I've played one instrument in my life and that was the trumpet from age 8 to age 16. I briefly took trumpet and bass lessons, but because of various duties I had to tend to as an adult, they never really got off the ground and I damn sure didn't achieve any level of proficiency. My main man jazzbrew used to be a proficient trumpet player and more recently he has switched over to the bass and he's moving closer to proficiency in that as well. I admire that and one day soon while my son Nyles is taking piano lessons, I will attempt that feat as well.

But this morning while I was in the shower, I was listening to Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al", and the nasty bass solo came on, and it reminded me of why I even wanted to learn the bass in the first damn place. I can think of several songs with unmistakable bass solos or basslines that I would attempt to recreate simply with the air guitar, and I would wonder what it would take to learn the instrument. I shall list some of them now--the aforementioned "You Can Call Me Al" is on the list by the way.


Robert Palmer - I Didn't Mean To Turn You On

The bassline of the song is average and nothing spectacular or noteworthy. And then at the 2:23 mark, there a nasty bass guitar pluck and makes you want screw your face up while you play it. That nasty pluck reappears at the tail end of the song as well. I was 10 or 11 when this song came out, but I'll never forget that.




Steely Dan - Peg

The only reason I knew about this song was due to the De La Soul Song, "Eye Know" which was on 3 Feet High and Rising which used the Steely Dan. I later looked up the song on my own and initially it was Michael McDonald's background vocals which reeled me in. Then later as my ear got more sophisticated, I zeroed in on the nasty bass line and now I can never unhear that part. A few years ago, there was a documentary on Steely Dan, and the bass guitarist mentioned that Steely Dan did not want him to pluck the guitar during the chorus, and he snuck it in anyway (skip ahead to the 1:15 mark of the video below):



Chaka Khan/Rufus - Tell Me Something Good

Come on, do I really have to explain this one? Just listen how the song starts, and tell me it doesn't make you want to do something x-rated..



Stanley Jordan - The Lady in my Life

Yes I am well aware this song is smooth jazz, and I generally am condescending towards the entire smooth jazz institution. However, when I was a nine year old lad going to and from soccer practice, my dad (who was a huge jazz head) fell in love with bassist Stanley Jordan and his inaugural album, "Magic Touch". One of the standout songs from that album was a remake of MJ's "Lady in my Life", and the bass parts were damn good



On Green Dolphin Street - Jimmy McGriff

This is yet another song that I discovered thanks to a hip hop group. A Tribe Called Quest sampled this in their song "Jazz (We've Got)", and thanks to the extensive liner notes in the tape cover, I was able to discover that and other basslines.



Get on the Floor - Michael Jackson

The lyrics were written by Michael Jackson, but the beat was done by legendary bassist, the late Mr. Louis Johnson (half of The Brothers Johnson). The bass is so nasty in this song, I don't even think the air guitar can do it proper justice. It is intricate, it is funky and to me it is flat out amazing. Louis Johnson briefly discussed it in this interview:


Bass Solo: Louis Johnson - "Get On The Floor" by Fanuchi

Here's the real song


I'm sure there are more, but that's a start...

Let me begin by saying I know right from wrong, and for the most part, it is my intent to do the right things in life, and to make correct decisions. Occasionally I fall short of that mark and when I do, it is unintentional 90% of the time--my behavior this morning was not one of those times.

I don't know if you've noticed, but people tend to be obsessed with their cell phones these days. It isn't as big of a deal when someone is at home, waiting on the train or just out of harm's way. But it is a problem when texting is done while driving or walking. Today during my rainy walk to work, I had an encounter with a woman who was texting while walking.

Now the responsible thing to do would have been for me to sidestep her as she walked down the sidewalk with her head buried in her phone, but then I thought to myself, "How will she learn her lesson?". So as she walked towards me, I kept walking towards this woman, and she ran right into me and dropped her phone on the hard concrete face down. The following wonderfully profane conversation took place:

Her: What the f**k man? Watch where you're going

Me: I did, I was walking straight down my side of the sidewalk but you didn't look up

Her: So you just f**king run into me"

**She looks down at her phone***

Her: And now my phone is cracked, what the f**k man? You're a f**king asshole

Me: I may be an asshole, but I'm the asshole who walks with his head up on the sidewalk and my phone isn't cracked so...

Her: Whatever asshole

Me: Have a good day sweetie


Now again, I realize that there may have been a better way for me to handle this type of conflict, but I'm tired of enabling folks who can't look up from their phone enough to simply walk down the street. Of course is someone was texting and driving, the stakes would be much higher and of course I would be much smarter. But since this collision was only going to happen on foot, I thought I had some leeway to teach lessons. The fact is, you can't barrel down the street with tunnel vision--and she should know that as a woman. A myriad of things could have happened to her and a cracked phone is at the bottom of that list. I didn't get mad, I didn't yell, and I overlooked the fact that she was cursing at me like Bobby Knight at halftime. She had a right to be mad, but I had more of a right to be, and that was that.

And I also realize I didn't have to call her sweetie, but I know woman hate to be called that by men they don't know, so I just threw it in for good measure.

Happy Birthday Stevie...

I have no idea if anyone reads this blog, and I definitely don't know if the folks who still read are savants in the dream interpretation area, but I'm just going to write about it anyway to get it off my chest.

I was in the middle of a kickball game with the teachers and staff members from my son's school. I was playing in right field, I saw my son's teacher in center field, and the co-teacher was on the other team preparing to kick the ball. I had on sunglasses, and I distinctly remember swatting gnats away like a crazy person. I can also distinctly remember that it was hot, and I really did not feel like participating, which is unlike me because I like kickball a great deal.

The pitcher rolled the ball to the co-teacher and she kicked the ball high in the air, and far away from me. I remember taking two steps towards the ball, before I quickly realized it was well beyond my grasp. My son's teacher and some random schmo in left field both converged on the ball, and it ended up dropping right between them. I remember saying loudly (come on man, what are we doing out here man , but nobody paid me any attention). The schmo went to pick up the ball and all of a sudden out of the clear blue--and this is where it gets a bit surreal--three giantrobots came on the field and started dismantling the field.

First they threw the ball out of sight, then they started tearing up the grass, the bases and everything. Most of the teachers and faculty started running in the opposite direction, but I just stood there because the robots clearly had no interest in terrorizing the humans. This destruction continued for a good 45 seconds or so, and then I woke up. I didn't wake up via my alarm and I didn't wake up sweating or excited, I just woke up angry that my kickball dream ended a)prematurely b) on an error by my assclown teammates and c) before I had a chance to kick the ball my damn self.

So what the the hell does this mean?

During my formative years, my parents partly relied on Sesame Street to reinforce the lessons they taught me, as well as the ones that were being taught in school. Sometimes they would sit and watch with me, and other times they would take off to do other tasks, while trusting that the little, multi-colored Muppets--along with a few adults--could sustain my attention for approximately an hour. Based on how I turned out, I'd say that was a mutually beneficial transaction.

Now that I am in the midst of raising a four-year old son, I too am relying on the fine Seasame Street Institution to help raise my son. I particularly like for Nyles to watch Seasame Street in the morning while he's eating cereal and after he gets dressed. It puts him in an academic state of mind and it makes him more receptive to learning than just playing on the iPad, playing with his toys or watching Toy Story for the 567th time. Just this morning, the Sesame Street crew (Gordon to be specific) was describing what a stapler was and why it was necessary, and when my son got to school, he wanted to see the teacher's stapler. Win-Win.

But yesterday morning, there was a Sesame Street skit with Cookie Monster on it, and it backfired a bit. You see, Cookie Monster wanted to give cookies to his mother as a mother's day present, but Mr. Monster could not keep his hands and mouth off of the cookies long enough to actually gift them. He would start off calm and reserved, and then eventually, Cookie Monster would dominate the cookies as he is wont to do. When I was younger I thought it was funny the way Mr. Monster would devour the cookies, but as I got older--and particularly now that I'm a parent, I think it's flat out disgusting.

Young Nyles and his impressionable mind were sitting down eating mini-pancakes for breakfast as Cookie Monster ate and dominated cookie after cookie, and he made the executive decision that his pancakes should be eaten the same way. He picked up three mini-pancakes, put them up to his mouth, and proceeded to imitate the Cookie Monster as best he could. My knee-jerk reaction was to get mad and tell Nyles to stop, but he had his retort ready:


Me: Nyles don't stuff your mouth, why are you doing that?

