Keeping My Cool During A Gang Fight Friday, November 7, 2008

There's an impending change we can all 'believe in', but we must change first.

So I'm chilling at a bus stop shelter on the West Side (because I work there; never would I go to the West Side for fun) with a couple of other individuals; A Latino dude and a black dude. Both looked relatively young, I would guess late teens or so. And we were doing the typical Chicago bus stop dance, the one where you're looking at the other people standing there with you (if for no other reason than to size them up in case the drama pops off) but at the same time avoiding direct eye contact. Seemingly typical waiting on the bus scenario, right?

A car rolls up, and I couldn't see the number of individuals in the vehicle because all the windows were tinted. Anyway, they pull up at the bus stop and say a few words to the Latino dude; no big deal. I look away to see if the bus was coming and saw that it was about a block away. Then I noticed the guys in the car and the guy at the bus stop were not having a friendly discussion at all. As a matter of fact, from what I was able to ear hustle in such a short amount of time, it seemed as though they were members of rival gangs.

Before I finished that thought, however, two of the individuals exited the vehicle. The guy at the bus stop was clearly alarmed; I can't say if the black guy took the events well or not, because apparently he had purchased an invisible cloak days earlier (I mean this jig was nowhere to be found; he ran away from the shelter so fast, I'm not entirely sure if I didn't just make him up for the sake of my story). Every black man knows that the acceptance level of running increases as the probability of potential gun violence increases (this is also known as The Jesse Owens Theory of Relative Danger), so I can't knock him for doing his thing.

The bus driver passed the stop and signaled for me to walk down a bit to get on the bus. And there was my dilemma; I was in no way as fast as The Dude Who May Not Have Even Exist, so what happens if I run and they start chasing me because I'm running (it's well known in the hood, that if you start running for whatever reason, someone will likely start chasing you)? I'd be caught, that's what would happen. I'm a smoker, a drinker, and a tad bit lazy when it comes to physical activity (not to mention, my level of sexy decreases when I'm seen running down the street holding up my baggy pants and screaming fire); I'm sure it would have been like trying to outrun a 747 passenger jet while riding on a bike with two flat tires and greasy handlebars.

So what did I do you ask?

I casually walked to board the bus (and for those of you who know me, you already know that nobody walks as casual as I do). As I got on the bus, the driver (a chick) is yelling at me about taking my own sweet time and about how I almost got caught up in a gang fight. She was as livid as my mom would have been in a situation like that. She was literally screaming at me (though she was expressing concern for my safety) to which I replied, 'my bad'. Then I took my seat and noticed that a playa like me couldn't breathe (now imagine if I had in fact ran). I was a tad shaken up only because the situation could have been way worse.

We hear all the time about how people get shot while simply standing outside, and for all I know those cats could have just as easily rolled up and started squeezing clips indiscriminately. The thing is, I have been in worse situations than that; so why wasn't I prepared for this? Then I remembered; my guards were down going back to election day.

Though I told myself I wouldn't, somehow I got swept up in the hype of Obama's victory and I just felt like cats at the ground level would at least make an attempt to not be on bullshit (except for the harmless bullshit I be on). On the Wednesday after the election I can't begin to tell you how many smiling faces and friendly conversations I bore witness to, and the same vibe persisted through Thursday as well. But when I woke up this morning (Friday), even before I left out the house, I could sense that the 'good vibe' was slowly giving way to business as usual in the hood.

And just so you know, when I got on the bus and looked out the back window, I observed that the Latino dude from the bus stop was on the accounts receivable end of a beat down. It was a bit of a downer, but the only thing I can do is find out where that other homie got his cloak from.

Ear Hustlin' Inside Scoop: More Layoffs Expected at the Chicago Tribune Before Christmas Tuesday, October 28, 2008

So for today (and today only, mind you), I decided to use my writing in a pseudo-serious manner. I ran into a guy this morning that has inside ties to the Chicago Tribune. Just having casual conversation, I asked him about potential openings in their editorial department. Now I knew beforehand about the eighty or so jobs they cut from editorial earlier this year, but I thought with the new design and new approaches to content, the Chicago Tribune was moving to a 'happier' place. Home slice (I told you I was only going to be pseudo-serious) informed me that not only were there no openings, but that the Chicago Tribune was on course to have another round of layoffs before the end of the year.

How Scrooge McDuck of them.

Now how true this guy's claim was needs to be put into several contexts. First, I must admit I left the crib looking a tad grimy today, so he could have quite possibly been sending me off as to not have a potential co-worker who dresses like a stick-up kid. Also, he could have been quoting speculation and hearsay (which are kinds of evidence) that is floating around the Chicago Tribune on an unfounded basis. However, his ties are with the finance department so if anyone would know first about the layoffs, it would be the dudes that count the money (on the days that Scrooge McDuck isn't swimming in it).

And there you have it, my big scoop. Good thing I don't own any Tribune stock, which is sure to plummet even more in the upcoming months if my source pans out.

Black Man's Handbook to Dating: Rule #187 Her Baby's Father Is Indeed Crazy, And Crazy Indeed Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Once again your boy is holding you down with sound dating advice based upon smoking good green and thinking about it scientific empirical evidence. The dating scene has changed for both men and women, and if you don't evolve your game then you will find yourself spending Friday nights Googling the names of your exes hoping to read bad news about them (anyone who says they've never done this, is a liar and the truth ain't in them). The landscape has transformed, and things that were a non-issue in the dating world years ago are the top issues on today's dating agenda. So today I present to you another excerpt from my Black Man's Handbook to Dating.

Black Man's Handbook to Dating: Rule #187 That Nigga's Crazy!

Once you reach that age range of twentysomething (or in our community, seventeen), the number of eligible single women is a bit skewed because a lot of those eligible women have kid(s) from a previous relationship. Now I used to be from the school of thought that a woman having children was an automatic deal breaker (this may sound excruciatingly effed-up, but I used to refer to them as 'might-as-well-be-men'), but I abandoned this line of reasoning recently because A.) it was based on my own warped sense of self-importance, and B.) Friday Night Googling was getting old real quick.

However, there is something all men should know as it pertains to dating a woman with kids. Regardless of what she says, the father of her children is a complete nut job. No really, he is. Sure she'll downplay it, all the way up to the point when this fool runs up on yall at the IHOP in his pajamas, singing his favorite Boys II Men song with a tear in his eye, while swinging his bat (true story). And in all fairness, it isn't the woman's fault that she is raising the child of a lunatic, but she could at least prepare you a little better for the inevitable encounter. Maybe if women kept it real about the mental stability of their ex, then we as men could be a little more understanding.

But instead women choose to follow the cycle.

You know what the cycle is, even if you don't know what the cycle is. The first leg of the cycle starts when you and the chick first get involved. You guys are getting to know each other. She may briefly make references to her child's father, but usually in a minor context. Time passes.

Now during discussions of past relationships, she offers a little bit more insight of what her relationship with her ex was like. During these discussions gentlemen, it is very important to listen carefully. If you do, you will always catch that one specific detail about her ex that makes you think something ain't right with this dude. This is known as foreshadowing. More time passes.

You and her are really feeling each other and believe there's enough chemistry to maintain a relationship. You accept not only her, but her kid(s) as well. As a guy, I know how hard it is to listen to a woman that's talking; however, you must listen attentively when she starts to make references to her baby's daddy. You will start to hear terms like 'restraining order', 'failure to appear', 'he tried to choke me once', 'the last time he tried to choke me, he succeeded', etc.

