relationship with her mother for almost 8 years. But if I had a chance to do it all over again, I would have married her the moment she told me that she was pregnant. To hell with whether or not we got along. What happened to the men that manned up when a child was conceived? Back in the day, you dropped out of high school and got to earning a living for your family. I know that opportunities for drop outs are far less these days, but I was a college graduate when my daughter was conceived. If I had a chance to do it all over again, I would do it differently.

To the men out there (and you know who I'm talking about) who stuck by and through all the madness to be a father to your children, I commend you. Those of you who put your petty personal wants and needs aside to be husbands to your wives, parents to your children, and upstanding members of your community-I wish we could bottle and sell whatever it was that kept you in place-even when you felt that you weren't being appreciated by your mate, you stuck it out.

Sometimes I wish I was half the man.

TPOKW

Introducing...The One

A Lesson for Those Who'll Listen

Last night I received a phone call from my soon-to-be ex-wife and that's usually the case when I begin thinking about how she's doing-she always calls. I allowed her to express herself a bit more last night-normally I don't allow the conversations to stray past 2 or 3 minutes. Other than the veiled references to suicide, I was glad I allowed her the opportunity to get things off her chest.

As most of you regular readers know, there was an incident shortly before our break up that landed me in the slammer for 4 days. She threw a dinner plate at me causing a deep laceration on my back, and I did what any attacked individual would do, retaliated. Right decision in the animal kingdom, wrong in a world of individuals who consider themselves above the rest of life forms. While locked up, my wife took a $5400 check belonging to me, found a way to cash it and kept the money.

I had but one question for my s.t.b. ex-wife: didn't you realize everything you did subsequent to hitting me with the dinner plate almost guaranteed there would be no reconciliation? Her response to me was, "I thought you would forgive me." For the past 16 hours, I've pondered her response. I don't know who's at fault for her believing I would forgive her. It is hers for being foolish enough to believe that harming people is forgivable? Or is it mine for setting unrealistic expectations by forgiving so many of her past transgressions?

Here is where forgiveness gets tricky and why it should not be toyed with. The forgiver is placed in a position whereby if he/she forgives the first transgression, they open themselves up to being transgressed again (because the transgressor might believe that forgiveness is the order of the day). If the forgiver decides not to forgive and separate from the would-be forgivee, they might overlook what might have been an obvious mistake on the part of said forgivee. Either way, it is the forgiver who is always the individual with the most to lose. The would-be forgivee gambled when they decided to transgress, and deserves to be in a position to lose something. The innocent always pays the higher price.

This is why I try to live by a philosophy and have done so for many years. I believe wholeheartedly in First do no harm. That basically means that I will never harm you if you do not harm me. But I believe I am in need of modifying my mantra, Never do harm. With my first belief, I always allowed myself the luxury of harming you if you harmed me. Doing so meant I stayed in contact with you, otherwise how else would I be able to do you harm? With the updated version, immediately when I am violated, you are jettisoned from my life. I'll never have to do you harm, and you'll never be in a position to harm me again. I know this sounds all Zen and flowery, but don't get it twisted-I will harm someone if they make me. And the membrane between someones safety and someone being harmed is extremely thin. My advice to people is not to toy with it.

In some ways, I feel so responsible for where my wife is today. Had I just left in the beginning when things went extremely south in the extreme beginning, she wouldn't be in so much pain. But in a macabre sort of way, I knew that her pain would be severe when we separated, and I did nothing to spare her-even though I knew leaving her in the beginning would have done just that. In some ways she deserves it because she was given so many opportunities to make our marriage a success. I, in no way, feel that I have an obligation to teach her a lesson-that is not what this is all about. I've separated and will be divorcing her for my own protection and sanity, not to cause her pain. Quite frankly I wish she would find someone else and move on. I wish she could forget about me and not be in such a miserable state-for her own sake. I don't need her to suffer in order for me to heal. My healing is an independent process and I am happy to report is progressing smoothly. I know that I did my best, I know that's all anyone can do and when you can't do anymore, you move on.

