Thursday, August 31, 2006

There are no lonelier hours than the ones between 3 and 5 am. Unless you have some West Coast night owl friends, you pretty much cannot call anyone. You can get up and watch TV, but the chances are slim that you'll find anything fulfilling...maybe a Cinemax or Showtime "movie", but they never show enough skin to really get yourself off. There may be a Sportscenter on, but if you're like me, you already know what happened in the world of sports before you go to bed. I had a book and a magazine to read, but I wasn't in the mood to read anything. I really wanted to talk and chat. But instead I say there, listened to sportstalk radio, and reminisced about my college days. Whenever the weather gets a little colder, I think back to my first days at college back in August of '92.

I still remember what I wore on the first day of college: A Cross-Colours T-Shirt that had slang on the back of it, and matching Cross-Colour shorts(it was relatively cool back then). I was nervous as hell, because I knew NO ONE except my boy Melvin, but he was already popular and established on the Hampton football team. My parents were in the process of divorcing, so they were acting weird, and they offered me little to no comfort. My brother was in a daze too, so he really couldn't help me, so I was just lost. But as soon as I met my roommate all was well, and we proceeded to walk the "yard", met folks, and just get acclimated. Life was simple then. All I had to do was go to class, study, and try to get some..maybe get involved in an activity or two, but nothing too strenuous. I miss those days. I have my 10 year reunion this October, and for a couple of hours, we'll be able to recapture all of that.

I really don't have too much else on my mind that I want to discuss right now. This is one of those days that the blog will just absolutely suck ass, and I make no apologies for that. Oh wait, I am really getting tired of certain men and women trying to hate on Ms. Serena Williams ( I hear people say she ain't cute, I hear folks say she's too muscular, that she's a handsome woman, that she looks like a transvestite, and all of this is bullshit. She's an athlete..a fine tuned one I might add. Even my father says, she looks good, but in 10 years she'll be fat..and I disagree. To me, Serena, is the epitome of a brickhouse, and I would gladly let her sit on my face, my crotch or anywhere else. In fact, if I got a chance to be with her, I would sport her like you wouldn't believe. When men hate on her, I just assume that they have the gay, but when women hate, it is just sad. Why can't women just give it up for Serena, and say she has a nice body..they don't even have to comment on her looks. I don't understand it. One more picture to end this scatterbrained blog: (

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

I had one of those weird dreams last night, that I am usually able to avoid. My dream was about Fareed, who was my former barber who died of an aneurysm back in January of '04. I remember that period of my life was extremely weird. While I was at work, I got a call on January 15th 0f 2004 , that my grandmother had passed away. She had been battling cancer for about 2 or 3 months, and shortly after being placed in assisted living, she passed away. I remember breaking down crying in front of my co-worker, and then I went home. I remember I called my girlfriend at the time, and asked her to come over, and I remember being intimate with her for a good 2hours. I didn't bother telling her about my grandmother, I just wanted to forget about it for a little bit. Fast forward to January 20th of '04, that same girlfriend didn't get me JACK for my birthday at all..No card, no dap, no nothing, because she was allegedly broke at the time, although I learned later that the real reason was she wasn't feeling me anymore. I also remember feeling weird that day, because my grandmother hadn't called me to wish me a happy birthday. I was sad that entire day.

My father called me a couple of days later and told me that the funeral was going to be on Saturday January 24th, so I made flight arrangements to get out there on the 23rd. On January 22nd, I went to the barber shop to get my haircut with Fareed. I told him about my grandmother, my girl, and he talked about his son, and NY hip hop which was his favorite subject. I left out of there, he gave he dap, and then said God bless. A week had passed, and I attended my grandmother's funeral, returned to work, and lo and behold it was time for an additional haircut. I called the shop, they said Fareed was sick. I called his cell phone, and it went straight to voicemail. The next day, it was the same routine. The next day I called the shop, and they finally leveled with me, and told me that Fareed had died of a brain aneurysm on Saturday, January 24th. The same day of my grandmother's funeral. I don't remember crying that day at all, but I did remember him giving me dap, a half-hug and saying God Bless. I guess that was his way of saying goodbye.

So early this morning, when I had this dream it was weird. I walked in the shop, and waited for my current barber, but he wasn't there. And then I saw Fareed, and I walked over to his chair, and he didn't recognize me at first. Then he did his customary introduction, and when I said my name, he was like, "Oh, shit! What's up Rashad", and he gave me dap and a half hug just as he had during our last real exchange. The dream ended mid haircut, and I don't remember our convo, but it was good seeing him again. I have no clue where that dream came from I'm typing this I am remembering a good friend of mine has a dream book. Perhaps I should consult her.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

I am absolutely tired this morning. Between the wedding, the travel back from the wedding, and the heat I feel like I have no energy at all. I even took yesterday off, and it still hasn't energized me, but the long weekend awaits me. I will get some rest then.

My brother's wedding was absolutely beautiful(and i never really thought I'd use that phrase). My brother was about as nervous as a man can be, sweating like Patrick Ewing, but he held it together nicely. My sister-in-law didn't look to be nervous at all, and she had on a beautiful, long white dress(I get a pass on all of these borderline gay adjectives right?). My father-in-law stood next to the bride, and I stood next to the brother, and they completed the small ceremony. If you know my brother, you know that he rarely smiles, and when you ask him how come he doesn't, he'll say everything is fine, but he's in a New York state of mind(my apologies to the 18th letter). But on this day, Jamal was smiling like a champ, and I can genuinely say that he looked happy. It was also nice to have my mother, my father, my brother and I in the same room for an extended period of time. We've been together briefly at funerals, and my college graduation back, but this had been the first time in nearly 15 years that we'd all sat in the room and just talked and relaxed. I could never see my parents reconciling after all these years, but I'll take moments like this when I can get them.

My mother was trying to look good for my father, and I had to laugh. They've known each other for almost 37 years, and my mom is still vying for his attention. My father played it cool as only he knows how, but somewhere deep down in his passive mind, I know he find some sort of peace talking to my mother. Despite their divorce 13 years ago, you can't possibly know someone for the amount of time that they have, and not feel some kind of way. Me? I felt weird. At one point my mother and father were talking, and Jamal was talking to his wife, and I was just in limbo. It was an alone feeling that quickly passed, but I didn't forget it. That was the first time that I actually felt like I may want to get married. In my day-to-day life I don't really feel alone, partly because I have a routine that I'm used to. Plus I have a new friend in my life who is making me happy thus far. But there will be a time when I get a little older and heavier, when I will want to have a companion and not feel alone. And that moment at the wedding made me realize that. I could go deeper with this, but I really chose not to right now.

Some random thoughts:
-My ex moved to New Mexico on Sunday. We tried and tried to make that thing work over the past 6 years, but it was not meant to be. I wish her luck and happiness..just as long as she's always a bit unhappier than least until I get married. It's good for my ego

-That new Outkast movie is just ok. It is visually stimulating, and I the music was good(although most of it seemed to be taken from their Speakerboxx/Love Below CD from '03). The acting was alright, and the storyline was boring, but as musicals go it was ok. I'm still mad that Andre doesn't rap consistently anymore, but I won't bitch about that anymore.