The last part of the cycle is the actual face-off between you and Mr. Voorhies. Now this face-off is unlike any face-off you've ever been a part of, especially since the guy will run up on you in your blind spot and just start popping off at the mouth. Usually this happens when you and his baby mama are in a public space, and chances are he followed yall there (which is totally within his personality traits, too bad you weren't listening when she told you about the 'Car Chase' incident). At this point, she has no other choice but to fess up to the fact that he's a lunatic; but by this time the cops have arrived and would have diagnosed him as such anyway.

So am I suggesting staying away from single mothers? Of course not. But there is only one tactic that I've found to consistently work with crazy baby daddies - you must out-crazy them. Yep, you have to make it known that no matter how crazy he thinks he is, you're way crazier. Even if you're not crazy, he doesn't know that. What can make a crazy person think you're crazier than they are? Crazy shit obviously. Go outside and bite a dog while making cat noises; consistently talk to your left hand, to make him think you're trying to talk it out of beating his ass; start your car, then go back in the house and watch t.v. for about an hour. To you these may sound like private moments of temporary insanity. However, what you don't know is that there is nothing private about these moments; he's watching you, and hopefully is a little disturbed by what he just saw.

What the Hell Happened to Saturday Morning Cartoons? Monday, October 20, 2008

Most of you may think I'm too old to still scour the television on a Saturday morning in search of a good cartoon; to those people I say, 'I have some rocks, perhaps you'd like to kick them.' I'm not nearly the avid fan of Saturday cartoons like I was when I was a shorty, but every now and then if I happen to wake up early from Friday night's hangover, I'll grab the remote and see what's on. To my surprise I found complete and utter garbage. And not garbage in the sense that I don't get the shit because I'm a grown up now, but garbage in the sense that what was being projected out of the television screen had the distinct aromatic fragrance of Chicago's finest city dump. To be fair, my Saturday morning viewing was confined to local stations, as opposed to cable. Not that I was conducting a scientific study or anything, but I had to let cable go because well, not only does Comcast not believe in Vaseline, but they don't even bother to give you a reach-around.

So what was I subjected to? Loads of visually impressive cartoons that were as fun to watch as a tour of Abu Ghraib. The one advantage the kids today have over cartoons back in the day, is that today's cartoons are graphically impressive. But there aren't a whole lot of action cartoons that come on nowadays. I saw some b.s. this past Saturday that looked like it was about some damned squirrels living in a tree or some shit shit like that. Enough to make G.I. JOE go straight Full Metal Jacket in his grave. Maybe I'm tripping (which is highly possible since I'm twentysomething and ranting about cartoons), but does no one else see the direct correlation between these pusillanimous cartoons and young boys growing up sexually confused?

Cartoons are supposed to have lots of colors, explosions, and a highly evil looking dude screaming out, '... I'll get you next time!' Not some damn squirrels sitting in a tree sharing nuts (you decide if 'no homo' goes here or not). By ten o'clock I was reduced to watching Hanna Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody; don't judge me. They were by far more entertaining than anything else I had seen that morning. But that's like saying that one prefers sinkers to floaters (though I will probably tune in to Hanna Montana again next week; don't judge me).

Where are the Thundercats, Transformers, and He-Mans for this generation? Personally, I think this is why we have so many school shootings nowadays; because none of these little bastards are learning how to fight. And where's the best place to learn how to fight? Well I can only speak for me and the other kids I grew up with that frequented the school nurse's office with me, but we learned our best fighting maneuvers from cartoons. Because if I saw Lion-O straight wack Mumra with his sword something ugly, then you can bet fo' damn sho' that on Monday morning I would be recreating that scene with the teacher's yard stick and Jerome's forehead (this fool still has the mark after like 20 years; I feel bad now).

But alas, we're raising a generation of squirrel lovers. From now on, Saturday mornings are reserved for college football and Hanna Montana (you know what, go ahead and judge cause I'm tired of you giving me the stank eye).

Hood Indications of a Recession Thursday, October 9, 2008

Not more than a few months ago, politicians and the media alike refused to call what the economy has been going through for close to a year (if not more) a recession. If one of the presidential candidates had made the mistake of calling it a recession before the signal was given, it would have meant certain death to their campaign. If this doesn't strike you as a tad bit greasy, then I now know it's ok to lie to you with no consequences. Fast forward to the presidential debates, and now politicians are openly calling the economy close to depression era levels.

But regardless of whether or not you call an ugly girl ugly, we all know she's ugly (even if she doesn't). In the parts round where I stay (which I affectionately refer to as 'The Place Where I Will Eventually Get Shot Before Realizing My Full Potential'), we could have told you we were in a recession this time last year; but alas, no one asked us (not even the people who quote all of these polls on the evening news; how shocking). But just because no one asked, doesn't mean I won't weigh in on the issues (I do this for the kids; RIP ODB). So here I present to you the Hood Economic Indicators of a Recession. These are common everyday things you may have noticed yourself, but couldn't quite find the right set of disturbing words to describe them; I specialize in disturbing words.

1. Those bags of chips that used to be 25 cents, are now 35 cents.
I mean really though, them lil ass bags of chips (consisting of two whole chips, a few broken chips, and lots of damn air) haven't gotten any bigger, so what's up with the heavier price tags? Usually if I go into a store with kids of a friend or something, I used to splurge a dollar and get four bags and share with the shorties. Nowadays however, not so much. Now with the increased price tag, the answer to the question 'How was school today?' takes on special significance; if school wasn't that great, I'm not blowing over 1/3 of a dollar on a dummy.

2. Loose squares from the Loose Square Dude jumped from 25 cents to 50 cents.
This is the single most rip off in the history of 'not harmfully illegal street hustles', but don't blame Loose Square Dude. Now with cigarettes costing more in general, and the price of the gas needed to cross state lines to acquire the squares increased, those non-savings are passed on to you.

3. All forty ounce beverages have went up a minimum of 10 cents.
I'm old school, so I remember when a forty ounce of the cheap shit was like a buck and a quarter (yes Mom, in high school when I would come home after school and fall up the stairs on the way to my room, it's because I was hammered; and sometimes high). When the cheap shit went up to two dollars, I didn't complain; I was teaching sixth-grade, and knew I would have to drink the shit anyway. However, I can no longer call the cheap shit the cheap shit anymore as it has risen to a wallet-crunching $2.25 plus tax. Yes people, it is now more economically viable for me to search out the root causes of my frustrations and anxieties, rather than drink a forty and pretend like tomorrow will be much better.

4. A pack of cigarettes is now more expensive than a half gram of the other type of tobacco.
Ten dollars used to get me a pack of Newports (the negro brand of choice), a nickel bag (yes Mom, when I come home after work and fall up the stairs on the way to my room, it's because I'm high; and sometimes hammered), and a bottle of Bug Juice (I love them shits). In today's economic climate, I've had to learn to scale back. Now I can either get the Bug Juice (I love them shits) and a pack of Kools (the other negro brand of choice), or get the Bug Juice (I love them shits) and a nickel bag. Now what's wrong with this picture? Well if you're a real smoker, then you know nothing goes better with your nick bag than the relaxing slow death of inhaling a mentholated cigarette. I think now is the time I unveil that next shit I been working on; mentholated nickel bags! You look at me like a madman now, but in time we'll see who's the real fool (stop pointing at me!).