I hope that she makes it through this and learns that forgiveness is not to be toyed with. It's not a get out of jail free card. It should be reserved for those situations when you've made a seriously grave error in judgment-not for premeditated acts of aggression with the hopes that someone with a good heart will show you sympathy. And I hope the message hits home for those of you reading too-forgiveness is divine, but not required.

TPOKW

P.S. I still love her.....

The Good Book

It's approximately 6 a.m. on the west coast and many of our people around the world are either preparing to attend one of many religious congregations around the globe for spiritual enlightenment. Be you Christian, Muslim, or Jew, black people have always been beholden to a higher power. Most of us draw strength from what is referred to as The Good Book. Well this morning I was awakened with a message that I thought I should share with you.

At approximately 5:18 a.m. I heard what sounded like the ring of a cellular phone-but it wasn't. I keep my phone on vibrate, and I live alone. As I lay in darkness trying figure out where that sound came from, the following message popped into my head.

Let's say we were playing a game of Monopoly, the popular board game invented by Milton Bradley almost a century ago. As we all know, there are rules to the game, and many of us can play the game without consorting the rule book. We all know you must own three properties of like color prior to buying houses, and there are a certain amount of houses you must purchase before you are able to purchase hotels. Common knowledge when it comes to Monopoly, correct? I knew you all would agree with me. Let's say we are playing Monopoly and someone decides to play by a different set of rules that gave them an advantage, what would you do? Most of us would either quit in protest, or begin to modify our style of play to level the playing field. This is a simple board game, and it wouldn't take long before we adopted a new agenda in order to remain competitive. So why is it we haven't done the same thing in real life? We've been living according to a book, told to us to be the word of God, for centuries now, and no one else is playing by those rules. In fact, some black people have convinced themselves that they are abiding by the book, when in fact they are not-and that is worse than abandoning the book altogether.

We all need spiritual guidance to a certain extent. But if you look at the religious congregations in our neighborhoods (especially the ones in major cities), some of them are the epitome of opulence. They profess to be pillars in our communities, but pillars of what? They haven't managed to rid our communities of drugs, prostitution, gambling, child neglect, gang violence. They profess to be the way, but they are about as effective to the ills of our community as penicillin is to HIV. Yet we migrate to them every Sunday morning to be administered a placebo that not only hasn't healed us, but has done us far greater harm than it has ever helped. We've been paralyzed by the message and rendered useless by the Good Book.

Rarely do you find me in one of their houses of worship, but I recently, out of love for my family, attended the baptism of my 6 year old niece. During the ceremony, I noticed during the multi-media presentation projected on the jumbotron, several quotes from several different versions of the bible. I found this to be strikingly odd. There's the King James Version of the bible, the New King James Version, the New American Standard Version, and the list goes on. Why the need for so many versions, and which now is to be considered the good book? In my opinion, they are all interpretations of the word of a God none of us has ever seen or heard. Yeah, yeah, I've heard the bullshit about he's known through his works, but why does He choose to be so ethereal and mysterious? It sounds like cruel and unusual game. In my summation of this whole religious fiasco, here's what I've gathered: There's this God who creates all the heavens and the earth, by himself without assistance from man. Then he creates man, and now needs him to help him spread his word. Never mind the fact that I have this ingenious system of passing down genetic traits, I am going to have you exist for centuries without knowing or spreading my word until you can devise this thing called a book to spread my word with. Huh? Come again? That makes about as much sense as me creating you without feet, and then one day you devise a pair, and me, God, give you a pair of shoes and say, "I've been holding these for you until you found a way to make feet."

Furthermore, I'm going to surround you with so much death and destruction, AND subject you to all sorts of abuses and then tell you that it wouldn't happen to you if you walked with me. Or, this is my way of showing you my abilities. That doesn't sound like the God with the angels and the harps and the like to me. That sounds like that other guy with resort south of heaven that is hot like Arizona, but hotter.

