The Sad Tale of a Caffeine Junkie

There are certain things that you cannot, under any circumstances do. Things like, "Don't call a broad a 'b&%$' -- to her face." Or, "Never touch a black man's radio -- or step on his gators." Or, "Never ask a woman her age." Or, "Don't stop at gas stations in the deep south, at night, if you're colored."

Chief among these NO-NOs is, "Don't you ever, ever, ever, at any time, anyplace, ever brew decaf coffee in a pot that isn't CLEARLY marked 'Decaf'!" If the pot doesn't have an orange handle and spout or if it isn't marked "Decaf" then a nigga is to assume that it's regular coffee.

Some rube in the office decided to display a grand level of hubris and made some 'Decaf' in the regular pot, only to announce over the intercom -- about an hour later -- that we were all mislead and he was so sorry for the mixup and that it won't happen again. He's right, it won't happen again, because I'm going to slit his throat right in the middle of him sending some loutish message to one of his FaceBook friends.

I'm serious about my coffe, as I detailed in this previous blogpost about my discuss for mulatto coffee. But the Decaf Shenanigans goes past frustration. It's beyond irritating. It's dangerous, for I, folks, am a chemically dependant, full-fledged caffeine junkie. This deserves an illustrative story...

In November, I had the pleasure of watching a close friend get married. Even better, my nig J allowed me to accompany him to Chicago (his wife's hometown) for the few days leading up to the ceremony. We left Monday night. By Wednesday afternoon my head felt like Onyx was stomping it out with early-90s Timb boots and I had the shakes. How did this happen? How did I get here? How did I become a straight-up junkie?

Coffee, much like beer, tasted disgusting to me as a little kid. But far before I was able to truly enjoy the subtle tastes and flavors of good whiskeys, bourbons, single malts, cognacs and vodkas; me and my crew were drinking cheap brandy, malt liquor and such. Our motto was: It ain't about how it tastes, it's about what it do to your face! In other words, screw the fact that this jug of Christian Brothers ran us a collective $12, we'll buzzed and fuzzed soon enough. I was drawn to coffee for similar reasons. I didn't start this java routine until my freshman year in college. trying and restless times those were. So I used to snatch Starbucks before morning and afternoon classes. It perked me up. When I moved on my own and got a coffee maker, it became a routine. I'd set the timer. It'd get so bad that, on some nights, I'd dream of my first cup in the morning. That first hint of the aroma is truly one of life's most underrated pleasantries.

For close to 10 years, I probably went without coffee, maybe 50 days. When you think about that, it's kinda sick. It means that most years, maybe only once every other month did I experience a java-free 24-hour period. Now, I wasn't the nigga that would drink 6 cups a day -- I was a reasonable 2-3 cup dude, but it was the consistency that developed the dependency.

Let's fast forward to this past November and Chicago....

The Saturday preceding the trip, I woke up late and uncharacteristically skipped the coffee, figuring that it was to be a lazy day and I'll rendezvous with my caffeine Sunday morn. That night I got up with my dude Chuck and his cousins. We went out, had some drinks and I was naturally a little dehydrated the next morn. I woke up rushing, however, trying to get ready for the Sunday Night Bills game, one I was attending with a large crew. Tailgating was to be starting soon. Beer, whiskey, meat, fires and touch football were on my mind -- not coffee. Before you know it, my nig Jathan was honking his horn and we were on our way. That evening was beautifully brutal. Cold weather, charred meat, grown-man whiskey -- stuff that you need to recover from. When I retired that night, it had been a good 36 hours since my last cup of coffee. Not cool.

I woke up the next evening -- yes evening -- having only enough time to pack and head over to J's crib so we could beat morning traffic and hit the road. He was moving to Chicago, which meant driving his jeep, with a U-Haul hitched. I managed to snag a cup of Starbucks early Tuesday morning right before we hit the road. We arrived to Chicago late that afternoon. Upon arrival, we unloaded J's stuff amidst the cold and rainy Chicago weather and then headed over his in-laws for the evening. Waiting there, was Uncle Leon, J's Pops. If Uncle Leon is anywhere, then some moonshine is not too far away. Predictably, Uncle Leon had Brandon smuggle some 'shine (illegal in the US) into Chicago. After about 2 cups of 'shine (very modest, for me) and multiple games of spades, we went back to J's crib late that morning and I checked out.