5. The weed man now charges sales tax to cover his increase in overhead.
Whether he's seen a spike in legal fees, or the cost of storing his stash in the bushes has went up is anyone's guess, all I know is that the weed man has invested in a cash register (to help calculate the 10% Cook County sales tax; thanks Todd) and now accepts credit/debit cards (and if you're dumb enough to give the weed man your credit/debit card, then he might be selling you crack and you're the only one who doesn't know it yet).

6. Even stealing gas will cost you a couple dollars per gallon.
You've heard the old saying, '... ass, cash, or gas; nobody rides for free!', but in America's economic downturn that statement rings as true as ever. You'd be surprised at the number of people I've seen dropped off at the curb for not having any of the aforementioned.

7. Mom dukes don't be cooking as much no more.
The hilarious details of this will only be revealed to those who invite me over for dinner.

8. Nobody in the hood talks about global warming or the environment.
Global warming is a good thing, because come this winter I won't be able to afford heat (who said God ain't good?; and someone needs to tell Him to stop opening another door after closing one because it's costing me a fortune to keep my crib at room temperature). How much are you allowed to care about carbon offsets and going green, when the sheriff is tossing your belongings in the street (and kicking them) because your landlord defaulted on his mortgage; also, is it routine to do cavity searches during evictions?

9. Beating a niggas ass has increased in cost by 50%.
But don't worry, they're still being dealt out free of charge on the South Side.

Sarah Palin: Definition of A 'C' Student Friday, October 3, 2008

I really try not to get too political because well, it's bullshit. No, for real it is. Going in to last night's vice presidential debate, all of the televised pundits (is it me, or does the word pundit sound like it should be a fighting word?) were advising that Joe Biden shouldn't come across as too smart and intellectually beatdown Sarah Palin (who is in strong running for MILF of the century). What the hell does that mean? See this is how I know politics is bullshit, because it throws everything we learned as kids out the window.

We were all taught to do our best when we were children. I can't speak for everyone, but I have no recollection of any of my teachers ever pulling me to the side and asking me to take a dive in a spelling bee because it would make little Timmy feel better about being a retard. Yet, they advised Biden not to be too hard on Palin. Lemme see if I got this straight: in order to be vice-president, then one need not show the incompetence of their opponent? Oh yea, I've seen this before - it's called bullshit!

So like a lot of you did last night, I watched the debate; and also the post-debate wrap-ups. I'm not sure what debate the pundits watched, but they made it seem like she held her own. That's not what I saw. First of all, at the beginning (like the first half-hour) she was visibly nervous, her voice was cracking, and she seemed slightly shaken when the conversation was starting to take a turn towards topics she had no knowledge of. On top of that, I was offended when she gave a 'shout out' to some damn grade school kids. I'm starting to feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone (or at least a good episode of Goosebumps). They couldn't handle Obama giving his wife some dap; how big of an issue would it have been if he got his black ass on t.v. talkin' 'bout some damn 'shout out'? But she gets a pass because she's white. No one else sees the irony of white people getting passes to say/do black shit publicly, when black people don't get those same passes?

I didn't even make it to the end of the debate, because for me it was that painful to watch. Palin came across as only moderately knowledgeable in certain areas, and scared shitless in mostly everything else. It was like watching a midget trying to win a fistfight by resorting to exclusively biting; not a good look.

But the most memorable part for me is when the moderator asked them what would happen if their running mate died while in office. For Obama, unless they Malcolm King-Evers him, it's not highly likely that he'll die during his term (though I hear they are arresting niggas in D.C.). But for McCain on the other hand, personally I think this cat died some time last year. They say death is at the door for some people; but for McCain, not only is death at his door, but death knows this dude keeps a spare key under the welcome mat, has already been inside, and is now exiting the premises with his ATM card and pin number. Anyone who thinks Palin can run the country is delusional, and is probably wearing those diapers for adults as we speak.

But alas, there was nothing left for me to do but roll a blunt slip into my pajamas, and dream about how I could've tried harder at being a 'C' student.

I Swear to God! Vol II Friday, September 12, 2008

I swear to God that I will trip the next chick who doesn't even acknowledge my presence when I choose to open the door for her.

Now I'm not even asking for a flirtatious smile, a small conversation, or a phone number; but dammit, if I open the door for you and I don't even know you, don't just walk through that bitch like it's an automatic door (though I do know this one crazy homeless guy who does say thank you to the automatic doors down at Walgreen's). I say thank you when people open/hold the door for me. Opening the door was instilled in me because both of my parents are from the South, and they raised me to be a gentlemen (disregard the fact that I frequently refer to women as chicks and broads). Not because I want some chick to notice me; if wanting women to notice me was my true intent, then I would go to the club, get drunk, and whip it out introduce myself and start a conversation.

I open the door because it's the nice thing to do.

Today I opened the door for this broad while I was downtown. I'm not going to lie, she was fairly attractive (but not my type; I like 'em 215 with low self-esteem), and based on her appearance and the setting we were in, I made the safe assumption that she was probably somewhat educated (not to be confused with having some goddamned sense). As I opened the door and gestured for her to pass through before me, she totally walked through and flicked her hair at me in the obnoxious white girl sort of way (even though she was Asian).

But I didn't get angry right away, I thought maybe she was in a hurry and didn't have time for politeness. You know, like how people give a little extra leeway to fat people at buffets; you know they're excited (and fat), so they get away with a little pushing and shoving the closer you get to the chicken wings. Anyway, me and Miss 'I don't have to say thank you to anyone for anything ever' were coincidentally waiting on the elevator. When the elevator came, guess what I did? I motioned for her to go in first. Did she say thank you for that? If she did, why would I be writing this; try to keep up. No. Since her destination was about five floors above mine, I thought about letting one go and leaving her on the elevator stuck with it. But I didn't have one 'prepared', and I didn't want to force it and risk a shart (it might be best if you don't know what that is).

But the elevator scene was only the sweet n' sour sauce on the large shrimp fried rice (how racist of me), I was still pissed about the whole front door incident. So on the elevator, I did what any black man would do; I stared at her. Not even the 'I'm checking you out' stare, but the 'if you look back at me, I'm going to say something outrageously foul' stare. This is the stare you get from DMV employees who know they could be doing something to help out with the long lines, but instead choose to stand there and stare at you.

If this was an isolated incident, I would let it go. But it happens a lot. I can understand why sisters don't say 'thank you', because the true 'thank you' is watching them walk past (I confess, I'm an assman; and not in the homo way in which that sounds); but even still, a verbal thank you would be nice every once in a while.

So this is my pledge to 'both elbows pointed outward at 180 degrees, two-handed, Rudy Ray Moore in his prime, somebody done called my mama out her name' pimp slap the next chick to walk through a door that I opened for her without saying thank you. And since I don't hit women, I will substitute the pimp slap for long awkward stares in secluded places.

The Hood and the Ways to Know If You're In One Thursday, September 11, 2008

My friend gave me a ride to the Red Line this morning, how awesome of her (coincidentally I had five seconds to get ready, and she changed my name to Freddie; but I digress) and as we rode through some of the nicer parts of the South Side, I couldn't help but wonder why my section of the South Side looks so shitty. Then I realized (in a 'you silly Negro' sort of way) it's because I live in the hood.

And for all practical purposes, there really isn't much difference between the hood and the nicer parts of the city; they both have buildings, stores, houses, hang out spots, etc., yet no one minds visiting Hyde Park (the nice areas anyway) and everybody dreads being caught in the 100s (the wrong side of the E-way; the other side is a little better). As I'm riding in my friend's car I made mental notes and came up with a list of 14 things that let you know that you're in the hood. Why 14, and not a nice round number like 10 or 15? Well the overachiever in me wanted to do 10, but the underachiever in me wanted to do 15 (ponder that on your next coffee break).

A dice game. This is a clear indication that you have ventured into the wonderful world of Hood. Dice games only take place among people with very little money to begin with, and usually in the presence of the stick-up kid who came to earn his rep.

Storefronts that have their signs airbrushed on. Had enough money to start your business, but not enough money to start your business did you? No business in the hood will ever reach the heights of say a Target or Walmart, if the store's logo could easily pass for gang graffiti. Airbrushing the main sign for your store is not a good look.

It's 7am, everybody's outside but ain't nobody going nowhere. [Editor's note: You've been in the hood too long if you can decipher double negatives for their true meaning.] This shit kills me. Is it ok to be awake at 7am with nothing to do? Sure, it's ok I guess; but why in the hell are you holding down the block already? And I can't even say it's just the young hogs out this early, because I've seen old people sitting on their porch asking me where am I going so early. I have a question, where are you not going this early?

The cops don't sweat you over little shit. Cops only interact with hood folks if there is definitely going to be an arrest. Because apparently everybody owns a gun and hates cops in the hood, so even five-O knows not to just be lallygagging.

The cops sweat you over little shit. In direct opposition of the aforementioned (after all, we are talking about the hood which is full of contradictions), the cops will harass your ass for little more than walking right, left, right instead of left, right, left. You have to remember, hood cops are usually hood themselves (even with names like Dubowski); which means they are bitter and petty. And they hate niggaz who 'think they tough' (see: Boyz n the Hood).

The oldest child is pushing the stroller of the youngest child, while the mom talks on her cell phone five paces ahead. This happens more than I care to recall. It's no secret that most of these ill mannered future low-level street enforcers are not being raised properly; and by properly, I mean someone around to beat that ass like a drug deal gone bad (which at the way their being raised, they will find themselves involved in one day). This telltale sign of the hood is just the manifestation that no one is loving these kids.

School children don't have backpacks. Why carry a backpack if you only go to school for three reasons? Division, lunch, and gang banging. What part of that involves books?

You start sweating because something doesn't feel right. The proper scientific term for this affliction is called shook. And it's perfectly ok to have, but you must never show any sign of it while you are in the hood. Usually the person with this debilitating disorder will try to proceed through the hood as normal, wait until they get to the sanctity of their home, pick up the phone and begin a conversation with a close confidant that involves any or all of the following phrases: 'I damn near shitted myself when...', 'I can't believe that shit happened right in front of me', 'Shit was wild son', or (my favorite) 'Next time she's going to have to come see me!'

You stop at an intersection and can visibly see six churches. Why is the hood flooded with churches, yet remain unsafe? You would think that if there is indeed a God, when He looks down and sees that all of His negro children have found a way to cram eight churches side by side on one damn block, He would be so impressed that He would descend from the high Heavens to greet us. I don't know if Heaven does in fact have a ghetto, but perhaps Chicago can lend them one of ours.

Vacant lots. Nobody really knows how they got there, but no one ever questions what to do with them neither.

The sum total of the cars/car accessories (i.e. sounds, rims, etc.) in a 4 block radius is greater than or equal to the total property value in an 8 block radius. This is simple mathematics; the Niggorean Theorem, if you will. Niggas put money into all types of shit, especially the shit that no one cares about except them. 'Oh word? You got neon lights under your car? That's dope that you decided to invest in something that the city provides free of charge... some damn street lights!'

Anti-violence marches/rallies. Nothing says hood like hood niggas coming together to tell hood niggas to stop being so hood. Here's a suggestion: everyone in the hood knows who the problem makers are, so how about instead of inconveniencing my bus route home from work, you simply march to the homes of the hooligans? What's really bogus is that I went to a rally once and saw like two kids wearing 'Stop Snitching' t-shirts; you decide what's wrong with that picture.

Those damn hats with the clock on them. I did a study one day while on the bus and found that out of all the cats wearing these gaudy shits, their primary method of telling time was their cell phone. So you own a hat with a watch on it, but not an actual watch itself? Classic hood mentality.

You're on foot (which for you unfortunately means you're walking through the hood, and also means you've seen all of the above) and you hear the phrase '... anybody have a transfer they don't need?' Only in the hood will a fool purposely leave the house with no clear travel plans.

What Has No Value to a Crackhead? Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Parting from the usual lighthearted nature of my previous entries, I've decided to put forth a deep philosophical question. What won't a crackhead steal? A seemingly fair question, since crackheads by their very definition will steal nearly anything of monetary value (hence the term 'Pookie is outside looking for some crack money'); therefore, the question becomes, exactly what has no value to a crackhead?

Last night at about 9pm or so, I'm at pop and ma dukes (my mother and father) up in my room straight lounging. Outside my second floor window I hear what sounded like a big wheel rolling down the sidewalk, which seemed odd because it was a bit cold for shorties to be riding their big wheel and it was 9pm (although shorties be riding their big wheels well into the night around my crib; especially when 'the new baby daddy' comes around). At any rate, I was too high tired from a long day of work to physically get out of my seat and see what was scraping against the concrete outside. It wasn't a huge deal to begin with in the first place; and if I wasn't gone off the dro bored from sitting in my room doing nothing illegal, it probably would have never caught my attention in the first place.

Fast forward approximately one hour.

The old man is shouting something upstairs where me and my brothers were; didn't make a difference to me what he was shouting about, so I didn't get involved (as a rule of thumb, I've learned that my old man never says anything of importance when he's shouting; it's quite counterintuitive actually). But then he asked us if we heard someone stealing our garbage can. Yes, an empty garbage can that's specifically made to hold garbage.

This had the markings of yet another Chicago Crackhead Caper. That's how they get down; crackheads steal shit that you never thought you had to protect. A city issued trash collection bin (as I've come to find out is the official name for a garbage can); word, crackhead? Word?

And see this is where the hood really gets gully. Because instead of sitting our trash on the alley, my dad decided a long time ago to sit the cans in the backyard when they're empty because apparently one of these poster children for the pullout method had previously went around setting garbages on fire in the alley. Which kind of makes me question my dad's infinite wisdom, because if the ruffians decide to set our garbage on fire again, then the fire will be a hell of a lot closer to the house. But see, crackheads be knowing Jeet Kune Do; to counteract the fact that our garbage is in the backyard, the crackhead apparently entered and exited through the front.

And so the old man is in an uproar, trying to figure out why nobody heard anything. Then I make the mistake of informing him that I thought heard something. Next thing I know, he's all upset at me. I just let him vent because I was still buzzed sleepy; but who in the hell watches out for their garbage to not be stolen? Like seriously? What, am I supposed to stand by the window like Malcolm X from now on, waiting on one of these nigs to act a fool re: my garbage can (who's more hood; the man who steals the garbage or the man who shoots him over it)?

So as I twisted another one got ready for bed, I thought to myself why steal the garbage can that was the least convenient to steal? I mean really, there's an alley full of garbages, why ours? Is there some type of scavenger hunt that crackheads play to make being addicted to crack that much more fun? Or is there something more sinister going on?

Crackheads rarely do things without good reason (minus the whole doing crack thing); they're normally ten steps ahead of what the rest of the street enterprises are into. I remember when gas first hit $4 per gallon, I saw crackheads carrying gasoline cans like they worked for AAA. Most crackheads don't even own their soul, then all of a sudden they all own gasoline cans. It didn't make a whole lot of sense at the time, until people would wake up for work and realize their gas was low. While we're busy making crackheads do dances for spare change and the whole laughing at them as they do the crackhead walk (that really fast double time step as if the crackman told them to walk as fast as they can, but all out running will result in disqualification), the crackheads are quietly building their empire one five dollar bill at a time. And if they didn't immediately give said five dollar bill to the dopeman, we might would have a problem on our hands.

Not Cool Tyra, Not Cool At All Monday, September 8, 2008

I occasionally glance at America's Next Top Model. There I said it. Do I watch for the competition? No. How about the various issues that can arouse from a bunch of egocentric model-type chicks sharing a living space? Nope, not that either. I watch because the broads on that show have a tendency to stroll around scantily clad as if nobody's watching. But I'm watching. I'm watching.

So not being a huge fanatic of the series, I'm usually clueless about the different subplots and power plays that take place during the show (thanks to a tip from a friend, the show is best enjoyed with t.v. on mute). However, I was channel surfing during a break from the Bears game and what was the first thing I hear come flying out of one of these broads' mouth? 'I was born a male...' WTF?!

Really, Tyra? Really? First of all I don't think that shit was cool. Not even a little bit. Did I mention I watch the show to see chicks in their draws, and not to see chicks with balls (and since that rhymes, it will become my protest slogan against the show). I felt visually raped. Now given that I grew up during the Springer Era, I've become quite good at spotting a dude that's pretending to be a woman; but this chick on the show blurred that line a little too close to my comfort zone.

Now fortunately for me, I arrived on the channel just in time to hear him/her 'manly proclamation' before I had the chance to actually get a good look at him/her (which could have caused all sorts of problems for my sanity had it been the other way around). I mean sure I know it's a dude now, but what about all the other men in America watching the show (with the mute button on obviously; if we wanted to listen to women talking, we would go meet some). This move was as inconsiderate as a prostitute asking if she can spend the night because it's raining outside (I know you can afford an umbrella; I just paid you).

I have nothing against the 'transgendered' (except none of my kids will be allowed to date any nor become one, less they want to be publicly drowned), but when I turn on the t.v. to see dumb chicks with huge racks, I expect for that promise to be delivered in full. This was an all-time low for television; and since I know the inner workings of how the universe keeps its perfect balance, I can't help but foresee an incurable yeast infection in Tyra's immediate future.

And yes, I turned back to the game and tried to forget all that I had just saw. Go Bears.

White Dudes Make Excellent Victims of Violence Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Am I suggesting that white guys deserve to be assaulted? Of course not (unless they still refer to black people as coloreds; somebody needs to change the name of the NAACP by the way). However I was standing on the bus stop in an area where cops have yet to come through and arrest niggaz, when I started to feel unsafe. Not scared, but unsafe; kinda like 'I ain't no punk, but I'm having a hard time watching everybody' sort of way. I was on the stop with two other individuals; a typical hood chick who looked exactly like what the term 'hood chick' implies, and the Loose Cigarette Guy (if you don't know about the loose square dude, you ain't deep enough in these streets son).

Now obviously no one would dare step to the hood chick sideways, because as we all know, the hood chick may look like she's standing there alone until she does the magic gang whistle and a carload of hood niggas (not to be confused with black guys or African-American men) jump out to her defense (kinda like genies, except their magic lamp is an Impala with temporary license plates and no city stickers). And who would try and rough up the Loose Squares Dude, after all his job is the South Side equivalent of community service.

And then there's me; standing there as an average looking black dude who looks like he knows the difference between the Tribune and Sun-Times (one is racist, the other is racist as hell). Now don't get it twisted, I stalk these streets, but I'm no match for the weapons kids nowadays be packing; which is why I practice the oldest form of martial arts known to man (The Ancient Drunken Kangaroo Kick and Run Like Hell Technique).

Then out of nowhere, like piss droplets on a toilet seat, this white dude comes strolling up to the bus stop. The hell you say?! Are we not on the South Side (commonly referred to as God's Blind Spot)? Are there not at least three gang sets actively competing for this area? And the white dude comes and stands on the corner? Without a badge? I calmly glanced at him, and swiftly let my guard down; I took comfort in knowing that if the stick-up kids were watching this spot, they would surely come for white bread first. I think I may have even put my headphones on and proceeded listening to the White Stripes.

Then I had a discussion with a small gathering of black dudes later that evening, and most of them had been in similar situations and reacted the same way that I did. And it's not a racist thing where we hoped something would have kicked off with the white dude, it's just that we knew the white dude would be the prime target, thereby giving all potential witnesses time to vacate and no longer be witnesses.

Why you may ask?

Well there are several reasons. One being that white dudes ask too many damn questions/give too many statements when shit gets greazy out here on the streets. For example, if you ask a black dude for a cigarette, he will disrespectfully tell you that he ain't got no more and refuse to answer any follow-up questions. However, the white dude will reach in his pocket, take out his wallet and assorted trinkets to reach in his pocket to give the stranger a smoke. Or if he doesn't have any smokes, he will politely point you in the direction of some. See right there, white boy cares too damn much. And he has just become victim of the old 'Let me get a smoke/Sike, this is a stick-up!' routine.

Now the exception to the White Dude Theory, is the Crazy White Dude Theory. Truthfully speaking, the Crazy White Dude is the most feared dude in the black community. You know, the white dude who beats his wife while eating a bowl cereal and dares any of you jigs to speak to the cops when they arrive. That dude is a threat to society. If that guy comes and stands on a bus stop with you, it's time to choose an alternate route to work that morning. Especially when he starts talking that anti-government shit. See black people are genetically predetermined to not roll with the government; when white boy starts talking that shit, you better believe he's probably a damn bomb specialist, just waiting on somebody to ask him for a smoke.

Sarah Palin Gets Off Easy

I can't help but feel that treatment of Sarah Palin's teenage daughter's pregnancy is somehow getting swept under the rug. In an age where we prosecute R and B singers for pissing on teenage girls (on a voluntary basis mind you), I knew for certain that a bigger stink would have been made of the fact that Sarah Palin's daughter, Bristol, is about to become a 'baby mama'. I had visions of John McCain either A. distancing himself and trying to renege on his VP pick or B. publicly offering to remedy the whole situation with his trusty wire-hanger that he affectionately refers to as 'Mama Nomoe'.

But alas, after the story came out the media immediately glossed over it. I'm sick of hearing '... she plans to marry the father of her baby'. NEWSFLASH: Every 'baby mama' thinks they're going to marry the father of their children, but having it actually happen is usually a different thing. Don't they have teenage broads on the talk show circuit all the time talking about how they are going to marry their 'baby daddy'?

People of America, you are now witnessing the first clue that this Sarah Palin may actually be white trash. The second clue is that she lives in Alaska.

I can't help but wonder would the story be handled the same if the Obamas' had a teenage daughter that was all preggers and whatnot. I am sure this would have cost him an election, and probably would have been the punchline of enough racial slurs to last us well into the next century. You must understand, that there exists masses of white people that are looking for a reason to not vote for Obama, even though they said they would. There's no poll to suggest this obviously, but I've overheard plenty of water cooler discussions to totally validate what I'm saying.

See when McCain chose a woman as his VP, then white people around the nation had a moment of relief because they had been offered an out. Now they can claim they are voting for McCain because he 'thought outside the box' (why is that such an 'inside the box' phrase?) by picking a woman; and they can still make history by electing the first woman VP.

Truthfully, I know more about monkey strains of human diseases than this chick knows about being the second in command of a damn country. Vote OBAMA 2008.

Black People's Guilty Pleasures Vol I: The Maury Show Thursday, August 28, 2008

The older I have gotten, the more I have realized that most of my friends are of the highly educated variety. Yet and still, as much as we can all agree that The Maury Show sets back black people one generation per half hour segment, we can't seem to get enough of it. Which is strange, because we all have jobs but seem to make time to find a clip or two of the show here and there.

The funny thing about The Maury Show is that it has survived from the period from mid to late 1990s when television solely consisted of shows of the Maury variety; i.e. Jerry Springer (which is still around too, but is way too over the top to be believable anymore), Ricki Lake, Jenny Jones, and even Tempsett Bledsoe ('Vanessa' from the Cosby Show) got in on the action. Some of those shows looked like they actually were shot on the same set (why buy more than one garbage can for one bag of garbage right?), but for some reason Maury is still around (remember when The Maury Show was called The Maury Povich Show?).

The thing that makes that show so gully is that we all watch it for the same reason; the paternity tests. And TiVo/DVR has made The Maury Show that much more off the chain; nothing like being able to rewind and pinpoint the precise moment when one and/or both of the Maury's guests show the first sign of saltiness (it kind of becomes like that JFK movie; 'back and to the left... back and to the left'). And it usually never fails that guys at home watching are hoping the baby does not turn out to be the man's, and women are at home rooting for the baby mama's vindication.

Now see if Maury was the true marketing genius that I am, then he would find even more ways to capitalize off the popularity of those paternity test shows. Personally I would turn 'skank ass baby mama running off the stage after she finds out the baby does not belong to who she claims' into an Olympic event. Instead of 'on your mark... get set... go...', Maury could kick off the race with 'you... are... NOT...' (because usually by the time he gets to the word 'not', those broads be all the way by the emergency exit backstage).

What makes Maury even more of a guilty pleasure than it needs to be, is that somewhere deep inside all of us, we all hope to see someone we know but aren't that cool with on the show. One of these days though, black people are going to band together and get Maury taken off the air for the platform he provides people to play themselves on national television; or at least convince him to move to BET.

A Proposed Law Against Baby Mamas

I've become accustomed to the conditions of public transportation; it's usually crowded, smells like what the slaves must have rode on during their experiences with 'public transportation', and there's that one dude you spy when you first get on the bus and vote him as 'Most Likely to Rob Me If Make the Mistake of Falling Asleep on the Bus'. Also, I've recently developed a higher tolerance for when the bus has to load wheelchair patrons (don't act like I'm the only one who hopes the non-leggers get on the bus before the light changes); but for everything I learn to not hate, it's replaced with things I learn to not love.

So the day started out like any other today; standing on the bus stop at 7am, learning to sleep while standing up until the bus arrives. When the bus did arrive, I felt like this bus was headed to a taping of the Maury Show Paternity Special, because I'll be damned if there weren't like seven skrollas ('strollers' for those who actually attended a high school) taking up all the space. I mean the bus was packed and it wasn't even a lot of people on the bus, just a lot of strollers. So while I'm standing there on the bus (trying to guess which baby that smell is coming from), I came up with a new law that I plan to write my local congressman about (and by 'plan', I mean 'probably never').

New Law: A woman shouldn't be allowed to have a child if neither her nor the child's father has access to a vehicle.

Now for some women this may seem like a law aimed at them; to those women I say how about getting pregnant by a non-shiftless negro every once in while. I mean really, why must the world be inconvenienced because your baby's daddy hasn't seen to it that you and 'Lil Man' not have to stand outside catching buses? And heaven forbid if I slightly brush up against the handle part of the stroller as I make my way to the back of bus, then all of sudden I'm getting cursed out (in whatever version of English their teaching in the GED classes these days). Know your place, baby mama. Know your place.

So why do I catch the bus, instead of driving myself? Because 1. gas is $12 per swig and 2. I'm not the one responsible for raising any of these future felons (who will ultimately get out on parole and start a rap group called 'Future Felons').

Really I blame the bus driver for my situation this morning; at the point when there were two strollers loaded onto the bus, he should have acted like the baby's father and left those chicks on the street by themselves. But as anyone in Chicago knows, trying to talk common sense into these bus drivers is like trying to start a discussion about abstinence at an orgy; nobody's hearing you.

Plus, the proposed new law is flexible. Note that it does not say you have to own a vehicle, it just says you must have access to one. So how about you talk to your baby's father and tell him that in between smoking weed/selling weed/playing Madden (which is the shit)/dodging you, to go acquire you a car. If that doesn't work, you may want to convince some other unfortunate and unsuspecting bastard that he is actually the father of your child. Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

I Knew Somebody Would Be Called An Uncle Tom: And Five More Racist Predictions for the Democratic National Convention Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Everyone seemed so shocked when Illinois State Senate President Emil Jones called Democratic delegate Del Marie Cobb an 'Uncle Tom'; but not I. If there is anything that I know as a black dude, it's that you can't put a room full of old black people together and not have the phrase 'Uncle Tom' thrown around fervently and frequently. Stuff like this happens at every family gathering when the rest of the family is struggling, and that one successful uncle with a good engineering job arrives. Though it probably wasn't newsworthy, I'm sure somebody was caught cheating and/or reneging at the spades game later that night.

Also, I should be collecting that Miss Cleo money (who still remembers her?) because I also predicted that there would be some type of foiled assassination plot against Obama; though I thought it would have been carried out by Jesse Jackson running up with the scope attached to a scalpel (does contemplating castrating someone count as a homo erotic fantasy?). Yet and still there is more time left in the convention for more of my predictions to come true, and I'll share them just so I can get my much deserved credit.

1. President Bush will run up in there with his personal rifle, because he heard Osama will be giving a speech.

2. There will be at least one picture to surface on the web of Barack Obama eating a piece of fried chicken, because that's just how the media do.

3. Jesse Jackson will be seen trying to take said piece of fried chicken because he doesn't feel Obama has paid his dues.

4. Del Marie Cobb will finally retaliate to Emil Jones' comment with the appropriate response of 'darkie', and proceed to taunt him with the 'Jiggaboo' song from the movie School Daze.

5. Bill Clinton will make the mistake of referring to Obama as the second black U.S. president, upon which Obama will have no choice but to challenge Clinton to a footwork contest (because he's from Chicago), a freestyle battle (because he's from the South Side of Chicago), and a slap boxing match (because he used to hang out on the West Side of Chicago).

You laugh now, but when one or more of things come to fruition, the world will be happy to pay me $1.99 per minute to guess lucky numbers and shit (as a matter of fact my psychic line will be aptly titled Lucky Numbers n' Shit). I also had the chance to catch Obama's wife's speech last night. And is it me, or did Michelle Obama look as fine as Condoleeza Rice could look if Condoleeza Rice didn't look like her name should be Condoleeza Rice?

Black Man's Handbook to Dating: Rule #666 Monday, August 25, 2008

I hear a lot of dating exploits via my circle of friends, and I can't help but think certain situations can be avoided if you develop a set of personal 'don't do this' rules and just never break them. One rule that I have (and I didn't even realize how firm I stood by this rule until fairly recently) has always done right by me, so I present to you:

Black Man's Handbook to Dating: Rule No. 666 - Never get involved with a chick that goes by solely a nickname.

Now at face value this may seem a bit harsh to all of the sisters (and there are a lot of you) out there with nicknames. But follow me for a second.

First of all, nicknames are best used sparingly. A person should only know your nickname if they are cool with you like that. Everyone has a nickname (myself included), but a red flag for dating is when a woman (also known as chick/shorty/slim/lil mama/broad/[insert sexist term here]) introduces herself by her nickname. Sometimes women have those long ass hood names i.e. De'neshirita, in which case everyone benefits by simply shorting her name to 'Dee'. But if a woman introduces herself by her nickname, and never even mentions her real name, then chances are she either: A. has multiple baby-daddies and the different nicknames they call her is how she remembers who fathered which B. is in a gang and will shoot you or C. she and her baby-daddies are all in the same gang, and are setting you up to get robbed because you went to college, which clearly means you own lots of nice things (only in the hood do people think graduating college guarantees you six-figures).

Now it could be a case in which maybe she doesn't like her real name, and she says something to the effect of 'I think my real name is ugly/dumb sounding/doesn't fit what I look like'. To most people, all of these sound understandable; but to me it is another red flag. There's legal procedures you must go through before you just up and decide to change your damn name. If she has no respect for the law, then I'm willing to bet she's broken the law a few times (breaking the law is for black guys only; can't we have anything anymore?). As a rule of thumb, never get involved with a chick with a criminal history; you'll only pay for it in the long run (bail money is reserved for when grandma decides to throw beer bottles at cop cars again).

So what are other reasons a woman would go by a nickname exclusively? Well there's really no nice way to say it; she may be a hoe. I've witnessed three different scenarios in my lifetime in which two dudes were talking about the same chick under a different nickname, and not even realizing it was the same chick (hilarity almost never ensued).

So before my comment section is blown up with hateful remarks, I would like to take this time to apologize to the all the 'Lil Mamas', 'Baby Girls', 'Preciouses', 'Pumpkins', and 'LaLas'... you're different.

Chicago Urban League Sues Illinois Over Education Wednesday, August 20, 2008

The Chicago Urban League has filed a lawsuit against the state of Illinois and the Illinois State Board of Education claiming the school funding methods are unconstitutional. According to Cheryle Jackson, president of the Chicago Urban League, minority children are not getting the same level of quality education as their more affluent counterparts.

This lawsuit comes on the heels of State Senator Reverend Meeks call for a school boycott to highlight the disparities of school funding. A more in-depth discussion of the specificities of the lawsuit, and all of the plaintiffs involved can be found on Market Watch.

Common Sense About John McCain

America has yet to spend one day honoring and confronting the truth during one day in my lifetime; and because of that we're in the situation that we're in. If America faced the truth that most corporations really are evil faceless entities, then we wouldn't be so surprised when we find out that big greedy investment banks have totally screwed the housing market (did we learn anything from the savings and loan scandals of the eighties?). If we faced the truth that Iraq had no weapons of mass destruction, then we wouldn't be surprised to find out that we went over there with ulterior motives. But all of those things are water under the bridge. Yet it is still not too late to grasp our latest moment of truth; John McCain is a crazy old man.

Can I call John McCain both crazy and old with no validation? Sure I can. It's my blog and if I needed facts for every opinion I had then I would write for the New York Times, now wouldn't I? However, let's use our voices of reason to apply common sense to the Republican candidate for president.

I'm a firm believer that the hood has more to offer in the vein of nurturing intellectual thought than any university in the world (and the fact that I attended college and live in the hood make me extra smart; 'the most ballin'-est shit ever, son'). With that being said, how many of us have ran into the crazy Vietnam veteran dude in the street or on the bus? You know the dude who is still fighting the war mentally and occasionally makes machine-gun noises with his mouth while sitting next to you. Not fit to run the country, is he? As a matter of fact, my bus route runs past the V.A. Hospital and I wouldn't let any of the dudes who get off at that stop make me a ham and cheese sandwich; let alone define the country's foreign and domestic policies (maybe one or the other, but both is just insane).

But see, when it comes to John McCain you're only allowed to sum up his service to this country as him being a war hero. You're never allowed to go into much more detail than that. Once again America (much like the girl everybody asked to prom) you're looking in the mirror and refusing to admit the truth (they asked you to prom because you're a whore). We all know that people come home from war absolutely insane. Why wouldn't they; they've seen things. And those are the ones who haven't been held captive by the enemy...

Add to that the fact that McCain is 72 years old (and we're talking earth years; not that '72 is the new 62' bullshit), and what do you have? A dude with a bad memory, the propensity to fall asleep mid conversation, yet may just wake up mistaking you for an enemy combatant. Bad combination. Yes America, they are only asking you to the prom because word got around.

Seems Pretty Damn Skippy to Me... Tuesday, August 19, 2008

... that anytime an officer is shot and/or killed in this city, a suspect is apprehended in a matter of days. Dare I suggest that the Chicago Police Department tries harder when one of their own is a victim of violence? Well compare the shooting death of Robert Soto to any number of shootings that have taken place throughout the city this summer (or the murders of 26 Chicago Public School students this past year).

Sure you hear about the murders and when/where they take place (so at least you know which places to avoid and at what times), but how often do you hear about someone being arrested in connection to those murders? Usually the investigation ends with the locally famous phrase, '... police say the shooting appears to be gang related.'

'Case closed Johnson. Another fine piece of detective work.'

I'm sure gangs are responsible for a lot of senseless violent acts in the hood, but do the police even know which gang? Oh, but let a fellow police officer get gunned down by a suspected gang member and the department will get all COINTELPRO on that ass. I'm not saying that people who are suspected of killing cops (and yes at this point, the young man pictured is only a suspect) shouldn't be brought to justice; but can the people get a little of that service and protection as well?

When Jesus Calls, He'll *67 You

The nerve of some people in this city. Every morning on my way to work by way of the Red Line, I'm assaulted by the church people; you know, the folks that run up on you with the 'Holy Handout' (which I don't particularly mind unless they broad shoulder my path). These folks roll so deep at the 95th stop, oftentimes I mistake them for Gangster Disciples. But again, I have nothing against them because as all South Siders know, the South Side needs Jesus.

But today I was annoyed because the Church Lady (if that's even her real name) ran up on me with the handout shouting 'Jesus can save your life!' while on the damn cell phone. Really Church Lady? Really?! According to God via yourself, you had one job to do this morning and that was to deliver his word; and you go about it on the cell phone. Now do I take extra long smoke breaks, two-hour lunches, and nap in the bathroom? Of course I do... but my boss isn't Jesus, so I can get away with it. Surely if she believes that God is watching over me as I sin, then she must also believe that God sees her half-assing The Word because she's talking on the phone.

So being the semi-jerk that I am (read: asshole in a 'my vocabulary is bigger than yours' sort of way), I stand there and wait for her to get off the phone so that I can ask what church she is from (not because I cared a whole lot, but curiosity is a mutha when you need a reason to not be at work on time). Did she get off the phone? Nope. Did she at least acknowledge my presence? Yes, but only because she didn't like me standing around while she was on the phone. Does Jesus love her any less? You betcha.

So Church Lady expects everyone to read about becoming a follower of Christ, but she can't even make eye contact with me. Call me a cynic, but I'm sure there's a special place in hell for people who talk on their cell phone while doing field service (right next to the dude who services himself while text messaging). You ma'am, are not worthy of handing me literature about a god I only believe in out of fear.

How Much Should You Really Hate Your Ex? Friday, August 15, 2008

I got into a deep philosophical discussion the other day (drinking tends to invoke the great debater in everyone) about the proper level of hatred to have towards someone you used to date. I know people that have (for whatever reason) great friendships with their former significant other, and then others that have reciprocal restraining orders. Now for me, I don't hate any of my exes, but not seeing them is better than keeping in touch with them (which can be a form of hate I guess); but that's what works for me.

I know this one guy that fills out mail forwarding requests, just so he can receive his ex-girlfriend's mail and toss it in the trash (true hateful bastard shit); and I know an otherwise completely sane young woman who calls her ex-boyfriend's cell, and if the new chick (of that particular week) answers she goes into a story about she just found out she was pregnant, all in the name of bringing grief to that man's home. Of course those two people are slightly nuts, and I'm glad they can't read (this blog).

And to directly contradict myself for a moment, I would like to say there is an ex that I 'hate', but in a way that's healthy. See my hate for her keeps me away from her. Granted there have been more than one occasion in which I've wished for a small fire to take her out (not even a house fire, but a little bitch ass fire that would make everyone go 'How the hell did that burn 70% of her body?'); or maybe get attacked in the eye by a flock of birds that only go after people while they're driving. But these are just jokes (only because I haven't found a genie yet), and only serve as personal reminders to never find myself back together with that person.

Everyone knows the chronic 'break-up to make-up' couple, and the only reason they exist is because they hate each others' guts and haven't realized it yet (and probably won't until they get married). So how much should you hate your ex? Well I personally measure it in the number of seconds it would take for me to react if I saw the ex in danger. For example, if I saw my ex-girl getting beat the hell down, I would count to seven (with 'Mississippi' in between, and without taking my eyes off the action) and then intervene. See that's healthy hate right there; however, for those that would watch their former boo get monkey stomped for a solid ten/fifteen/or twenty-five seconds (one person in the debate last night said he would count to one hundred) then: a. You hate your ex a little too much, and b. You've just witnessed a crime.

The Hood Comes Out At Night (and sometimes in the day) Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Oh, So This Is What They Mean By Gentrification?

I don't get out much for social endeavors as I think I should, but I find myself traveling all over the city in the course of a day for work-related purposes. Usually I'm bouncing from my West Side office to downtown, and back again; but most of the places in between become CTA induced blurs (i.e. I sit on the bus and look straight ahead, to avoid contact with everyone who's avoiding eye contact with me; a little game all Chicagoans play amongst ourselves on the buses and trains).

So earlier this week, I had a meeting over on 35th Street and I got off the Redline to see all the baseball fans headed to the Sox game; my meeting was a bit east of The Cell and I chose to walk instead of taking the bus. As I'm walking, the police are out in full effect; which makes sense because one drunk white person can create as much havoc as five unemployed black dudes (though with the weakening of the American dollar and rising oil prices, that conversion rate is sure to fluctuate). But what strikes me as odd (and by odd, I mean so glaringly racist you don't believe your eyes) is that the police are handcuffing niggaz left and right. And I'm sure some of them did something (after all it is a Sox game, and white people make good targets for the stick-up kids).

But could there have been like seven different criminal offenses within a four block span? All along 35th Street? But it was like whatever for the moment; I'm sure these jigs would have done something before the night was over (even my conditioning, has been conditioned).

A day later, I returned to that area for a follow up meeting and this time there was no game going on. However, five-O is at it again. That's when it struck me... I had fallen victim to the Bush-like word games (a-la 'enhanced interrogation techniques'). See we've been calling it 'gentrification' for so long, that even a well-read, government-distrusting, vote-neither-democrat-nor-republican, black man such as myself had forgotten what really goes down. They don't just tear down buildings and resurrect new ones that our people can't afford to live in; the key component of gentrification is to arrest niggaz (though if they could tear down your building with your black ass in it, they would do so).

So from now on, the proper term for 'gentrification' is 'arresting niggaz'. And here's how you would use it in a sentence:

'Have you been on the West Side lately?'

'Yea, it's starting to look a lot better over in North Lawndale, where they putting up the condos...'

'That's cause they over there arresting niggaz.'

Arresting niggaz.

Never Work for An Old Black Guy Friday, August 8, 2008

I really have a love/hate affair with my own race (which is crazy, because I'm nowhere near light enough to pass for a white dude), but for the love of fried chicken; why can't we get it together on any level?

So after moving back into the heart of the city a little less than a year ago, I decided that I wanted to work for a community organization that focused on the African American community specifically; so I knew I would make slightly less than I would by working at Burger King, but a little more than I would by kicking shit at people who didn't fill my cup with their spare change. And I found a decent organization that does work for residents on the West Side of the city, but not because this dude knows how to run a business. He's a good dude to be sure, but shadier than Suge Knight discussing his whereabouts the night Biggie got shot. First of all, on payday this guy is mysteriously missing from the office so that he doesn't have to sign checks until after the bank closes.

Like today, I am waiting on him to return to the office with a client's receipt so that I can collect money from the client and bring it back to the office for my cut of the revenue. There's about an hour left before the bank closes and I have the strangest feeling that my boss will come walking in about five minutes after that. I don't know what's important to him, but I need my damn money. Not to mention, usually if I need him to return to the office to handle important client related issues, I already know that whatever time he says he'll return, to go ahead and tack about 45 minutes on to that. He pays his staff in promises, peanuts, and free copies of a free newspaper (I dare someone to ask me how that works). One day I'm going to take all my business smarts and fancy college learning over to a very reputable corporate gig (and by one day, I mean as soon as I hear back from the other jobs I applied for last week). Old black dudes.

When Will Black People...? Thursday, August 7, 2008

... finally tell BET to stop broadcasting. You know I work at a community newspaper (a local, in-print version of BET if you will), and we have a television in the office (dummy box 1, productivity 0) which was unfortunately stuck on BET for some reason today while I was working at my desk. So because I couldn't find the remote (mainly because I never moved an inch to look for it), I was stuck with the brain rot that was being broadcast.

It was like hell, or more descriptively, like masturbation; you knew you shouldn't, but who the hell is around to stop you? I wanted to physically get up and either change the channel or turn the tv off, but I got caught up in a little bullshit show called Hell Date. Now this used to be one of my guilty pleasures back in the day, until I realized that usually the first segment is mildly funny and it goes downhill from there. Sometime after that, I had the pleasure of catching a full episode of 106 and Park. I think they should take a survey and see how many of them damn kids did their homework (or even attended school that day) before coming to the taping of that show. This show is like TRL for link card recipients.

But then as I finally got up after two hours to turn the tv off (read: go to the bathroom), I realized that in a sick and twisted way that I was actually entertained. I always used to feel that way after watching BET back in the day; knowing that what I was watching was total trash, but still having a slight sense of viewer gratification (this was usually after Freestyle Friday on 106 and Park or The Booth segment of Rap City). Could this be what they mean by Black Entertainment Television? That no matter how trash BET becomes, the viewer will always be entertained?

Then the real epiphany hit me; I wasn't entertained, I was watching intently for inspiration to not come close to being like any of the bullshit I just witnessed. I mean could you imagine any of the so-called civil rights groups not protesting (i.e. creating a big stink on the FOX News Channel) any one of a number of these shows if they were on any other channel? