Outti 5Gs

Pops and I leave for Florida this afternoon. Shouldn't be a bad drive. Mom won't be there to force us to stop every hour so she can take 30-minute bathroom breaks or guilt us in to pulling over at night to get some "shut-eye".

I'm just looking forward to 14-hours of jazz. I tend to play the radio or throw away CDs while driving through city traffic and then set it off when I get on the trips first major road.

I've already decided to set off this trip with the Joe Henderson box set. So as soon as we hit the 95 i'm poppin in "Power to the People". My guess is that the box set gets me all the way to Tampa. We'll see.

I don't when I'll be able to do my next posts, since I won't have the internet up and running for maybe a week, but hopefully it'll be sooner. I'll shootout an email when I'm back on the blog like Quincy Jones.

Wish me and Pops a safe trip and we'll be rappin later.

Music Dude presents: My hiphop session with Chuck Chillout

In early July the DC area had a couple crazy storms pass through. The type of storms that knock trees down. The type of storms that I'll laugh at, after experiencing some of these stupid Florida hurricanes. Anyway, the area of Silver Spring that Chuck and G lived in would always experience power outages. I mean, whole swaths of 16th Street and Georgia Ave would be pitch black. Crazy! Nuts.

Well, on this day, the storm swooped through around 4p and the power was gone by 5p. It took them a ridiculous 14 hours to get us power again. So we were sitting in darkness for the whole evening. Instead of heading to a coffee shop or going to a bar, we decided to try to stay put and hope that PEPCO wasn't as inept as they seem. By about 7 or 8p, Chuck had resorted to his ADD antics. G and I had popped a bottle of rum and we were posted on the couch, layin back, listenin to Murda Muzik (Mobb Deep), just maxin', kickin' it. Charles couldn't take the inactivity, so he was pacing around the couch and coffee table while he preached about the dopeness of Prodigy and many other things. Then, the next thing you know, he headed to the bathroom and came back minutes later, with toilet tissue wrapped around his knuckles, hoping it rsembled gauze wrapped around boxers' fists when they spar. Soon thereafter he was bobbing, weaving and punching my garment box like he was traing for a Vegas title fight. You couldn't see much, just his stout silouhette. But we could hear everything: the squeaking hardwood floor, the pap-pap of his toilet-tissued fist hitting the box, his grunts. It was one of the most comical and surreal moments of my stay with Chuck and G. Downright classic.

Soon, though, his tissue began to unravel and perhaps he became winded so he took a seat to catch his breath and repair his Charmin gloves. At some points, Black Moon entered the conversation and since we weren't doing anything, I asked Chuck, "Give me you're five favorite Boot Camp Cliq tracks of all time."

"Five! Come on man! How am I gonna narrow it down to five? That's impossible."
"Yo, you just gotta be real gangsta with it and make some executive decisions, naa mean?! Give em to me. Top 5. No long deliberations, right here, off the cuff. Let's go!"
"Aight! Let's do it!"

We didn't go to bed until 5am that night. I was 90 minutes late for work the next day, too.

I'm including Charles' top 5 lists he hit me with that night, along with my thoughts on each.

Chuck, feel free to defend yourself. And anyone else, by all means, commenst are welcomed. Also, remember: these are his favorite, not necessarily what he thinks were the best.

BOOTCAMP CLIQUE
For those of you that don't know, the Boot Camp Cliq was compised of Black Moon, Heltah Skeltah, Smif-n-Wesson and OGC (Original Gun Clappaz). They were a crew of emcees that, at their heights, some say rivaled Wu Tang as the illest possee of hiphop niggas in the mid-90s. I was always a Wu-Tang dude. In fact, as much as I loved Boot Camp, there was never any real basis for a competition with the Wu, because the Wu were much better than them, to me. But there were plenty of my contemporaries that felt otherwise. Coincidentally, Chuck and Tony (two Boot Camp dude) and I went to Tryst on my last night in DC and we discussed the merits of this battle between the Wu and Boot Camp. Anyways, here was Chuck's top 5 favoirtes, off the cuff.

1. Black Moon - How Many Emcees Must Get Dissed
Off "Enta Da Stage" an album dropped in '93. The album is a classic among the classics and '93 is one of the three landmark years for hiphop ('88, '93, '98). We were freshman when Enta Da Stage dropped, but How Many Emcees actually dropped in the summer going into our freshman year. In fact, Who Got the Props, off that same album, dropped in the winter of our 8th grade year. That's just how it went for some acts back then.
I can't argue with this pick. Wu Tang's 'Proteck Ya Kneck" video dropped that same summer, but there were many that felt thi more. The beat was ominous with the horror flick loop and the baseline was probably the most gangsta I had ever heard. It mirrored the way Buckshot Shorty strolled through Brooklyn in his Stan Smith addidas in the video. It was also a new flow for Buckshot, totally different than the Onyx-like approach he had on 'Who Got the Props'. But this wasn;t my favorite Cliq track. My favorite is the 'Sh*t Iz Real' remix from '96 "Diggin in the Vaults". Even back then, you could tell that my musical ear was heavily influenced on the jazz music I grew up on and the 'Sh*t Iz Real' track had this willowy sax loop and this airy string motif...spectacular stuff. To this day, it splits my head wide-open when I hear it. I played it for Chuck later that night and he smuiled this sly grin and said, "Yo, I'm startin to rethink my No. 1."

2. Black Moon - I Got Cha Opin (Remix)
This is off the "Diggin in the Vaults" album, too. But the video came out the winter of our freshamn, smack in the middle of what, to me, was the greatest era of hiphop music. Back then, a song like this was incredible, but frequent. We got incredible songs all the time back then.

3. Black Moon - Buck 'Em Down (Remix)
Once again, it was released on the "Vaults" album, but we heard it much sooner. A great song, but nowhere near in my Top 5. In fact, I'm partial to the original.

4. Smif-N-Wessun - Sound Bwoy Bureill
Smif-n-Wess loved to add Carribean influences into their music and this was the first we saw of that.
"Boom bye-bye to them batti boy head" that's how the G'd it.
It was off of 95's "Da Shinin", their first release and another classic album out of the Clique camp. MY favorite Smif-n-Wess, however, was 'Bucktown', the first single off the album. Wrekonize and PNC are also higher on my list.

5. Heltah Skeltah - Undastand
I quoted a Rocness Monsta line on my Senior page of my year book,

Undastand
To be the man aint even the plan
But stand in my way and get crushed undastand

That was my thinking back then. I wasn;t trying to be mega-rich or super-famous as I embarked on post-high school life. But, I did have goals...and no one was gonnaget in between me and those goals.

This track was off of their 96 album 'Nocturnal'. Back then, Roc was one of my five favorite emcees. And, although I loved this track, "Operation Lockdown" was my favorite off the album.

Honerable MentionBoot Camp Cliq- Headz Ain't Redee
Off the 96 "Vaults" album, of which Charles seemed attached. This was one of the classic crew cuts. Right up there with "Triumph", "Protect Ya Kneck", that calssic Juice Crew Cut and "Self Destruction". probably would've made my top 5.
Note: Sean Price has a new banger out. I heard it on XM radio (which will get it's own upcoming blog). Anyways, the Ruc jumpoff is vicious...check it.

September '93 - June '94
Back in these days, I wouldn't class albums into years, moreso school years and summers. hat's how we'd remember things. Did it drop in the Summer going into our Senior year or while were Juniors? I grew up w/ some true-blue music cats. Not all of them had the most wide-ranging interests, but the musics they did like, primarily hiphop, they loved hard. It was truly our soundtracks. For instance, I know that the "Bucktown" video dropped in the Spring of my Sophomore year because I was walking back from the Masten Boys Club w/ my nigga Nisan and it was snowing...only it was these huge, incredibly picturesque flakes where you could actually recognize the shape of each flake. We all know that flakes are usually bigger in warmer weather and this snowfall was peculiar because it was about 45 degrees outside. Anyway, guess what video was on Rap City the second we hit Ni's crib? Yep.

Back to Chuck's list though. Our freshman year of high school was probably the greatest year for hiphop releases. Wu, Black Moon, Tribe, Nas, KRS, Jeru, Souls fo Mischief -- and many more -- dropped albums that year. And each album I just named you was a classic. That's nuts! Right off the dome I spit out SEVEN classic albums that dropped in a 9-month span. Novemeber 93 alone can blast most years out the water when it comes to classic releases. Those were indeed the days.

Now, as the night wore on I began to see that Chuck was enthralled with singles, which is somewhat weird for dudes like us. Sometimes, dudes in my camp would almost say that the single was the worse song on the album as a knee-jerk reaction. That was a way of letting everyone know that you'd thoroughly checked the album...you weren't just some surface listener that heard a couple songs on the radio or saw a couple videos. And usually, it was the right thinking. It's rare that my favorite song on an album is the single. That'd be a dissapointment. But Charles was going hard with singles, so we were disagreeing often.

