Let's Get It!

Remember Jemele Hill people? My colleague, the young lady that wrote the sports column about interracial dating? Well, she's going to be on Outside the Lines this Sunday at 9:30am.

Beside Real Sports, Outside the Lines is one of the few meritous sports shows. It's not a bunch of clowns yelling and wildly gesturing about dumba$$ topics like "Buy or Sell: Terrell Owens is sports' black-male version of Madonna." You know, those shows that are making us all look like hyper-caffenated, pee-brained opinionated hacks, instead of writers and reporters that deserve respect.

Nah, Outside the Lines is about real issues and offers some real journalism. Well, Melly is gonna be up in the bish spittin about Danica Patrick, this chick that drives a race car in the Indy 500. She's the 2004 "We've Come A Long Way Baby" story -- you know: woman seeks to compete in a male-dominated sport. The type of story that -- when done right, analyzed insightfully and processed fully -- means much more than her being a chich drivin a fast car.

Oh how grand it will be to see a black woman's face on that show. I feel like I just won a prize.

One small step yall.

Get em' J!

Like I was saying...

I was planning to post my critique of the Discovery Channel's Top 25 Greatest American list today. But, this office is close for July 4 tomorrow and Monday and we're scrambling to finish this project, so I'm swamped, unfortunately. Meanwhile, a couple of of random things I've been thinking about these past few days...I'll keep updating it with quick thoughts throughut the day.

• Vivian Green's album dropped the other day. Heard her on the Bmore station today and found out she's from Philly. She has a lot of Philly in her, too. Matter fact, she sounded very Around the Wayish. I have to say, it was endearing. Based on the "substance" of her lyrical content, her dress and the vibe she gives off in videos, I thought she'd be Def Poetry and she isn't. I might start crushin on her a little bit. Not koppin the album though. For what it's worth...this chick Green, Amerie, all these broads can't touch my girl Teedra Moses. And it's a shame that my homegirl May is the only other person bangin that album right now. Take it from the Music Dude: it's official. Especially as an R&B album.
• Speakin of Def Poetry. I hate that show. Ultimately, I'll support anything that's a Russ-Mos situation, but I don't think there is a more tired, hackneyed, cliche thing out there right now when it comes to hip-culture. The cliche-cadence poetry is past played. It's so rare to get someone on there that breaks the chains or steps outside of the poetic bounds u get taught in a 101 college class. With that said, when I move to NYC (if I move to NYC), I'm headed to BK to be art of the studio audience. Yes, I'm a hypocrit. But have you seen the talent in the crowd? Prediction: Unless I sit there with my eyes closed, I'll be on chubb for least 80% of the show.
• Back to music. Anthony Hamilton has a album out called "Lost Soul Sessions" or something like that. Now, I consider Hamilton no different that John Legend, Kanye West, Mach Gray (at one time), they get critical acclaim because critics think they "should" like them. They get a lot of bandwagon love. I was never big on Hamilton -- for reasons to in depth to get into at the moment...but I heard some snippets of the new joint and it seems like a winner.
• My phone keeps ringing...it's Capitol One Auto Finance...they don't care that I'm broke, they want their money.
• Back to music: I'm hurting right now. My two favorite musics -- hop and jazz -- are in the midst of tragic dry-spells. But is dry-spell really an accurate adjective. One day I'll blog about the Golden Age, the Zenith and the Renaissance -- the three great hip-hop periods -- but for now, all I can do is lament that the hop may never have another great era. Quick, gimme three great albums in the oast year....you can't. DeLa's album was great. Common's new one is really good. Jada's last joint was enjoyable. I think that's it. On the jazz front, we had a brief explosion of young talent from 99-03. But now, record execs are tying the young dudes hands, not letting them record records or restricting what they record. Mark my words, when I move to NYC (if I move to NYC), I'm gonna write a seminal piece on young NYC musicians and their plight in today's jazz. It's gonna run in JazzTimes, the New Yorker, DownBeat or something else and 10 years from now it'll considered "important".
• With that said, my main man Jeremy Pelt -- a young trumpeter I befriended when he was still a sideman with the Lonnie Plaxico septet and now he's winning awards -- is dropping an album in a couple weeks. It's probably my only hope for a jazz fix anytime soon.
• I'm gonna catch a Cinderella Man matinee this weekend. I've heard great things about it, but I wonder if it'll favorably compare to Million Dollar Baby. Crowe and Giamatti are definitely formidable counterparts to Freeman-Swank-Eastwood and a tasty cameo by my dude Anthony Mackie; the Cinderella story is supposed to be comparable to the Baby story; and the directors compute -- I'm expecting a thoroughly enjoyable experience.
• By the way, did anyone catch Fat Joe call Swank a dude on the VMA's red carpet? It was hilarious. I understand she plays masculine roles and she's a strong-back-bish...but why must people continue to do that to her. She's obviously a women and these pretty-face actresses aren't even cooking in the same kitchen as her when it comes to acting. I brush my teeth with Swank.
• I'm also brushing my teeth with the new R. Kelly joint, "Closet". I HATE, HATE, HATE R. Kelly. Hate his music, hate his image and hate his sexual deviancy...but I can;t front on this new joint. It's a masterpiece. Not becuase the song particullarly sounds good, but because it's so genius. He basically made song out of a pretty interesting sounding movie that had realistic, interesting dialougue. I hate the music and his voice, but the song slays me everytime I hear it. More on Kells in another blog becuase I have huge issues with him. Namely: Should I incriminate this black man, when I hate when people do that to other accused black men? Is he an all-time great artist, even if the Music Dude doesn't dig his music? If so, why.
• Yeungling Light is the worse beer ever! I'm not joking.

Mind and Culture

This article, in Tuesday's Washington Post, was the last in a series of three, discusses how there are racial disparities in how mental illnesses are diagnosed.

I thought it was disheartening, but very interesting. When I looked back on my 2nd Grade year w/ Ms. Seggio, I spoke of how there is a problem in the educational system that sees young black students held back at the drop of a dime and it sets them on a path toward underacheivement for the remainder of their school careers -- wasted talent due to incompetence, negligence or ignorance on the schools part.

Well shows another way that discrimination and prejudice can rear its head...and what's telling about both the educational system and psychiatric diagnoses is that the discrimination is not always done with harmful intent. Check the following exert from the story....

Because we have no lab test, the only way we can test if someone is psychotic is, we use ourselves as the measure," said Michael Smith, a psychiatrist at the University of California at Los Angeles who studies the effects of culture and ethnicity on psychiatry. "If it sounds unusual to us, we call it psychotic."

Zeber and a team of other researchers said they do not know why doctors were more likely to diagnose schizophrenia among blacks and Hispanics. Perhaps diagnostic measures developed primarily with white patients in mind do not automatically apply to other groups, said Zeber, who published his results in the journal Social Psychiatry and Psychiatric Epidemiology.

"Race appears to matter and still appears to adversely pervade the clinical encounter, whether consciously or not," Zeber and his colleagues wrote in their October 2004 report.

Darrel Regier, director of the division of research at the American Psychiatric Association and U.S. editor of the journal, said the study had been carefully conducted. He agreed that cultural differences between patients and doctors could result in misdiagnosis.

"I believe bias exists, and there is a risk a psychiatrist with a different cultural experience than a patient can misinterpret the expression of a psychiatric symptom," he said. "If you have a very religious group of patients and a very secular psychiatrist who thinks beliefs in spirits or hearing the voice of God is not normal, you are going to have misses."

Sometimes that's just it. A psychiatrist, no matter how many degrees, may not be culturally aware of certain things and tend to misdiagnose their patients.

When a jury wrongfully convicts or sentences a minority defendant, is always because of evil racism? I don't think so. Sometimes, preconceived notions can taint what someone may think about criminal intent, the likelihood they'll commit future crimes, etc...there's so much subconscious prejudice in this world, and America in particular.

Read the following and tell me if you think the diagnosing psychiatrist hates people of color...

She added, "Because the people who work on our unit are sensitive to the issues of African Americans, we are much more likely to look at our patients with eyes that aren't clouded by preconceived notions."

The psychiatrist recalled another case of a black man diagnosed as delusional. The man had talked about going to another city and getting revenge on people who had killed his son.

"The treatment plan was filled out by someone who was not part of our focus unit," she said. "She assumed it was a delusion -- she said, 'This man has a delusion that his son was killed in a hate crime.' " Hall checked out the man's account. It turned out to be true.

If it weren't for Hall, this potentially useful man (who definitely needs help, but was not expressing anything other than human thirst for revenge, unfortunately a common quality when someone's son dies from a hate crime) would've been medicated, maybe put on disability and marginalized.

I mean, when my father was in his late teens he was an angry black youth. He was a poli-sci major at Canisius and if he didn't become a Jehovah's Witness, he could've been anything from a civil right lawyer to a black extremist...who knows. His last two years in HS he quit the basketball team and stopped going to class because he was tired of the rhetoric and the conditions. He got the Canisis scholarsip because his academic advisors didn't want to lose young black dude like him to frustration and anger, so they pulled some strings. But during those years (16-19), Pops used to tell me that he used to talk about getting a sniper rifle, going to the top of City Hall and picking off white people during the lunch hour.

The man was fiercely intelligent and aware of what was going on, so he had misguided judgement about how and where to find catharsis. But he wasnt CRAZY. This man wasnt schizophrenic or delusional. he didn't need to be medicated...at least I don't think. But what if he went to a psychiatrist and said these things. Instead of marrying Linda Frazier and creating a productive, close-knit, god-fearing family...he could be some medicated hobo. Naa mean?!

This stuff has consequences.

I offer social conditions like these to the Americans that insist people of color use racism and prejudice too much as reasons or causes for the socio-economic dispairty in this country.

We're not making this up and people need to realize when these points are brought up, it's not always an indictment. Viewed in its proper, and maybe less judgmental light, its a factual observation.