Nyles: I'm doing what Cookie Monster is doing

Me: I know but the way Cookie Monster is eating is wrong, you eat one thing at a time and you chew and swallow

Nyles: But Daddy Cookie Monster isn't doing that

Me: What the f**k did I say? (I didn't really say that, but I wanted to)


At this point, I wanted to ramp up my anger, but given that I was the one who plopped my son down in front of the TV to watch this fine television show, I had to take some responsibility, which made me feel like this:




Anyway, Nyles now knows that Cookie Monster is a poor eater with less-than-desirable habits, so I guess in that respect, the show still allows for teachable moments. But it backfires sometimes too. That is my Public Service Announcement for the day.

I have been singing The Stylistics Song, "Hurry Up This Way Again" for years because the beat and singing and are so on point. But as is the case with most songs of my youth (take Evelyn Champagne King's "Love Come Down" which I sang religiously when I was young lad--not knowing that this woman made an entire song about how her dude has the ability to reach, touch and then bring down all of the wonderful, wet goodness that has previously been untapped, so to speak), I neglected to pay close attention to the lyrics until recently when the song came on my iPod during a walk home. As my wife said, you don't think of the words being particulary shady, because the lead singer of the group has such a high, disarming voice. But basically this dude is giving the business to a woman who has another man at home, but he wants her to hurry up and come back so he can administer more of the deep di....well you get it.

Here are the lyrics:

Oh, how it hurts loving someone who has someone else
So many nights I've spend here all alone by myself
Whenever you're with him, whose loving me, nobody
Hurry up this way again, I love you, hurry up this way again

I'll never know when I'm going to see you again
Can't make no plans, I just see you whenever I can
What happens in between, I sit and dream about you
Hurry up this way again, I love you, hurry up this way again

So many lives I spend here all alone

I love you, hurry up this way again
I need you, I want you, I don't want nobody else
Hurry up this way again, I love you, hurry up this way again
I love you, hurry up this way again

I've gotta have you, I want you, hurry up this way again
Hurry up this way again, I love you, hurry up this way again

And here's the song:

Eddie Murphy has a joke about how he used to scare girls by waving a stick around, telling them he had rubbed against a dead bird, and then chasing them with it by saying, "Dead birrrrd, dead birrrd, gonna put it on youuuu". It may not sound funny when I repeat it--in fact Eddie Murphy also has a joke about people butchering his jokes--but just click on the link at the beginning of this paragraph, and maybe you'll laugh. If you don't, f**k it, the joke is funny to me and my main man Sabin. In fact in college, every time Sabin and I would see a dead animal or any dead bird for that matter, we'd start saying, "dead birrrd, dead biiird, gonna put it on youuu." No one around us got it, but we did, which again, was all that mattered.

So this morning as my son and I were walking to school, we saw not one, not two but three dead birds beside his school building. Apparently the school windows are so clean that the birds, who clearly are not being praised by MENSA for their overwhelming intelligence, are flying directly into them. This is prematurely ending their precious lives and probably scaring the shit out of parents and some kids who have to step over the carcasses. Some kids went and stepped directly on the dead birds, which was funny to me, but not really. Some kids screamed and ran in the other direction, and then there's my son Nyles.

Young Nyles didn't scream, he didn't step on the dead bird, but he took a few steps towards it, then immediately took two steps away, and proceeded to start the following conversation with me:

Nyles: Daddy, what's that?

Me: That's a dead bird Nyles

Nyles: Well who killed the bird?

Me: The bird accidentally killed itself by running into the window

Nyles: Noooo, someone else killed the bird (he's already subscribing to conspiracy theories, I like that)

Me: Maybe, but I think the bird flew into the window and died

Nyles: Well why did the bird do that?

Me: He's dead so I can't ask him

I thank god that my last statement, along with the fact that it was time to actually enter the school, effectively ended our conversation. The inquistive mind of a four-year old is relentless and not bound by time, how annoying their line of questioning is, or how repetitive they are--which is fine since it is their job to be curious. But I was trying to get Nyles to class, and then I needed to get to work, so we had to cut it short. Plus, from the time I saw the bird, until I dropped Nyles off, I had to keep myself from laughing in his face because all I really wanted to do was say to him, "Dead birrrrd, dead biiiird, gonna put it on youuuuu." But he wouldn't have gotten it..not yet anyway.

I texted the abridged version of this story to my main man Sabin when I got to work, and he laughed, and then told me how he was in the process of introducing his two daughters to clean Sinbad and Eddie Murphy jokes. He told me a story about how his wife told one of his daughters that her room was a dump, and her daughter responded, "When you think of garbage, think of Akeem!" That is the level I need to get to with Nyles, so in addition to the educational and musical content I've been shoving down his throat the past few years, I may need to pepper in some fine comedic stylings as well. While he is in the nascent stages of his comedy education, I need to stress to him how harmful it is to latch on to bad, unfunny comedy. That just sets a bad precedent that I simply cannot be responsible for as his father.

And now, one of my favorite routines from Richard Pryor. The line about the luggage (around the 0:53 mark) makes me laugh every time. But don't just fast forward to that part otherwise you'll miss the essence of the joke...

Robert Reid, a former Houston Rockets basketball who achieved minor success in the NBA from 1997-1991 (he averaged 11.4 points, 4.5 rebounds and 2.7 assists during his career) had some rather strong opinions about current Houston Rockets star, James Harden.. The Houston Rockets greatly underachieved this past season, and although the finger could be pointed at their head coach instability (they went through two coaches this season), the failure of Daryl Morey (aka Dork Elvis) to bring in a third scorer, and the de-evolution of Dwight Howard as a productive basketball player. Mr. Robert Reid places the blame solely on the shoulders of young James Harden.

In an article--which can be seen here--Mr. Reid, who is clearly still passionate about the fortunes of his former team, criticizes the selfish way Harden plays. The article is strewn with quotes that have that get-off-of-my-lawn quality about them, but there are a few quotes that stick way out to me. Allow me to share:

"The new coach that they bring in here is the one that's going to have to say, 'I'm the one who gets fired if we don't win, not you. Do you feel lucky? Because your happy-jack behind will be at the end of the bench until you come to this game that we want to play.'

Now, 95% of that quote sounds perfectly normal. Yes it is a little dated to use the Clint Eastwood do-you-feel-lucky reference but that is a timeless movie loved by folks old and young and it is constantly on tv, so people of all ages have carte blanche to say such a thing. However, the usage of "happy jack behind" is not the language of young person. In fact, as I told my wife, no one under the age of 55 has ever used that expression in life. It sounds like something my grandmother would say when she wanted to be authoritative without cursing. "Jack" is used my mostly men who most likely drink brown liquor, smoked Kools or Newports and rub their hands together when they are about to holler at a young lady. But sometimes women use it too when they are really trying to slam a point home without using "nigga", "motherfucker" or some other disparaging noun. "Joker" can also be used in the same way, but that sounds even more dated.

If you don't believe me, after you read this brief but informative blog, try inserting "Jack", "Joker" and definitely "happy jack behind" into your lexicon (especially if you aren't black) and watch the reaction you get from your peers. The beauty of all three expressions is that you can use them at work, at home, around children, and feel not one iota of guilt. Try it! Make it your own!


See I like to get down Jack!

My father lives in Phoenix, Arizona now which means the time we have together is significantly less than it was when he lived 30 minutes away from me in Columbia, Maryland. I have been saying I was going to get out to visit him but something always comes up. In fact, the last two times I saw him he was here in the DC area on business for a few days, and we would have time to spend only a few hours together. It was better than not seeing him at all, but it fell far short of the type of substantive visits I am used to experiencing with my dad.

A couple weeks ago, I received an email from the University of Pennsylvania regarding their annual Penn Relays track meet. I initially forwarded the email to my brother and my father, in hopes that all three (four when you throw in my nephew) could go on a road trip. Sadly, my brother and nephew were unable to attend, which meant my dad and I would be going alone.

The first thing I did when I realized my dad and I would be road tripping was make a playlist based on the songs he said he liked (I blogged about some of his list here) The Thursday before the trip I enjoyed a few glasses wine, I rolled up my sleeves and I got knee deep in Tidal (which I only joined because they had all the Prince songs that Spotify lacked) and I made an 140-song playlist of songs my dad loves. It was an arduous task, but the wine helped as did me anticipating my dad's reaction to hearing some of these songs. I included all of the songs he initially sent to me, then I added some songs I knew he had omitted. The plan was to talk to my dad while being serenaded by all of these lovely songs.