1. Nas - It Aint Hard to Tell
There's no way in H E L L that this is my favorite song of this period. The greatest nine-month span of all-time and this is the favorite? Wow. I can name at least 6 tracks off Illmatic that I loved more, especially "Represent", "Life's a B*tch" and "The World Is Yours". Don't get me wrong, this is a classic song, but Illmatic was full of classic trax. In fact, it is probably one of the 10 greatest debut albums (in importance and substance) of our generations musical lifetime, 1990-2000. This was the most important selection of the night -- the favorite track of this period -- and I think Chuck picked his shakiest selection. I actually groaned when he put this on. Also remember that Chuck would play his list starting with No. 5 and ending with No. 1. So by this time he had dropped five radio/video singles on me in a row and I was just kinda stunned. Maybe it was the rum...but...

2. Wu Tang Clan - Proteck ya Neck
He went with the first single off the 36 Chambers, an album that probably F'd me up more than any other. I was a Wu-Tang fool for about 5 years. I wore Wu-Wear. When people would hear me rhyme they would say I sound like U-God on "Chestboxing" or Deck on "Guillotine". This is THAT album for me. With that said, "Protect Ya Kneck". I can't roll with that. Yes, it was the one track that featured all nine emcees...and Yes, it was an all-out massacre. But once again, I can drop 5-6 trax that I loved more, especially "Shame on a Nigga", "Cream", "Clan in the Front"and "Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuttin to F Wit".

Ending this list with "It Aint Hard" and "Protect" were bittersweet. Sweet to hear these nostalgic songs, but bitter because I was expecting to get my head bashed in, but I really only got my jaw broken.

3. Gangstar - Mass Appeal
Monster track and just stupid, dumb,. despicable beat by DJ Premier. In fact, I spit a rhyme over this Primo track for my cousins mix-tape and dumbed out on it. It was one of my own favorite freestyles. A classic beat. and a glimpse into the better rhymes Guru was gonna start kicking.
Once again, it was the first single and video off the album and not necessarily the dopest. My pesonal favorites were "Code of the Streets" and "Tonz of Gunz". But I can't argue with this selection as Chuck's favorite off the album. But I don't think I wouldve included any track off this album in my Top 5 for this period.

4. A Tribe Called Quest - Award Tour
Perhaps the worse "frist single" choice of the night. Only because, unlike the other singles, it wasnt exactly a classic song. And let's not even go through this album and start choosing songs I love much more -- "Sucka Niggas", "Electric Relaxation", "Lyrics to Go"...to tell you the truth, no album captured that gray sky, Buffalo winter, insulated feel better than this album that winter. I mean, "Electric Relaxation"? "Award Tour", albeit an excellent song, was a puzzling, almost dissapointing choice.

5. Boogiemonsters - Recognized Thresholds of Negative Stress
Now THIS was a selection. This is what I was expecting all along. Either hit me with the bangers or throw me for some loops with some trax I had straight up forgotten abiout. I hadn't heard this Boogiemonsters joint in over 10 years. Chuck had me buggin off this one and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Honerable MentionTha Alkaholiks - Only When I'm Drunk
What I loved about the Alkaholics back then is that they were some West Coast niggas with an East Coast sensibility and East Coast flow. They really ripped it on this track, too. Plus this track held other significance since Chuck and Tony used to get drunk off Old English 40s in the auditorium back then. It was a surreal sight...these little kids, barely teens, twisted during the school day, smelling like malt liquor. We kicked it about this the other day, how they're parents handled the situation. Me? I'd have blown a gasket if I found out my 13, 14-year-old kid was getting toasted during school. There parents played iot differently. And I guess it worked. They both graduated from an Honors high school, went to HU and now they're some young, successful, quality black men on the road to making it happen.

My Top 5 from 09/93-06/94
1. Wu Tang - "Wu Tang Clan Aint Nuttin to F Wit"
2. Nas - "Represent"
3. Mobb Deep - "An Eye for an Eye"
4. Tribe - "Sucka Niggas"
5. Black Moon - "I Got Cha Open (Remix)"

July '94 - August '95
This goes from the Summer going into our Sophomore year all the way through the Summer going into our Junior year (I say our meaning me and Chuck's...but obviously I had other dudes in various grades experiencing the music with me at the same time). A crazy period, because we kept getting hit in the head...even after the breakneck craziness of the previous school year. Also, by the time I came back to school as a Sophomore and linked up w/ my man Tony, I was a full-fledge maniac on the mic. My mic name was Vinny Dinero and his was Fella Miks. They were our Gambino names. Where did we get the idea for Gambino names? read along...

1. The Notorious B.I.G. - Unbelievable
Primo and Biggie at their apex...so that's a dangerous combination. Definitely my favorite track off the album -- Biggie's Ready to Die, his first album and a hiphop classic -- just don't know if it was my favorite of that peiod...but one of the few trax that Chuck and I agreed on even, even if we disagreed if it was No. 1.

2. The Roots - The Lesson Pt. 1
Classic freestyle of what was, in esence, the Roots debut album, Do You Want More. Black Thought, the illest emcee of all-time, was a lunatic on this joint...but what always got everyone goin was Dice Raw's verse. I think it was because he was the same age as us and just as ill. Tony and I always thought we were the two dopest emcees, our age, in the world...but Dice was giving us a run for our money...at least freestyle-wise.
For what it's worth, this isn't in my top 3 off that album. No. 1 "Swept Away", No. 2 "Distortion of Static", No. 3 "Do You Want More". But, this might have been my favorite album of this period. The Purple Tape was obviously the best, but i think this was my favorite.

3. Raekwon - Rainy Dayz
Finally not a single. But perhaps the first album where a single wouldve been warranted. "Glaciers of Ice", "Criminology", "Incarcarated Scarfaces" -- all bangers. "Rainy Dayz" was hot, but its one of the few trax that I skip over on this album that is a Classic Among the Classics. This album is SO classic it's known simply as The Purple Tape by true hiphop headz. It's called that because niggas in the hood werent buyin CDs in 95, we still bought tapes..and Rae's tape was purple for some reason. If you had the Purple Tape (I had a dub), you were part of a fraternity.
This album was so influential on so many levels, but most importantly it spawned the whole "hiphop dudes acting like mafioso" craze. except they did dopely, whereas later reincarnations by lesser artists were contrived and pathetic. But this album dropped in the summer and had everyone's head messed up. Rae changed his name to Lex Diamonds, Ghost was now Tony Starks. Then I came to school as Vinny Dinero that September and linked up with Tony. That's how we used to do...i wouldnt see anyone from school during the Summer, so that first week we came back all we did was talk about the tapes that dropped that summer. This one, of course, was the most present on our minds.

4. Organized Konfusion - Stress
The one song that I made Chuck run from the top multiple times. And I apologized alot too. Apologized because I never gave OK the respect they deserved back then. That's the thing about 93-98 and especially 93-96, so many incredible joints used to drop all the time. so sometimes, you'd totally overlook or undermine an album that deserved your attention. This was one of them.
Plus, the way Pharoah Monch set off the second verse was downright captivating. He is perhaps the most daunting figure on the mic ever. So much weight, so much presence. He can come off deity-like at times. Because, not only was he a dope emcees, with a voice that could fill a solar system, but he was exceptionally intelligent...check how he comes in after the chorus:

Rarrrrrgh!
You will now consider me the apocalyptic one
After this rhyme, henceforth, there is none
NO more will exist,
when I emergeFrom the mist in whence I was born into, scorned

Need I go on?

Wouldn't have been in my top 5 favorite, but i think it was an excellent choice.

5. Keith Murray - The Most Beautifullest Thing in This World
This was a cool way to set off this period's list. A track I hadn't heard in a while and one that I truly loved. It was the title-track for Murray's debut album. I heard this on WBNY, the college radio station Buffalo. Every Sunday night they'd have a hiphop show. When they debuted this song I was in my room, listenin on my clock radio. I went bizerk. The E Sermon track was classic and this new dude Keith Murray had this wild, crazy rhyme style. Check how he sets it:

Y'all mythalogical niggaz is comical
The astronomical is comin through like the flu bombin you
And embalmin in your crew too
With the musical mystical magical, you know how I do
With word attack skills and vocabulary too
My rendition of this Edition is all brand New

Come on man!!! That sizzled my little 15-year-old brain at the time. I didn't necessarily wanna rhyme like that, but I definitely felt how he freaked it. Once again, this was Murray's first single and video, but I believe it was the hottest track off that album.

Honerable MentionJeru the Damaja - Come Clean
Another single from Chuck Chillout. This was off of Sun Always Rises in the East, Jeru's first album and a Classic Among the Classics. The title was so gangsta. It was basically saying, "East Coast is where the real emcees get down at". Me being an East Coast dude and generally disliking West Coast rap music, I loved dudes like Jeru, a brooklyn kat to the core.
"Come Clean" was a crazy debut. The video was grimy, real East Coast. Jeru had on his Brooklyn T-shirt. It was everything dudes in my camp loved. And Premier mixed in a loop that was supposed to resemble Chinese Torture water drops -- ingenious.
Still, i can rattle of three or four trax off this insane album (one of the 10 most well-produced hiphop albums ever) that i loved more. Especially "Static", "My Mind Spray", "D Original" and "Brookly Keeps on Takin It." In fact, "Static" may be my favorite song of this whole period.

Anyways, here's my Top from 07/94-08/95

1. Jeru the Damja - "Static"
2. Roots - "Swept Away"
3. Raekwon - "Guillotine"
4. Common - "I Used to Love Her"
5. Biggie - "Unbelievable"

Hernando County: My new hood

People driving their farm tractors on the street. Real-life poor white folk without dental plans. Black people walking the street bare-foot in a neighborhood that used to be called, "The Negro Subdivision".