God has no use for man-made books. There are no books needed for the changing of the seasons; no books needed for the ebb and flow of the ocean; no books needed for the cycle of life-it all happens without the need of a good book. And wouldn't the notion that there is a good book indicate the fact that there's also a bad book floating around somewhere out there. There have been so many historical translations and edits to the supposed word of God, most of which have been altered to serve the needs of a certain unsavory ilk. It was said that King James had a scripture removed because he felt that it was the very scripture that promoted the death of his mother, Mary Queen of Scots. Now if he's adding and removing scripture based upon personal preference, how close can this be to the word of God?

It seems as though, in this day and age, we would have come out of the foggy haze that has seemed to have clouded our God-given common sense. If this is the same book that the raping, murdering, thieving, slave masters read and quoted daily...how holy can it be? Or maybe it is holy in it's edited state. Maybe no one is using it as a rule book any longer. And if this is the case, why do we pretend to do so as well? Let's cut the fucking shit and call a spade a spade. If you're drinking yourself into a stupor and fornicating like rabbits Saturday night, and then stumbling your worthless ass into church the next morning thinking that you're making amends for you unrighteous behavior, you're not fooling anyone but yourself. If there is a God, do you think he's going to give it shit that your blasphemous ass was in church Sunday morning when you were in an orgy Saturday night? If I were He, my answer would be no. Am I against drinking, fornicating, and promiscuity? No, I've probably at one time and in one form or fashion participated in it all. But I'm against those who straddle the fence professing to be one thing but practicing another. Furthermore, you have no concern for your community. You are just there (in church) to make amends for your frivolousness. Wait, wait, wait-wait a fucking minute. It just hit me. The purpose of the Church is no longer to help the community-it's sole purpose now is to make you feel less guilty about your wanton behavior. Ahhh, it makes sense to me now. No wonder the church hasn't been effective in curing the communities ills, it's like a personal bank account whereby customers go in to manage their diminutive accounts, ignoring the fact that the combined total of those accounts yields more power than they do existing individually. Ok, so then the assertion I made once about curing the ills in the black community was correct. I would get rid of about 10 percent of the population. Take that to mean whatever you wish, 10 percent of you would be gone-more if was necessary. Because you're only out for self and your community as a whole means nothing to you.

The Roman Catholic Church once fell under scrutiny for selling passes into heaven. Yeah, imagine that, man turning passage to heaven into a e-ticket ride at Disneyland. This whole thing disgust me in the worst of ways. My hatred and contempt for its very existence burns a hole in me the size of Tokyo. Professing to be pious while you mislead, murder, torture, and abuse people conjures up feelings inside of me that are indescribable. And to know that, at this very minute, millions of you sit in silence listening to worthless banter about changing your ways and honoring God, when the messenger is corrupt, and what you intend to do with the message is even more incorrigible causes me to weep for humanity. And you wonder why "God" off's so many of us throughout the history of the bible-we just can't steer clear of our sheep mentality. We refuse to use the brain God gave us to know when we've deviated from the path.

If there is a good book, we'd never see it-and if we did, we wouldn't know what to do with it anyway. It would probably contain too much information that would cause us to have to do something that resmembled personal reformation, and who has time for that? For the sake of my children and, hopefully one day, my grandchildren, I hope that the eyes of the masses are opened and we dispense with the idol worship and get back to the root of true religion. Our lives weren't meant to be lived so meaninglessly.

TPOKW?

Footnote-In my research for this posting (yes, I do research sometimes), I discovered that the latin version of the bible used was called the Vulgate. The word seemed too close to the word vulgar for me to ignore the similarities so I looked up the two words and this is what I've found.

Vulgate |ˈvəlˌgāt; -gət| noun 1 the principal Latin version of the Bible, prepared mainly by St. Jerome in the late 4th century, and (as revised in 1592) adopted as the official text for the Roman Catholic Church. 2 ( vulgate) [in sing. ] formal common or colloquial speech : I required a new, formal language in which to address him, not the vulgate. 3 ( vulgate) the traditionally accepted text of any author. ORIGIN from Latin vulgata (editio) ‘(edition) prepared for the public,’ feminine past participle of vulgare, from vulgus ‘common people.’

vulgar |ˈvəlgər| adjective lacking sophistication or good taste; unrefined : the vulgar trappings of wealth. • making explicit and offensive reference to sex or bodily functions; coarse and rude : a vulgar joke. • dated characteristic of or belonging to the masses. DERIVATIVES vulgarity |ˌvəlˈgaritē| noun ( pl. -ties) vulgarly adverb ORIGIN late Middle English : from Latin vulgaris, from vulgus ‘common people.’ The original sense was [used in ordinary calculations] (surviving in vulgar fraction ) and [in ordinary use, used by the people] (surviving in vulgar Latin and vulgar tongue ).