I went to pick him up from his hotel at 8am, and then we took that two-hour drive to Philadelphia from Washington D.C. We discussed family, sports and music, music, music. There were songs from Quincy Jones, Dianne Reeves, Lalah Hathaway, The Temptations, Sly and the Family Stone, James Brown and even Beyonce--my dad loves Beyonce's song "Love on Top", because he says it reminds him of songs female artists sang in the 70s. He gets a pass for that, because every time one of the other songs came on, my dad would have some type of accompanying story or memory with the song, which is why I wanted to put this list together in the first place. I wanted to learn, I wanted to talk, and mainly I wanted to be a son around my father. It sounds simple and borderline corny, but most of my life is about me being a manager at work, a father to my sons and a husband to my wife. Occasionally a brother needs a a change of pace and that time with my dad provided that.

Once we arrived at the Relays we turned into two track and field fans. We had our stopwatches out, we analyzed all of the relays, we talked to some of the folks around us, and of course we marveled at the thousands of Jamaicans in attendance--they come in droves every year and this year was no except, even without Usain Bolt in attendance. We saw Sanya Richards Ross, Justin Gatlin, Jeremy Wariner but sadly no Allyson Felix who my dad has a huge crush on. I realize most people aren't track fans, so hopefully one or all of those names look familiar, but if not I wouldn't be surprised. It was fun, and we sat in 60 degree weather for nearly four hours watching race after race.

On the way home, we talked a little about track and field, a little about Prince, but most of the ride was us talking about his favorite memories of his parents and the circumstances surrounding his divorce of my mother. It was deep and a little emotional at times, but it was exactly what I wanted out of a day trip. I love my dad and I still consider him to be my hero. And on a slightly less corny note, I highly suggest that everyone go on a road trip with one or both of their parents. It is truly a beautiful experience..

And now a selection from my dad's playlist:

When Prince died I posted a video of him playing a guitar solo during "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" at the 2004 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony. Here is a brief article by some of the folks involved in making that happen.

Young Carlton, my oldest so who is currently in the Marines and stationed in beautiful San Diego, California is all over the damn map. He informed me this past weekend that he wants to marry his girlfriend when he comes home, which will be in three to four months. My son will be 19 in August and his girlfriend is 17 and still in high school.

He informed me of this minor miracle via text message and I immediately asked him to call me. I had to be very delicate with the situation because I did not want to alienate him simply because I vehemently disagree with this premature decision. But at the same time, I was not going to talk to him like everything was rosy either. He called me, I asked him if she was pregnant and he said no, then I asked him why he wanted to marry her now and his response after a long pause was, "She's stuck with me through all of this." In case you're wondering what "all of this" is, it is her ability to "endure" the 6-7 months Carlton has been at bootcamp and two assignments and in the Marines--that is hardly a feat of strength.

I didn't discourage him, but I did tell him that he needed to make and spend his own money, develop some personal preferences and do a bit of self-exploration before marriage (aka see how many women he could safely have sex with while donning that Marine uniform). He's basically gone from high school to the military (after turning down college) which means he has been insulated from the evils (and pleasures) of the real world. And now he wants to marry someone more sheltered and naive than he is? Not good. He said he felt strongly about the marriage, and I said I would support him, but I think he's making a huge mistake. We agreed to disagree but I suspect some time between today and when he comes home this whole marriage thing will lose steam because....

Yesterday Carlton texted (didn't call) and told me that he didn't know about "this". I once again asked him to call me and I found out "this" was the Marines. He is bored with his current assignment which involves lots of menial tasks and waiting--none of the excitement he thought he was going to immediately get into. I explained to him that he was more than welcome to quit the Marines, but he needed a plan, considering he'd have no money, no job, nowhere to live unless his grandparents (and not on my side) took him, and all he would have is a girlfriend, who would eventually leave his ass. Then I explained to him that every job has slow periods in the beginning and the military is no different. He's getting paid, he has free room and board, he's going to start working towards his degree soon, and surely he can endure a little inconvenience. He kept complaining, and I just kept explaining the consequences and the realities of quitting. We got off the phone and I still don't know what he's going to do, but I'm going to be mildly relentless with him.

I begged him not to go the military last Spring and I strongly urged him to attend Virginia Commonwealth University where he got accepted. He calmly told me that the military is what he wanted to do, and before the VCU registration/housing deadline I asked him was he sure and he said "hell yes". From that moment on I shut up about college, and I made sure he talked to people, family members and friends who were either in the military or recently retired. He was buoyed by those conversations and he basically doubled down on wanting to go. So now, about 8 months later, when I hear this quitting b.s., I shut it down. I won't disown him if he quits, but I won't give him a dime of money--only support and pep talks. It will hurt me to do that, and it feels a touch unfair, but if those lessons aren't learned early, adulthood will be a bitch.

That being said if he quits and has a plan to get back on his feet, I will support it 100%--if he stays single. My father supported me financially in college, until my girlfiend--who I made the ill-advised decision to live with--left me abruptly. My dad said, "I told you not to do that", and he said I had to figure my own way out of it. I was student-teaching, working and barely making ends meet for 3 months but I did it and I graduated. I never asked my dad for money again, and I'm glad he taught me that lesson, but that's me talking 20 years later. While I was going through, it was an everyday struggle to a)make ends meet b) stay sane c) focus on school work and d) get laid. All four things were important to 21 year old me. Carlton may have to learn similar lessons...but again, I hope to God he powers through and sticks this out.

I'm not writing anything about Prince's death. It feels way too surreal and frankly, everybody on god's green Earth has written something on him--most of it was pretty bad. However there are three stellar Prince-is-dead articles that I suggest you read:

1) Alan Leeds - Prince's longtime manager

2) Questlove - A longtime Prince admirer

3) Bomani Jones - longtime Prince admirer

Also, Questlove (via Twitter) brought up a creepy point yesterday about how the words to "Let's Go Crazy" seem to serve as a bit of foreshadowing to how Prince died--especially when you factor in the alleged use of painkillers. Enough of that though.


So this past weekend my wife and some of her Morgan State buddies hung out and relived their college glory. Young Nyles and I hung out and did fun stuff like go to the movies (to see Zootopia) play baseball, a little soccer and we also watched the Smithsonian channel. Sadly, he caught a little bit of a cold, so our plans to hang out all Saturday were slightly derailed, but we had fun nonetheless.

My wife returned home with one of her friends, and this friend (who lives in NY) had a special request for my wife and me via her sister (who also lives in NY). That request was for us to buy her 3 bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 to bring back to NY. If you're unfamiliar with Mad Dog 20/20, it is a glorified wine cooler, malt-flavored beverage, that you basically have to be over 50 to drink--although my wife's friend and her sister are in their early to mid 40s. I've never touched the stuff, but I have male friends of mine who have, and I'm pretty sure they were dangerously close to becoming sterile as a result. It isn't a drink you should indulge in every day, but I suppose on special occasions you can really dig in and go crazy. I bet it goes good with a bucket of chicken too.

Anyway, I was asked to go to the liquor store and purchase this fabulous malt beverage and it gave me pause. The normal liquor stores I frequent wouldn't dare carry Mad Dog 20/20--partly because it isn't considered classy, partly because of the clientele they could attract, and mainly because the demand for it is hella low. I normally buy wine in semi to fancy stores except during football season when I may venture over to the beer section. Malt-flavored, Bartles and James type beverages aren't really in my wheelhouse, which meant I had to venture over to the "package sto'". The package sto'(as it is called in the South) is a place where you can get rudimentary groceries, play the numbers and by cheap wine, beer, liquor, cigarettes, cigars and phone cards to call overseas. I only go to that store when a) it is time to play the Lottery and b)when all the other stores are closed. They don't have good wine there, and sometimes kids (ages 10-21) tend to hang around there and clog up the store buying insane amounts of candy. I don't need that headache, I just want my f**king wine and I want to go home.

Due to my wine/liquor snobbery I was hesitant to fulfill my wife's friend's request to purchase Mad Dog at the package sto'. I was worried about the looks I'd get from folks when I plopped those bottles on the counter, but I ended up going anyway. The first trip I made to the package sto, I headed to the back of the store, procured a bottle of Mad Dog and placed on the counter. As soon as I did that, this older black man and another black woman--both of whom were playing the lottery--looked at the drinks, then looked me and gave me this look that basically said, "Word?". I looked at them and said (in my head), "Word!!". The guys behind the counter took my money, slightly smirked at me, and then I got the hell out of there.