-I had a lot of sex yesterday. I'm 31 years old, I've been having sex since age 16, and for some reason, I still get excited at the prospect of getting some, doing it, and then reflecting on it. I wonder if that'll change..I suppose if I was on Viagra it would. That would make it more of a job..but for now, I'm loving it, even if it is premarital.

-And finally, my new Roots CD came in the mail yesterday. I can honestly say that they are one of the only groups that has successfully aged with me. That don't talk about the normal subjects (cars, grills and ass shaking), but they do tackle a some issues without coming off as preachy. Plus they have some songs that are just straight up hip hop. I sound like I work for them or something, but I'm recommending this for everyone (

Saturday, August 26, 2006

So I decided to keep a running diary of my activities and thought leading up to my brother's wedding today. Wanna read it, here it go?


5:30am: I woke up at my mother's house in an effort to get to the airport 90 hours early like they request you too. I immediately had thoughts of slaying my brother OJ style, for indirectly forcing me to miss my sleep in time on Saturday morning. I digress

5:35 am: While in the shower, I realize that my mother does not have any wash cloths, only a white loofah. Nothing says masculinity like a loofah on the balls.

7:00am: During the drive to the airport, my mother waxes poetic about her dating life, my brother and growing up. It was poignant and all that, but I wanted to tell her get a fucking blog man, its too early for all this.

8am: I remove my belt and shoes for the security while at the airport, I go thru the detector, and then I put them back on. The area where folks put back on the clothes they removed, reminds me of the morning after a one night stand. People putting on clothes, frantic looks on ones faces, everyone thinking, let me get the hell out of here fast.

8:30am: I approach the gate and look at everyone who is scheduled for my flight, and I'm studying each of them like Grissom from CSI. I look at any potential problematic foreigner(racist? maybe but hey I'm black I get a pass right? besides my life is at stake). I also look for big breasted women to grope in case the plane goes down in flames.

8:31 am: My flight attendant looks like Michael Douglas ( and the other one looked like Joe Namath ( Clearly AirTran rolled out the handsome woman crew for us this morning. Their hands looked like catchers mitts, and their voices sounded they like they repeatedly drank black coffee and chained smoked cigarettes.

8:45am: I say my customary prayer for me, my mom, me, everyone else on the plane and me again. I take this prayer very seriously. My life is on the line.

915am: I ignored the flight instruction speech from my two she male flight attendants, and now I put my headphones on and listen to the new J Dilla CD (

9:17am: Curiously, I get the erection from hell out of nowhere. I mean this is like I just woke up and had a side dish of Viagra for breakfast. I mean all I was doing was reading ESPN the magazine..does this mean I have the gay?

10am: I make two miraculous discoveries at the same time. One, the airplane magazine has Scarlett Johannson on the cover ( Good times! Scarlett is one of my two white girl crushes(the other being Natalie Portman I really would like to do bad things to both of them, preferably at the same time. The other discovery I made during the flight, was XM Radio. I didn't even know airplanes had this feature available. As I write this, I'm listening to Barry White (aka Jerome Bettis in like 5 years) tell someone that he's never going to give them up. This trip is getting better by the minute

10:15 am: The pilot announces that we are starting our descent into ATL. Almost on cue, an Indian(or perhaps Pakistani) woman gets up and goes to the bathroom. Everyone gives her the look of death(except me I'm writing). Racial profiling is alive and well on Air Tran airlines and everyone is guilty (except me I'm writing).

10:30am: I glanced at my mother's magazine and she's reading an article in Essence about a 36 year old virgin who is saving it for marriage. Get the fuck out of here man, 36 years old? Nobody holds out for marriage anymore, you have to take at least one journey inside a woman to see if everything checks out. Otherwise, you'll get married, get a taste, then wonder and regret what you missed out on trying to be the heir to AC Green. Its just like me, I had sushi for the first time on Wed. The next day I tried a different kind, and the next day after that I wanted a different kind. Not to compare a woman's privates to sushi..but um....yeah

10:35am: I cannot make this stuff up man. In this same Essence magazine, after the virgin story, my mother flipped to a story about a married couple who had participated in a threesome that had gone wrong. I kept waiting for my mother to quickly turn the page, but she refused. Earlier in the month, my grandmother had traumatized me with her sex experiences ( and now today my mother reads about a threesome right next to me. Clearly, God is not happy with me. I need to buy this issue of Essence though.

10:45am: My transvestite flight attendants are trying to stop a baby from crying by blowing kisses and making baby faces. The baby promptly responds by kicking up the crying and screaming a notch. Baby 1 - Flight Attendants- 0

11-4pm: These hours were spent with my mother, my brother and his fiancee. My mother shows her ass. She's nagging everyone in sight, she's bitching about the heat, about what she can do for the wedding..clearly she's in rare from. She's a threat to cry at any moment, yet this is nothing compared to the tears she'll shed at the wedding tomorrow. Sadly, the amount of blogable (not a word I know) material is clearly dwindling as the day goes on. This isn't working out the way I thought.

However on a positive note, I am slowly starting to realize that I am catching feelings for my new friend. We've been text messaging jokes, I miss yous and other pleasantries all day,and I actually miss her a lot. Outkast's Prototype is playing in my head now..this is a good feeling

8:52 pm: My brother Jamal and my boy Cliff are sitting behind me as I type this wanting me to hurry up so we can go out. Jamal is texting his fiancee(aka checking in) and Cliff is telling me to hurry the hell up so we can go out. I gots to go....

Friday, August 25, 2006

I always wonder what goes thru the head of really fat people when they try to find a seat on the train. I saw a woman this morning get on the train, and much to her dismay, every seat had at least one passenger in it. There were no two seats open, and as I looked at her, I immediately wished she had a thought balloon over her head, so I could see what was on her mind. She had this look of desperation on her face, as she stood in the aisle, hoping that a two-seater would miraculously reveal itself unto her. Not so much. So I guess at some point, this woman realized that the only she was going to sit her big ass down, was to squeeze it next to someone. Now it was at this point, that I picked my bag up off the floor, and put it in the seat next to me. I know that is mean and inconsiderate, but I'll be goddamned if this woman cuts off the circulation on my left side..not to mention I'm sure she would totally nullify the stellar starch job of my dry cleaners..this woman was that big. So after insuring that I wouldn't' t be a victim, I watched this woman hunt for a seat like it was going to be tonight's dinner. And finally she found a victim...she was about 120 lbs, white, kind of attractive, and very very thin. The big woman looked at her and said good morning, and the skinny one nodded, and then tried to move over (this must be some kind of reflex..why do folks attempt to move over, when clearly they are already against the window). Anyway, the big woman sat her big ass down, and just as I suspected, sat on this poor woman's shirt, thigh, newspaper, and she may have even gotten a piece of the skinny woman's arm. The big woman looked at the skinny woman as if to say hey, I got a big ass, what can I do. The skinny woman looked at the big girl as if to say, damn, why don't you just stand up. It was truly a sad state of affairs. This is mean spirited on my part too, but my hands are tied here. I saw it, so I decided to write on it.