My initial take coming soon...

Saying Goodbye to DC

It's a world class city and, without question, the greatest black city on the planet. I came here in 2000 looking to make things happen and I did. I grew up here, became a man.

Remembrances from my favorite city coming soon...

My Landlord Mary

Mary is a trip. A full-fledged, trip to another planet type of trip. On Mary's planet, everyone is 80 years-old, still swearing they are totally self-sufficient. On one hand it is noble that they put forth such effort to maintain their independence and, in effect, dignity. On the other hand, it';s delusional and causes other people harm, nuisance, whatever. But I love Mary. I think she's as sweet as sweet potatoe pie. However, she's not exactly my ideal landlord.

Leading up to my first visit of the crib I'm renting, something told me that all wasn;t what it seemed. No, someone told me such.

"Hello, I'm Vince and I'm calling about the two-bedroom house for rent. Is it still available?
"Hi Vince, this is Angela. Thanks for calling. Yeah, it's still available. You wanna come check it out."
"Yes, definitely. I'll be in town Wednesday and Thursday looking at some spots. Can I come see it Wednesday afternoon?"
"Sure, that's fine. But, just outta curiosity, what other places are you looking at?"
"Well I'm going to check out this two-bedroom in Weekie Wachie before I come see your place."
"Weekie Wachie, huh? What are they charging like $1,000/mo or something like that?"
"Naw. Actually, it's very reasonable. In the $700 range."
"Really? In Weekie Wachie? Well, definitely go check that out first and then if you still want to come see my place, you have my number, so just give me a call. Okay?"
"Alright. Thanks Angela. I'll see you Wednesday afternoon."

As I hung up the phone I thought to myslef, "Why is this house renting so far below what seems to be the market value?" I couldn't think of anything and, really, didn't feel like bothering to hypothesize. I just figured I'd get there and see.

As I entered the neighborhood I was stunned. The streets were wide, big front lawns emaculately manicured, tons of big, green palm trees, the houses were bright. Growing up on Butler Ave and then moving to the Strict -- these neighborhoods only existed in areas I was years away from affording. I mean, I passed a golf course at the entrance of the neighborhood.

So I drove through these winding streets and ended up in the driveway of what was to be my crib. I pulled out my cell and rang Mary. She was at her sister's house around the corner and seconds later she came rolling up in her Lincoln Town Car (classic old fogey whip). Then the door opens and out pops one leg. Then the next leg slowly appears. Then, once both feet were on the ground, both hands grip both sides of the door and Mary gathers enough energy to rise to her feet. She slammed the door and wabbled her way to me, standing at the entrance.

"Awwww man! Don't tell me this geriatric piece of work is the landlord! Am I gonna have to deal with her everytime I need something fixed? Am I going to have to wait for her to get things done or repeat myself slowly for her to understand me?" Right then and there I could see why the house had taken a while to rented. Most house I called where rented out within days of the advertisement. Mary told me that she'd been trying to rent this one out for over a month now.

As she's inching her way toward me, smiling as wide the lawn, she drops this one on me: "I know, Vince...I know. I'm slow. But this is a marked improvement! This is only my third week without my walker!"

Then I went into a six to seven-sentence remark that I thought to be charming, except it got no response, just this warning: "I couldn't hear what you were trying to say honey. I can't hear outta my right ear. So you're really gonna have to speak up. Okay?"

"NO PROBLEM MARY"

Even still, I had already fallen in love with the neighborhood, so I was definitely not against dealing with Mary to live in this hood from a different world.

But then I get hit with another setback. Mary opens the door and I'm immediately greeted by bright red carpet. RED CARPET! Now, I'm no Martha Stewart and you won't find me serving as some interior design advisor, but I have my furniture and, suffice to say, it ain't dancin with no red carpet.

Still, I'm a Glass-Full kinda nigga, so I quickly fixed my face and looked through the crib. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. Couldn't get that in DC. A big kitchen with the counter space I've always wanted to get into to some heavy-duty cooking. Bonus. Screened in patio so I can entertain, grill, whatever. Yes! Even had a lil alcove with a fireplace. Unecessary, but could come in handy when I'm whining and dining some tasty treat of a woman in January or Frebruary. The house was the jump off, but this red carpet was really digging in my crack. So I just leveld with grandma Mary.

"Mary, I love the spot. But I gotta tell ya, I don't think I could live anywhere with red carpet. I'd have to buy all new furniture."
"Huh! Come closer dear...and, and speak up!"
"YEAH. I WAS JUST SAYING THAT THE RED CARPET IS A PRETTY SERIOUS DRAWBACK. I'D HAVE TO BUY ALL NEW FURNITURE FOR THE HOUSE TO LOOK PRESENTABLE."
"Oh. Oh, I see. Well what if we went to look at some carpet together and then split the cost? Would that work for you, Dear?"
"Yeah, I guess that could work. Okay, yeah, let's do that at some point."
"Great. You're gonna love living here. The neighbors are so nice. And hey, do you play golf?"
"NO. NOT YET. BUT I HAVE BEEN MEANING TO LEARN. IT'S JUST SO EXPENSIVE."
"Oh, well don't worry about cost. The golf course at the front of the neighborhood is a public course, honey. Yeah, it's public...that means it's free. And you know what? My husband died the other year..."
"OH MARY, I'M SO SORRY TO HEAR THAT. WELL YOU'RE SPIRITS SEEM TO BE IN ORDER. THAT'S GOOD"
"Yeah, well he died the other year and you know what? I can give you his golf clubs so you can start up a new hobby. Huh? How's that? Oh you're just gonna love it here, Vince. I promise."

She was quite the saleswoman, because I believed her -- I was gonna love it here. Hernando County is no Greenwich Village or Adams Morgan or Buckhead in terms of entertainment and energy. It's not Yonkers or Hyattsville or Stone Mountain in terms of a relatively close proximity to city life and ebullience. Hernando is the straight up Burbs...better yet, I'd even call it the sticks. I mean, I'm 40 minutes from Tampa, an hour from St. Pete and an hour from Orlando...that's not exactly being in the thick of things. So, if you're gonna be way out there, why not live in a beautiful neighborhood and a spacious crib. I had found that, at a dumb low renting price. Rents in the $700s won't get you a bed and toilet in DC, so let's not even talk NYC.

Still, I had plenty of reservations. I was praying that Mary just owned the property, but had someone else do the work.

Nope.

"So Vince, you should probably get the water turned on as soon as possible so I can get in here and get everything nice and clean for you." There it was. My worse nightmare: A do-it-herself-geezer. Noble? Yes. Practical? Nope.

"OH? YOU'RE GONNA CLEAN MARY? I'D THINK YOU'D MIGHT HIRE SOMEONE TO DO THAT FOR YOU. YA KNOW?"
"Oh no. Honey, too expensive. Plus, I'm really good at it. Been cleaning my own homes for over 70 years, honey." I knew it! She was a frugal ol' bitty. Oh well, I thought I would wait to see how she did and try to suspend my agism for a couple weeks.

Another thing was getting me too, though. The crib had an 'old smell' to it. A couple weeks later, Pops would tell me, "Nigga please. You trippin Vince. I don't smell no 'old smell' or whatever you're talkin about. It's probably your breath." I don't care though. I smelled it that first day and smelled it when me and Pops moved my stuff in. So, I asked Mary if she could get someone to shampoo the carpets.

"Oh sure, Vince. I have a shampooer at home."
"OH, YOU'RE GONNA DO IT?"
"Sure, Honey. As soon as you get the electricity turned on, I'll get right on it. It'll definitely freshen somethings up. Right?"
"RIGHT."

The following week, Pops and I had to install the garage lock. Apparently Mary and her girlfriend Grace, an 4 foot-nothin, 80-something piece-of-work, had tried to install the lock themselves and F'd everything up because they had the wrong lock. So the day Pops and I are moving in, here comes Mary and Grace with a new lock.

"Here, Honey. See if you and Dad can make this work. Grace and I tried, but we had the wrong dang lock! Ha! Can you believe it?" I was thinking, "Of course I can you old coot. Just like I'm sure you put you're bloomers on backwards too, you old dust-fart."

I could tell that the one year relationship was gonna try my patience. But the fact remained, I was willing to deal with Mary. I liked the crib that much.

Plus, Mary really likes me. I'm rarely Vince, mostly Honey, Dear, Sweetie -- occassionally Son. I don't mind it. In fact, I like it. I must say, she's an endearing woman. And she's accomodating, too.

Just the other day she stopped by to check on some things we needed to take care of. She also inquired how I was getting along. I said I was doing fine.

"That's great. And you know what, I'm gonna show all my friends your stories in the newspaper. Oh, I just love the Times. It's the best dang paper around. Everytime I see your name I'm gonna say, 'Look everyone, that's my guy!'
Oh you're just gonna love it here. And who knows. Maybe you might find a nice young lady to keep you company. Huh, Dear? Yeah, then you won't be so lonely. See ya, Honey."

As always, greased again.

If Time was god, Vince would be an agnostic

I have never EVER moved under smooth, non-stressful, non-frustrating circumstances. NEVER. It just doesn't go that way for me. And the sad thing is, I've moved about six times in the past five years.