I walked back in the house with my one bottle of cherry-flavored of Mad Dog with a tremendous sense of accomplishemt. I had stepped out of my comfort zone and brought home a drink I would never drink in a million years. Then my wife told me that I was to buy 3 bottles, not one, and I had to go back to the goddamn store. I walked back in there, got two more bottles which looked like lime Kool-Aid and placed them on the counter. This time, there were two women in line playing the numbers and one dude waiting for cigars, and they all gave me the same incredulous look. I didn't even bother trying to explain myself (via my facial expressions), I just paid, ignored the smirks from the guys behind the counter, and rolled the f**k out.

I realize I sound real bourgie right now but I don't give a damn. I suggest you go out and buy, then taste some Mad Dog and get back to me.


Prince - Breakfast Can Wait (Official Video) by Prince-Official

No words right now, because it is still too raw. But here a badass performance of Prince's from the 2004 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony for George Harrison. Prince murdered this solo to Harrison's, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps":

This video never gets old...and it is still true in 2016. Black folks don't appreciate jazz(an art form we created), but would rather listen to watered-down smooth jazz which is perfectly respectable if you're an individual who never heard real, intricate jazz played live or recorded. Conversely, white folks like smooth jazz but they LOVE real, authentic jazz. Of course there are exceptions to this rule but the next time you go to a jazz show, do a mental count in your head and get back to me. And yes I'm biased, because I absolutely love jazz music and I don't get how everyone doesn't but I especially don't get how the watered down smooth jazz is more appealing folks. It is like drinking Riesling over a fine, 2011 Coppola Merlot. Anyway, back to the video:

I have absolutely no clue who I am voting for, and frankly these are the worst presidential candidate options since I first voted in 1996. A friend of mine who is from Ireland said to me, "Are you telling me that these are smartest minds/politicians that your country has to offer?" I told him that smart people (with some exceptions) know to not dip their toe in the murky political waters. I also told him that in my opinion, this year is not about good, smart politicians, it is about (allegedly) changing the system and the political landscape as a whole. The intent is a sincere one I'm sure but the the cast of characters we have to choose from simply cannot carry out that mission.

I don't doubt Donald Trump's intelligence in the business area, but his approach sucks. All he had to do is be sane, slightly contrarian, learn 10-12 pertnient issues plaguing the country, and lay out 4-5 comprehensive (and realistic) plans of action, and he'd have the whole country in the palm of his hand. If he lost the bluster, the ego, the race-baiting, the rowdy crowds, and just plugged into the people (rich, poor and in between), he'd be the man over Mrs. Clinton, Bernie, Cruz and everyone. There is a void there and I thought he had the tools to fill it. But he cannot get out of his own way, and he's mucked it up completely. He didn't read the running-for-president manual, he knows nothing about delegates, issues or being presidential, he race-baits, and he has zero accountability. He still gets plenty of votes because he talks a good game and other candidates on the Republican side were blindsided by his ability to basically play the dozens. But he ain't presidential. Personally, I wanted Chris Christie, but then he fumbled the nomination away, and went all Anakin Skywalker on me by going to the dark (Trump) side. His political career is over.

Speaking of Trump, what's with the coded language of "Make America Great Again"? What is the "America was great" timeline and when did it stop? When Obama was elected? During 9-11? I want someone to make me a Great America timeline so I can view with my own 41-year old eyes when we as a country, were vacillating between great and not-so-great. If someone can do that, I'd vote them in a heartbeat.

I would write a paragraph on Ted Cruz but there's no need. He has a face, I'd love to kick repeatedly, and he seems woefully out of touch with his ultra conservative views. He is smart and he's a great debator, but that just means I'd want him representing me as an attorney, not as the leader of this country.

Bernie Sanders is a great activist and the fact that he has rallied all of this support basically out of nowhere cannot be ignored--he's just coming around in the wrong year. This is not the time to overhaul the system and start over, even though he makes great points of why we need to do just that. This country's econonomy is not ideal but it is better than it was in 2008 (part of that is Obama, the other part is just the natural ebb and flow of the economy) and for right now, stability is more important. I'd be happier if he were trying to figure out a way to fix this country's bridges, highways, trains, etc, because that is becoming a major problem all over this coutry. See the DC Metro. Plus, and I'm wrong for saying this but oh well, but Bernie is 74. His Vice Presidential choice will be like the backup quarterback of any NFL team. It will be a matter of when, not if they will get in the game.

Hilary Clinton is easily the most experienced politician in this limited field which gives her an advantage as does having her still-beloved husband campaigning for her. But Hilary comes off as smug, and she has a little Trump in her, because she'll seemingly do anything for the black vote (Trump does anything for any vote). Plus she has the stench of Bengazi and mishandled emails all over her. I think if her past was a bit cleaner, she'd be rolling over Sanders and would be the overwhelming favorite over Trump. But as it stands right now, it looks like it'll be the established, slightly crooked woman against the business man who knows nothing about politics and everything about self-promotion.

I'll eventually make an educated choice and vote, because not voting is just asinine, but this is just sad. If Trump wins, it'll open the door for more dumbasses to try and run for president, instead of leaving it to the "professionals". If Clinton wins, and more of her past transgressions come out--or if she does something shady while in office, the voting public will be disappointed and frustrated once again.

That is my political breakdown. Yes it is flawed and oversimplified in spots, but for the most part I think I'm right...

I have one main thing irritating me this morning, which isn't bad considering it is a Monday and work is kind of busy already. It is Starbucks related and it has been bothering me since Sunday afternoon.

The wife and I went to Starbucks yesterday and we both ordered a Venti Soy Chai Latte--she wanted her drink to be extra hot, I just wanted mine regular. The two Starbucks folks (allegedly called baristas) were in the midst of a conversation about fatigue. One woman was talking about tired she was, and the other was hoping she didn't get reported by a customer who caught her falling asleep on the job. So right away we know we're dealing with two employee of the year candidates.

One of the baristas asked my wife two times if only one of the drinks needed to be extra hot, and my wife said yes both times. Of course the woman didn't hear either answer because she kept running her mouth. The first drink was ready and I asked the barista if it was the regular drink or the extra hot one and the following conversation started:

Her: I thought they were both extra
Me: No, just one drink
Her: Oh, well I thought they were both extra hot and I already made it, so you can just put a ice cube in the second one, trust me, plenty of people do it.
Me: No thank you I don't want a ice cube
Her: Ok well do you want the way it is?
Me: No
Her: So you DO want the ice cube?
Me: No
Her: Well I'm sorry I didnt know only one was extra hot, I was trying to compromise and offer you an ice cube
Me: So making it the way I want it isn't an option?

At this point, my wife and I had to go pick up our son and there wasn't time to sit there and argue so I just took my drink and told her we'd try again next time. Of course she didn't hear me because at this point she was bitching and moaning to her co-worker. Mind you, her co-worker already knows me from my weekday morning trips to this same location, and she looked at me as if to say, "I'm sorry". I wrote an official complaint to the Starbucks-powers-that-be, and I expect some sort of compensation.

First off, who the hell wants ice cubes in a hot drink? There is no way in hell that the Starbucks bylaws allow their precious baristas to just drop cubes in hot drinks. How do I know this? In most Starbucks I visit, if they mess up the drink even a little bit, they offer to remake it--no questions asked. The solution to an error that THEY made is not to use a half-ass solution that THEY came up with. That is a piss poor way of handling things.

Second, this Starbucks has a handful of women (I'm sorry to say who are black) who act like each Starbucks customer first called them at their respective houses, and then called them into Starbucks and forced them to make a drink at gunpoint. There are no "good mornings", "good afternoons" or even "hellos". All I've gotten is a brusque, "Welcome to Starbucks, what's your order?". I am far from high maintenance, but I do expect some simple customer service, but sadly, I've gotten used to their negligence. What I will NOT accept is people half-assing their jobs or just flat out being lazy. Me and my little $5 deserve better.

The sad part about all this is that the manager is the epitome of class and whenever she is behind the counter I get nothing but first class service. Perhaps she needs to do a better job of hiring staff...or maybe she's tried and this is the best staff she can hire. I feel like a snob typing this entry, because at the end (and beginning) of the day, we're talking about coffee/tea/hot chocolate. But goddamn, have you actually tasted Starbucks? It's the best Jerry, the best.

As as kid I never caught my parents having sex. I heard them going at it a few times but once I realized what was going down I scurried away. No kid (or adult for that matter) needs to be directly or indirectly involved in the dark, shady underworld of their parents infrequent sex life. In fact, I didn't even like to see my parents flirt with each other. I was happy they were in love, and I guess once they divorced I eventually was nostalgic about the bless-ed flirting events of the past, but while it was going on, it was disgusting--to me at least.