I also realized this morning that I'm a bit of a snob when it comes to the newspaper. I can't stand those folks who choose to read the Washington Post Express. The Washington Post came out with this for those folks who have little to no attention span, but still want to know what is going on in the world..and on top of that it is free. Every morning, a friendly cripple, older black gentleman tries to guilty me into taking that paper, and every morning I look at him and as if to say Negro please. I'd much rather spend 35 cents a day on the real Washington Post. My ride is only 10-15 minutes, so I start of with the sports page, and maybe the style section. During lunch I tackle the metro and front page, and then later on I may peak at the special pullout and business sections. It is an all day affair, but I am definitely a smarter, more educated man as a result. All the Washington Post Express does is re-affirm the stupidity, and the dumbing down of society.

I'm not very proud of myself after this entry. I feel like Don Imus or something

Thursday, August 24, 2006

This Sunday, my baby brother Jamal will get married, and words in a blog cannot properly express how happy I am for him. I came into this world 3 years before he did, and since then I have done my best to look out for him. There have been times when I have failed miserably, there have been other times when I've wondered how he really looks at me, and of course there have been times when I've wanted to beat that ass repeatedly. I remember playing soccer, basketball and football in the backyards of all of our houses, and I used to beat him in every sport, and then get mad when he didn't continue to participate. We would play Double Dribble on Nintendo, and he would beat MY ass so bad that I'd rip the game out of the wall and say "Fuck that son!" I remember Jamal would get beatdowns from my mother and father way worse than me, and part of me would feel guilty, although a larger part of me would be laughing that he was dumb enough to get caught. On a sadder note, I can remember that one day in '97, when Jamal and I fought over something trivial, and he tried to stab me. I remember telling him that if he was THAT mad, and if it was that serious, that he needed to stab his older brother, that he should go right ahead(he never did it thank God). As I'm typing these memories, countless more are playing in my head montage style, and I cannot even begin to type them all.

I guess my point is that Sunday is the end of an era. Jamal lives in ATL, and I live in DC, but we still retain a certain degree of closeness. We text each other Chappelle jokes, we talk about any and everything, and we just give each other that pick me up that is so desperately needed sometimes. And as much as I appreciate my friends, Jamal provides that comfort that I need sometimes, because he's known me the longest. But he's about to be married now, and he'll be a father in a few months, and then THEY will be his responsibility, and frankly that is how it is supposed to be. That is a necessary part of growing up, and I understand that. I also understand that we will always be brothers, we will always love each other, and we will always have each other's backs. But my baby brother is gone..he's a man now. And I wish him luck.

When we were young, my father used to play this song by War entitled, "Me and Baby Brother". And although all of the lyrics don't apply, he told us to always look out for one another. I found t the lyrics this morning, so I thought I'd post them here:
Me And Baby Brother

Me and baby brother
Used to run together
Me and baby brother
Used to run together

Welcome one another
Headed for the corner
Welcome one another
Headed for the corner

Shiftin on his mind
Is like drinking funky wine
By the river
Chippin on his mind
Is like drinking funky wine
By the river

Me and baby brother
Used to run together
Me and baby brother
Used to run together

Welcome one another
Headed for the corner
Welcome one another
Headed for the corner

I remember the day
We used to fight together
I remember the day, yeah
We used to fight together

Me and baby brother
Used to run together
Me and baby brother
Used to run together

Hang on, baby brother, oh
They call it law and order
Hey, hey, hey

Come back, baby brother
Come back, baby brother
Come back, baby brother
Come back, baby brother
Your my baby brother
Your my baby brother
Come back, baby brother
Come back, baby brother
Come back, baby brother
Your my baby brother
Your my baby brother
Come back, baby brother
Come back, baby brother
Come back, baby brother

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

I watched part deux of Spike Lee's documentary, and it was more of the same. I'm not here to trivialize his work but it really was more of the same. Day two focused more on the rebuilding efforts in New Orleans, or really the lack thereof. Spike did a good job of trying to be unbiased, but more importantly, this documentary could very well re-spark the debate on what went wrong, and how this can be avoided in the future. Sadly, it also demonstrated the chasm between poor and rich in this country, and the bias against the South. When The Levees Broke, along with the other Spike Lee joints I need to purchase, will definitely be in my DVD collection.

Now, I realized yesterday that one of the biggest assets a man can have is a female friend, or better yet female friends. Yesterday, I was able to call up one of my ladyfriends, and she suggested a meal I can cook for my new female interest. She gave me details on how to cook it, how to marinate it, what the sides should be, and all that jazz. I'm not saying one of my boys couldn't do the exact same thing, but there is no way in HELL I would look at my boy the same if he gave me the same advice. Perhaps I'm homophobic..oh well so be it in this case. This same female friend, along with others, have assisted me with my interactions with women, my family problems, internal issues that I have in my head(that sounds crazy), and any and everything else. And, as an added bonus, these same women talk about what men have done or are currently doing to them and for them. This provides me with a blueprint for what not to do in some cases, and in others it gives me an opportunity to steal ideas from another dude without him knowing(except sex moves..I think my smoke and mirrors routine is just fine). Considering I don't have any sisters or other cousins, my female friends are the closest thing and I appreciate each one of them.

The evolution of my female friends is humorous though. I cannot sit here and honestly say that I have never sexual thoughts towards my female friends. That would be absolutely ridiculous given the high levels of my perversion. I have 3 really good female friends, and I can honestly say that I never tried to sleep with any of them. There was healthy flirtation, but that is it, and that's probably why we continue to be friendly to this day. There have been no awkward moments, no botched sex attempts, and they don't question my motives when we are alone or I give advice. Good times all around. But then there is a group of female friends who I have tried to sleep with, and I've been unsuccessful for whatever reason. These women place me in the proverbial friend zone, and it evolves into a friendship. I don't keep these friends around too ego just won't allow it. Ideally, everyone should want to hop on my manstick...that doesn't mean I'm giving it to everyone, but they should still want it. And if not, then fuck you...or something like that. I also have a few female friends who are just friends, but they are incredibly attractive. These friends come in handy while I'm single, because I can go out with them, attract looks from other women, and then feel guilt free as I ignore the woman I'm with to look at who I'm attracting. This is truly a blessed event, and I recommend it to every man. It's not like I couldn't get these woman to look at me alone, but having a fine friend helps things along greatly....its like taking a Viagra pill while watching X-rated movies..i mean sure you don't need the pill at that point, but is it really going to hurt? Hell no.