This was supposed to be the easy move. St. Pete was cuttin me a big check, I could get movers, take a leisurely drive down to Florida and max-out. But nothing ever goes right for me. Sometimes I think that these situations are punishment for my lack of preparation, disregard for punctuality, irresponsibility and general hubris...it's like someone, maybe God, is saying: "Vince, you somehow manage to achieve pretty much everything you set out on, despite a total lack of regard for time, money, people and life; so I'm gonna make big things -- getting a job, moving, meeting women -- extremely tedious and spirit-dampering."

And it's cool. I deserve it. No one will admit faster than I will that I often meet some of my teenage behavior with a shrug of my shoulders and that I should pay for it sometimes. So, I'm getting what I deserve right now -- a money sapping, nerve-getting-on relocation...this of course copming right on top of three months of on-n-off temp assignments with responsibilities that included answering phones, filing, cleaning Excel databases and being an office schlub (which is why I really relate to Six Feet's Claire).

From Buff to the Strict
This all started back in 2000 -- my first move.

(Note: this is not my five-year retrospect, but -- with the way I'm feeling and with how long I'll likely be waiting for these movers -- it could easily spiral into a similar ramble.)

That move sucked moldy limes. Primarily because I had not worked the two prior months and I was moving to DC without a gig -- just a mission. All I had was a couple hundred in the bank and some nearly-maxed credit cards, which is why I now have the credit score of a credit-fraud felon.

But see, that's the thing...I'm such a believer in my motto, "if you wait for perfect circumstances to present themselves, you'll wait forever", that I usually "just do it" (fix your face and just give me that last cliche). And, although this mantra is responsible for most of my success thus far, it's rooted in and facilitated by my conspicuous character flaws: a tendency to blur fantasy and reality, trivializing what could be dire consequences, delusions of granduer. So moving to DC with no money and no job, just a mission and a plan, was me developing my life's gangsta without too much concern for whatever hardship I'd suffer in the process. So the stuff I went through during the move was charged to the game, if you will.

The drive from Buff to the Strict was cool, but once I got there the drama began. My asthma is triggered by three things: allergies, weather change and stress. So of course I was experiencing all three. Pollen is straight bananannanananas in July down in DC! Coconuts even! Plus, I was coming from cold and dry Buff to dumb-hot-n-humid DC. And then, of course, there was the fact that I had no money, no job and no car.

Yesss!

All of this had my chest heaving. It was so bad that I couldn't even move my used furniture into my un-air conditioned apartment. Nope. Mom had to take me to the hospital to get my asthma treated, while Pops and Priscilla moved my used furniture into my un-airconditioned apartment.

That move set off a summer that I'll never forget. It was a struggle. Not a "my poor college days" struggle, but a no-electricty, no bus fare, no food money, allergies and asthma with no health insurance type struggle. But more on that in the five-year retrospect.

From the Burg to the Ville
My next move was to change apartments. By now i was makin dough and it was time to step it up. Time to get me some air conditioning, a dishwasher and room to actually walk around.

No extreme hardship this time, but there were monkey wrenches flying all over, begginning with the fact that I had no help. See, when I moved to DC I wanted to establish some lasting friendships with the dudes in my congregation. It was hard though. Unlike my dudes I grew up with and many of the kats we met in our travels to other places; me and the kats in my congregation didn't have much in common, as far as likes/dislikes and the way we view things. Sure, our faith was a huge commonality, but you're not bossom buddies with every member of your congregation just because you serve the same God and share like morals -- it just doesn't work that way.

So after a year, I thought I'd throw this befriending quest into overdrive. I could'e called Tony, Chuck, G, Trav, Claudy and been good. They'd have come through and I'd have been moved in a jiffy. I'd decided to by new furniture, silverware, decorations, etc. once I moved, so I wasn't moving a ton of stuff. But instead of calling on the fellas, I thought I'd ask some of my spiritual brothers to come hold the dude Vince down -- ya know, some good ol' male bonding.

Nope.

Only my man Luther showed up. The rest of them flaked. Figured.

But looking back, maybe it waswn't them...maybe it was punishment. I mean, these dudes weren't generally flaky...I, however, tend to flake often. I put zero planning into the move -- even stayed out till almost sunrise that previous night. Who stays out till 4am partying when they have to move the next day? Apparently an idiot like myself. Not only that, but I barely packed. For some reason I thought I could just get all this together in a couple hours, which speaks to how oblivious I am of time. I just don't get the whole (Farley air quotes) "Time thing" and puncuality is even further lost on me.

So as a just punishment, only Luther showed up. I called kats on their phones...no answer. Left messages...no callbacks. So it was just me and my man Lu. And we had to make an insane amount of trips up and down the steps since I ran out of boxes and had to resort to plastic grocery bags.

Lu was cool about it though. Never complained once.

So I was cool for about three years at my spot in the Plaza Towers. Sure my neighbors called the cops on me at least once a month because I was blasting my muzak, with my windows open at 3am. And sure, the Fire Marshall paid me a visit when my Pops was bbqing steaks on my balcony...but anal neighbors and bored Fire Marshalls wouldn't push me to move...not w/ my penchant for moving debacles.

But then it happened. I graduated from the mighty HU in 2004 and went to spend a summer in Atlanta, interning with the AJC.

Would I learn from past mistakes? Of course not.

Chocolate City to Hotlanta
Instead of saving money for my relocation, I threw a graduation party at H20, the livest spot in DC on a Saturday. Fam and friends came. I had the VIP tables, we were poppin bottles -- I was Puff for the night. And that's so me -- an entertainment glutton. So after I gorged on fun, I was left with an arduous task: get all your furniture into storage, get an apartment in Atlanta and get Jada in shape so she could get you down to Atlanta. And do all this on a budget...in a week...with family still visiting and staying in your apartment.

Like a true Vince, I managed to wait less than a month before moving before I found a spot in Atl. By that time, I was used to living alone (I'd been doing so for four years), so I didn't want a roomate -- especially not a craiglist roomate. For all I know, "Sean" could be some horny gay dude that cooks in the nude or "Frank" could be some slovent good ol' boy that plays a banjo while he pinches loafs on the porcelain or "Greg" could be some Ja Rule listenin dimwit that says 'shawtay' too much and has dude at the spot playing some dumb EASport game till 5am every morning. I just wasn't ready for that. Thankfully, I had fam in Atlanta and my Aunt Janet hooked me with a duplex in Stone Mountain. A friend of hers owned it and it was right around the corner from her Bed n Breakfast. She was even gonna give me a couch and bed to use for the summer. I was hook'd. Maybe things wouldn't go awry this time. Yeah, my money was little funny after the H20 ballin, but it wasn't hysterical. I could do this.

At first things were going well. Jada required minor work. My brothers from the congregation came through and were ready to help me move into storage. I was cool.

But that stupid abstract thing we call "Time" was bothering me again. Time kept pestering me about being "Conscientious".

So naturally, I sat around twiddling my thumbs and cuffing my bozak for the whole week and decided to just start packing the night before the Brothers arrived to help me move. So of course we were waiting around when it was time to roll. We didn't even get a chance to unload all of my furniture or grab everything from apartment, since the storage spot closed at 9p.

Now, I had to park the UHAUL in my parking lot and retire for the night, and prepare to knock out the rest of the unloading the following morning. For some reason though, I had to get something out of the truck, so I went out to the parking and immediately noticed that it was gone. GONE! The first thing that popped in mind was the towing company. They were notorious. Tenants swapped tall-tales like how they'd seen some of the tow workers jimmy locks and steal parking passes so that they could towe the car away.

To this day I'm convinced that's what they did to me. It was probably that brick-brown toothed, lil midget nigga that used to hop around the parking lot and clap his hands together when he saw a car without a parking sticker or visitor's pass. See, these dudes got percentages of each car they brought in, so they'd go to criminal lengths to get a car off the lot. Pops got towed once while visiting me. He thinks they even have some down-low contracts with the receptionists, so that they'll turn blind eyes to obvious violations.

This one was obvious. The license plate of the UHAUL was in the Vistors book, the lil chicken-head broad knew she had just issued me a pass, too. AND she knew I was moving south to Atlanta. So why would they towe the truck?

$750. That's why. I had to drop $750 to get my ish back and put further behind the eightball. And to make matters WORSE I had totally ignored my internship advisors several requests for me to get a urine test. I guess I thought, because I was Vince, she'd just wave that requirement. She didn't. So while everyone else started Monday, I started Tuesday. Matter fact, Greta called me Monday afternoon, like "OK Vince, your tests came back fine. So we'll see you tomorrow." I think she thought I was already settled in Georgia. I wasn't. I was watching the Sopranos on my boy Mike's couch in DC.

So I had to drive all night and battle rush-hour morning traffic to get towork in time. Plus, I spent the first week crashing on my cousin's couch, waiting to recoup some money to use as a down-payment on the spot I rented for the summer.

When I finally moved in, I was mad at the world. Especially my mother, who chose to call me three times/day, when I told her I'd be in no mood to talk after the move. She even got melodramatic and called the Post to see if anyone kinew of my "whereabouts". She's priceless.