I remember Christmas of 1986, my parents decided to sleep in longer than usual, which was preventing them from presiding over all of the toys, books, clothes and music my brother and me were entitled to on Christ's birthday. I had exhausted all of the activities I had at my disposal in my room, and when I went to my brother's room, he was equally as antsy. At this point it was almost 9am, which we felt was simply much too long to be kept from our blessings. We walked to my parents door and proceeded to knock, and then I immediately retreated and made my brother come with me. He was first confused, then apoplectic that I had whisked him away from the door, and then he wanted me to tell him why mommy was "crying". I refused to answer. 15 minutes later when my parents emerged from their bedroom looking like Girard's parents in Boomerang, my brother demanded answers once again. Both parents refused to answer, which was the wise move considering Jamal was only eight years old. I knew the deal though and again it was disgusting.

Fast forward about 30 years. This morning, I noticed there were about 20-30 minutes of adult time to be had before my son made his presence and his hunger known. I will not get specific about what went down during adult time, because I'm sure it is as disgusting for you to read/hear as it was for me with my parents. The wife did her thing, and I did mine, but at the very moment that I finished--and I mean the VERY moment, we both looked towards the door, and young Nyles was standing with the door wide open looking bewildered as hell.

Me: Good morning Nyles
Nyles: Hi Daddy, I have to pee pee
Me: Go pee pee Nyles

**Then he runs to the bathroom, starts peeing and then...**

Nyles: Why were you hugging Mommy like that?
Me: What did you say? (knowing good and goddammn well I heard every word of his question)
Nyles: Why you were you hugging Mommy like that? (Of course that was the most enunciated sentence he's ever uttered in four years of life)
The wife (who finally decided to jump in here): Because we love each other

The wife's response must have been enough to pacify the youngster, because he ran in his room to get his slippers and to get his pre-school routine started. I feared that he may bring it up while he was eating oatmeal, or on the way to school or at school in front of his friends or teachers, but he kept his mouth shut like a good kid--for now at least. This certainly won't prevent me from wanting to "wet my beak" as it were, but now I have to secure the premises a little tighter, since I'm quite sure Nyles will do everything in his power to see Mommy and Daddy hug again.

Life is a weird confluence of events is it not?

As I sat down to start the this entry I realized my last blog post involved a video of Q-Tip from A Tribe Called Quest, being named the first artistic director of Hip-Hop at the Kennedy Center. Five days later, Phife Dog, the Scottie Pippen of Tribe, died due to complications from diabetes. Two weeks before either one of those announcements, the wife and I caught the tail end of Beats, Rhymes and Life documentary about Tribe. After we watched about five minutes of it, the wife and I started discussing whether Phife or Q-tip were more responsible for the demise of the group. Then we talked about how sad it was that they both seemed incapable of making anymore of the memorable music that so many folks in our generation had grown dependent on from 1990-1998 (such a short span of greatness by the way).

One night before Phife died, I took the time to watch yet another documentary on Organized Noize (the folks who produced OutKast, Goodie Mob and others), and I was just caught up in all kinds of early-to-mid 90s nostalgia about OutKast, Goodie Mob and my college years as a whole. And I remember being struck by the stark differences in how some of these artists had changed in the 20 years since we first "met" them. As I am writing this I am wondering why the hell I would be so naive to think I would change and age in 20 years but my favorite artists would somehow stay stagnant for my convenience. It does not quite work that way I know, but I never said my line(s) of thoughts were always rational, now did I?

The thing that struck me about the Organized Noise documentary--which ironically was one of the same things that struck me about the Tribe doc--is that Big Boi and Andre did all of their interviews separately. Now I understand that folks are generally more comfortable discussing group dynamics without members of the group being in their presence, but I would have liked to see some interviews where OutKast and Tribe appeared in their respective entirety. It never happened though. And for Outkast, when I listened to their interviews during this documentary, and I combined that with what I heard in the countless interviews I heard from them the past 5 years or so, I was convinced that OutKast would never record again. Like Tribe, I expected OutKast to do tours, tv shows, the Budweiser Superfest (which needs to come back) and other appearance that basically amount to teases. But there would be no new album to look forward to buying, dubbing or previewing on Spotify or Tidal. I even texted my brother to tell him to watch the documentary, and that 'Kast was done. He texted me back and said he'd watch it soon.

The very next text I received from my brother came at about 3:45am, and I didn't see it until 4:45 when I woke up, and it simply said, "Man, I am hurt over Phife. Damn". I suspected that Phife died but as most folks do, I scoured the Internet and Twitter for confirmation, and I saw that he had indeed passed away. For the next several days, I found myself playing not only Tribe, but all the music from my high schoo and college days--of course I honed in on Tribe stuff. I played songs, I downloaded tributes and compliations, I rewatched the documentary, videos and I did every damn thing I could do to fulfill my need to be nostalgic.

I didn't cry over Phife's death, but there was a sadness hanging over me for a few days. It felt like a dark cloud following me wherever I went, and I couldn't shake it (a Nas line from the World Is Yours comes to mind..). Not only did it feel like my innocence had been stripped away but the way Phife died was a wakeup call as well. Yes his death was sad, but it was very preventable. He did adjust his life and diet to accomodate his Type 1 diabetes, and it eventually caught up to him. I have stopped and started many workout/diet plans and then I fall into the familiar, destructive habit of not giving a good goddamn. I'm not a funky diabetic, and I am not that overweight, but I know I could and should be doing a better job to monitor my health. I know that in theory but when musical hero of mine dies and he's just 5 years my senior, it tends to resonate a little more.

So I waited a little over a week before I wrote about this, because I wanted to get my emotions in check. I'm sure I could say more, but this feels good enough for now. I'm still playing Tribe to death, but I'm working out and eating right again, the black cloud isn't following me anymore and life goes on. It still sucks though..

In this week's episode of hell yes I'm getting old....

Bryant Gumbel on Young Black Men and the Police:

BRYANT GUMBLE GETS IT! DO YOU?

Posted by Agyei Tyehimba on Saturday, August 15, 2015

As I am sitting here trying to blog for the first time in a couple of weeks, I am fighting nausea, congestion and a bit of dehydration. My four year old is sitting here watching the movie "Happy Feet" is in my face hovering over the laptop, even though he has a nasty cough and just threw his oatmeal up all over the floor. I just wanted to make sure I captured as disgusting as a visual as I could before I started typing this entry.

Speaking of my son, I have volunteered to read in front of his class this Tuesday,and I am legitimately excited and maybe a touch nervous. None of the male parents have volunteered to do this yet, so I figured I would be the first. It isn't often that a kid has the opportunity to show off his dad in front of his friends, so I need to make sure I do a bang up job.

First and foremost, I need to make sure that I (or my wife) pick out a great entertaining book. I want the book to have a subject matter worth listening to, some fancy pictures for them look at, and maybe a slight lesson to boot. That will win me points with the teacher. Second, I need to be funny and engaging with each of the 13 kids in the class--black, white, hispanic, male and female. Reading a book isn't like doing the opening monologue of the Oscars, but a good teacher/entertainer/point guard gets everyone involved and makes his/her audience feel like they are the only ones in the room. And lastly, after I leave the classroom and head back to work, I need Nyles to be able to brag to the teaches and his fellow colleagues, that I shut shit down. I want Nyles to be able to brag and I want his colleagues asking and damn near begging for my encore. I realize these are just Pre-Kindergarten students, but they still possess the ability to inflate my little ego. Basically I'm trying to win..

Speaking of fathers, my dad and his book club nerds are celebrating 25 years of being together, by putting together a list of their favorite songs during that span. My father took it a step further and broke down his favorite songs of each decade since the 60s, his favorite artists of all time, and his favorite 10 songs ever. He shared these lists with my brother and I, so I don't want to give them all away, but I AM going to show you his top 10 songs ever:

1. Old Man River – The Temptations


2. You’ll Lose a Precious Love – The Temptations (My dad loves Melvin Frankin's vocals in this song and he can imitate these vocals on commmand. No lie)

3. My Girl – The Temptations

4. God Bless the Child – Billie Holiday

5. A Change is Gonna Come – Sam Cooke

6. Ain’t Too Proud To Beg – The Temptations (this is my father's favorite song of all time. Hands down. He can sing all the parts in perfect pitch, and I suspect if he gets some of the devil's nectar up in him, he would do the choreography too)

7. Tell Me Something Good – Rufus, Featuring Chaka Khan (the perfect song to pluck an air guitar too while scrunching up your face)

8. Rainy Night in Georgia – Brook Benton (This song reminds my dad of his father, who passed away in 1978)

9. I’m So Proud – The Impressions and The Main Ingredient (I just used this song to end a blog entry of mine back in January, I had no clue this was on my dad's list.