But I don't know the solution -- at least I don't know a human solution. Being a Christian dude, I tend think God is the only personage that can right a whole world of wrongs, things inherent to imperfection.

But I do know that steps need to be taken in the right direction. You can't ask for anything other than a willingness to learn and accept.

I have white friends from Osh-Kosh, WI; Fairhope, AL; Alberquerque, NM; Boston; NC and other places. They teach me some things and I teach them some things.

Before they met me they probably didn't know too much a the black plight, before I met them I didn;t really have a fair view of affirmative action or fear.

Rodney King?

Reagan is the Greatest American?

This is puzzling.

We'll delve into this subject soon...

The Commish on: The NBA Draft

Today is the NBA Draft -- one of the few times I turn into a Sports Geek. At all other times I may be a Sports Zealot or Sports Fanatic, but during the Draft my research, interest and obsession reaches nerd-levels. I scour the internet, spend hours reading scouting reports, fish for regional columns on regional players, go up-n-down NBA team lineups to identify holes they need to fill, study their salary caps to sniff out possibble Draft-day trades. It's pretty bad.

But this draft is different.

Not since the 2000 Draft, bka the Kenyon Martin Draft, have I been this disinterested. For the record: I think this is a terrible draft. No player gets me incredibly excited. I love Chris Paul, but that's about it. And, although I can't name 5 or 6 point guards I've liked better coming into their respective drafts in the past 10 years, I still don't see One of the Greats written on this dude...and that's what we've come to expect in the last 10 years.

Ever since KG broke the chains, the NBA has seen the greatest influx of talent EVER! And since I'm the Bible on my league and spit infallible truths, then you need to process that last sentence and recognize what's gone on and what's going down with this latest generation.

But then, with this 10-year talent explosion as a backdrop, we get this year's class, where a soft white dude that played in Utah is considered the best player and a frosh that couldn't get time over Jawad Williams is considered the most talented. I'm not saying Bogut won't get an All-Star here-n-there, but he won't be Dwight Howard. I'm not saying Marvin Willimas won't end up being an All-Star, but is anyone willing to bet all their chips that we don't have another Tim Thomas on our hands? I guarantee you this, Tim Thomas would've been starting on last year's UNC squad.

And here's another thing: you know who my favorite player is? Rashaad McCants. Yep.

I'm so sick of the attitude questions. Bogut has an attitude, too, but no one is red-flagging him. Fact is, McCants has the illest game and demeanor out of the whole draft and I bet he ends up being this class' standout along with my lil bro Chrissy. Don't mention Gerald Green to me at this point...I'm holding judgment on that dude. 24 points in the McDonalds game doesn't mean a glass of piss to me.

To be honest, my sole interest in this draft is to see what my Lakers do. If we can pull off a trade to get Paul, I'm giddy. If Felton slides to 10, I'm even giddier...in fact, I think Felton is the better fit -- a true distributor.

Other than that, we're looking at tons of kudos being slung at Danny Granger and Deron Williams. I'm sorry, but no thanks. No one in this draft would crack the overall lottery of the past 10 years. If the 80s class was the NBA's Golden Age, then this is the Platinum Age.

As I [lanned yesterday, today I will present a lottery draft of all the talent that's passed through the Platinum Age. But remember that, when analyzing it, the question you should ask is: Given what they've accomplished in their careers and what I truly think they can still accomplish, what order would I draft these players? Some guys like Amare are further down the list now, because his upside is still too shaky to top people like Duncan and KG...I mean, we're not talking about Chris Webber and Shawn Kemp here. Duncan and KG are two of the 25 Greatest ever. Only LeBron's upside is sure-enough to catapult other solidified careers. Anyways...check it out...

1995-2004 NBA Draft Lottery

1. San Antonio -- Tim Duncan, PF, Wake Forest

I'm gonna say something scary: I might even take Duncan over Shaq. With Timothy, you get dominance at both ends, incredible rebounding and selflessness. Yeah Shaq makes teammates better and all that, but his ego is a headache. Duncan has no ego. He just has 2 MVPs, 3 rings, 3 Finals MVPs and 8 All-NBA 1st Team selections. We don't know if he'll be the greatest of this generation, because we have younger players with much of their career ahead of them...but he's set the bar very high. He's a monster.

2. Los Angeles lacer -- Kobe Bryant, SG, Lower Merion HS (suburban Philly)

I hate Kobe. In fact, if he didn't hold down the perimeter for my squad, the "hate-on" I'd have for Kobe would be one of the most intense in the world of sports. From the second he held his HS press conference with his Ray Bans on top of his bald-head, I was through with him. His quest to do everything like MJ (someone else I didn't care for) and his American polished image gnawed at me. But here's what I will not dismiss: his game is the nastiest in the league. No one in his generation can play with such beauty and grace and poetry, while doing so in such a vile, mean, visceral manner. It's the perfect combination. I've seen him do things that give me butterflies.

3. Cleveland Cavaliers -- Lebron James, G/F, St. Vincent-St. Mary HS (Akron)

This is my little brother and I love him to death. But I'm starting to worry about him. He's been growing up in a tough household and his parents aren't providing for him correctly -- his parents being the Cleveland Cavaliers.

They go and fire my grandpa, Paul Silas, and don't make the playoffs AGAIN! Then they hire the bald-head, overyhyped Dukie, Danny Ferry as GM.

Regardless of his role with Spurs, Ferry wasn't making personnel decisions -- that was Bob Bass and Pop. So they bring in an inexperienced GM and a brand new head-coach...for what? LeBron is the future of my league and I'm dead-tired of Cleveland EFFIN things up.

Even if Larry Brown comes through, who wants a veteran-attached, neurotic bundle of sensitivity running my lil brother's squad? Not me. You know why? Because, in 5 years, I should be redoing this list with LeBron at the top. That's how special he is. But how can that happen if we never get to see him play in May, let alone June?

4. Philadelphia 76ers -- Allen Iverson, G, Georgetown

AI changed things.

Not just the game, but the culture of the league. What Thompson's first G'Town teams started, UNLV incubated and the Fab Five blossomed; AI propelled to the masses. His swagger, his game, his look, his gangsta -- everything about him was not new, just taken to a new level..some would say higher level, but I say to an earthy, fundamental, true level. Everything America hates and we love about him made AI "ours". He was unapologetic and honest in how he purported himself. That is as much his legacy as his game, which, by the way, is my favorite of the generation.

The dude was and still is a revelation and perhaps the most transcendent player in the game. The Philly squad he took to the 2001 Finals was like Miles taking the kats that play drums on the buckets to Carnegie Hall. Even if Ive doesn't win a title, his place in NBA and sports history is secure. I believe he is one of the few athletes in American history that can say that.

5. Minnesota Timberwolves -- Kevin Garnett, PF, Farragut HS (Chicago)

You know I hate putting my dude this low. But the fact remains, KG has spent 8 years in the league and been past the 1st round once. Regardless of whether it's his fault or not, that's going to be his legacy. All the greats drafted in the 80s that didn't win championships (Reggie, Malone, Barkley, Ewing) they all made it to the Finals at least once and they were regulars in their respective Conference Finals. Yes, they always had good to great supporting casts, but at some point I expect the Greats to be transcendent. And KG has been transcendent, but just hasn't been able to make -- MAKE! -- his team transcend to that level.

But in the end, you can't front on the man's skill and production and you REALLY can't front on two more important things: he redefined versatility and he was the vanguard of the Platinum Age's high school-to-pro explosion.

There has never been a man in the league that could REALISTICALLY defend all five positions well. If you could choose one player to defend the last poseesion of a Game 7, and you don't know if the shooter is a center, forward or guard, who are you choosing? I thought so.

Plus he's the leagues best rebounder and probably one of the 10 best passers. But KG's true place in history will be disregarding critics and the NCAA (an organization I can't stomach) and going to get them NBA dollars. And THEN actually proving he made the right decision.

Look at this list -- six of the 14 have never played college ball. That's KG. He was a true pioneer.

6. Houston Rockets -- Tracy McGrady, G/F, Mount Zion Prep (originally Florida)

Smoothest game in the league and he's had some very transcendent moments. But Tracy, like KG, is suffering from not advancing far enough enough in the playoffs to crack that top 4, even though, he's right in the mix talent wise.

Yes, LeBron hasn't even played one playoff minute...but that time is coming and would you really draft T-Mac over Bron?

Tracy's new dance with Yao should help his quest for June minutes, but that remains to be seen. Tracy has yet to play a full 6 or 7 game series at All-Time Great level...and that's what we need. But with that said, I can't think of a wing player from the 80s, other than Jordan and Worthy, that I'd take over Mac. Not Dominique, not even Drexler.

7. Phoenix Suns -- Amare Stoudemire, PF, Cyprus Creek (Orlando)

Amare's scary. I remember how me and my boys used to marvel at his physique when he first came in the league. But now, his game is catching up to his physical prowess and it's getting frightening.

Offensively, I'm predicting he'll be the greatest PF ever -- over Malone In fact, he's the new improved Malone in so many ways.

Amare's deficiencies, however, are by no means inconspicuous. His defensive positioning and awareness are lacking and his rebounding is sickening for a dude as active and athletic as he is. It all goes to court awareness. But that'll come...and when it does he'll be otherworldly.

Amare, Tim and KG -- no era is messing with that PF trio. And where not even done.

8. Orlando Magic -- Dwight Howard, PF/C, Atlanta Christian HS (Atlanta)

Right when you're ready to say Amare might surpass Duncan and KG, here comes Dwight. I must admit I was surprised by his rookie year. Even though he hit the rookie wall, he was still about as steady and exceptional as you can get, considering he was just out of high school.

I got to see dude up close and he's huge. A solid 7 feet and his frame is filling out quick. He's got a jumper, can handle the ball, hustles and rebounds extremely well for someone his age.

Court awareness-wise, Dwight is probably 2 years ahead of Amare already, but what is separating the two right now is the sole fact that I've never -- NEVER -- seen a big-man as young as Amare know how how to put the ball in the basket the way he does. (Amare can score 40 on anyone. Imagine Amare versus Bill Russell. That would've been magical.)

With that said, Dwight has that steady calmness about him that makes me think, "He'll probably be the one winning championships, while Amare wins scoring titles and MVPs." I can't wait to see how it plays out.

9. Miami Heat -- Dwayne Wade, G, Marquette

The smartest player in the league. Period. Over J-Kidd. And I truly believe that.

This dude shot 50% from the field. I don't wanna hear the, "That's because he played with Shaq" argument. Kobe never shot 50% from the field. How many times do you wince when Wade shoots, like, "Ooh, why did he shoot that?" Probably once or twice every ten games. Every other guard gives you three or four of those each game. This dude is SO heady.

Plus, he is a terror on the defensive end, rebounds exceptionally well and arguably involves his teammates better than anyone beside Nash and Kidd. I'm serious. And on top of that, he was the best player in the playoffs. Better than Duncan, better than Amare and definitely better than that fat bum on his team.

Wade's knock is that even though he will be GREAT, GREAT, GREAT...He doesn't have that Top-10 of All-Time potential that everyone else on this list had or still has. His ceiling is too low (relatively speaking) for me to seriously consider drafting him over anyone else. He'll be the Platinum Drexler.

10. Houston Rockets -- Yao Ming, C, China

Yao is this high because, each year he gets better and at some point I truly believe he'll be averaging 25 and 12. It may be a soft 25 and 12...But 25 and 12 is 25 and 12. Plus, when Shaq leaves, he'll be the most dominant center.

And, 7'6 is 7'6. This isn't a Shawn Bradly 7'6. This is a skilled 7'6...only the nine aforementioned players can trump that combination of size and skill with their talent.

My point is: Even if Yao stays at this current level, he's a problem...but he's gonna keep getting better. Don't sleep.

11. Denver Nuggest -- Carmelo Anthony, F, Syracuse

Don't get it twisted and think that Melo's career is gonna get stuck in neutral like it did last year. We all might be falling victim to comparing him to Big Dog and Alex English...but remember what Melo was like his freshman year at Cuse. He was clutch, he was a monster on the boards and he was a great passer.

Plus, I still think after Kobe, Mac and Pierce he has the the most complete and polished offensive repertoire.

He has all these aspects in the tank. Let's see what he does this year, coming into camp healthy. My guess is that he starts factoring into the Bron, Wade discussions again. If that's the case, he's headed for a classic career.

12. New Jersey Nets -- Vince Carter, G/F, UNC

Sometimes I go into cardiac arrest when I think abut his first 3 years.

There has never been anyone -- save maybe Bron -- that was that athletic. And my favorite version of Vince was the mean, scowling, short-fro Vince at the 200 Olympics.

He got some of that back last year. And let's be honest: during the second half of last season, Vince was one of the 5 or 6 best players in the league. The only reason I'm not drafting him higher is because of his sissified stretch of injuries and sulking and because you never know with this dude. You could give this dude a pound and he's holding his wrist, writhing in pain. As a GM and an NBA historian, that has to effect his desirability and legacy.

13. Washington Wizards -- Gilbert Arenas, PG, Arizona

This may have thrown your for a loop (I was gonna put Dirk here), but I feel strongly about this. Us DC dudes know about this kid's game. It may be the nastiest in the league and his maniacal, sometimes insane, level of ballsinees is so gangsta that sometimes it comes off as hubris. But he's young, hungry and humble...and he's playing on my East Coast squad in my hometown and he's got something to prove.

I'm banking on him growing smarter on the court. If he doesn't, then I'm saying he's gonna at least have a KJ, Tim Hardaway career. If he does, he might just break records. Don't sleep on lil cousin.

I'm Husky

I was reading the Sunday Post online and came across this article on a 625-pound man named John Keitz. I was reading it on G’s computer and at the end of it; I changed clothes and went to the gym. It was sobering. Plus it let me know that I gotta stop playing around and go ahead and drop the lbs…after all, like my man Rev. Willie Efus said, “this is enuferis!” (Classic Whip Whop line, translated: “This is enough of this.”)

I’ve never been as big as Keitz, but my weight did peak at about 310 when I was a 15-year old sophomore in high school.

Me and Pops had just come back from an East Coast basketball trip, where we traveled to different northeastern cities catching college and NBA games, when I stepped on the scale and it said 308 (eating whole pizza hut pizzas on the trip didn’t help). At that moment I said, “This is enuferis.” For the next couple of months, I had mom or dad take me to Delaware park so I could walk and jog (more so waddle) around the 1.8-mile park. That summer we moved to a crib that was in walking distance of Delaware and that helped me even more.

By the end of my senior year, I had lost close to 100-pounds. I was a new dude…I was running 8-minute miles, could even smack the backboards (at least graze them) on a bball hoop. Plus one of my boys, Najeeb, had me in the gym real heavy. But Jeeb left for a while and my habits slacked off. So, over the past 7 years, I’ve gained a lot back. Right now, I’m too big for my liking and it’s gotta stop.

Like I said, after reading the Post story…I was in the gym…although I had to cut my elliptical machine workout short because my ankle was bothering me (I sprained it Friday night after a too good time in Adams Morgan).

But, I was also reading the Keitz story and seeing some similarities and differences between the two of us. I’ve pulled some sections directly from the story, check it out…

“John Keitz weighs 625 pounds. He is so heavy his legs will not support his weight.”

I’m so heavy that my legs rub against each other every time I walk or run. As a matter of fact, I was jogging in Rock Creek Park the other day when my sweatpants burst into flames because of the friction. It caused a forest fire. I immediately fled the scene, only to be stopped by an officer when I ran a red light. He looked in the car and was immediately puzzled. I knew why, so I tried to close my fat legs, but he was already onto me. So he asked, “Sir, why are you wearing sweatpants with a charred crotch?” I furnished no reply.

“He lies on his front, because if he were to lie on his back, rolls of flesh would press on his windpipe and suffocate him. His head never touches sheet or pillow. At night, his left cheek nestles upon a soft white pile of shoulder and breast meat.”

I was so disgusted when I read that. Can you imagine that? Being so fat that flesh rises so high if can form a pillow?

Personally, I tend to sleep on my sides. When I lay on my back, I always have nightmares…I don’t why, but it happens. And it’s usually uncomfortable to sleep on my stomach, especially when I’ve just woofed down a 4-lb Chipolte burrito at 12am and haven’t even given it an hour to digest.


“The spring after he went down, firefighters pried two windows from his second-story apartment in Essex and extracted him with a lift truck. Streets were closed for blocks. Two months ago, firefighters used a whale sling from the National Aquarium in Baltimore to haul him out of his house in nearby Dundalk. They put him on a flatbed truck. A television news chopper monitored from above. His ordeal was rehashed on late-night television and morning radio.”

Who do you think had the best monologue bit about Mr. Keitz being airlifted out of his house? I say it goes in this order: Letterman, Conan, Leno.

Letterman is the dude, especially for his monologue. It was probably smarter and smarmier. Conan’s a clown, but his monologues are never funny, but I do stay up to watch his skits. Leno is long-chinned dweeb.

“But he did have advice for those who might think him a pathetic loser: "Don't underestimate the fat man.”

I’d have to agree with him. Back in my HUGE days, I used to step on bball courts and dudes used to underestimate me. Then I’d hit em with my spin move and kiss it high off the glass. Ask any one of my boys and I guarantee you they’ll say I’m the illest fat dude they’ve ever seen ball…especially when I used to play regularly.

The illest fat dude I’ve ever seen play? Tim Stephens, my boss at the Orlando Sentinel.

“This average head and these average forearms float in the vast rolling sea of the rest of him. It is as though the puckish inner Keitz had gone to a carnival and popped up inside a fat man suit. The upper arms are the size of a man's thigh. His belly spills like a 25-gallon sack of Jell-O toward his right side.”

If you saw the photos of Keitz it was weird. His head was absolutely normal…not Jabba-like at all. He and I are similar in this area. My boy Double always clowns me on this. He says I have a regular person’s head and a fat dude’s body. Usually I laugh when he says this, but then I go home at night and shed earnest tears of anguish.

"You miss the little things," he says. "Like fishing. Church. Being able to walk into a place and play keno. The stupid stuff, like going shopping. . . . I miss walking around a park at night. Just the little stupid [stuff]. Carnivals. . . . But the biggest thing I miss is being able to take care of my own problems. And when I am done, I will take care of problems."

I miss the “little things” too. Like being able to shop at Banana Republic. I mean, is it really necessary to have 38s as your largest Chinos? That’s discriminatory…I’m not asking you to make 54s…gimme a 42 though…and when you make the 42s don’t have the legs pencil thin. I mean, if my waist is a 42, my legs aren’t the size of Chris Rock.

“He was always a big boy: 100 pounds in first grade, 165 in fourth. The kids used to call him Fat Albert. Beluga Whale. Blimp.”

I’ve spent a lifetime getting tortured and ridiculed by everyone from lil kids, to close friends, to family members. A sample of names I’ve been called and what people have said about me…

G: Fat V, Vinny Tits, Vin Breast
Chuck: Fat dude
Cam: Bottom Heavy
Redd: Porky, Tubby, Tubbs, Sir Tubbsalot
Dubb: Portly
Mr. Fran (gym teacher): Vinny Bag-o’-donuts
Nisan: “Dude, you’re so fat and disgusting.”
Mel-Mel (my lil cousin, she said this around 1993 at the height of my obesity.): “uhhhh, Vince you need to lose some weight.” She was maybe 8-years-old at the time...she said this after opening my suit-jacket. I was bulimic for the next month.
P: “I hate the fact that you’re shaped like a woman.”

Now, Don’t Cry For Me Argentina…I will admit that I am probably 10 times more obnoxious and have said worse things to all these people…but I just want to show you that I’m a marked man. I’m consistently berated for my weight and it hurts my feelings.

"Big boys didn't cry, they kicked ass," he says. "If you lined up everybody I hit in a row, you could probably go from Dundalk to New Jersey."

I’ve never gotten into a fight because someone was making fun of me. I just learned to become supremely good at insulting people. As a matter of fact, if I ever get around to it, I still plan on posting a “How To” for insults.

“His stories unfurl one after another, summoning a vivid world to a room with a large bed. The other theme in them is his former physical prowess. Scores he settled, challenges he won. Some are impossible to check because they happened long ago -- breaking a bully's leg at the Police Athletic League, getting fired from McDonald's for punching a manager who insulted him, getting kicked out of ninth grade for throwing a punch at a gym teacher who, he says, attacked him after losing a wrestling match. He never went back to school. He learned martial arts and gave classes. His friend Donna Gause, mother of a former roommate, confirms how, in a Wendy's, Keitz threatened the father of her teenage daughter for hassling the girl. Customers scattered, and the man locked himself in the bathroom. "He sees himself as a bit of a local avenger," says his friend Mike Schilling, 37, an assistant store leader for Royal Farms. "He's what you call righteous. He believes absolutely in what he does, even if not everybody believes it's the right thing to do."

I love delusional fat men -- the ones that resort to tall-tales to impress people. But, I’m even more impressed with Guardian-angel fat men.

Now, although I’m dishonest and love making up stories for entertainment; I’ve never once helped a damsel in distress...so Keitz and I are both similar and different in these respects.

Which reminds me, remember last season’s “Curb” season finale, where his Producer’s co-star gets her purse taken and Larry takes like 30 seconds to decide if he’d chase after the mugger? Well, he does chase the robber...only the mugger turns around and starts chasing Larry and Larry skates off like a coward.

My yellow-ways begin at the onset. I’d have looked at her and said, “You better cancel those credit cards.”

"I've been on grapefruit diets, rice diets, popcorn diets, I took diet pills, liquid diets, Slim-Fast, Weight Watchers," he says. He lost 25 pounds with Weight Watchers, he says, but it didn't stay off.

My boy Tony once said, “Yo V, you’re weight fluctuates like Oprah’s”

You see what I deal with? Is that anyway to encourage a man struggling with obesity?

After Keitz went down, his father died. On the way to the cemetery, the hearse took a detour to pause outside Keitz's second-story apartment. He pulled himself up to the windowsill to look out and say goodbye to his dad.

Isn’t this sad? I mean, at this point you have to start thinking about drastic measures to drop weight. If you can’t bury your father because you’re too obese to leave your home then that’s unacceptable. He must’ve been crushed.

Since Keitz was 18 and 250 pounds, he has gained 375 pounds, or 1,312,500 calories. That's 62,500 calories per year, or 171 per day. Just 171 calories a day? That's roughly equivalent to going to McDonald's and ordering a double cheeseburger (460 calories) instead of a cheeseburger (310). Or a quarter pounder (420) instead of a hamburger (260). Or large fries (520) instead of medium fries (350). Or a large Coke (32 ounces, 310 calories) instead of a small Coke (16 ounces, 150 calories). Before you know it, you are supersized.

When I showed G the pictures of this dude, the first thing he wondered were, “How do you get that fat.” Well, there you have it. Continuous food choices, some that may seem small, can quickly add up. Before you know it, you’re too huge to even exercise and that’s when you’re doomed.

I was telling G how my lil bros (bigger than me) could drop massive pounds if they just cut out the soda. A and Chrish will down a 2-liter of soda a piece, in one day. All that sodium and sugar is killin em.

I gained more pounds than I should have in Orlando. Why? Beer.

As we all know, white people love their beer and I was probably consuming 3,000 oz. of beer each week and not really doing much to sweat it out. Result? My suits fit like a spandex singlet.

Keitz's face lights up when the women arrive for a morning workout. The fear is still with him -- "I may never walk again," the big man frets one day -- but for the first time he imagines he has capable allies. After a week, the goal becomes more ambitious: The therapists want Keitz to sit up. The last time he sat up was nearly three years ago.

To psych himself up, he selects a thumping dance tune, puts on headphones and turns up the volume. He does the old one-two-three! and heaves himself crossways on the bed. This takes several minutes, with long pauses. He is panting, sweating. He tells the women he's dizzy. He is still on his front. One-two-three! and he rolls to his back.

His great belly rises like an angry red mountain. It maintains its flattened face-down shape: Fluid has pooled in the tissue, making it rigid but impressionable to the touch, like wet cement.

Brown props up the belly with both arms so it doesn't topple Keitz over. Lowndes must rotate his left leg so the knee will be turned up, ready for a sitting position. This leg has atrophied because it has been immobile as he's lain for years tilted left to make room for his stomach.

Did you read that paragraph about what his stomach was like? He has pools of fluid in between his fat-rolls. I got queasy when I read that.

He dreams the dream again, the one where he is cooking in the kitchen and refusing anyone's help. He recites the menu in detail. "Let's see, I made a shrimp salad, steamed shrimp, grilled shrimp, shrimp dip, shrimp scampi . . . crab cakes, crab puffs, crab dip, crab soup . . . barbecued chicken, baked chicken, fried chicken, chicken soup . . ." Gina looks at him and says, "It sounds like you made too damn much food." " . . . chicken salad, egg salad, potato salad, macaroni salad . . . roast beef, barbecued beef, beef and gravy . . . pork roast, spare ribs . . . brownies, chocolate cake, spice cake, cupcakes. . . . Plus I had two full kegs of beer."


Aside from handsome, brilliant and a Music Dude, I’m also what’s known as a “foodie” ( a restaurant and food freak. These people aren’t necessarily fat. But I can taste ingredients in food, always wanna know recipes and I go to great lengths to eat at different restaurants. During Restaurant Week, you can probably find me at some of these restaurants eating alone. The food is the experience for me, maybe more so than the company.) So this really sounds like me.

Back when I had my own apartment, I used to entertain a lot, like Keitz, and I’m always coming up with menus in my head. Usually I have some recipe-epiphany and I’ll call P and describe it to her. It's a fat man's trait.

***********************************

Now, I know what you're thinking..."If only all fat men where as charming and debonair as Vince." To that I say, "True, true, true. You right."

But although I maintain my sexy and cachet, even while "my weight fluctuates like Oprah", I've committed to doing this diet thing. I don't have new-wardrobe money...and I already need to go kop some sweats to replace the crotch-charred joints I have at the moment.

Where them flies comin' from?

Classic text message from Lyd...

I'm trying 2 get the slick "lunchtime pedicure"....sneak away joint. These monsters straight foiled that! They act like they're ready for me...put my feet in WATER...turn on the "ja-coochie" bubble action. Don't come back to me for more than 15 mins!!! Now I got SOGGY A$$ FEET....& I should be back @ work!!! I was about to spaz!!! Plus, they got these flies all over the place....like there's a pile of *ish* close by!!! Or they got an Ethiopian child locked in the bathroom!!! Not comin back 2 this place....I'll go to my regular spot....

School Dayz with a Young, Frisky Vince

How often do you think about grammar school? We're still young enough to frequently think back to high school days...but grammar school? When's the last time you thought seriously hard about your 2nd grade teacher and the impact she had on your life? Or remembered that lil girl/boy in kindergarten? Or that time you got sent to the Principal's office in the 4th grade?

I know I don't do that too much...probably because high school was such a circus. But I was bad-boy in my day, with some memorable classmates and teachers that I think you should read about. I'm going to be updating it periodically throughout the day...so check it out...

The School No. 74 Dayz

Pre-K
Teahcer: Ms. Hawro. Doesn't everyone have a crush on their first female teacher, as long as she doesn't look like Walter Matthau? I mean, Pre-K teachers are extra nice and caring, and that's enough to get you crushing when your 4-years-old right?

Well Ms. Hawro was that chick. The nicest teacher of my scholastic career. She was a female Mr. Rogers, except I never felt like she wanted to molest me. She also took a special interest in me (I think) and it's probably because my mother and father were so involved. Mom came to sit in on a few classes and even brought baked goods a few times. That type of parent involvement is rare in all-black schools...so I think she appreciated that.

As a Jehovah's Witness, we don't salute the flag or celebrate any holidays/birthdays and Ms. Hawro always accomodated that and never made me feel uncomfortable. If I saw her today I wouldn't recognize her, but one day I'm gonna look her up, and send her a Thank-You note and shiny, red Macintosh apple.

Classic Classmate: I can't remember anyone in Pre-K.

Classic Moment: Me crying like a bish on the first day. Big ol' crocodile tears, begging for my Mommy. It was a harrowing experience. Looking back on it, it's weird...because I'm SO far from being a Momma's boy. But I always say my mother is the World's Greatest Mom, especially in our early years. One of the reasons is because she never dropped us off anywhere...we were always with her, under her care...so that first day at school was probably the first time I had ever been away from her for an extended period of time and the person/people I was with wasn't family. My Aunt Roxanne, our family's greatest storyteller, always tells the story about the time Mom dropped me off at her house and cried for 2-3 hours straight, looking out the window waiting for her to come back. She usually tells that story (laughing uncontrollably) after I have something smart to say to my mother or exert some type of adult-independence, showing me how I used to be (and giving people the impetous to clown me). But anyway...that first day I was a wreck...a red-eyed, snotty-sniffy nosed wreck. I needed to man up.

Kindergarten
Teacher: Ms. Randazzo. Ms. Randazzo was a short, waddly, Danny Devito-shaped older gal. She wasn't mean, but I definitely remember longing for the days of Ms. Hawro, the pushover. I can't even remember her voice too well, but it probably sounded like DeVito's shrill, too. And it definitely wasn't serene like Ms. Hawro's voice. When I think about her, I see a white sweater with a red turtle neck. Black polyester pants, covering her ample rump...and nurse-shoes. And I think she wore glasses.

My sister, Lyd (soon I'm gonna stop prefacing their names with sister, brother) had Ms. Randazzo two years before me. So, I got a whole lot of, "Why can't you behave like your sister." Thinking back, that's an incredibly asenine question. She may as well have asked, "Why can't you be a well behaved homosexual."

Classic Classmate: Can't remember to many, but I am about to divulge a story that I never told my family or anyone else. Read along...

Classic Moment: There was this one lil girl...I can't remember her name, so lets just call her Tayshana (because that's how we get down in East Buffalo). Tayshana was a lil fresh girl, a sassafrass, sass-mouth. I think I impressed her with my winning charm and supreme intelligence. i got all the laughs, knew all my ABCs and could read. She liked that and she wanted me to be her dude. But I wasnt tryin to have her be my boo.

Well, we had naptime everyday around noon and Tay was always trying to lay her blanket next my joint. One day she switched her lil fresh-tail over to my blanket and got all close. Next thing you know she grabbing my hand and preparing to show me how to pleasure her.

Now, lets stop...I don't think this is natural for a 5-year-old girl. Yes, Tay was a sassafrass lil thang, but thinking back, chances are she had a grown man in her life that wasn't behaving properly. I mean, why else would she know to bring a boy's hand down in that place?

Well, I can't remember particulars, but I do know that my lil pudgy paws never got to no skin...either I pulled back with a guilty, young Christian conscious, or Randazzo shrilled something like, "No talking, it's nap time!"

Unfortunately, that was the last time a woman was attracted to me.

1st Grade
Teacher: Ms. Icabucci. Learning had began in earnest by the 1st grade and Ms. Icabucci was an Italian fire-cracker. I remember her being challenging and a hard-liner. Looks wise, she wasn't crush material. She was tall (at least to me), skinny (to my lil eyes) and had a disgusting mole on the left-side of her upper lip. But you know what? Something tells me she was probably halfway decent looking. I do remember her wearing skirts a lot and possesing an energy. We also discussed the merits of my favorite football team, the Chicago Bears (that year's Super Bowl champs)...this was before I began my love affair with the hometown team.

Classic Classmate: Willie. I can't tell you much about Willie, other than he smelled like tuna fish, looked and dressed like Jimmy Walker and he was the fastest kid in class.

Classic Moment: By the 1st grade I had become a behavioral problem. Not the kid who's getting into fights or threatning the teacher -- those were the children of broken homes and drug addicts that made up a large portion of 74 -- I was the smart-allick (sp?), jokester, mischevious dude...always searching for a laugh, always talking, always misbehaving. I didn't need to pay attention...unfortunately, I was probably 2 grades ahead of my poor classmates, thanks to attentive parents that continued the teaching at home. And I had what I always want in any class, workplace, bar -- I had a partner-n-crime, someone who was just as much of a clown as I was. And, it was Willie.

Well, Willie and I used to play stupid games while Ms. Icabucci was trying to teach the class. We'd throw things, play hot-hands, see who could steal a pencil from each others desk without them knowing...and when we'd get in trouble, we'd point at each other to absolve ourselves from blame. Quintessential knuckleheads (in hindsight, Willie shouldve been paying attention, since he couldn't read or count. I laugh, but I laugh with a heavy heart.). And I should've never behaved this way, since my parents "taught me so much better than that". It was totally uncalled for.

1st grade was also the first time we got report cards. You either got O-Oustanding, S-Satisfactory, NI-Needs Improvement or U-Unsatisfactory. I bet you can guess that I got Os for all academic categories and Us for behavior categories for the first two quarters. But that stopped real quick after Pops whooped me a couple good times. You know, where he would give me a painful lash for each syllable, " You. Not. Gon'. Be. Mak. N. Me. Look. Like. No. Fool. In. That. Skoo." Of course he ryhmes everything.

We also had this game where we would fill our mouth up with frothy-spit, blow up our cheeks and ask, "You dare me to spit on you? I dare you to dare me to spit on you. I'll do it, too." Well the whole thing be to swallow the spit and then blow out air...the suspense was thrilling.

On this day, however, I was filling ballsy. Looking back, it started a pathology, where I do wrong things solely for shock value. Anyways, we're going back-n-forth daring each other. After about three rounds, Willie blows out his air. "Ah-ha, Ah-ha. I got you. You was like a little scarey-cat girl. Ah-ha, Ah-ha." Little did he know I was about to wet that lil ignant nigga up.

So, now it's my turn...I fill up with spit..then he dares me...I squint my eyes and act like I'm building up massive pressure inside my mouth and then...PPPGGHTHGGHTHPPGGHPPTHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I spray Willie with my frothy-spit. He yelps, starts frantically wiping his eyes...he can't believe it. Meanwhile, I'm ecstatic, gleeful.

Well, this whole game was going on while Ms. Icabucci was reading to the class. But when Willie yelps, she picks her head up from the book, turns and sees Willie with a face of froth and me with bubbly saliva poppin on my botton lip.

Appalled and absolutely stunned, she takes me, lays me over her laps and gives me about 5 wacks with the paddle. I know what your saying, "WHAT?!?!?! She can't do that!" Yes she could. First off, this was before Dr. Spoc's book about not physically disciplining your children. Second, the no-touch laws had not been passed in schools yet. Third, I deserved it. And most importanly Fourth, my parents authorized her to spank me when I misbehaved.

That was the first and only time I got sent home early from school. 74 was only four blocks from house, so I can remember me and Mom walking home...with lil Chrish (2-years-old) taking those quick lil "Terrible-Two" steps beside us and lil Adam (just born) in the stroller as my mother yells at me with a face red-with-anger. Plus she kept saying those dreaded words, "Wait until your father gets home."

Man, those 4 hours I sat in my room waiting for Pops was excruciating. Long story, short..he came home, heard the news, talked to me and then beat the flesh off my &$% cheeks.

Then, he took me to school the next morning, had me apologize to Ms. Icabucci and Willie, took me in the bathroom and beat the last little bit of flesh of my &%# cheeks...then took me into the classroom and had me apologize in front of the class. I tried to splash some water over my eyes to look like I had just washed my face and didn't dry off, but the first thing this one girl said was, "Why you cryin?!" I was mad, so shot back, "I wasn't cryin stupid! I washed my faced." Pops eyes got wide and he asked, while squeezing the circulation out of right arm, "Boy what did you call her?! Don't make me take you back in that bathroom. Now apologize to her, too."

Pops was mad at me for about a month. Then the NBA playoffs started and we were good.

2nd Grade
Teacher: Ms. Seggio. My first dealings with a racist teacher was with Ms. Seggio. First she a fat, tub-of-lard piece of trash South Buffalo (yeah, I said it. And what?). I despise that woman and her evil motives back then.

Coming from South Buffalo, she probably hated every black child she taught. She thought we were all stupid and had no future. She was mailing it in, getting a check. The classic overburdened, disenchanted, frustrated public-school teacher. But she was also a South Buffalo bigot. There was this one little boy in the class, Jimmy. he was the only white kid in the whole school, other than the big guys in 7th or 8th grade (the one who pushed me into the toilet stall when I was pissing one day. He was dangerous...any white kid that was still at 74 by 6th grade was either a foster kid or a special kid...I think this dude was a foster kid.). Anyway, her precious Jimmy wasn't all that smart, but probably knew a little more than most of the kids in the class and Ms. Seggio loved it. She used to put him in charge of the class when she went away, praise him unduly and incessantly and generally slurp him, because he was her shining light in a classroom and school of darkness.

I didn't have a problem with Jimmy, except he was so competitive. he always wanted to know what I got on my tests and he was consistently hurt when it was a higher score. He hated that I won all the spelling-bees. He hated that I knew my multiples of 7 all the way into the 100s. He hated that I knew more about sports than him and he generally hated that I knew I was destined for greatness and he was destined to work at a gas-station and talk with a lisp for the rest of his life.

Ms. Seggio hated me too. I was a cocky, arrogant, obnoxious lil dude..especially with her, because I knew she favored jimmy over everyone else because he was white. Pops taught me how to peep stuff like that. I'd ask things like, "How come Jimmy gets a star for spelling 'Clouds' and I don't get a star for spelling 'Cumulus'?" Or, "Why is does Jimmy get candy for scoring an 87 when I got a 93." I was a handful.

Well, Ms. Seggio hated the fact that I was obnoxious...and she couldn't take that from a 7-year-old child, let alone a lil nigger-boy. So, I guess her way of putting me in my place was dropping me down a reading level. When my parents found about this they came to school and questioned the decision. Ms. Seggio, taking my cribs for stupid people (what she thought about most blacks), gave them some ridiculous explanation and even got a little indignant with the fact that they questioned her decision.

But Moms wasn't goin for that. They heard me read all the time. JW kids had to get on stage and read the Bible, to practice public speaking. So they knew what I could do. So Moms had me the school test me. The next week I was leaving class during reading time to go take reading with the 3rd graders -- in their top group.

This goes to show you what happens to bright kids in public schools. Teahcers are so quick to keep kids back...sometimes for perceived noble reasons...other times for racist reasons like Ms. Seggio. And most kids in the ghettos don't have involved parents like I did, so they would have been a victim, wasted potential. That's why it kills me when someone wants to point to SAT scores as a reason for not admitting a black student into certain schools. People don't understand how public school can stunt and retard a potential star.

If saw Ms. Seggio today (she's probably be rolling around in a wheel-chair), I slap her with my Howard degree.