From Atl back to DC
My plan in Atlanta was to either try to get hired there or somehwere else. I wanted to go from my internship to a permanent gig. Didn;t work that way, though.

No problem, I thought. I'd head home and crash on my man Mike's couch for a few weeks or a couple months, at the most, while I scored a gig. No biggie right? I'd done the same for Mike. He styaed with me for about four months when he moved from LI to DC. He'd have no problem returning the favor right? Wrong. My nigga kinda greased me. He had me leaving multiple messages on his phone for more than a week and then chose to call me back the morning I was supposed to arrive. I was in, like, Richmond! It was all good though, he was going through some stuff and probably wanted to be left alone while he simmered and I can definitely understand that. So I just headed for the fellas pad, knowing they had a couch with my name on it.

But let's rewind for a moment. I was coming home the same week that the UNITY conference was going on in DC. UNITY is when the Asian, Black, Hispanic and El Salvadorian journalist associations hold their conferences in unison. It's huge. And the Job Fair is even more hugerer! So I shouldve been there as many days as possible. Instead, I was in Atlanta saying dumb goodbyes and, once again, starting on the road in the evening, driving through the night and getting to DC that morning. Having been up for about 40 hours, I showered, put on a suit and headed the conference with about 30 minutes left for that day's Job Fair.

I didn't land a job that weekend.

DC to St. Pete
Like I said before, this move was supposed to be the smooth one. But come on now! I'm dealing with me, Twist. I just don't do easy.

Details tomorrow...I'm exhausted...

I'm irritated

Not really in the mood to get into any writing or rambling today. Movers are still not here and my day is slowly dwindling away. Plus, everytime I turn around I'm spending stupid amounts of dough to make this move happen...and not all of it is covered with my relocation funds.

If anything can irritate me and render insufferable, it's spending money I really don't have. I'm teetering on becoming that person soon.

With that said, last week was a good week, including getting a chance to see some live music Friday.

I'll share tomorrow, hopefully in better spirits.

V, where you been at?

I been in Florida lookin for a crib (heading back to DC today). Mission accomplished, too. Found a nice spot, but as with everything, it's not perfect.

Plenty details to come though. Hernando County is like nothing I've ever experienced. I've got stories, I've got fears, I've got hopes...did I say I've got stories? 'Cause I do.

A torrent of blog posts comin soon...keep checkin over the weekend.

Mo Betta Blogs

Not working today. But Gee's girlfriend, Elena (very good people), is in town this week, so I can't just prop myself in his room and blog for eight hours...which, I guess, is a good thing. This way, this post will be long, but irritatingly long.

Two things on my mind this morning...

-- I taught Gee how to make chicken parmesian last night. Gee, if you can remember from I'm Not a Short Order Cook, Gerald is the dude that has the picky and annoyingly random eating habits of a seven-year-old boy with ADD. The guy that hates tomatoes and ketchup, but eats spaghetti 321 days out of the year. But the thing is, he makes an ill spaghetti sauce. He's not the greatest cook, but what he does cook, he cooks well.

Well a couple years ago my lil sis was in town and I threw a lil dinner party for the crew and I prepared some chicken parm. As my godfather, Emeril, says: "I kicked it up a notch". Like a true fat person, I did it big, I stacked the chicken cutlets and sandwiched three cheeses in between each stack. It turned out well. No one was able to finish the jabba-like portions I served, besides Gee, who hasn't gained weight since he was 12 even though he gorges -- huge mounds of spaghetti, 3-4 tuna sandwiches stacked like the Dagwood comic. Since then he said he wanted to learn how to make it.

So we set up shop yesterday evening and he did a magnificent job. It took us a while, but it turned out delicious and I think homeboy deserves some kudos.

Charles, of course, sat down like an ungrateful husband and gave us a laundry list of problems with the dish. Which is fairly hilarious since Chuck, if you remember from the Short Order Cook blog, is the man that put adobo on a turkey sandwhich and once asked me no fewer then 10 questions about how to cook an italian sausage on the stove top.

One things for sure: although I already know I'm gonna miss my niggas here in the Strict and I welcome, with all my might, finally living alone again -- Chuck and Gee as landlords has produced some classic moments. Maybe not Rich McKay moments (my landlord in Orlando), but classic nonethless.

-- This brings me to the second thing I've been pondering this morning. Florida real-estate is DUMB cheap. Especially when you get away from the city. I'm gonna be in Florida tomorrow-Friday looking at some places to stay and my research tells me that I'll be able to rent a 2-bedroom, 2-bath, one-car garage crib for $700 or less. WTF?! That's insane. $700 gets you a crumby studio with roaches and rats here in Strict metro-area.

But the thought of having a crib, not an apartment is rather exciting. I'll have a yard to barbeque in. A nice-size kitchen to cook in. A second room that'll be my office/guest room. I'll miss the city and would much rather pay the extra dough and live in Tampa, but I'm somewhat looking forward to the change of pace and, more particularly, the change of space.

Jazz and Boxing

I decided to save my job search retrospect until I get to Florida and have that moment where it hits me and I really reflect. So no short novel on my last five years yet...but it's coming.

Meanwhile, some quick thoughts on a couple things.

-- Boxing may soon overtake football as my second favorite sport. As a houseguest of two boxing fanatics, their zeal for the sport has finally rubbed off on me. I realized how invested I had become when I had watched the Corrales/Castillo and Mayweather/Gatti fights for at least the 5th time each when we played them for my man Tony after Saturday's Hopkins/Taylor tragedy...well, maybe not tragedy, but at least surprise.

I don't think I'll ever be as rabid as Chuck, who was yelling at the top of his lungs, barking out instructions for Taylor, like he wasn't in DC and Taylor wasn't in Vegas...or better yet, like Taylor wasn't an image on the screen. There was one moment when Chuck started jumping up-n-down like an angry Rumplestilskin. This is all, of course, why I love him. But even if my fandom never reaches that level, I'm doing my knowledge on the weight class rankings.

It's kind of exhilirating, too. I haven't formed a new attachment to a sport since I started getting into baseball when I was a pre-teen...basketball, football, tennis -- I was up on those since I can remember. Matter fact, Tony even expressed some surprise that I wasn't up on boxing, since I'm the Sports Dude and all. The thing is, we never had the premium channels when I was young. I mean, we didn't cable until I was maybe 10 or 11. But we never had Showtime and HBO. My parents didn't want us having access to some of the adult-themed entertainment, like Real Sex...and I don't blame them. Anyways, without Showtime and HBO, I was never able to see these fights...so I grew up missing out on the Holyfields, Bowes, Sweet Pees. I didn't even see Hagler-Hearns until I was in the 8th grade. I missed out. Now though, there a re a slew of great young kats out there gettin down, Floyd especially, and I'm totally crushing on the sport right now.

-- I went to go see my man Nic Payton at the Blues Alley yesterday. My man Vino is probably the only that reads this blogs who knows about Nic Payton or cares that I went to see him, but leaving the show I thought of two things. For those that don't know, Nic is the dopest jazz trumpeter on the scene right now. He's from New Orleans so he has a strong base in jazz tradition, but he's a hip nigga, so he's trying as hard as he can to take the music forward.

But that's it...one of the things that had me bugging is the fact that he has no recording home right now. We kicked it after the show because I wanna write a piece on him for DownBeat or JazzTimes and in the midst of our conversation he dropped the "you know Warners dropped me right?" bomb on me. You? Nic Payton? Grammy winner? Leader of the new school? A cat so gangsta and so creative that when recording Sonic Trance you had the balls and wherewithall to say, "everytime I heard the bass start walking, we would stop and do another take. I was trying NOT to swing"? For this kat not to have a recording contract is sick. Nic tells me that there are only two labels left that still produce jazz artists. All other artists are coming out on indie labels. But jazz indie labels are MUCH different than, say, a hiphop indie label. There is no built in fanbase that checks for jazz, you can't sell a jazz CD out of your trunk...and u don't have crew members with fat, drug-money pockets. So driving home last night, I actually got a little teary eyed. I was playing Trance and had a particularly mesmorizing track, Seance (Romantic Reprise) on repeat...and there's a moment in the song where they keep repeating the head and with the repitition, the intensity builds until its just bubbling over the lip of the pot. Well I'm at a redlight, with the music blaring and I kept on recalling Nic's facial expression and tone of voice during our conversation...it wasn't quite despair, but it was dissapointment...and I felt so sorry for my brother. In addition to the sympathetic feelings, I was overcome with despair myself. I think we're at a point where jazz will revert back to the early 20th century, where you never get recorded (so no one will get to hear Marcus Gilmore, Nic's new 18-year-old drum phenom, in his formative years like we got to hear young, frisky Tony Williams when Miles snatched him out of the high school graduation ceremony), you just travel from club to club doing shows.

That made me even more anxious, because I'm leaving the Strict, where we have five jazz clubs that attract everyone I wanna see; and I'm headed back to hillbilly Florida, which is a jazz wasteland. This means that everytime I wanna see Nic or Kenny Garrett, I'm gonna have to hop on a plane. This has really got me depressed.

I really wanna get into the state of the jazz recording industry when I hook up with Nic for the story.

Back to Florida

It's official -- I accepted the position at the St. Pete Times.

Details to come...

Operation Getagig

Got a job offer from the St. Petersburg Times yesterday people! So I officially have job.