10. The Ghetto – Donny Hathaway

Since I bitched and moaned about having to go see the Monster Trucks with someone who I did not really know, I thought it would be only fair if I offered some sort of follow up blog about how the actual event went.

Nyles and I woke up bright and early yesterday (Saturday) morning and headed down to Richmond. I packed a laptop with all the kiddie movies he could get his hands on, I packed an iPad with all the games and YouTube access he likes, and I loaded all of my podcasts (Bill Simmons and Tony Korneheiser) on my iPod for when he fell asleep. First Nyles played with this toys, then we listened to MJ's "Working Day and Night", then he fell asleep. He did pop up when Rhianna's "Diamond" came on my iPod, then he went back to sleep, and I was left with my podcast. And yes I have Rhianna on my iPod. I like Diamond and Pour It Up---the latter song reminds me of strippers, and what's not to like about them?

We arrived around 12:30pm which was a full 90 minutes before the monster trucks show was scheduled to begin. As I told Mike I would do (the dude who bought the tickets) I called him when I arrived to see where he was, and he told me he was at BBQ joint three exits away from the venue. He asked me to come meet him where he was, but I explained that I was in a parking garage by the Richmond Convention Center, and I already paid for parking. In addition, I asked the parking attendant if I could leave and come back without having to pay, and she said hells no, so I told Mike we weren't meeting. Plus, my wife had packed a lunch for young Nyles, so he ate that in the parking lot. No BBQ was needed.

Mike texted me and said he'd meet up with me at 1:30 in front of the venue, so Nyles and I were there at 1:15. There were makeshift drummers in front of the Coliseum, and I gave Nyles a few dollars to tip them. After that we people-watched for a few minutes until I got a text from Mike letting me know he was running a few minutes late. I said ok. That was the first in a series of texts from Mike which chronicled his reasons for being later and later. First he missed the exit, then he couldn't find parking because the parking lots were full (which happens when you wait until the last minute to arrive to the venue). At 2pm, Nyles and I were still standing outside of the Coliseum waiting for Mike to bring the tickets, and we heard the Monster Trucks zooming around from the outside. Nyles was apoplectic and irritable and I did my best to calm his ass down, but I was just as annoyed. Not only was Mike late, but he was late because he had to have BBQ..that's the black person's job, not the white guy from Virginia...

He finally showed up at 2:!5, we went inside, and we had a great time. Our kids sat next to each other and had a great time, and Mike and I peppered a little small talk during the event, but nothing too heavy. The event lasted for a little over 90 minutes, we let the kids play outside of the Coliseum afterwards and then we both headed home. I was actually supposed to link up with my main man Sabin, but he was busy so young Nyles and I headed home. It was a great day but I must toot my own horn and add that it was only great, because I had done the necessary ;egwork ahead of time to ensure that I was inundated with small or greatly inconvenienced via a group trip.

Just to be sure I wasn't crazy, I asked my dad what he would have done in that situation, and he supported my actions 100%. Good times.

Read my latest article please.

The Cleveland Browns announced today that they are going honor Jim Brown, who played for them from 1957-1965 and has done numerous, favorable things for Cleveland and other cities in this country, with a statue in front of their football stadium. It will be unveiled later this year. Once again, in what seems to be a trend as I get older, I am faced with the prospect of trying to balance the good parts of someone I admire with the undeniably negative aspects of their life. I've had to deal with that weird duality with Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, R. Kelly, Bill Cosby, Joe Paterno and now Mr. Jim Brown. As an aside I've had to deal with those issues on a much smaller scale with my parents too, but that's another blog for another time.

On the field, Jim Brown was a grown man among brave, but ill-equipped boys. He ran over folks, he ran around them, he was fast, strong, agile and the ultimate alpha male. In college he ruled both the football and lacrosse fields, so he was no stranger to being the most superior athlete. He retired in his prime at the age of 30, because he wanted to film a movie--which in those days represented more money than he was making on the football field--so he just abrupty retired and never came back. Acutally he threatned to come back in 1984 when his rushing record was being challenged, but he ultimately never came back. He wasn't the best actor in the world, but he did get to make out with Raquel Welch, which was a big deal at that time.

Off the field, Jim Brown's legend loomed just as large. He was a key figure in the Cleveland Muhammad Ali Summit in 1967 when athletes like Brown, Ali Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and others met in Cleveland to discuss Ali's dedicated to the movement. He's also worked extensively with gangs and he's been a confidant and a mentor to countless younger athletes. That's the good part of Jim Brown.

The bad part? Jim Brown has had several domestic violence incidents with women, as The Big Lead chronicled today, after learning Brown was in line for a statue. He never seemed to particularly apologetic or contrite about his behavior at all. After one domestic incident in 2000, he was ordered to pay a fine, give money to a domestic shelter and do hours of community service. Jim Brown felt like he had been voluntarily peforming community service all his life, so to have to do it as punishment, was insulting. He chose to spend four months of jail instead, but he never really used his platform to speak on the issue of domestic violence..and this was after the O.J. fiasco.

So when someone glorifies Jim Brown, I try preemptively take the wind out of their sails by mentioning that he is deeply flawed and that has to be mentioned in the same breath as tremendous accomplishments on and off the field. But on the other side, when someone simply wants to shit on Jim Brown and his legacy because if his inability to keep his hands to himself, I am just as quick to point out that he did good things on the field and he helped a great deal of people in his lifetime. That is a terrible position to be in either way and I feel like a hypocrite at times, and I'm not even the one who did anything wrong.

I certainly can't expect athletes and entertainers to be model citizens, because Lord knows I've done some shady things in my lifetime. But there are missteps like the ones Tiger Woods made (cheating on his wife) that are minor issues related to bad-decision making and a need for power, control and personal anarchy. And then are mistakes like battery, having sex with underage kids, and drugging womene that make you feel dirty and conflicted. I'm tired of being put in that position with people I geuninely admire, but that's life right?

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar hasn't let me down yet, so he's the only one of my heroes not related to me, who is still on the up and the up...

By the way, the late, great Ralph Wiley wrote about this topic too. Read it.

A couple months ago at my son's birthday party, the husband of one of my wife's friends (we'll call him Mike, because that's his name), approached me with a proposition. Me, Mike and our sons went to see the Monster Trucks perform at the Verizon Center in Washington DC. Our sons had a great time, they both became instant fans of the whole Monster Truck genre, and good times were had all around. The only drawback was the small talk I had to engage in with this dude during the 90 or so minutes we were there. Our wives are good friends, but Mike and I were still feeling our way around each other, which makes for awkward times when you consider we are both 41 year old men with an established stable of friends.

So while I was in the midst of partying and celebrating my son's fourth year on this Earth, Mike told me about an upcoming Monster Truck show in Richmond, Virginia on February 20th. He suggested that we leave the wives behind, and just make a day trip of it with our sons. I begrudingly agreed. Very begrudingly.

On one hand, my son is absolutely in love with the Monster Trucks, and I would be a damn fool to deny him that opportunity, simply because I'm socially awkward. On the other hand, I have no desire to sit in a car for 4 hours (2 each way) with someone I do not really know that well. My small talk game is good for about 20 minute intervals, which means I would be forced to either listen to what he had to say or just sit in awkward silence while I listen to music that he chose (because the passenger has no right to pick the musical selections in another man's car). On top of that, Mike is white, and I am black, and that racial breakdown was fairly inconsequential when the Monster Truck Show was in DC (although the Verizon Center was 80-percent white and 20-percent black). In Richmond, Virginia, I have no problems admitting that I will be a bit more nervous about the racial climate. I am not scared of anything or anyone, I just don't want to have to hear ignorance (or act ignorant) in the presence of my son. If it goes down, so be it, but I'm leery of him being exposed to that on a day that is supposed to be about fun.

Earlier this week, Mike texted me and told me that the big day was near, and he wanted to hammer out the details about where we were going to meet up so we could ride down to Richmond, and I had to stop him in his tracks. I told him that I thought it would be better if we drove separately since I had plans to visit my main man Sabin after the show. What I did NOT tell him is that I had no desire to ride and talk with him, because there's no way to say that without coming off like a dick and a half. Then he asked me if we could meet up for him to give me the tickets, and I asked him to put the in the mail. I felt like a slight asshole, but I felt like that was the most efficient way to handle that particular transaction. I asked my wife is that was ok, and she approved, but I still felt bad...but not really. He put the tickets in the mail and I thanked him.