I also want to take some time in today's blog to send a shoutout to Andre3000 of Outkast. Thank you once again for single handedly sabotaging Outkast with your dumb ass singing. I'm not saying you can't sing and explore your musical talent, but you have to keep rapping. That's your calling card, that's why folks love you and give you the benefit of the doubt. You are abusing that by acting like a cross between Cab Calloway and Frank Sinatra. Stop it man...just rap. If you want to sing, get an alias, and do it separate from Outkast. And i'm not even saying that at 30 you have to talk about bitches and hoes at this point, but you're smart enough to find another subject to rap about. But this singing must stop. It's not fair to Big Boi, it's not fair to me or your fans.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

When 9pm came yesterday, I had the option of watching two important things on TV. On ESPN, there was a Monday Night Football game in the city of Shreveport, close to New Orleans, that featured Reggie Bush and the Saints and a TO-less Dallas Cowboys team. One of the underlying themes in this game(besides Tony Kornheiser making his second appearance) was that this football event was to symbolize the recovery and strides being made in that New Orleans area. Over on HBO, the Spike Lee joint, "When The Levees Broke" debuted..almost an hour after the Monday Night Football Game. There were no underlying themes for this documentary, as Spike Lee chose to focus on the events leading up to Katrina, how it was handled, and most importantly, the suffering of the people. Now I'll admit, at first, I did not want to see the Spike film, because I knew it was going to bring me way down. So for the first 30 minutes or so, I focused on MNF. I watched Reggie Bush, I listened to Tony K improve on his first broadcast, and I watched Bill Parcells continue to attempt to intimidate and everyone on the Cowboys roster despite the fact that he weights 785 lbs. And of course I listened to the TO talk ad nauseum.

But after a period of time of flipping back and forth, at around 9:45, I decided to focus my attention solely on the Spike film. And as I predicted, it made me angry, sad, and pensive all at the same time. I was angry at the Katrina fallout all over again, and how it was handled. And the anger I had certainly didn't discriminate. I was pissed at some of the New Orleans residents for resorting to acting like vigilantes during this crisis..I was pissed at both the governor and the mayor for their lack of a plan, or maybe I should say the lack of execution to the existing plan. And of course, like everyone else, I was mad at the response of the federal govt'. The sadness was reserved for the innocent citizens who were just trying to survive, but ended up dead and bloated on the side of the road, or watching a loved one succumb to the same fate. And then I found myself wonder what I would do in those same circumstances. Would I lead? Would I just go for mine, and find a spot where I could live? Or would I get medieval and just take the law into my own hands?

I also felt a large deal of guilt watching this movie, because I have placed this whole Katrina situation WAY in the back of mind, and moved subjects such as sports, my libido, and countless other things to the forefront. Meanwhile, folks are still suffering down there in many different ways. On a more upbeat note though, the soundtrack to Part I of Spike's movie was excellent. I know that seems out of place, but I noticed it nonetheless. I will be watching once again tonight.

Monday, August 21, 2006

I'm going to be cranky today, I can feel it coming in the air this morning. I'm operating on about 3 hrs of sleep, the AC and the fan were cranking this morning, so it was hard for me to get out of bed, this just feels like more than a bad case of the Mondays.

I went to a cookout on Saturday afternoon, and I can definitely say that this was the most fun I've had at a cookout in quite sometime. I was more than nervous when I arrived, since I knew absolutely no one except the friend that I was with, but everyone there did a great job of making me feel at home. I immediately grabbed a beer, and sat at the table with the old black men. These dudes touched on every subject imaginable. They talked about Kwesi Mfume, they talked about Cal Ripken and Peter Angelos, how James Brown was gay, how Bill Russell was better than Michael Jordan, and they even argued about the best golf courses in MD. I added in my two cents every now and then, but for the most part I enjoyed being a spectator. These are types of convos I'd like have when I get 60+, and I retire. Anyway, the food was good, my friend treated me well, and I was having such a good time that I blew off a game party I was supposed to attend, as well as a concert I wanted to go to..this was definitely good times.

My new friend and I continue to progress slowly..surely like the Jill Scott song. I want to type more about this situation, but again, I have bad luck, and I can't afford to jinx myself. It's like talking to a pitcher in the middle of a no-hitter..nobody wants to even look in the pitchers direction out of fear that he may be thrown off a bit. The same premise applys here.

I would highly recommend that everyone watch Tiger Woods in a golf tournament at least once. Much like MJ in his prime, we are watching greatness in progress. Tiger won yesterday without really trying too much on the back nine holes. The last time I wrote about Tiger in this blog it had more to do with his father, than it did his playing prowess. Yesterday, it was all about a high level of skill being put on display. Even a non-golf fan could appreciate this..or perhaps I"m biased.

I have more I could write, but frankly I'm not up to it right this second. Perhaps this will be a multiple entry day.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Every now and then, I do a friend is usually when I'm really drunk or bored, on my way home, and scrolling thru my phonebook for someone to talk to or "visit". Upon doing this, I realized that all friends can be placed into categories. I have a few really good female friends who don't live around here, but I talk to often. There is minimal if any flirtation, and me trying to get some is not the motive. I simply talk to them about my problems, listen to theirs, and sometimes we may even share corny jokes, lines from movies, and most importantly music. I don't even really realize that it has been awhile since I've seen them, because the important thing is we help each other out. Actually, come to think of it, I have some friends like that here in the DC area too. Ideally, these friends would take me on their lingerie shopping trips, take me to the dressing rooms, so I could see all the lovely ladies parading around in the nude. That's the best case scenario.

In terms of male friends, I have two or three boys who I can do a two man deal with; meaning I can call one of them up and say, meet me here and let's have a drink, and we can talk and kick it. On the flip side, I have a few male friends who I simply CANNOT do the two man deal with. This is not a indictment on them really, I just know I can't sit with them for an extended period of time, because I would run out of conversation real fast. My only saving grace would be to bring a cheat sheet with conversation topics. These are the friends that only thrive in the group setting. They can't carry a one-on-one convo, but the group setting allows them to sit out a convo or two, and then jump back in when they've gotten their mojo back. I do believe I'm one of these people. I can't carry a conversation to save my life..I'm like the Don Cheadle of friends. I can't really carry a movie on my own, but I"m a hell of a scene stealer. And finally I have friends who I may email every few months, and when we do talk, we have good convos, but there is simply no need to talk every damn day, and this is understood. I like these friends the best, because they give you the best opportunity to shine. They haven't heard the day to day goings on of your life, so they always give their undivided attention. My ego needs that sometimes.

There is one more type of "friend". These are the friends that don't really speak to you on the phone, don't return emails, but when they see you in public, all of a sudden they are your best buddies. They give you all kinds of complicated handshakes and hugs, they ask you "what's been up?" about 300 times, they tell you about their upcoming endeavors, they stare at your girl if you're with one, and then they end the convo by saying, "let's meet up and hang out". And for some reason these friends always wear sunglasses on their head(ok I made that up, but it fit so damn well). I remember there was this one time (at band camp), at a happy hour, when one of my friends did this, and I played along, until he slipped me his card. I politely reached in my wallet, and showed him the card he had given me just a few months earlier. I hope to never be that pretentious..then again I do have a blog so I'm well on my way.

By the way, I'm sending a thank you letter to the people who make AXE body spray. I have some on this morning, and like 5 or 6 women on the train and in the office have already complimented me. I feel like Wilt Chamberlain and its not even 8am yet.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

I could NOT remember my password to get into this blog this morning, and I panicked for a second...