If you don't know, St. Pete is Florida's largest and most prestigious newspaper, covering St. Pete/Tampa/Clearwater.

I didn't officially accept the job because I'm also waiting to hear back from the Westchester Journal News, a smaller paper that covers Westchester County (White Plains, Yonkers (Lox), Money Earnin' Mount Vernon (Heavy D, Pete Rock)) and NYC.

We'll how things shake out.

But the days of blogging and answering phones for a living are sadly coming to a close soon.

Details to come...

A plane ride with Mr. America

I had the worse plane ride ever. It wasn't because it was a particularly bumpy ride. I didn't have some fat tub o' lard sweating on me in the seat beside me. There were no crying babies. None of that.

It was a spacious flight -- about 40 passengers on a 140-passenger plane -- it was fairly quiet and a relatively smooth ride.

But I was sitting in the Emergency Exit row, which attracted the biggest idiot ever.

There are things in this world I hate. They range from the nefarious: murderers, pedaphiles, Southerners; to the trivial: bad blue cheese, people that chew with their mouths open, the fact that I can't dunk.

Somewhere between those two extremes, on a scale tilting toward the wicked side, are super-duper-extra-nationalistic Americans. They get under my skin like nothing else. They're so blind, so closeminded, so arrogant, so stupid. The Big Ugly American is worse than any other country's steroetypical citizen -- even the Snobbish Parisian, the Brit with teeth that look like peanut-brittle or the Smelly African.

Me, being a black man and Jehovah's Witness that doesn't entirely promote or support many things American (like many of this country's blind faithful), the super-duper-extra-nationalistic American tortures me.

So wouldn't it be so appropriate for one of those people to sit next to me on a 2-hour flight.

And this dude was the pennacle. He was Mr. America.

Mr. America's Here
I was exhausted when I arrived to the airport, thanks to two days of interviewing with the St. Petersburg Times. I was up at 8am each day and repeating the same stories to multiple people for at least 7-8 hours each day. It was a welcomed chore, but tiring none the less. All I wanted to do was get on the plane, zonk, get home and watch all the HBO i missed over the weekend.

I flew Southwest and Southwest doesn't have prearranged seats. As most of you know, the early check-ins get a ticket with an A on it...which means you get seated first. Usually, I'm like a ZZYXZYZ, since I'm checking in 30 minutes before take-off. But this time I got the ticket with an A on it, since I was dropped off early.

So, I strolled on to the plane and headed straight for the Emergency Exit row, so I could stretch out and close my eyes. But, here comes Mr. America before I could even get situated.

Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem. There's a seat between us, so I could stretch out and sleep, read my Esquire, look out the window...whatever..and the other passenger could do his/her thing.

But, I knew Mr. America was gonna be a problem the second I saw him.

Maybe you don't like being prejudice and stereotyping people, but I do. So I was automatically thinking Mr. America when I saw: RayBan sunglasses, orangey-bronzed skin, Coors tank-top, cargo shorts, Cape Cod baseball cap, flipflops with no socks. Just like I'm sure he saw me in a shirt and tie and thought, "He must be one of the good ones."

True to form he was American in every way. America has this thing about her where she lets the world know that she's here and there. She can't help it. Whether it's occupying military, McDonalds or hiphop music -- America's presence is felt...sometimes it is welcomed, other times it is forced, but it's there. She comes banging in a country, smiling with a huge GAP between her teeth, often not even aware that she's "making an entrance."

Mr. America was no different. He didn't just sit in his seat. He PLOPPED down his seat so hard that his peticured feet flew off the floor due to inertia. The he slammed his feet on the floor, let out a sigh, smiled and looked sideways in both directions. I wasn't scowling at this point...but I wasn't exactly smiling.

"Hey dude. What's up? Looks like we got the primers!"

The primers? Oh he meant prime seats.

"Yeah. Gotta go for the leg room."

After that I quickly stuffed my face back in my magazine, hoping he wouldn't continue the conversation. Miraculously he didn't. But what came next let me know that I was dealing with a hardcore Mr. America.

Mr. America LOVES His Country
Moments later the flight-attendant came over to do the whole Emergency Exit routine. You know: are you capable ad willing to do blah blah blah in the event of a yada yada yada?

"Yeah, why not?! I'd do anything for my country!" He was dead serious, too. He even asked her to repeat the instructions again. I gave her a 'Yes' and not much else. Mr. America must've thought I was being a little to nonchalante for his liking, so he taps me on my shoulder and said, "So, I guess it's you and me brotha! Don't worry, we're big guys. We got it covered. I dare someone to F#$% with this plane on my watch. I was a hero on the football field and I'll be a hero in the skies. Hahaha, Yeah!"

I don't know what I did afterward, but it is entirely possible that I was shaking my head in disbelief and wincing, without even knowing it.

So we take off and Mr. America has managed to get an older man involved in some conversation about pilots. I don't know if the subject was airplan pilots, stove pilots, Stone Temple Pilots or UPN sitcom pilots -- I just kept hearing pilots. And he was leaning all the way over the arm of his chair so that his posterior was hiked in the air like he was gettin it in jail. Plus, he laughed a couple times, sending his body into convulsions, each time inching his cargo shorts further up his gorilla-hairy thighs.

Of course, when he sat back down, he did it with a thud.

After some time, I was ready to get some sleep. So I pulled my hood over my eyes and tried to zone out. All of sudden, "WOP!" Mr. America slams the middle seat tray down. It hit my leg, which was sitting a little high since i had propped my feet up. He was totally oblivious of where he was or what he had done, so he didn't apologize and I just set my feel on the floor, repositioned myself in the chair and ignored it.

That is, until he slams his super-super-extra-huge laptop on his own tray (the middle tray must be what he plans to use for his drink and snack), rustles theough his bag and pulls out earphones the size of them huge joints my father used to listen to John McLaughlin and Mahivishnu Orchestra on. It seemed like he was getting ready to watch a movie. And he was. So, he slips the DVD in the disc drive and I see a black background with a globe spinning clockwise with UNIVERSAL imposed on it. What would Mr. America be watching?

What A Cliche
My mind was racing through every stereotypical americanjacka$$ film ever produced. Which would it be?

He didn't dissapoint. It was "First Blood", better known as "Rambo"...RAMBO?!...how appropriate was that? I almsot sharted.

The only thing that would've made that moment better was if he'd have popped in a Sally Field's Lifetime movie or a Julia Roberts flick. Or something very dramatic like "Schindler's List" or "The Hours".

Mr. America actually made me smile with that one. It was such an americanjacka$$ move.

As a matter of fact, GQ ran a piece last year about American Jacka$$es. Here's an excerpt:

"You know who they are. Every city America has them. Maybe you are friends with one. Maybe you are one. Maybe we’re one. Some nights we definately are. Jackasses.

We’re not talking about Johnny Knoxville and his skateboards ruffians. We’re talking about real Jackasses-the kind of guys who think nothing of bellying up for a $14 cocktail, a $75 seafood grand plateau (actual value of seafood: $9), or throwing down the platinum Amex for the spontaneous $13,000 weekend in Vegas. They wax their hair, wax their chests, and throw down $2,000 a night for that stretch Hummer you wonder who the hell ever rents. They helicopter to the Hamptons, hit the dance floor even if they can’t dance, and swing form the back tees at the golf, even if they’ve only played three time in their entire lives. And they enjoy every second of it...when going out always a striped dress shirt. Always untucked"...college breeding grounds for the jackass ass..."cornell, michigan, tulane, duke, american, usc, miami, arizona, dartmouth, penn and any state college--especially wisconsin."

Mr. America was that dude.

He was also very hungry, apparently. Because, when the flight-attendant stopped at our row she handed me a bag of Chex Mix and a bag of peanuts and then handed Mr. America the same, then started to head to the next row, only to be yanked by the elbow. Mr. America wanted some more peanuts, so she gave him about five extra bags. He piles his stuff on his side of the middle tray, I put my two bags on the other side. A couple minutes later, I go for my two bags and Mr. America flinches and hovers his left hand over his stack of goodies. I guess he thought I was gona get him for one of his bags of peanuts, so he automatically went to protect his next. He knew that was the most sophomoric and childish move ever, so he sort of frowned and readjusted his hat.

However, as enthralled as i was with how cliche' this dude was, I was that much more exhausted. So I slipped back into some Zs. I awoke unassisted about 45 minutes later.

The first thing I noticed was that my peanuts dissapeared. I kid you not. So I quickly glanced over at Mr. America, just as he was sliding a bag of peanuts back over to my side.

"Dude, my bad," he said with an embarrassed smile. "I thought you were KO'd for the flight and I needed some munch, so..."

"Nah, it's OK man. Here, you can have em. I'm not a big fan of airline peanuts anyway. I'm a honey-roasted fan and these are the plain kind. Go 'head."

"Awesome!"

Meanwhile, as I glanced over at his 70-inch screen, it seemed that he had finished Rambo in less than an hour and moved on to another flick. Apparently, he must've skipped the scenes with dialogue and storyline progression and hopped from punch to explosion to machine gun gundowns...and so on. So, having had his fill of violence, he was onto...

"Tits."

That's what he said, at a barely audible level, several times. It was his knee-jerk reaction everytime Halle Berry was on the screen in that James Bond flick, "Die Another Day."

"Tits...Jezus effing Crist, look at those!" That's what he said, in an undertone to himself, when Halle had on the slinky gown in one scene. I didn;t wake up in time for him to see her get out of the ocean, in that two-piece, water cascading down that oh-so-sweet figure, but I imagine his reaction was something like, "Tits...Twix-n-Snickers I'd like to melt that chocolate!"

He didn't know I was watching him watch Halle, but he had that look in his eyes. That wanderlust look. White men would peer at black women like that back in the day on the plantation and them bring them in the house and masturbate inside of them. It's a unique look: one-half awe, the other half carnal/animal lust.

One time, his upper lip actually quivered, he was in heat.

Rough Landing
Finally, we were nearing BWI and it was time to land. But, somehow, I had managed to fall back asleep.

That's when someone yanks the tip of my hood. I awoke with a perturbed scowl, flipped my hood back and saw a wide-eyed Mr. America leaning over to tell me that the pilot got on the speaker and said we were going to have a rough landing and everybody should stay clam. The pilot was right, though. The air was very choppy and the descent into Baltimore was a little topsy-turvy. The pilot, however, managed to land the plane on the ground as smooth a Freddy jackson tune. This prompted the flight-attendant to ask the passengers, "What do we think about that landing folk?" So we clapped, a couple people yelped -- we appreciated the pilot's skills.

Mr. America took it too the next level, as always. He got all gung-ho America on us.

This was, perhaps, his last time to show his fellow passengers how much he loved being an American.

"Woohoo! I love this country! Did you see that landing?!"

Then he looked at me, actually put up his hand for a high-five. I reluctantly obliged, blushing becuase I was so embarrassed for him.

"Dude. I don't care what anyone says about the US. Best beer, best chicks, best pilots!"

One question.

A Mexican, not a Niggra, stole my cell phone

You all know I am probably the most pathetic idiot to walk the face of the earth, especially when it comes to keeping track and taking care of my belongings. Just last night, Jada almost ran out of gas on the 495 as I was driving back from BWI airport...why? Because I treat her like a two-bit whore...but she was a gangsta and got us to an Exxon.

Along those lines, I lost my phone Friday night. I was at BarNun w/ some friends and my visiting sisters and lil cousin. Anyways, I hate things in my pocket...really, I hate it. Bulky keys, phones, wallets, even my hands. (I used to hate thick wads of money in my pocket, but I haven't had to be bothered with that since I left AF&PA a couple years back.) So, because of my aversion to keeping things in my pocket and because I can't carry a purse, I tend to set valuable things (cellphones, keys, wallets) on table tops...regardless of where I'm at.

Well, Friday night I was at BarNun and it was no different. I sat down and set my cellphone on the lil table in front of the seats/couch we were sitting at. Now, immediately, everyone started calling me names and scowling at how irresponsible that was (which is why I often leave my cell at home or in a car, because I don't want to be bothered with looking after it or people calling me an idiot and raising their hand like they're going slap me when i set it on the table). But as usual, I didn;'t care what everyone was saying and even secretly expected my more responsible friends and family members to look after my phone for me (as they usually do).

Chuck was was the first to mind the phone for me. We left the laid-back upstairs lounge for the loud and "crunk" downstairs, but as I was headed for the stairs, they played "I Love Every Little Thing About You", one of my favorite Stevie's, so I took a seat and decided to stay until the end...moments later, Chuck hands me my phone...if he didn't, I was sure to lose it.

Downstairs, I set it on another table. The difference with the downstairs situation is that we had a Mexican busboy that was obviously a klepto.
This Mexican stole three shots off our table. THREE!!!

Lyd had bought a round of shots, but just as we were about to indulge, Amerie came on...so the girls jetted for the floor (as women do).

Meanwhile, Chuck, G and I are engulfed in some argument and here comes the Mexican clearing the table like a diabolical streetsweeper in a PIXAR flick. Hector is just goin to town on the table. And you know Mexicans love their tequila (even though it wasn't tequila...but I don't think Vasquez knew that.).

So the girls get back and its time to do this shot thing...only three of them don't have shots (I think I was holding mine, otherwise Hernandez would've got me too). Needless to say, they were mad and Lydia immediately began her NYC-"irritated with immigrants" diatribe.

Fast forward...

About an hour later, Chuck and G are getting ready to leave, so they're saying their goodbyes out near the dance floor. I swing over there for a minute, too.

When I get back...my cell phone is GONE! Now, this is no high-tech cell we're talking about here. It's beat up, held together by tape, it's a piece of trash. But if you have family in Manzanillo, it'll do the trick. So Miguel probably came through, streetsweepin, saw the cell and ganked me.

Security, bartenders, no one located a lost cell...that's because Hector had it in the cleaning closet, kockin over PineSol becuase he was gonna get a chance to call Maria for the first time in months.

That night, I didn;t wanna report it stolen because I was holding out slim hope that someone put it in their purse and forgot about it, etc. But the next day i called Verizon and someone had made a call that morning. They couldn;'t tell me to where, but it was probably to Acapulco.
I took that as a cue to discontinue the service.

But the thing was, I NEEDED a phone. I was going to Florida for an interview the next day and couldn't afford to be uncontactable (new word. and what?). Waiting for Verizon insurance to send a phone wouldve taken too long. So I decided to switch to sprint (same number obviously), but didn;t really have the extra dough (not even $50) to get a halfway decent phone. So I had to settle for the free joint...some rinky-dink piece of shish that makes stupid sounds when you flip it open and close it...stuff my mother would like.

Needless to say, I need numbers since I no longer have my phone book, so email me your stats (home, cell, work) when u get a chance.

Orange Alerts on the train...

Yo: just heard that there is an Orange alert for mass transit systems in Boston, NYC, DC, Atlanta and Miami.

I'm watching CNN right now and they're showing bomb-sniffing dogs patroling the DC stations.

So please, all my family and friends in each of those cities, please be careful. I was gonna have P and Reese on the train today, but we might do the car thing and deal with parking instead. Everyone else be safe on their commutes home.

Tragedy in London

When I began this blog thang I told myself that I wouldn't use it as a some religious pulpit. Maybe a social pulpit, culture pulpit or self-prmotion pulpit -- but I wasn't gonna be doing too much talk about Jehovah. Besides, what dignity, respect and weight would be ascribing God if I wrote some sermon and then two posts down someone's reading about Bobby and Whitney or how I was up all night partying. Then too, we have a variety of people that visit this blog: atheists, agnostics, Muslims, Methodists, Baptists, Jehovah's Witnesses -- even a couple of them Science People. But ultimately, I just don't feel this is the proper forum -- in fact, I know it isn't.

Still, on days like today, it's hard. When savage attacks kill unsuspecting, innocent people...I mean, all I can think about is Jehovah and humankinds relationship with him.

The only reason I am not overwhelmed with crippling despair is because of m relationship with God. Otherwise...I mean, I don't know.

Because, where does this end? Who's right?

Really...who's right? I know bombing trains during rush hour isn't right. But I'm just as convinced that Western Ideology isn't necessarily right?

So what are people trusting in at this point?

The people that committ these attacks have a sincere, all-encompassing belief in what they're about. I could never understand or even begin to explain how they can reconcile the things they do to innocent people...but I can understand them feeling that this is the most focused way to "injure" the Western World...since a traditional war would leave them at a serious disadvantage.

I also can understand the West's belief in what their doing and the nobleness of democracy and so forth and so on...but I cannot understand and hate the West's imperial ways and the immoral base that, I think, motors their MO.

Without being a sympathizer, I feel sorry for Al Quaeda and other groups. I really do. I feel sorry that they think this is what they have to do. Because I also think that if they were the World Superpower they'd influence the world's agenda and carryout their missions the same way America does...and don't think that some crazy Americans wouldn't handle their biz like the terrorists if the shoe was on the other foot.

So at the end of the day that's what I'm left with: two sides, diametrically opposed that seemed intent on fighting until one or the other wins a dirty contest. But can one side actually win? Will one side ever concede defeat and/or will one side ever be satisfied enough with conditions to consider it a victory?

Don't tell me that regime change or leader shuffling will solve this. This is a problem of human imperferction and the degredation of human morals and broken human spirits. Neither side will discontinue wanting what they want or believeing what they believe.

There's no right and wrong here -- there's just two wrongs.

That's my thing: I think both sides are woefully wrong. I see two hell-bent enemies battling for causes that I ultimately think are misguided.

Oh well, no matter what atheists, agnostics, Buddhists or whoever thinks; I know who I'm riding with.

So with respect and sorrow for those that have tragically passed today and those that are sadly taking their last breaths right now, waiting to be rescued...and with a heavy heart for the suicide bombers that felt a despair and confusion that could allow them to do this...with respect for all of this, I'm gonna meet my lil sis and lil cuz and we're gonna get some lunch and we're gonna do a lot of smiling today.

I always feel safe.

Back Atcha

My apologies for my lack of postings recently. I was running errands last Friday and Monday/Tues I was recovering from Venus' party Saturday and a late Sunday night w/ fellas.

I'm back now, getting prepared for my lil sis P and my lil cuz Teresa's visit. They get in tonight and will have me doing the host thing right up until I leave for a job interview in Florida, Sunday morning. Reese just turned 21, so you know she wants to party...and who am I to deny her this.