So I have successfully avoided four hours of small talk, and now I only have to worry about racist white folks and 90 minutes (or so) worth of small talk during the Monster Truck show. That is still a daunting task, but I think I can handle it...I think.

I love this song and I love this woman. If my wife ever acts up, I would totally leave her for Lalah Hathaway:

So my son is an official Marine now. His graduation was last Friday morning, and I could not be any prouder of him. He speaks with more confidence, he talks much more than he did before, and I can see that boot camp had a profound effect on the way he carries himself. He still has that sly smile, and he probably was focused more on his girlfriend, than he was his family members, but he's an 18-year old Marine now, and he can do what he damn well pleases within reason. Of course as his dad I had to warn him against premature pregnancy, getting into unnecessary trouble in Hampton,Virginia during his 10-day break, and staying in shape, but I suspect he knew all those things before I said anything.His next step will be to ship to Camp LeJeune in North Carolina next Monday, where he will be for 29 days. I will definitely be visiting him.

My next step in life began on Monday when I started my new job as Project Manager. I got a significant raise, more responsibility, and I will be challenged to take everything I've learned professionally up to this point, and apply it. I'm nervous, i'm excited and my predecessor at this job will only be training me for three more days before I am on my own. It isn't exactly an ideal situation, but what can I do right? New jobs and opportunities don't always present themselves tied up in a neat little bow. I'm not just making idle chatter here in my blog, I am actually trying to pump myself up via the written word. I don't know if it is working.

One more thing, I REALLY want to write for this website. The Pros? It seems to now be under good leadership, and I am quite sure they will get great exposure and even greater assignments as it gets closer to the official kickoff date. The Con? Even if I force the issue and get selected, I don't think they could sufficiently compensate me as well as my current job does. Then the question becomes do I take a leap of faith and go all in on a lesser salary in hopes that the high-profile job will propel to me to higher heights? Or do I stay in the financially safe pocket and make sure my family is taken care of? I have to be offered the job for this to be a legit scenario, but I think about it often.

Don't forget to watch this Michael Jackson documentary on Friday night. It is going to be good I promise.

Right now, I am sitting in a hotel room in Savannah, GA, awaiting United States Marine Corps Family Day in Parris Island, South Carolina. Tomorrow, I will see my son Carlton for the first time since he left for boot camp in October, and he'll be participating in a series of exercises, and then there will be a special family day ceremony. On Friday, he will officially graduate from boot camp, and he'll be going home (to Hampton, Virginia) for approximately 10 days, before he's shipped to Oklahoma, where he will begin his assignment.

I have no problems admitting that I was less than thrilled about his decision to join the military, but I'm over it now. He made it through boot camp, he is well on his way to being a full-fledged Marine. I'm glad he finished what he started, and I'm even happier that he still wants to get his degree via the military. He will definitely need it. That is the good part of this trip...not on to the bad.

I had a choice between staying in Beaufort, SC and Savannah, GA, and I chose the latter just because South Carolina hasn't had the best track record in the Negro department as of late. I know that is quite the sweeping generalization to make but frankly, I don't give a damn. I drove eight hours here from DC, and I don't want any bullshit going down. That being said, Savannah isn't that much better, at least not where I am currently staying. There is a shady looking biker gang revving up their motorcycles outside my window, and I got funny looks in both the grocery and liquor stores. I know how to keep a low profile and I know how to defend myself if need be, but it is a little unsettling being here solo. I will get over it though.

The second uncomfortable part of this trip is the mixing of families. I am here. Carlton's mother (Sara) will be here tomorrow, but she is estranged from the rest of her family. Sara's ex-husband, along with Carlton's half-brother, will also be in attendance, as will Carlton's grandparents and uncles on the other side of the family (not mine). The family day ceremonies end at 10:30 am and by 3pm, he has to return to his Marine duties, and the relatives will be kicked off the base. During those 4 and a half hours, Carlton has to figure out a way to spend time with all of us separately, because if we do it together it will be painfully awkward. I feel badly that he has to make those kinds of decisions during his big day(s), but I am going to make it easier for him, by telling him that we can spend time together Friday, not tomorrow. No need in complicating his life further...besides we'll see each other next weekend.

Ok, I am done complaining, plus I am exhausted...

First - Read my latest article right here.

Second - Go read this blog post from my main man Sabin about Rakim Allah

Third - Listen to my wife's podcast about the Bachelor right chea. I'm not a fan of the Bachelor but she is, so I'm supporting her, not the show. I may or may not have used the phrase "dumb bi**h" 5 or 6 times while watching that show. Misogynist? Hell yes. Off base? Not at all.


There are positives and negatives to having a birthday in the month of January. It is far enough away from Christmas that people actually feel like gift-giving again, plus most folks have had two paychecks since they last Christmas shopped so the money and gifts floweth. Not to mention, the NFL playoffs are always in full swing around this time of year, which just kicks the party possibilities up 10 to 20 notches. Also, if I never mentioned this before, I share a birthday with Questlove--he gave me birthday shoutout on Twitter a few years ago.

But the bad part about having a January birthday is the weather always finds a way to upstage my big day. When I was younger, way before this global warming concept came to fruition, Januarys--whether I lived in Cleveland, Detroit, Connecticut or Maryland--were filled with snow and bitter cold. I can remember several birthdays when I would make plans to throw parties, then I'd look at the weather and my parents would forewarn me that it wasn't going to happen for me. Then my birthday--or the day of the week we chose to celebrate my big day--would come and go and I'd have no party. Yes my parents, my brother, sometimes girlfriends, did their very best to make me feel special despite my abandoned plans, but I'd still feel sad.

One year the plan was to invite 10-12 of my friends over to my house for a big football game in the snow. The weather called for like 5-7 inches of snow, which was far from crippling, and I just knew that we would still be able to play a game. Instead, we got closer to 20 inches, and nobody's parent would let them out of the house to play football with me. I remember not even wanting to watch the playoffs on Tv..I was just that devastated.

This year, I don't have a party or anything fancy planned, but my wife and I plan to send the kid to his grandparents house for the weekend. There is dinner, happy hour and brunch with mimosas planned, as well gifts and just the freedom that comes with being able to act like an irresponsible adult sans the presence of a child. I've been looking forward to this weekend all year, and then a couple days ago I get word that the worst snowstorm of all time threatens to descend on my house this weekend.

The storm is scheduled to start on Friday--which is when we were going to take my son to his grandfather's house, and last until Sunday. The lowest snow total I've heard is 8 inches and the highest total I've heard is two feet. Keep in mind, I live in Washington DC, where 3 inches of snow sends everyone to the grocery and liquor stores. I am not a happy camper right now. Not only are my birthday plans in peril but I may have to spend a three to four day weekend stuck in the house with a 4-year old hellion who will surely have a severe case of cabin fever, no matter how creative mommy and daddy get with devising activities for him. Scary, scary stuff.

I realize there are bigger problems to worry about like the Fresh Prince cast beefing about Oscars, Palin and Trump linking up, and Flint, Michigan's dearth of a clean water, but my birthday is important too right? Actually let me get serious, that Flint situation is a)terrible and b) not going away anytime soon. As one of my writer friends said, it feels like the 2016 version of the Tuskegee Experiment..

But I digress. My birthday is tomorrow, I'll take my head out of the clouds after that. By the way, the lyrics to this song are elementary, but I always thought the beat was hardcore...

The night of Friday, February 5th, 2016, I will not be going out to party, drink or watch basketball. I will come home from work, play with Nyles until he falls asleep, and then eat dinner with the wife. At the conclusion of this dinner, I will retrieve the fine bottle of wine that I will have purchased earlier in the day--most likely a Francis Coppola Diamond Black Claret 2013--and I will sit my ass down to watch Spike Lee's documentary on Michael Jackson.


Spike's first documentary on MJ focused solely on "Bad", and I have watched it at least 10 times since it came out back in 2012. I appreciated because Spike did more than just regurgitate the same MJ stories I had heard so much about up to that point. He interviewed dancers, engineers, Quincy Jones, Bruce Swedien, horn sections, video directors, background singers, Siedah Garrett, and he even used older interviews from Mr. Jackson himself. Spike took the attention away from MJ the freak show, and he placed it firmly on what should have always been emphasized, and that is the music and the dancing. If you have not seen that Bad 25 documentary, go to itunes, purchase it, carve out 2 hours of your time, and take it in (that's what he said).