For those of you who may have difficulty grasping the point, I'll make it clear to you-those in charge of instructing you about God looked down upon you. The text used to instruct you about religion was edited for your consumption. How much of your best interest could they have taken to heart if you were considered beneath them. If you question any of this, look at how the Roman Catholic Church treated the indigenous people of the Americas when first they arrived. Wake up people.

The Man Who Copied

Okay, those of you who know me know that I am a closet hopeless romantic. My tear ducts have been known to become active during a good movie. Like most men, I have the tough exterior that makes you think I eat pig iron for breakfast and urinate molten steel-but in reality, I'm a softy when it comes to a good love story. And since I'm uber-single these days, my Friday nights are usually spent perched in a chair in front of ye ole big screen, alone, with a bowl of popcorn and a Blockbuster rental. Well tonight was no different. Well, actually, it was. I'm known for my love of just about anything Brazilian. I love Samba and Astrud Gilberto. I listen to real Brazilian samba in Portugese and I don't have the slightest clue what the hell they are singing about, but the spirit touches my soul at its very depths. Tonight, I took a chance on a Brazilian DVD titled, O Homem Que Copiava (The Man Who Copied), and did I strike gold!

It was a little slow starting out-I don't know how much excitement you can generate around a 20 year old photocopy machine operator, but as the movie progressed, they managed to get a beautiful love story out of it all. Without getting all Two Thumbs Up on you, I would give the movie the all 20 digit's up! The characters are well developed and vibrant in their own way. The main character, Andre, is, as I mentioned before, a photocopy machine operator. I don't think I have to illustrate for anyone how mundane an existence that must be. We've all, at one time or another, made a photo copy of a document. And we all know it's as about as exciting as folding clothes. Well, poor Andre has to eek out a living doing just that. The only excitement to his job comes in the form of Marinês, his hot Brazilian co worker who professes at one point in the movie that she doesn't wear panties. Now I don't know if this was by choice, or if it's because of financial constraints-either way, Marinês is fucking hot and the thought of her not wearing panties caused quite a stir in my nether-regions.

Anyway, Andre too lusts after Marinês, but his heart lies with Silvia, the young girl he spies on with binoculars (that incidentally took him one year to save for), from his apartment across the street from hers. Both love birds live with a parent; Andre, with his mother, whom you don't get a good glimpse of 'til the end of the movie, and Silvia with her father, a perverted excuse of a man who steals money from her purse and peaks through the key hole at her while she showers.

Lastly, there is Cardoso, the self-proclaimed antique dealer and wanna-be love interest of Marinês. When we are introduced to Cardoso (he caries around a cell phone that I don't think works), he seems to be the stereotypical big fish in a little pond, but we later discover his career in antiques is about as legitimate as Fred Sanford's.

I won't go into a complete review of the movie, but suffice it to say that there are twists and turns that will have your mouth gaping and your hands itching to applaud. American critics didn't receive it with open arms, and I might have a few theories explaining why. #1-if you don't come from a poor country, it's difficult to understand the motivation of said residents. #2-the lead character is as dark as I am-his love interest isn't-'nuff said. White America isn't too comfortable with humans possessing differing skin tones hooking up and I'm sure this rubbed a few white men the wrong way.

Nevertheless, I found the rental quite entertaining and would rank it amongst my top 40 all time favorites. The only problem with a rave review is that it sets ultra-high expectations and rarely can a movie, or any attraction, live up to the expected excitement level that can be created in one's imagination. But I recommend you all check out the movie, it's a glimpse into where most of us live, whether we care to admit it or not.

If you don't like it, I'll gladly refund the money I spent on the rental (read that extremely careful-it ain't legalese, but it's close).

TPOKW?