I woke up Wednesday with a severe headache and muscle cramps. Seriously. Over the previous 4 days, I would have usually consumed anywhere between 8-12 cups of coffee. I had one. Wednesday went along and I was beyond sluggish. People kept asking what was wrong with me. I was passing up liquor, wasn't laughing much, wasn't talking much. Just in pain, tired and fighting a headache. I figured I was just worn out and maybe catching a cold, but later that night, when my body temperature started fluctuating and I was walking around with a blanket like a pregnant woman, I started wonder. I went to bed that night trembling like a bish, in a hoodie and balled up in a blanket. Other cats were walkin around in boxers and Ts.

I bypassed the coffee again on Thursday. No coffee maker in J's crib, no coffee drinkers in the midst and no Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks in clear sight...I was jammed up, plus, my mind was moreso on the weird way my body was behaving.

By the evening, as I was drinking seltzer and walking around like an Old Maid and basically ready to fall asleep at 8pm, my boy was like, "Dude, what is going on with you?!" which was the point when it finally dawned on me that this could actually be me on some junkie steez, withdrawing from coffee. I ask Sis. Storey to make a pot of strong coffee. I sipped down two cups that evening and, in a fit of desperation, copped a cup of Subway coffe Friday morning. Wouldn't you know I felt brand new.

It was sad. Folks were keeping an eye on my coffee in take for the rest of the weekend on some, "Vince did you get your coffee today?", like I had diabetes.

So you see how serious this is. When it's morning-time and I'm coming for my caffeine fix, don't be the idiot that brews some decaf in the regular pot, throwing off my equilibrium. Stunts like that will get a nigga cut. Seriously, it's that real.

There Are No Blind Women

I've never seen a blind woman in my life. Wait, scratch that, I've never seen a blind woman younger than 85, in my life. I'm serious.

The other day, I helped a middle-age man onto the campus shuttle after he beat the snot of my shins with his walking stick. He sat once on the bus and thanked me. It was all good. This was not the first time I helped a blind person. Being blind, is the illest ailment of them all, downright debilitating. When I see a blind person, I'm always taken back with sympathy. I can't imagine what it'd be like. And their images usually stay with me for some time. This is all to say that, for the life of me, I cannot recall one single image of a female ages 1-day to 84-years walking with a blind-stick. Makes me think that the whole Hellen Keller thing is a humungi lie. She might have been deaf and mute, but I'm calling that broad's bluff on being blind. She saw that wall she banged into. She also saw the mess she made when she'd knock over her porridge in disabled frustration.

Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Marcus Roberts -- these are men. If there was such a thing as a blind, pre-senior female, one of them birds would be bangin out some killer chords on a Moog. You notice how well Al Pacino played that blind man in Scent of a Woman? That's because he tapped into his masculine genetic predisposition to possibly being blind. On the other hand, Kerry Washington played a horrendous version of a blind woman in Fantastic Four. This wasn't because she was a poor actress, it's because that's like asking an Asian to play a believable role in a film about pick-up basketball -- genetically (and theoretically) impossible.

I don't know why woman aren't able to get blind. But I figure it's similar to how men can't catch fun-bag cancer. Isn't it fair how these things even out?

I mean, yes, men don't have to carry 8-lb kids in their wombs. But then again, women never have to worry about the gift of sight, until they hit 85. And that's the hotness, because being blind sucks. Have you ever seen a blind man crossing busy intersections? Or walking into snow banks? Or caning a pile of dung, only to sidestep into a puddled pot-hole? That ish is for the birds....well, technically, i guess it isn't.

My latest toothpaste

I brush my teeth with America Ferrara.

Rappers on Roids...Mary J too

I was flipping through some music video channels the other day and saw Amerie. Periodically, I brush my teeth with Amerie. I say periodically because there are times when I find her DDG (drop dead gorgeous (how cornball was that?)), and other times when she looks somewhat average. In this particular video, she was closer to average. This basically meant: OK, Vince, no Amerie-induced chubbies from this one, so flip to the next channel, 'cause the song was sho-nuff wiggidy-wack. But just then, I realized it wasn't her song, she was merely singing the hook. I came to this realization when I heard a nasally voice rapping in a cadence that resembled the rev-break nature of toy race cars. It was Chingy, the clown that gave us the seminal rube-anthem "Right Thurr". This is a song in which he spits, "Gimme whatcha got for a pork chop/She threw it at me like I was a shortstop."

This new joint with Amerie was just as bad. The video images, however, were quite different.

"Right Thurr" dropped in 2003. That video featured Chingy as a skinny, lanky, big-greasy lipped bish, standing around some ghetto spot while St. Louis bimbos did the chiecken-head dance. Let me reiterate that aside from his greasy smackers, he was a lanky dude. Well, fast forward to 2008 and this dude was up in this new video looking like Lavar Arrington. I mean he was massive. His chest is like two tree stumps.

He's not the first rapper to make this transformation. 50 Cent went from being a chubby, scarfaced rascal to a black Rambo. Timbaland went from having dude-tits to looking EXACTLY like Barry Bonds, including the huge chest and arms. Remember "Sobb Story" or "Scenario" or "Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See"? Busta was shaped like a regular man. Now his neck is roughly the width of a New York City block...seriously, Bust could stand at the corner of 34th and Park and the other side of his neck would be at 34th and Lex. This is not an exaggeration, either. Did you see Dr. Dre at the Vibe awards last year? He looked like some type of farm animal, the working kind, like a mule or something, like he should be having relations with cows, he was an ox...it was discombobulating.

I'm bring all this up because there was a story in the Albany Times-Union that named rappers and Mary J in a steroid report. Apparently, allegedly, these folks got shipments of anabolic steroids and human growth hormones.

And you know what? I believe every bit of it. I don't care if they did or didn't. Timbo can have an IV connected to a vat of roids and it won't make him produce classic tracks like "FuturesSex", that's what acid is for. 50 on roids doesn't present the ethical and moral problems of Bonds on roids. But these folks aren't growing to these mammoth sizes without being on some kind of performance enhancer...and not the stuff u kop from GNC. Chingy wasn't just lifting a lot of weights. That greasy-lipped nigga is on a juice-regimen. Believe it.

And what of Mary J? Poor thing. She's 37 and the broad has lived a hard life full of abuse. She's been abused and she's abused, as in, she's abused narcotics. Now she's turned her life around and everytime you see her, she looks fabulous. And she has to. So, I totally believe this woman was like "Aight, I gotta keep this figure tight, so get me some substance that'll help." Now you see her and her fatty is still nice and plump, and her legs are still fleshy, but toned and she also has a washboard stomach. Thats all love. What is disconcerting is to see this woman and her manly arms and shoulders. It's like, Lay off the weight-training...I mean, what, you wanna look like Chyna? Mary's arms looks like she's training for a supporting role with Sly Stallone in Over The Top II.

This is all leading up to what will be my favorite nugget of news for 2008, because it's bound to happen, it's gotta happen, it's inevitable: Someone is gonna reveal that Tina Turner has been juicing since the last time Ike spread-palmed her mug againt the bathroom sink. That 89 year old woman cannot be shaped like that naturally. There's not much difference in her muscle structure and that of, say, Wesley Snipes.

Human Growth Hormones, bka HGH, are known as a fountain of youth. Well if that bish Tina ain't forever young, I don't know who is.

And she had several reasons for motivation. She gotta keep them legs right. She gotta stay in shape for those top-grossing, worldwide tours. And she had to train for one last throwdown with Ike before he croaked. There were no news reports, but I guarantee you that Tina had one last showdown with the most famous spousal-abuser of all-time. She probably walked in his dirty @$$ pad, and, you know how you collar someone up? well, she probably soul-patched him up and started working that nigga while she still had syringes stuck in her cheeks.

I know Tina was juicin, Chingy too.

Michelle Obama

Sorry for the recent absent...and this is by no means my official return blog, but did you see Sis. Michelle Obama in that turquoise dress last night?! I hadn't noticed before, but homegirl has some curves. Impressive.

And is it just me, or does she resemble Condoleeza Rice? They both have that politico, coiffed whig, sittin ontop of some cranium commando size heads that house wide smiles that reveal signs that say "Next tooth, 100 miles." And they both favor skirts that end a few inches above the knee.

One last thought was Clair Huxtable a fictional character whose style was influenced what was the professional woman of that time, or has Clair Huxtable influenced the style of these broads like Obama and Rice of today? I wonder...