Classic Classmate: Precious. Precious was about 6'6. But that's because he was probably about 13-years-old too. Precious was probably in the 2nd grade when I was born..and he still hadn't got out. Precious had the best cookie-bush in the class. Precious waxed all of us in basketball. Precious looked ridiculous walking in a line with us. Precious looked ridiculous at his desk.

Precious' name was Precious.

LaSharee. I was crushin on LaSharee. But she paid me no mind. I thought counting up to 132 by 6 was impressive. She didn't. I thought telling the class that Ms. Seggio looked like Jabba the Hut was gonna get me some play. It didn't. I thought protecting her from the dodge balls was gonna win me her affection. It didn't. She paid me no mind. I, on the other hand, would hear Janet Jackson's "When I Think of You" and think of her and those pink barrets. The world is cruel...Tayshana is accosting me under the covers just two years ago, but LaSharee is treating me like I didn't just quote Magic Johnson's stat line from last week's game against the SuperSonics.

Classic Moment: Did I already mention I was arrogant and obnoxious? Well, probably the worse case of that came when I finally lost a spelling bee, but I wouldn't sit down. I was sure that I spelled the word right and Ms. Seggio was making sit down so Jimmy the Lisp could win. So I wouldn;t sit down. I kept arguing with her, until she sent me to the Principal's office.

The Principal called home and spoke to my mother, my mother spoke to my father. My father beat the snot outta my nose, then came to class with me the next day and made me apologize to Ms. Seggio. That night he apologized to me, saying that he shouldn't talk about black and white people the way he does because I'm too young to really understand and that maybe the way he and Mom discussed Ms. Seggio was making me behave that way.

About a couple weeks later, we were watching a Lakers game and he was basically calling the referee a Jim Crow pawn because he called an offensive foul on James Worthy.

The Olmstead Dayz

3rd Grade

Teahcer: Ms. Geekas. Ms. Geekas was a snazzy, tanned, tight skirt wearing Greek woman. I guess maybe I had the school-boy hots for her. She wore fiery red lipstick, too. I guess maybe we can call her spunky...is that alright? She was spunky. And a fine teacher to boot.

She wasn't my only teacher that year, though.

My mother tested me for the Olmstead schols after she found out that Ms. Seggio's fat-racist &$$ was trying to grease me. Olmstead was called "Gift & Talented". Basically a public school for smart kids. There was also a class called resource, where a small group of kids would go and teahcers would have us do things like group projects, essays, etc. It was also the first time that I had more than one teacher. I had Ms. Geekas, the resource teacher and a Science teacher. But I can't remember her name.

Ms. Geekas, however, stood out. Maybe it was her black leather skirt or maybe it was here big-greek hair, but she made an impression...and I didn't cross her either. I may have been my most well-behaved grade ever.

Classic Classmate: Joey Randstatler, Richard Warfield and Melissa Trincanatti. Joey was a short little white boy, with braces and tartar-teeth that loved sports. So we naturally got along. It was probably a sight to see, though. This short, blond-haired white boy, with this behemoth black-boy rockin' a homemade box-cut, courtesy of his father. I would put Joey on to Bobby Brown and LL Cool J..and he'd TRY to put me on to Beach Boys "Kokomo", now don't get me wrong...the Beach Boys are a classic group and have some of the most enchanting harmonies and musical arrangements ever, but 80s Beach Boys was some wack garbage...I wasn't feelin it.

Then there was Melissa she sat in our group, too (arranged in alphabetical order). She was the smart, popular white girl. Once again, I had a grade-grubber -- sort of like Summer from School of Rock -- and she was constantly competing with me. Rubbing it in my face when she goody two-shoed her way to a 100 and I didn't...or pouting when I did the same to her. We ended up going to the same HS, too. And, despite her grade-grubbing -- to this day, that's my girl, she's one of my favorite classmates of all-time. Lil Joey had a crush on her though, so he was on 10 for most of the day...made for some good comedy...like how he used to love playing the air-guitar to "Simply Irresistible." Joey was basically Marty from Back 2 The Future.

Olmstead was different because I had never been a minority in school until then and I'd also never been around kids just as smart as me and handling class assignments that were challenging. There was no such thing as "class discussions" at 74...and if there was, I was busy cracking jokes or spitting froth-saliva in Willie's face. Olmstead was refreshing when I look back, and I gotta give Mom credit for not listening to Pops when he wanted to keep us at 74.

The other kat at our 4-desk group was Richard Warfield, a fellow JW. My mother insisted that I befriend this dude, but he was the squarest kat in the world...he was Urkel, before urkel...black, skinny, wore his pants real high, even had the glasses to go with it. And he always had glossy film of saliva on his bottom lip, it was strange. Like Joey, he crushed on Meliss, so he my first introduction to a wannabe Good Lifer. Man he had it bad for Meliss, but he couldn't play the air-guitar, so homeboy was just short on that one. His favorite track that year was "Don't Worry Be Happy"...u see what I'm sayin?

When I think about it, I see why everyone wanted to be in our group..we had all the cliche's covered. Warfield was the dork, Meliss was the "cheerleader", Joey was the "cute white boy"...and I guess covered the class clown and huge-hip-homeboy thing. We were the Fantastic Four.

Classic Moment: Everytime Joey air-guitared Robert Palmer or Meliss broke out with some "Electric Youth" or Warfield hit us with some Billy Ocean...it was classic...but I have to say the defining moment came in about the thrid quarter.

Ms. Geekas told us to choose three professions and ask our group which one we should be. Joey had something like baseball player and doctor..we all agreed: baseball player...he was gonna be the next George Brett. Meliss had like Senator and actress: we all said actress...she was gonna be the next Molly Ringwald. Who cares what Warfield said...maybe he said Cuba Gooding Jr., OJ Simpson or some other Good Lifer.

The point is, we supported everyone's career choices, because we had confidence in them.

I gave them two professions, too: NBA basketball player and rapper. Because, I just knew I had what it took to be the next Magic Johnson or KRS One. But, this was '88...these white kids and Warfield had no idea about rap music, so they didn't choose that. And NBA player?! Come on Vince, you were 5'2, 520lbs...so, Meliss scratches her head and says, "Uh...what about comedian Vince?"

She greased me.

4th Grade

Teaher: Ms. Carroll

Classic Classmate: Andre

The rest coming soon...

The City Honors Dayz

5th Grade

Teacher: Ms. McCollough

Classic Classmates: Charles Pressley and Craig Lee

The rest coming soon...

6th Grade

Teahcer: Mr. Verso

Classic Classmates: Mike Benz, Aaron Glazer, Donna Latham, Tammy

The rest coming soon...

7th Grade

Teacher: Ms. Venator

Classic Classmated: Tony Knight, Larry Karcher, Tiffiney Grissom, Seth Triggs

The rest coming soon...

8th Grade

Teachers: Mr. Geelan, Ms. Bourke, Mr. Schlacter

Classic Classmates: Mike Rios, Venus Quates, Rasheed Hatten

The rest coming soon...

Shame on America: Mississippi

True story: Me, my two sisters Lyd and P and my lil bro Christian were headed down to Atlanta for a family reunion. It was a 10-hour drive from DC to Atlanta and, if anyone knows how me and my whip get down, then you know I treat Jada like trailer-trash. I bought her in 2001 when she was 3-years old and, not more than a year later, I was dissing her left and right. I have to be one of the Top 10 Most Negligent Car Owners in America.

With that said, Jada was running fine, but she was messed up underneath. And her tires were balding like my boys, Uncle Gerry and Larry.

Well, while driving through South Carolina, I ran over something sharp and busted up two of my tires. So there we were, stranded on the side of I-95, with low cell-phone batteries. And guess what, I was petrified!

It was dark -- I mean, no road-lamps, pitch-black dark -- we weren't armed and we were in Buttsville, SC. We called 911 and soon a police came and guess what he said? In a DEAD serious voice he advised, "Stay calm and we'll try to get you guys out of here as soon as possible. There's a lot of knuckle-heads around here. So keep your lights off, stay in the car, keep your doors locked and wait for the tow truck."

That was code for, "People still like to drag black people off the back of their pick-ups down here."

I always tell people that when I'm in the South and its nighttime, I hate being anywhere other than a populous city. Anywhere else, and some Jim Crow Ish is likely to go down. I will piss in my pants before I pull over to a gas station in Mississippi.

As a matter of fact, that night I was even afraid to call the cops. Afterall, who's to say they aren't grandsons of dudes who used to release black men to angry lynch-mobs?

Meanwhile, we called AAA and they sent a tow truck. However, the tow truck could only take two of us. So P came with me in the tow truck, but we had to send Lyd and Chrish, who was about 17 at the time, with the cop to go wait at a Waffle House for my mother to come pick them up (she was already in Atlanta).

Yo, I was praying so hard for them...seriously, I was scared to death that my lil bro and sister would walk up in that Waffle House and some bigot truck driver would try to start something.

Thankfully, we all safely arrived in Atlanta. But, whenever I think about that night, it underscores just how uncomfortable I am with the South (deep, rural South) and its history. To some, my behavior may be similar to a white woman crossing the street when she sees a young black man coming towards her. Now, I don't really feel like arguing the difference between the two, so I'll just say this: on a very fundamental level, I empathize with her. In fact, I find myself going to extra-lengths to alleviate that fear for white people when I'm in those situations. I'll smile, or try to look as unassuming as possible. Because, guess what, when that happens to me -- when I can sense someone's fear at the ATM or walking down a lonely street...it bothers me. I almost feel guilty for making their heart beat faster...probably because I know how it feels.

I know how it feels to sit in a diner in rural Georgia and feel threatened. It sucks. And I feel this way when I read stories about the Killens of the world and the Roy Bryants and JW Milams, Till's muderers. You think the type of thinking that can encourage, perpetrate and allow those murders can be unconditioned in just 50 years? That's not even 3 generations.

And the South is unique. For instance,northern cities like Buffalo, Boston, St. Louis, Brooklyn and others are very racist and it breeds some alarming violence. But its different. You have "ethnic" whites in these cities and, yes, they'll call you a nigger and hate your guts; but I believe the hate is bred from frustration and jealousy. Northern whites always have their stories about their ancestors coming to this "great" country dirt poor and making something out of nothing. So, why can't blacks do the same? (Little do they know that there does not exist a race of people that have had to use more ingenuity to survive blatant genocide than black Americans) If the Irish, Polish and Italian settlers could carry on, why couldn't blacks?

Plus, these ethnic whites used to comepete with black people for jobs in the Reconstruction days. So for them, the hate comes from a feeling that blacks are coddled and given opportunities they deserve and we squander it because we're lazy ingrates.

Down South, however, the hatred is contempt, with Mississippi leading the charge. Contempt for blacks as human beings, we're subhuman to them.

So while some Italian Benson Hurst Brooklynites might beat a black dude with a nigger-beater bat...a white dude in Alabama will make you Strange Fruit hanging from a tree.

The attitude is different. Southerners always took offense to "audacious" blacks. How dare a black person, like James Chaney, demand freedom in the Jim Crow South. That's why Edgar Ray Killen hired that lynching. And how dare some 14-year-old boy like Emmitt Till whistle at a pretty white woman? That's why an angry white lynchmob beat his face in and shot him in the head and threw him in a river. Thay's why police allowed an angry mob to, literally, take Mack Charles Park (charged with raping a white woman) from his cell and beat him to death. And that's why none of these murderers were convicted.

Until yesterday...only Killen, a defiant devil of a man, was let off easy witha manslaughter charge. I'm no fan of human justice, but I wouldn't have shed a tear if that old demon would have rotted away in a jail cell. He should have.

I mean, seriously, what was on the minds of these people back then? You have to be demonic and seriously crazed to subscribe to the "justice" they metted out to people of color back then. And it wasn't just the dumb, ignorant, hicksville, Southern citizens; it was the police and legal system too. You had citizens not willing to testify (some out of fear, others out of a supremacy-complex), police unwilling to calm mobs and, in some cases, engaging in the mob action, juryies turning blind eyes and judges acting like helpless children.

And is it much different now? Some of you may remember that blacknews.com editorial I wrote back in 2001, "Ain't Nuttin Changed" in response to the Auburn frat impersonating lynching and mocking black frats for Halloween. Well ain't nuttin changed in the legal system either. No need to get into statistics about minority vs white convictions or social reasons and conditions for criminal behavior...but as always the truth lies in the middle, so both extremes can at least admit there's a disparity.

Close to 4,000 blacks were lynched between 1880 and 1970. Killed, mutilated, beaten, raped, dehumanized. Supposed "justice" without a trial. And many more were wrongly convicted. It was the Negro Holocaust. Where's our museum?

And it makes me angry.

Angry to know that this country that ceaselessly trumpets all of its virtues and thinks it's the greatest thing since boy-shorts was and still is the forum and petrie-dish for racism and bigotry as bad or worse than any in the world. You should've seen some of the headlines in European papers after the Till verdict...my favorite appearing in the Belgian paper Le Drapeau Rouge (the Red Flag): "Killing a black person isn't a crime in the home of the Yankees: The white killers of young Emmett Till are acquitted!"

Meanwhile...

I'm at a new temp gig. This one actually has me working (database cleanup, busy work).

My interview in NYC went really well, but not without some travel hitches. Details on both soon.

By the way...there's a guy at my new gig wearing black penny-loafers, a sear-sucker suit and a pasley tie that comes down to about the tip of his penis. The catch is -- he's only about mid-20s, a classic young, square, Republican.

The receptionist is a late 20s brother. He insists on telling everyone which coffee to choose. His name's Derrick and sometimes he has to call a co-worker on the loud-speaker. It's the highlight of my day, since he sounds like Dennis Haysbert (President Palmer from 24), which is weird, since he looks like the tall dude from the Ying Yang twins.

My boss, Mandy, is fairly cute, but a little too talkative.

Anyways...I don't know if their internet policy is too lenient...so I'm bailing. New post this evening.

Operation Getagig: In NY

I'm gonna be in NY Thurs and Fri interviewing for this writing gig. I really want this joint...probably moreso than any I've applied for. It'd be the best move for my 3-year plan.

With that said, no blogs until Monday, at which time Twistinado will return with breakneck-paced blog posts. In the meantime, use this as a good time to catch up...if you care, that is.

Best regards,

Vinny Twist

Frederick Fant: My Inside-Inside Joke

Actually Frederick isn't a filmmaker -- he's a furniture salesman that works in my office. But he was fired. And, technically, he does think he's a filmmaker.

From the second I stepped through my office doors, sat down and started blogging for a living (and answering a few calls periodically) Frederick was my own personal Inside-Inside Joke with me, myself and I.

On my first day, he busted through the doors, with his dress-shirt drenched in sweat, wearing a wholebunch of some cliche' cologne, eyes red, wreaking of some type of cognac. It was a Monday, so he maybe he must've spent Sunday night doin that party thang at Platinum. He didn't go to his desk, he headed straight for the coffee maker and stood in front of it while the coffee trickled out. Sometimes I do the same in the morning -- wake up and head directly for the kitchen and watch the coffee being made, then pour a cup and sip while I piss -- except I don't grunt and sniff while I'm doing it and mumble things under my breath like, "it's a new day, but it ain't no new life" or "now I'm hot, they all on me".

Plus, this nigga put about 18 packets of sugar in his java...and he was having trouble opening the packets, too, so he was doing a lot of loud rustling. The scene was hilarious -- in a Priscilla Thomas/Sahara Banks type of way.

Anyways, dude walks by me without even greeting me (what a welcome) and heads to his desk. 10 minutes later I get an intercom call:

"Yeah, what's your name."
"Vince"
"Vince, I'm Frederick Fant, I work here." (Really?)
"Hey Frederick. Yeah, I saw you making your coffee a couple minutes earlier. You like that sugar huh? Haha."
"Yeah, I'm not taking calls until 11am. OK? Thanks."
Click.

Now the funny thing is not that this dude just played me like I was his personal assistant, when he is the lowest on the company totem pole (besides me of course). The funny thing is that he was the worse salesman and NEVER got any calls from ANY client. When I found that out, it made that call infinitely more amusing.

Frederick was also the office predator. He stared women up-n-down...especially this one cute lil white girl named Kathleen. But being a 6'4 black-man, Fred should know that giving your co-worker bedroom eyes as they're getting some carrots out of the refrigerator isn't necessarily comforting -- not in this America.

Frederick was a snazzy dresser. Three-piece suits. Wide-leg slacks. A real natty dude...but he overdid it...it got geechy after a while. And no matter how you dress, if you couldn't sell free Mad Dog 20/20 to a wino, then your cuff-links don't mean a thing.

By late-Tuesday, after a couple co-workers dished the office gossip on everyone, I knew Frederick's MO: good dude, personable, sharp-dresser, but not the most articulate or persuasive -- his days were numbered in the sales world, especially professional sales. And soon, Fred started giving me the "we're the only two young black men in the office" treatment. He used code words with me, winked when Kathleen walked by like, "look at that white girl. I'd get lynched for her. Wouldn't you?" He'd also make a lot of slave references like, if he's just coming into work..he'd say, "What's up Vince. Back on the plantation again." Or the phone would ring and he'd say, "Uh oh, you hear massa's whip."

I liked Fred. He was a semi-cool dude, but more importantly -- he was my inside-inside joke.

By the end of my first week he revealed two things that catapulted him into the exclusive group of co-workers that i'll always remember (Gabbi from Bagel Bros., Dave from Bagel Bros., Tim from Marine Midland, Janet from AF&PA, Phil from the Sentinel).

1) Ricky Fante is his real-life, flesh-n-blood, whole brother. Same mother, father, grew up in same house everything. Now, I'd never heard any of Ricky Fante's music, until Fred forced me to listen to his mp3s -- loudly -- on my computer, compromising my image of professionalism that I'd been doing a good job at proffering.

Well, Ricky Fante sucked.

Well, let me back up a sec...his name sucks.

And, with a name like Ricky Fante, you'd better produce some D'Angelo level muzak and he didn't. Still, as I'm listening to Fante's voice crack, I realize; "This is that dude that my lil sis P and her crew were lambasting this past winter." Apparently someone had taped BET's tribute to Aretha Franklin (or somethin like that) and Ricky Fante performed. Based on P's analysis, Fante's performance was perhaps the worst ever. P, my lil cousins Mel and Reese and the rest of the crew apparently watched this performance over-and-over again to revel in this disaster -- sort of like how people love the first two weeks of American Idol.

So, when Frederick Fant, told me Ricky Fante (Ricky apparently added an 'E' to his last name for Hollywood's sake) was his brother, Frederick's unintentional comedy stature started rising toward levels of mythology.

2.) Soon the office found out I was a writer. Most would come up and ask me a couple questions, see what i wanted to do, where I wanted to go, etc....but Fred comes up and says, "So I hear you're a writer. That's cool...because, you know I'm a writer."

Now, us writers know when we meet another writer and, if not, when someone reveals theyre a writer its usually nas (translated: "It Aint Hard to Tell"). Sentence structure, articulation, vocab, descriptiveness, expressiveness -- there are some cardinal qualities. Qualities that Fred didn't posses even at an embryonic stage. I wanted to say "You're a writer? Really, is that why you're selling designer office furniture?" But then I thought, "Vince, you're a writer...and you're the one taking his calls, or lack thereof." So, I just said: "Really? That's cool man. It's always cool to meet an A-alike."

Then he peppers me with questions about freelancing and what type of writing I do -- a fairly engaging conversation...but then he hits me with the doozy: "Yeah, you know I write movies, too. As a matter of fact, I got a script I'm shopping it at the big studios right now...but I'm leaning toward keeping it independent."

If I were making a movie and Fred was character in it, that's exactly what I would've written for him to say...it was perfect. I wanted to call up one of my sisters or brothers right then to tell them about this dude.

He kept going though, "I'm like a real art guy. When I look at movies I'm always thinking how to make the story go better and ways to maybe do the camera different." Spoken like a kid destined to become the next Mike Nichols.

So, being artsy and all; he hits me with this one, "Wait till you see it. It's gonna be like the 2000, like "Boys-N-the-Hood'"

Yes!

Soon though, he's just on a rampage...he won't stop talking. Co-workers keep walking by and over-hearing this conversation, or should I say monologue, about his film aspirations...I'm sure they're thinking, "Get to work Frederick, you haven't even sold a pencil sharpner in two months."

Finally, the VP, Bernie from Boston ("The Sawx are my AL squad and I root for the Nats in the NL. I was at RFK Opening Day and it was awesome. Hate the hot dawgs though. We'll go to a game.") pops his head out and says, "Hey Frederick (no one calls him Fred, which I love). I'm gonna need you back here in a sec."

That was Thursday.

Friday I get a call around 11am.

"American Office, this is Vince."
"Hey Vince, it's Frederick Fant."
"Oh, what's goin on Fred?"
"Not much. As you've probably heard, I'm no longer with American Office anymore. They let me go yesterday evening."
"What? I'm sorry to hear that man. But I'm sure you'll be on to bigger, better things."
"Oh, yeah, you know it. We talked yesterday right? So, you know my plans. Man, I grew up in DC, but I was born for Hollywood. HaHaHa!"
I'm trying not to laugh, so my upper lip is trembling and quivering like when Barney Gumble burps on the Simpsons.
"So, what's up man. Who can I put you in contact with?"
"Anyone that hiring man. HaHaHa. Naw man, is Bernie in?"
"Yeah, one second Fred. And stay up man, I'm looking for that movie."
"Fa sho. You can be an extra in the police station. I'll have you answering phones. You got a lot of experience with that. Ha.Ha.Ha."

He greased me.

Phil Jackson is back with the Lakers

Shaq's a big, black, **&$#@ with a trailer-trash handle-bar mustache. But, more on Diesel a lil later, let's handle the more immediate affairs first. The gist of the matter is this...Phil coming back to the Lakers gives me a chubby.

It's all math my people. If Rudy would've stayed healthy and coached through the season and the Lakers would have remained even moderately healthy, LA would've been in the playoffs, which is all I expected from us in our first year without the big dude. But, Rudy got sick, quit his gig, Kobe went down, Mar went down, Grant went down and Vlade never got up. people forget that when Kobe went down, we were 5 games over .500 and Rudy left with us still hovering at .500 and in the 8th spot.

With Shaq gone and Phil back, I think you'll see a different Kobe -- a more appreciative Kobe.

Let's be clear: Shaq was the problem between Phil and Kobe. All Kobe wanted was some freedom within the offense and a little more respect from Phil. But Phil consistently sided with Shaq in practically all matters, yet demanded more from Kobe. To me, it was never a fair relationship. And, with Kobe's personality flaws, things were bound to become tense. Do you think a 25-year-old Jordan would've went for consistently playing second-fiddle to a sensitive, attention-grubbing, media-manipulating, jealous dude like Shaq? Not when he looked at Shaq and saw poor work ethic and ESPECIALLY not when all the 4th quarter responsibilities fell upon HIS shoulders because Shaq couldn't knock down a free-throw. Jordan would have never gone for that. The greats are usually maniacally driven individuals, so why do people expect different from Kobe.

Kobe-Phil will work and my squad will be back to being competitive next season. We definitely have some roster moves we have to make, and I'm not sure that Kupchak is that dude to do it...but even with the present team we can spit out 45-50 and smell that playoff aroma again.

Now for Shaq. Why does this clown get a pass? Because he's funny? I admit, he amuses me and he seems like a swell dude to chill with and he'd be a great teammate...but that's only if you understand that he's the alpha-omega. The second a teammate starts filling out his britches or the media starts questioning "who's more important" Shaq turns into a squabbling, backstabbing, whiny, obnoxious, selfish, prima donna bish.

Since the day he left LA he hasn't kept his trailer-trash mouth closed. It's been "Jerry Buss this" and "Kobe that" and "Lakers this". His readiness to annoint Miami "D. Wade's team" was laughable, since Wade is nowhere near the player Kobe is and never will be. Everything Shaq did -- lose weight, take less shots, let my lil brother D. do is thing -- was, I think, a veiled vanilla-creme pie in the Lakers face. "This is what you could've had LA," he was basically saying.

It would be similar to a ex-girlfriend/boyfriend that you dumped, losing mad weight and being on their best behavior with their new beau...and publicly flaunting it, too. Maybe you said that they were to uncomfortable with PDA, then the next thing you know their at the same party you're at and she's tonguin this dude down on top of a table.

Everything Shaq did was vindictive, petty and wack.

Even his comments yesterday..."I don't know Kobe, that name doesn't register." What? Are you in the tenth grade? or are you a grown man with 10 kids? Which one is it? Plus, you look like Jeff Foxworthy.

Then he goes and says he'd have "liked to see Phil in Sacramento", LA's arch-rival back in their championship days. That was a simple-minded swipe at LA again. How petty.

But here's the thing...Kobe won. He got rid of Shaq AND then got back the best coach in the biz. I guarantee Kobe whens another title. Shaq, on the other hand, will either be retired in two years or lumbering up-down the court like an old Pat Ewing.

Kazaam!

Momma said...

Excerpt of an email from my mother, who is every bit of 51-years-old.

"you'll have to break that "good life" concept down for me one day... for where did it originate... haters...?"

Needs no explanation. She's priceless people.

The Cocaine and Barf Diet

Left work yesterday around 5p. Walking down 14th street. As usual, traffic is crazy with everyone heading west to the 14th street bridge retreating to their Virginny homes. Usually, any car that's parked on 14th street, is getting ticketed or there's a police car behind it, letting the driver know that he/she needs to get moving (and if you're a Negro this comes with the added implication that if you don't move, they may just drag you out the car and billy-club your black skin to blue-bruises). Anyways, there's this Excursion parked, no hazards on, and tinted windows.

Seemed peculiar.

Then, out of CVS walks this white woman with collagen lips and, what seems to be, her little Asian kid, probably adopted. As we get closer, we almost bump into each other, because she's either oblivious to where she's walking or thinks she owns the sidewalk or I'm so hefty I can't control where my body inhabits. As she turns and looks at me, I realize it's Angelina Jolie and her lil adopted son from Cambodia, Maddox.

Ironically, I was just reading about Jolie in last month's Vanity Fair. It spent much of the article talking about her lil Cambodian son and her new zeal for the Washington political scene. Apparently she's a Capitol Hill regular now -- trying to do a lot about poverty in developing nations (admirable).

But you can read all about that in Vanity Fair...in this space I want you to know this: Angelina Jolie is not that hot! She's consistently been one of the women that I've given a Good Life Pass, too. I thought she was beautiful, sexy, curvy and all that. But up close, she seemed ordinary.

Now, I hate people who see celebrities in person and then try to ruin everyone's image of them. I'm not that dude. I saw Tamia up-close at Black College Reunion and she gave me a chubby. I saw Amerie in person in Orlando on Orange Ave., in front of The Social and I thought she was a cute girl. I even saw Britney Spears on Hollywood Boulevard in LA and, all though she wasn't Good Lifeable, she passed The Couch Test. I saw one of my idols, Isaiah Thomas, walking down M Street in Goergetown and he still sported the best post-2000 box cut in the USA.

Angelina Jolie, however, was a disappointment. Previously, I didn't just think she was cute or pretty-good looking, I thought she was dope, now I find out she's ordinary, with wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and blemishing her brow...and she has NO curves.

I mean, of course I discreetly peered at her as she walked to the car to see if I'd "follow that thang in the mall"...and I wouldn't.

First of all, let me continue a crusade: White women did not just indiscriminately start growing round hips and that thang in the back! The same thing a Wonder Bra does for a woman's breast and cleavage, these new jeans do for that thang. Why am I the only one who thinks this? Trust me, black people's existence depends on black men recognizing this. Some already wanna drink the Kool-Aid regardless, but if they begin believing that white women have comparable thangs then it's a wrap. Truth is they don't. Jolie didn't have on those type jeans yesterday. She had on some relaxed "loungin in the crib" joints, where that thang laid naturally in the jeans and it wasn't poking out...not even a little. I mean, I wasn't expecting her to be Mya (did you see her on the MTV Movie Awards?!), but at least be Jessica Simpson -- nope.

Which leads me to another crusade: The Cocaine and Barf Diet.

Why must formerly curvy to moderately-curvy women (Jennifer Aniston, Lindsay Lohan, Angelina Jolie, Renee Zellwegger, Nicole Ritchie) go on these diets that leave them shaped like Snoop? (note: black women tend not to go on these diets, because I think they either don't care about American beauty or they love biscuits too much to try to attain it.) I'm not saying that all these women are snorting and barfing...but why do they think they look better like that? There's no way Lindsay Lohan should think she looks better now than when she appeared in that GQ spread -- no way! Zellwegger was never Chaka Khan, but the "Jerry Maguire" Zellwegger is a better look than the current...she doesn't have to be Bridget Jones, either..but an 80-lb. woman is not sexy. Seriously, they end up looking either strung out or like they have eating disorders.

Even Beyonce is starting to "drop some meat that I wish she'd keep". I was happy to see her in a bikini in her new video and all...but boy do I miss the "Work It Out" Beyonce doing what she was doin with that hoola-hoop.

Look, there are extremes. You got me on one end and Snoop on the other...Let's find a happy medium ladies.