Anyway, one of the saddest things in sports is watching a player who used to be great, slowly fall back down to earth. And that very thing is happening to one of my favorite baseball players, Barry Bonds. Despite the fact that he hit his 724th home run last night, Barry is struggling big time. His knees have severely limited his mobility and his ability to stay in proper shape; his formerly beautiful swing, is no longer fluid, since he can't really shift those knees to get his usual power. When you see Barry at the plate, 80% of the time he just flailing away at bad pitches hoping he can make some kind of contact. And when he is in left field, things get even worse. Outfielders are ideally supposed to be cat quick, and have the ability to cover a great deal of ground. Barry just sits out there hoping that a ball doesn't come his way or too far out of his reach. And even if he is able to recapture his youth and catch a ball, he is forced to come out the game due to his shaky knee. And on top of all of this, Barry doesn't seem to be having fun at all. He walks around with a scowl, which is understandable due to all of the scrutiny he's been under the past few years.

This is a far cry from the Barry the world saw a few years back when he was hitting home runs at an alarming rate, and setting all kinds of records. Regardless of whether he did steroids or not, Barry was and still is a Hall of Fame player, and part of his greatness was his focus. He was able to block out the media's opinion of him and produce. He was extremely selective at the plate, and he rarely struck out because of this. His batting average was in the .360 range, he was stealing 30-40 bases, and averaging between 30-40 home runs(until the steroids kicked in a few years later and he hit 73). Even journalists who couldn't stand him were forced to recognize his greatness. Now it is all crashing down on him. He's faced with tax evasion, infidelity(along with every athlete), steroid accusations, and rumors that his own team won't resign him because he's become an extreme liability. I'm one of the few people who feel sorry for him. He can't even do what most crazy people do, and start a blog, because he's basically under a gag order to not speak on any of his problems. It is truly a sad state of affairs...And I won't even mention that he's rocking the Larry Fishburne (no facial hair), which is always a sign of bad things to come. No man who CAN wear a mustache and goatee needs to be without one..especially a black man. This adds to a man's mystique..without it, you're nothing.

You know, I would really like to do at least one blog entry under the influence of wine or liquor, just to see what kind of greatness it would inspire. Rappers always talk about how they flow better while under the influence; Marvin Gaye wrote some damn good music while high, and I'm quite sure Ernest Hemingway was more than tipsy when some of his work was produced. Why shouldn't I be able to tap into that too...I think I'll try it one day soon.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

I have always had a love/hate relationship with white women/girls. When I was in high school, 80% of the women I was interested in were white, since 90% of the school was white too. The black women in high school thought I wanted to be white because of the way I talked, or they thought I was too short, too skinny, or perhaps too ugly, so they gave me no play. The white women always flirted with me, but I always suspected it was because I was "safer" than the other typical black dudes at my school. I was smart, quiet, and I wasn't about ruffling any feathers. I slept with one white women back then, and I did my share of fooling around. Then I went to a black college, so for 4 straight years, I dealt with all kind of black women, and I was able to re-appreciate them; however, I still managed to sneak a sexual experience with a white woman in there, and she just happened to be the mother of my son. I love her for having my child, but a relationship of substance never really materialized. It was just straight boning(i know that word is a bit sophomoric, but I've always liked it.) Since I've graduated from college, I really haven't dated too many white women. It's not due to a lack of interest, because I have come across some very attractive ones, but the interest isn't always reciprocal, which is fine. There are and have been plenty of black women who continue to tickle my fancy, but that doesn't mean curiosity doesn't seep in from time to time. And I have broken down white women into 3 categories..

First you have the white woman who grew up around other black women. She may not admit to wanting to be black, but her mannerisms, her slang, her musical preferences, and yes her taste in men, point to a certain degree of blackness. Her parents resent her choices a little but she doesn't care. Even as she gets older, she retains this love for black men and culture. Then you have the white woman who in high school and college had the best of both worlds. She dated white dudes and black dudes, and was able to do so interchangeably without missing a beat. This girl typically was an athlete in high school, which meant all the dudes wanted her. Even while in college, this woman continued to play sports and date the rainbow, but slowly her tastes veered towards white men. By the time this woman graduates from school and gets into the real world, they are only dating white men, and they really don't acknowledge their rainbow past. Of course in some cases, this woman will continue to fool around with the brothers in their 20s and well into their 30s, but when it comes to marriage, they will ultimately marry white..and who can blame them. And last but not least you have the white woman who doesn't date black dudes. She has them as friends, but the thought of dating them is something she just cannot wrap her mind around. As she gets older, even her black male friends start to dwindle, but she doesn't mind, because she is happy. She's not a racist, and she doesn't hate the brothers, she's just lost in her world of white men. This is typically the type of white woman I like..I respect the fact that she doesn't want or need me, and I accept the challenge of trying infiltrate and eventually penetrate her world.

Of course what I have written is borderline stereotypical, and I'm leaving out the racist white women, but for the most part, I feel like those are the categories. I typed all this, yet right now I am interested in a beautiful black woman. Go figure.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Tony Kornheiser, one of my favorite sports personalities, made his debut on Monday Night Football last night. I've been reading Tony's columns in the Washington Post since '87; I've been listening to him on the sportstalk radio since '97, and I've been watching him on ESPN since '01. But last night's performance was just bad. Preseason football is always hard to broadcast, since the meaningful subplots pretty much dwindle after the starters leave in the first quarter. After that, the announcers are basically forced to riff, and try to make the audience believe that the scrubs that are playing the remainder of the game are actually important. When you add in thatTony was making his initial appearance on MNF, you have a disaster. None of his usual wit, candor, and mean-spiritedness showed up. Unlike the Washington Post though, who killed him in the morning paper, I am going to give him another chance.

A friend of mine brought to my attention yesterday that I am wasting my talent. She basically said that my current job doesn't even come close to tapping into my abilities or my talent. I've known that for a couple of years, and part of the reason I'm tackling this blog, as well as other writing projects, is to get me in the correct mindstate. But it is REAL difficult to leave the comfort zone of making good money for doing something that you can take or leave. I admire those folks who step out on faith (the first and last religious phrase that I will use on this blog), and put their trust in God (ok one more), and just take a chance by leaving their job to do what they really want. If I had a bit more money saved or a rich older woman to be my sponsor, I would definitely do that. For right now, I'm content to keep my main job, while finding smaller jobs to satisfy my fix. But even that is getting real close to running its course. I need to be writing about something and getting paid for it. I wonder if Penthouse is hiring..

I thought of about two or more things to write about like my past infatuation with older women, or my two past affairs with married women, but I just don't feel like cluttering my blog with that b.s. today. To be honest, I typed it out, then backspaced and deleted in the middle. Maybe later.

Monday, August 14, 2006

I should have written about this in my initial blog entry, but I was scared. However, this is MY blog, and I should be writing about any and every nasty little thing that comes into my nasty mind. That's the Rashad way. I guess this paragraph shall serve as a disclaimer.