Anyways...I have a couple new blog posts for you to check out and a couple ideas I hope to indulge before I leave for Florida.

No news on the job front just yet. But I interviewed with a NY paper a couple weeks ago and it went extremely well. The editor even hit me off with the Ralph Wiley book, which i thought was very nice of him. I had told him that Wiley was the writer I admired most, because he was provocative and moral, it turns out that Henry (the Journal News' executive editor) "was the one that made Ralph a columnist" back when he was running the Oakland Tribune in the late 70s/early 80s. Anyways, he sent me a book that a publisher compiled after Uncle Ralph died last year...its like his Greatest Hits type joint. What's funny is that he wrote me a note that wasn;t so much about why he thought I would like this, since Uncle Ralph is one of my inspirations...no, his note was moreso a vehicle for him to remind me that he was such a prescient editor...it ended, "He definitely made you think. That's why I made him a cloumnist." I got a few chuckles out of that and was definitely appreciative of the gift.

Anyways, I hope to hear from them soon and I hope the interview in St. Pete/Tampa goes well, too. Coincidentally -- and to my surprise -- as of last week, Austin still had me on a short list of people they wanted to bring in...so things are finally starting to speed up.

Until then, I'm still temping, or should I say blogging, for a living.

Remembering Luther Vandross

a retrospect..coming soon....

Being Bobby Brown

Robert Brown folks. The dude and his wife are an amazing thing to see. But my take is different than, I guess, most people's. Most people have been talking about how shameful it is, but I've managed (wrongfully or not) to pull some fairly positive things out of this show. A lil more on that later (or should I say a lot more)...

Of course we heard all the requisite "crack head" humor after the first episodes.

Yes, certain things are crackheadish -- even though I believe tey're coc-sniffers, not crack-smokers.

Whitney's weight is an indication that she breathes in 2 parts oxygen, one part coca. I mean, Whitney was never thick like some of the other 80-90s gals (Janet Jackson, Pebbles, B Angie B, Adina Howard, even Mariah to a lesser extent), but drugs and eating disorders have a different effect on one's body. You don't slim down, you skinny down. There's never an even distribution of the weight loss, it's like the cocaine or crack or bulimia just enters your system and sizzles away portions of your body at a time. That's how Whitney looks: same breast, but no other meat to speak of. And her face looks skeletal. But, by-n-large, I think she looks way better than the internet pics would lead you to believe.

Also a bit disturbing is the fact that her heavenly voice is gone. What an effortless voice that was. The woman could pull off notes makin a banana split and doing the camel walk at the same time. But all that snorting has ruined her larynyx, F'd with her breathing and lung capacity -- I think it's a great American tragedy of Shakespearian proportions.

Robert Brown is a whole nother story. The slant of his mouth is the best thing to happen to comedy since SNL. The first time I noticed it was when Ja Rule tried to "make him hot" and got his own thermostat knocked down to 58. It was the limo scene in the beggining of the video, when he wasn't nodding his head like a retard on cognac, he would just lean in the cut and his mouth would be at a 45 degree slant like his face was a 1st grade drawing of an angry man. Of course it was a bit horrifying -- and mystifying -- but it was hilarious. I mean, think about it: that nigga has a "lazy mouth". Can he eat soup?

One other thing about Bob is the fact that few people -- music critics, fans, artists -- give him proper credit. This dude is THE trailblazer, vanguard, pioneer for every young R&B dude out right now. From R Kelly to Omarion. Yeah, Michael Jackson was a huge influence, as was Prince, we can go back to Marvin Gaye before that, my grandfather James Brown before Marvin, Jackie Wilson before Granpa James -- but Bob packaged those influences into the "Don't Be Cruel" Bobby Brown and that's where all these dudes have started from since. The overt sexuality, the small scale pimp-motif in the lyrics, adding portions of the hop in their music and image -- that's all Bobby. That's why, when Whitney called dude the King of R&B, I wasn't that mad at her...I think she had a great point.

Now onto this sitcom...some great moments:

--- Hands down the best moment is when a lil kid came to their table and asked "Ms. Houston" for an autograph, if only because, Bobby -- like a true proud nigga -- snapped back at the lil boy, "that's Mrs. Brown!" See, that's one of the things I was loving about my dude Robert -- he's had his fair share of embarrassing moments and life-lowlights, but the dude still thinks he's the ISH and demands that everyone else thinks the same. I can't front on that stance. I like to see embattled men going down swinging for their dignity. Especially black men.

Now, Bobby isn't the best example of this...but, black men have been this country's biggest target of emasculation, diminution and humiliation. Some black men don't care and they let the pressure take them under, other black men immediately rise above these attempts and let America know right off the muscle, "Na suns, you can't get me with these tactics." Still, others get worn down, made to look and feel like fools and generally just beat up...but they always keep some remnants of that "We Are Kings" in them; even as they're unemployed and on drugs, having had abandoned their families. It's not that the actual men are noble, but I love that spirit -- to me, it's at its most inspiring when it's being manifested in the weakest of individuals. I've always said that black people are the most resilient people on earth...and on a very fundamental level, Bobby Brown gives that aura off on screen.

--- What are they doing when they close the door? Are they really having sex or are they going to sniff lines of cocain? I really want to know what people think. Maybe they really are going to have sex and just like some niggas, proudly announcing it to the whole world. I mean, Bobby was saying tons of incredible things like, "I wanna impregnate you", which has to be a Classic Among Classics for "phrases of want". When he said that, Gee and I looked at each other in horror and confusion. Plus, the words came out of his isocoles-traingle-mouth, which made it even more oft-putting and comical.

Either way, there's a level of realism and ghetto-defiance that, I'm sorry, you gotta love. I call those scenes "And What?" scenes, because that's what people from the neighborhood say when they're knowlingly behaving without decor and don't care about it. This is so Un-Newlyweds that you gotta dance to it. Plus, like my man Chuck said, "She's from Newark and he's from [Roxbury] Boston. It doesn't get more ghetto than those two cities."

So in the words of Making The Band's Jason (one of, up to this point, the 5 most entertaining reality characters ever), "Let's be reality!" I don't want a scrubbed version of Bobby and Whitney...Let's be reality!

--- Can't thse rich people find a more exclusive resort than the ones they were at? Whitney couldn't smoke up all her money if she wanted to. So why are they at the Hampton Inn?

--- Bobby and Whitney dance everywhere and at any moment. Remember when they had just had a wild night of drug overdosing and Bobby had the "hugest bags of all-time" under his eyes and he was rubbing some ointment that was supposed to reduce the swelling, or what have you? Well, then Whitney comes in and within seconds their doing the "(I forgot the name of the dance)" together. Then there's the scene when they're walking in their hotel lobby and they start some impromptu jiggin. It's usually Bobby, but Whitney -- unlike most wives/girlfriends -- is usually saying something like, "Go. Go. Go. Go. Go." or "Yuda Kang!" Or perhaps you remember when they were at the seafood restuarant and Bobby hops off his barstool and starts pumping and gyrating down to the floor.

I love that, because that's what we do. It may be hard to stomach as entertainment on TV, but "Let's be reality." Black people dance all the time. We dance when we're nervous, when we're excited, when we're happy -- all the time. AQnd in Bobby and Whitney's case...I don't think its for the cameras. i think it's what they do.

That's what i try to tell people when they get up-n-arms about football players dancing after a sack, touchdown or big play. Yes, some of it is grandstanding, but much of it is a natural reaction.

From the start, dancing is a reactionary move for a black person. If a lil kid gets a piece of candy they might just break out and do the Dolphin. Back in the 60s, if a teenage boy got off the phone with a girl he liked and she just agreed to go to the dance with him; homeboy was not gonna pump his fist...he was gonna do the James Brown.

Well guess what? Bobby was ecstatic that his criminal a$$ wasn't going back to jail for beating on his wife -- HE WAS HAPPY. So if he wants to hop off the stool and "shake it down to the flo" for freedom, I'm all for that.

And when Bobby and Whitney dance together, i think it's heartwarming. Those two people look like they have genuine fun together. Now, yes, much of that is editing (Bobby couldve punched her in the stomach two minutes before), but if most boring couples could have, even those few minutes of fun, you'd see some happier faces.

My parents were/are the same way. Growing up in our household was far from the Partridge Family or any other serene TV household. Their was tension and angst like many "real" American families, sometimes a lil more...but if you edited Mom and Dad's relationship you could air 20 seasons of straight-up fun. A husband and wife having fun. Maybe that was them breaking into the "Mashed Potato" in public, maybe it was something else...whatever it was, it was fun. So let Bobby and Whitney have their fun. One day, when I'm married and closing in on 40, I hope my wife might be fun and spontaneous enough to Cabbage Patch with me in the grocery store checkout line because we just saw that Twix were 3-for-99 cents.

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

Now, the biggie: Is this show bad for Black America? Are they cooning? Initially, I'd have to say yes to both, which brings about this question: Well then how can you like it so much, Vince?"

Gimme a couple more weeks to watch the show and figure out if I can craft a sufficient reply.

Until then, I'm tuning in faithfully and I'm gonna say this: Being Bobby Brown will go down as the greatest reality show ever (my apologies to Real World). He's too enthralling for this not to happen.