This new documentary focuses on the period of time between the the Jackson 5 becoming the Jacksons and the completion of "Off The Wall". "Thriller" gets all the attention, "Bad" was the most difficult album to make ever because it followed "Thriller", "Dangerous" showed that MJ still had it even with Teddy Riley's attempts to sabotage MJ with synthesizers and synthetic sounding music and "Invincible" was just uninspired (but I still bought it, because I'm a fan). "Off The Wall" is probably MJ's best and most satisfying album, but most importantly, he announced to the world, "Baby I'm A Star" (see what I did there). I can't wait to see it, and the trailer is already dropping nuggets of information I previously did not know about:

First off, I finally got a promotion at work--something I have wanted since almost a year ago when I passed over for what I thought was a well-deserved upgrade. My resume was submitted for this position back around the Thanksgiving holiday, and then the government powers that be had to look it over and make sure that my background jived with what their qualifications were. After a few weeks elapsed and I had not heard anything, I figured they had moved to another candidate who they deemed more worthy of this managerial position. Then last week, I was told they wanted to meet up with me for a meet-and-greet, which is basically the final job interview. If I performed well and my personality matched up with my resume, the job would be mine. If I was dead-on-arrival, dry in the personality department, and I was stumbling and stammering with every question, I'm 100% sure they would have passed on me. I'm glad they did not, and I look forward to this new challenge. I am scheduled to start on January 29th.

I found out I got the job on Friday, so what I do to today? I ditched work and took the day off with my wife, and we went to see Star Wars. I really can't go into much detail about the movie, because there are plenty of folks who have yet to see it. Plus, my friends and family did a great job of not spoiling the plot and the other major details about the movie, so I was able to go into the theater fresh and naive. I will say this...if you loved the original Star Wars movies, then you will absolutely love this latest incarnation of the movie as well. They tied the present and the past together beautifully, and JJ Abrams knows how to tell a story much better than George Lucas did--particularly with the middle three movies. Lucas was sappy and corny with his dialogue, but Abrams knows how to move the plot alone, he skimpy with the sap, and he does all of this without compromising in the special effects department. That is my non-review of the movie.

Also go read my latest article, I'd appreciate it.

The temperature was 16 degrees when I dropped my son off at school yesterday morning, but according to the weather folks, it felt like 3 degrees outside and I felt every bit of that bitter cold. Of course Nyles was leisurely walking around like we were in balmy Miami, until a strong gust of wind brought him back down to Earth. We ran into school, I kissed him goodbye, and I headed back to the car. As I got closer to the car, one of the bus drivers saw me walking by and said, "Where is your hat young man?". I told her I didn't have one, and she said, "You need your hat".

I do have a hat, but it is that hat I wear when I go running in the morning, so it is sweaty and not meant to be worn with fancy work clothes. I keep saying I'm going to buy another one, and then I forget and either a)throw on the ratty workout hat or b) walk around without one like I did yesterday morning. Neither option is a good look for a grown ass man. My wife keps saying that I need to stop faking and buy one, but we both know that the hat will not get purchased until she does it. That's just how these things go. But you certainly didn't visit my blog to hear about hatonomics.

When my grandmother was living (she died in 2004), and my family lived in Cleveland from 1980-1982 she was CONSTANTLY on my dad about wearing a hat. My dad would have a nice jacket, gloves, a scarf, but no hat. My dad would buy hats for my brother and I, and my mother had an assortment of hats, but somehow but father felt like he was immune from the effects of the mean, windy, snowy, Cleveland winter. One winter, my dad literally got frostbite on his ear and spent a brief time in the hospital. But did he buy a hat upon being discharged? Hells no.

When we left Cleveland and moved to Detroit, Connecticut and eventually Maryland, my grandmother would still ask my dad (and me) if he was wearing a hat, my dad would say, "Don't worry about me mama." Then my grandmother would bring up the frostbite, and my father would effectively shut down the conversation. He knew my grandmother was right, but he wasn't trying to hear that bullshit. If he didn't buy a hat in a cold-ass Midwest city like Cleveland, he wasn't going to purchase a hat any damn where. For the record, I always had a hat..up until yesterday.

Fast forward to my grandmother's funeral in 2004. It was like 10 degrees at the cemetery, and it was me, my dad, my aunt, my brother and my grandmother's best friend at the grave site. They lowered my grandmother's body into the ground (nobody cried, which was weird), and the pastor said a prayer afterwards. It was eerily quiet after the prayer, and we were all just kind of standing around looking forlorn (and cold as hell). Then out of nowhere my aunt looks at my dad and says, "Michael where the hell is your hat?". All of us fell out laughing and it broke the tension, and we walked back to our respective cars feeling better about an otherwise sad day.

So when that woman asked me where my hat was, I felt like I was carrying on the family tradition. That being said, I need a hat, it was cold again this morning and my ears hurt.

My son and I spent the last 30 minutes before bed time working on the spelling of his name. December has been full of parties for others, his birthday party, relatives, Christmas gifts, and sparse school attendance. As a result, I have noticed that my wife and I have had to do engage in much more disciplinary-related activities than usual. In fact, during December it felt like Nyles was either playing with toys, getting yelled at or occasionally getting spanked.

Since today was the first day back to school, I decided to a) spend some time doing some educational activity before bed time and b) go online to take a peek at his teacher's curriculum to see the themes the teacher is now hammering home to the kids. Nyles was resistant at first, because all he wanted to do was play with his pinball machine, the monster trucks, his Minions or one of the millions of toys he received for Christmas and his birthday. But eventually, he warmed up to it, and we practiced writing his name legibly. He did not achieve mastery like I foolishly thought he would, but he tried and at this point that's all I can ask.

After we finished writing, I told him it was time to get read his night time story, and he responded by saying, "I don't want to read". I ignored his ass, and nicely asked him again, and he repeated his refusal. This time I went down to his level, gently touched his shoulders, and explained to him that it was time for bed, and part of the bed time routine involves reading, and he calmed his ass down, and picked out a book. I left the room, my wife entered (she's on bedtime story duty), and she excitedly asked him to read and he gave her the same bullshit company line. She explained to him that it was time to read, he complained again, and then I doubled back and went in the room, and yelled, "What did Mommy say? What did I say earlier? It is time to read ok?". He said ok which made me happy. But he cringed and backed away from me when I entered the room, that made me cringe.

I have raised my voice and spanked my son, and I only feel bad about one of those things. When I spank my son, it involves a singular open-handed smack to his back side. It is never hard enough to make him cry, but it is hard enough to get his ass in gear. It is usually a deliberate, calculated move on my part, and it is never done out of misplaced, uncontrolled emotion. My dad got out of control when he used to spank me, and my brother and I paid dearly. My father has since expressed his regret for taking that extreme route, and my brother and I accepted his apology. Ironically enough, his apology came not too long after the Adrian Peterson situation.

But I sadly have to admit that when I raise my voice at my son, I am usually irritated at something or someone else, and my emotions combined with whatever Nyles is doing wrong, adds up to a bad situation. When I raise my voice, I see my son visibly get smaller and turn away from me (like he did at bedtime) and that has to stop. I have to do better in that department. Don't get me wrong, I do think fear is an effective tactic for black fathers to use when raising young black kids but respect has to be peppered in just as much. I want my kid behaving because he fears the consequences AND he respects me enough to do his best.

Kids are nice and the nice pictures I put up here, facebook, Instagram, etc represent the glorious side of parenting. But there is another side of it, and at times it is far from pretty, but luckily for me (and Nyles) it is very correctable. I'll get started on that tomorrow when he wakes up.

My father and I have decided to write a book together. We couldn't really decide on the title or subject matter, so I suggested that we just start having random conversations via email. My basketball writing friends and I have used this tactic before, and it has worked like a charm. First we start emailing about a particular player or Wizards-related subject, and eventually a theme develops and someone says, hey, we should write an article on this. My dad and I will do the same thing, except we are shooting for a book.

In a way, this book is spawn from nothing but hubris and arrogance. My dad and I have some amazing phone conversations about everything from sports to politics to music to women. There are times when I sit there and wonder we are sharing this knowledge with the masses, and then I feel like a pompous ass, and I just go back to talking to dad. But at some point last month, my father decided that writing a book with me was on his bucket list, which brought my pomposity back to life. We are going to trade emails for another month or so, and then we're going to start writing. Wish us luck.

I'll refrain from making any New Year's resolutions, because I know good and goddamn well that I possess neither the energy nor the resolve to actually devise and stick to any grandiose plans. I just want to be dynamic at everything I do, and I'm pretty sure everything else will fall into place.

Speaking of dynamic...