Going down on a woman (under the right set of circumstances) is truly a beautiful thing It's like being in rock band, and being pointed at by the leader to do a 5 minute guitar solo. You step up to the front of the audience, close your eyes, and just go for what you know. First you lure the audience in by playing the chorus of the song, so they can get comfortable with you, and to establish a rhythm..then you break off into the meat of the solo. You close your eyes, and summon all of the strength and creativity you have, and you just let loose. Every now and then you take a peak at the audience to see if they are feeling you, and you notice they have their eyes closed in ecstasy, so you just keep playing to what feels good to them. Towards the end of the solo, you tease the audience by playing a bit of the original melody, just to keep them off balance, then you immediately go back to the solo. The audience is caught a bit off guard, but they are so mesmerized by your total performance that they just sit there and enjoy the ride. Then, for the finale' you just throw all the talent and skill you have into the solo, until you have no more to are spent and tired, and they thank you, by squirting..I mean throwing water(and maybe panties) at you onto the stage.
One of the quickest ways to lose friends, get someone mad at you, or just plain cause confusion is to start a blog. I've had one friend leave her own personal dissertation on my comments section, I've had another friend basically rip me and tell me I ain't shit (that comment will NEVER see the light of day), and one of my friends just stopped speaking to me altogether because she said my blogs were too hurtful for her to read. I am sensitive to all of this, and I feel about 10% guilty, because when I initially started this blog, I thought it was going to be observational and about sports, not so much about me. Well I was wrong. But luckily for me, and everyone else who sees something that do not like here in my blog, that black "x" in the top right hand corner of all computer screens ALWAYS works. I have found it to be extremely helpful to me when I want to avoid reading something, or when I just flat out want to escape an undesirable page. I'd suggest that they utilize this same tool and back the fuck up off me. I mean damn, anyone who knows me knows that I'm liable to say anything out of my mouth, so why would I get to the blog world and start censoring myself. Plus the shit is called stream of consciousness...anyway, I've reached my profanity quota in the first paragraph already.

Yesterday was my son's birthday, and I got a chance to talk to him. He was happy to hear from me, but I could tell that this phone relationship has really run its course. My son is just like me in that he has about a 5-10 minute attention span on the phone, and then he starts to get distracted by the things around him. He told me he got my gift and card, he mentioned he was going to see Pirates of the Caribbean, and that school started on Wed. Then he was like, ok Daddy I want to go play now..I have to respect his honesty, but the selfish side of me wanted to reach through the phone, shake him, and say, "dammit don't you know that these conversations are all I have?" But that would be selfish. I'm scheduling a visit out to Arizona to visit him for the weekend, but all of these gestures still feel inadequate. These are the type of feelings that make me wish I could have another that I could actually see go thru things from birth to 18, as opposed to being on the sidelines.

I went to the hair place with a friend of mine, so she could pick out her weave, and this was the funniest thing I've seen in quite some time. I don't mind a woman wearing a weave at all, in fact sometimes I strongly encourage it. But I just never knew all the preparation and fine detail that went into picking it out. These women feel the hair, take it out of the package and put it against their skin tone, and do comparative shopping as if they were at the grocery store. And the funniest thing of all, was that the Asian man behind the counter knew ALL of the hairstyles like the back of his hand. One of the women would ask him a question, and without blinking an eye, he'd know where the hair was, how much it was, and what color was available. They need something like this for men..I should be able to go to the facial hair store, and get a beard or goatee for about a month. This would allow my real beard to grow, while at the same time allowing me sport a fake beard without trimming or shaping up. I should look into this..

I HATE not being able to write in this thing on the weekend..all feels right with the world when I'm able to get on here and vent.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Alright, so I went to see Dontrelle Willis and the Florida Marlins play the Nationals last night. I committed two deadly sports fan sins. One, I showed up late, and two, I left early. I was late to the game because I was determined to get a fresh cut and proper removal of my beard. I couldn't bear to go even another hour looking like that. The end result was that I showed up to the game in the second inning, and Dontrelle and the Marlins were already down 2-1. Dontrelle did not have his best "stuff" last night despite striking out 6 batters, and he was removed in the sixth inning..and I left shortly thereafter. I would never show up late or leave early for any other sporting event, but on this night I felt differently. I feel like I have sold out as a sports fan. But I simply didn't care to look at two non-playoff teams duke it out in the late innings.
Other observations... I noticed that folks drink beer at baseball games the way Doughboy drank malt liquor in Boyz N the Hood. There is no possible way to monitor who has and has not exceeded their limit; as a result, the fans around me were yelling all kind of fragments, non-sequitors, and insults to the Florida Marlins and any National who made a mistake. I was bracing myself to hear an insult about Dontrelle, but it never came.

There were also two older black men sitting about two rows in front of me taking the game in, and for some reason that made me smile. They didn't do a whole of talking, they just sat there watching the game. Occasionally they'd point at something on the field, or one would tap the other in an effort to point out something on the big screen. Part of me wanted to go down to where they were sitting and interview them, to get their story. I wanted to know who their childhood baseball heroes were, did they ever see a Negro league game, did they see Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron or even Frank Robinson play. And if they did what kind of thoughts run thru their head when they see Dontrelle Willis pitch during this modern era. But of course I did nothing but keep all these thoughts in my head. The reality is if I had gone up to them, they may have shunned me. Of course I'll never know..that's the difference between a blog entry talking about what I should have done, and a meaningful story of two old black men at a baseball game, that is ready to be submitted to a major publication.

I listened to a friend of mine talk about her relationship issues, and it made me realize what a supreme ass I have been in the past with women. The downside of me having female friends is that I see up and close and personal the effect my negative actions may have had. Of course the positive side of that is that the advice I give is much more on point. Not to mention I can shed some light on the male mind state. At some point I am supposed to take all of my past mistakes, my convos with female friends, my dad, male friends, etc..and parlay(I hate that word..I'm violating my own personal constitution by using it, but it fits here)that into a successful relationship. Easier said than done though

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

I have mad respect for those people who grow beards like Kevin Smith, Gerald Levert, and Abraham Lincoln. Ive been growing mine for 5 days, already it is itching me like crazy. I'm about five minutes away from screaming, "Wilson" and planning some raft construction. And even if I survive this phase, if I grew it out, I'd have to shape it up everyday. I just don't have that kind of time or precision. Every year I say I"m going to grow one, and then I get to this phase and cut not only my beard off, but all facial hair. I end up looking like Morpheus(my face is smoother than Larry Fishburne's though..that brother needs an airbrush at ALL times). And then on top of that, I was told today that my mustache is much too thin, so now I'm rocking the Hitler with the itchy beard. Ideally, I'd rock the strong Juwan Howard goatee ( I've always admired that from afar..Unfortunately, there's no way a man can compliment another man on his facial hair..and if that happens something extremely masculine has to follow the compliment like "let's go play rugby" or "let's watch the Godfather and Scarface back to back son".
On my way to work this morning, I realized that I have only been in love one and a half times. Shortly after that, I realized that I have told women that I have loved them much more than one and half times, which is dead wrong, but not always my fault. I know I loved my on and off girlfriend of six years, but that really was never enough to keep us together. But I'd do any and everything I could for her, sometimes at my own expense. That was and still is love. The jury is still out on whether I loved my college girlfriend. We were both 20 when we seriously got together, and by the time we split up we were allegedly grown and 23. I really don't think about her too often, and the last time I did, there were no butterflies, no special feelings, no nothing. That counts as half of love in my book. That's it though. I've said I love you to avoid awkward pauses, I've said I love you to expedite the sex process, I've pulled a George Costanza and said it first just to see what would happen. Other times I like saying I love you at the end of a phone conversation, just because it seems like the logical deep conversation ender on those nights when saying "goodnight", "one love" or just "one" is insufficient. If I could conduct a conference call or roundtable discussion with all the women I've said I love you to and not meant it, I'd deeply apologize to each and every one of them. I feel a little guilty, but I'm sure someone has said it to me and not meant it, so that's fine. These things have a way of evening out.

I'm going to a Nationals game tonight to see my main man Dontrelle Willis pitch. When I watch Willis pitch it reminds me of how I use to feel when Dwight Gooden took the mound back in the mid 80s. Dwight was young, brash, cocky, damn good and high as hell off coke. But every 5 days, when he would take the mound, it seemed like the world would stop to see what he was going to do. I was living in Connecticut at the time, and since we didn't have a baseball team, I lived vicariously thru the up and downs of the New York Mets, specifically Gooden. Once cocaine, alcohol and injuries prematurely ended his career, I never really rooted for a player like that. Barry Bonds was and still is intriguing, but he's an ass. Since Dontrelle entered the league back in 2003, he has captivated me in a Dwight Gooden like way. He's not quite as good yet, but he's getting there. It feels weird being on the jock of a player who is younger than I am....shit, he should be wearing MY jersey.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

One of the funniest things that I see on a day to day basis, is the failed attempt to closeout a conversation. It starts off on the train or even at an elevator when you see someone you haven't seen in awhile, or it can even be a good friend you always see. You are nearing your floor or your stop, and you attempt to wrap up the conversation so that it coincides with that door opening, and you walking thru it. But then for some reason, the door does not open right away. You've already wrapped up your conversation and ended on a high note, so you don't want to re-open a convo with your friend that could be possibly be interrupted by the door finally opening; however, you can't just stare at the door like some type of mental patient, because then your friend will perceive it as an intentional snub. So instead you flounder around in the middle ground, desperately trying to read something that may be in your hand or in your bag, and you may even attempt to adjust your clothing somehow. Aside from listening to Magic Johnson speak, this may be THE most uncomfortable situation you can be in...anyway..

My boy Cliff came in town yesterday, and we kicked it for awhile over drinks, and it had me wondering why I (and men in general) don't really acquire new male friends. I have 3 good male friends: I met Cliff in '87, Kevin in '89, and my boy Sabin in '92..that's it..that's the list. I've had other male acquaintances that I would give dap too on the street, and that if I saw at a concert or an outing, I'd exchange numbers with (for the 30th time) and promise to call (yeah right), but in terms of male friends I can count on, it all starts with the original three. New female friends come everyday, but that's usually following an unsuccessful attempt to get some trim...with a few exceptions of course. The closest a man comes to making other male friends is in the workplace, but even then it is restricted to sports discussions, maybe politics, and a nod of approval when there is a ridiculous T&A sighting in the office. This isn't exactly the stuff solid friendships are made of, but it suffices for the workplace.

You know what made Tribe Called Quest so damn good? The element of surprise..Their first CD just sounded different than other rap group not named De La Soul or Jungle Brothers, so that alone was enough to hook me. Then their second cd, Low End Theory, introduced Phife to the world (which is why Butter is my favorite song off there), and it was also marked one of the first times that a rap group primarily relied on jazz samples. And on top of that, they even had legendary jazz bassist Ron Carter on one song (Verses from the Abstract). With their 3rd CD, Midnight Marauders, Tribe put it all together for an absolute classic. You had the song that no one knew the chorus to (Electric Relaxation), Phife's classic (8 Million Stories), classic jazz samples, and last but not least, the lovely sound of a woman's voice who served as the tour guide for the entire CD. It's no wonder that Tribe sucked ass after Midnight Marauders. They really could only maintain their greatness or fall off slowly. That being said, when they come to DC in the fall, I will be there front and center.

Monday, August 07, 2006

My entire Sunday was spent in the house. I stopped at Starbucks early in the morning to get a Green Iced Tea Lemonade(excellent, excellent stuff, that would be great if I could get Starbucks to sponsor my blog), and then I went back in my apt to clean up, relax, watch DVDs, and of course sports. I can't even remember the last day I spent just relaxing like that, and I would recommend it to any and every one who asked me about it. I thought about my life, my family (excluding my grandmother after the story that inspired Sat's blog entry), and just my overall well-being. I had a total of two phone conversations all day long. One with a good friend, and one with the new crush. Other than that, it was all about me. As a result, I feel pretty refreshed and ready for semi-productive work week.

Aside from writing, I am convinced that my true calling in life was/is to be a DJ. I went out to a bar on Sat night that had a jukebox, and I spent a good 2 hours(and money) putting in songs that would move the crowd. I had a few missteps, but for the most part the bar was jamming, while at the same time wondering, who is this wonderful man putting on all these wonderful songs. Now I see while DJs sometimes say that their craft has little to do with how much money they make(or spend) and everything to do with a crowd moving to a set of carefully crafted songs that make women shake their collective asses, and men watch and fantasize. Now if i can just get a friend or two to trust me enough to do a party, I'd be in there. I suppose I would have to come up with a name too..

I have on a pink shirt today. I know its 2006 and men have shed their worries about being perceived as having the gay, but every now and then I find myself worrying if wearing this shirt screams to the gay community, "WE GOT ANOTHER ONE BOYS". I smile less when I wear this shirt, and I try to walk a little slower as to avoid an inadvertent switch. That's just way too much thought to put into it I know, but I can't take being hit on my someone from the other team..not anymore anyway.

Saturday, August 05, 2006

I just picked my grandmother up from the airport this morning, and I was subjected to things that no grandson should have to hear. We were talking about my brother's upcoming marriage and baby, and she decided to share with me her first sexual experience. I was looking at her like, "are you for real", but she was completely oblivious to me. She gave me the scenario, the location, her feelings, what kind of a dude this was and everything. That's fucking disgusting man..I love my grandmother, but that kind of story doesn't even register on the TMI meter...that's off the charts. If I were her daughter or granddaughter, perhaps I could find it in my heart to understand. I mean the mental pictures alone were killing me inside man. Not good times at all.

I went on a date last THAT was good times. There was no pressure, no nervousness, just a good time with someone I like and who likes me back. And it came completely out of nowhere, which makes it that much more special. Given my checkered past with the ladies, I'm not even going to project what's going to happen from here if anything. I'm just going to take it all in stride, and see where it takes me. Promising start so far though.

Thank god for weekend computer access....

Friday, August 04, 2006

"Dog, I need a new batch of hoes!" Sabin, my roommate back in college used to say this during our freshman year. Every 2 months or so he'd come in the room, sit on his bed, and he'd give me a mini State of the Union address on his women, and how he had grown tired of them and their accompanying antics. We'd talk about it a bit, and then he would come to the conclusion that he did indeed need a fresh batch of "hoes". Of course 14 years later, the language is harsh, but I understand that sentiment. Every now and then, a person needs a change whether it be women, employment, clothes, scenery, etc..The people or situations that you are leaving behind may not completely understand why you are leaving them, but that doesn't make it any less necessary. I need to call Sabin and pay him royalties for stealing his phrase, and let him know that it was applicable in 1992, and in a different way it is still getting it done in 2006. In my case, I had a couple of friends that I had to separate from yesterday for a variety of reasons. One friend and I had just has philosophical differences, and the other just plain overstepped the boundaries, as she habitually had done throughout our friendship. An habitual linestepper I believe they are called(damn i said I'd never quote the Chappelle show in this damn blog). The funny thing is while I was in the process of getting rid of these friends, I had about a 2 hour conversation with my boys yesterday who I've known for damn near 18 years. When we get on the phone and talk the maturity level plummets to about age 9, and you'd never know that we all have college degrees and successful careers. It's just three boys, talking shit, laughing, and during that suspended moment in time all seems well with the world. I'll never need a new batch of friends like that, regardless of who else comes and goes.

I'm on a quest to find some fresh brown tennis shoes, and I'm coming up way short. I have ZERO savvy when it comes to picking tennis shoes..never have. I'd gladly pay someone to buy not only shoes, but my entire wardrobe, because clearly that isn't my strength. But I've always wanted a pair of brown tennis shoes whether they be adidas, skechers or even pumas, but I've yet to find a pair to tickle my fancy. These are the type of thoughts that occupy my mind on a Friday morning. That's a sad state of affairs.

I am feeling someone new, but I ain't speaking on that just yet. I'll save that for Monday or tomorrow if I can get on a damn computer. This lack of home computer access is seriously stifling my blog..

i think this is as scatterbrained as I've been since I've started this damn be that way sometimes though

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Today is my designated fast day, and it cannot come at a better time. I'm not the most consistent church goer in the world, and religion and I have always had a love/hate relationship. And in 2001, Religion recruited my mother to be a minister and play on their team, so now I REALLY have mixed feelings about the whole concept. But I do recognize that there is a God and/or a force that is more powerful than I can possibly imagine. So once a week (for the most part) I do a mini-Ramadan, and I fast from sunrise to sunset. Sometimes I get clarity on situations that I am confused about, other times I just thank Him for what little I have, and sometimes all I get is a series of loud and embarrassing stomach growls. I try to be thankful for all of that, because it sure as hell beats sitting in church every Sunday. I truly believe some folks aren't meant for church, and I am such a person. I dig the singing all the time; they can miss me with the announcements and the theatrics though; and there are times when I listen to the preacher, wishing he would just give me an outline of his message, so I can go home, study it, and take notes if need be. As I'm typing this, I realize that could be interpreted as cynical, but it is really how I feel. So, in an effort to avoid that headache, I fast. Its way more efficient, it jives with my personality and needs, but at the same time some degree of sacrifice is involved. The REALLY sad part about this is if I went to church every Sunday, sang in the choir, became a deacon, and really got into it, I'd be the church version of Hugh Hefner. Women would be so happy that a straight and single black man was serious about God, that they'd throw it at me like Michael Vick(except a bit more accurate), and I'd catch it all. I'd be giving it up for God and church, and the ladies would be giving it up for me. A fair exchange on the surface, but I can't go out like that. Not yet anyway.

In the two weeks or so since I've been posting my thoughts online, I've had about 5 or 6 people tell me that they are inspired to write a blog too. Now, as an aspiring writer, far be it from me to discourage anyone from writing. I think it is cathartic, in some cases therapeutic, and an excellent vehicle of expression. But when folks tell me they are starting a blog, I'm thinking to myself, "man I ain't reading that bullshit". I know that is wrong, and a bit contradictory considering I want folks to read and comment on mine, but its how I feel. Not everyone has thoughts that are blog worthy (and on some days I feel like I am firmly in this category), and some folks flat out can't write, which clutters up anything good they may or may not have to say. I have about 4 blogs I currently read, and they are entertaining and insightful and in some cases WAY bettter than mine. I can't bear to read anymore. I also don't care to type anymore.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

I was an English major in college, I graduated with honors, and I've always thought that I had a gift for not only writing words, but connecting them in a way that was both entertaining and thought provoking. I haven't really struggled with my writing style, since I was a freshman in school, and even then it didn't take me very long to right my wrongs. So it blows my mind that despite all of my "credentials", I still can't freestyle. Not even close man. Yesterday I was listening to a CD full of instrumentals, and one of the beats struck a chord with me so I attempted to bust a rhyme or two or three. It was horrible. I sounded like straight garbage, and this rule that everything has to rhyme is clearly holding me back. My brother said to me that one time like 7 years ago at a club, I was drunk, and flowed effortlessly. That may very well have been my peak performance. Given that I'm 31 years old, a father, and a working man, you'd think that something as frivolous as not having freestyle skills wouldn't matter. But it much that I felt the need to write about it.

It is no secret that I sent the link to my blog to any and everyone, in an effort to get some feedback whether it is good or bad. Sometimes I regret that shit, because as I write what is on my mind, I find myself wondering if people will "like" my entry today. That is all wrong. It's like the classic argument that musicians/artists go thru(not that im either one, but i'm just using this as a reference point..bear with me). Do you write what you want and hope the people feel it, or do you write what the people want to hear in an effort to be "liked"? In the short amount of time I"ve been doing this, I've done both. That makes me a sellout to some degree. So I think from now on, I'm going to type what I feel regardless of how it makes me look. Starting tomorrow of course.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

I listened to Marvin Gaye's, I Want You ( about 10 times in a row this morning. I've heard that song countless times, but this morning I listened to it with my headphones. I heard more background voices and instruments than I ever remember hearing before. After I got over hearing all of that, I focused on the words to the song. This man was basically putting himself out there by not only admitting that he wanted this woman, but then he took it one step further by saying, I want you to want me too. That's vulnerability for your ass. That must have been one hell of a woman..the type of woman I have yet to hook up with. Because I'll be goddamned if I put myself out there like that only to have a woman say, "Thanks, but no thanks". Gold star for Marvin in that regard.

I had a dream about Christina Milian ( last night, and man was it a beautiful thing. Sex dreams for me are about as frequent as a clean drug test for Darryl Strawberry, so for me to have one about her was the hitting the jackpot son. I remember the initial insertion, but after the details were hazy. There are times during a dream, when I KNOW I'm dreaming, so I do all kinds of ridiculous things just to test my dream limits if you will. I swore last night's dream was real, until I woke up. I remember telling myself to play it cool, and act like I had been with a woman on this level before. The sad part is I could watch dirty movies all day and night, and have Christina on the brain 24/7, and I will NEVER have this kind of dream again. Cruel things these dreams are.

I also learned (once again) that khaki pants and urinals do NOT match. It's like walking around glass with bare feet hoping you can dodge the glass..eventually it will get you. I went to the urinal, did my business, I shook until everything it was empty, I dodged the post flush gush of water that came from the urinal, and I headed to the sink. At the sink, I turned the water on TOO high, and it spilled on the crotch of my khakis. So now all that beautiful handiwork I had done to avoid water, urine, and God knows what else was wasted, and when I stepped the bathroom walls, all anyone probably thought was, "Damn he peed on himself". That's not hot.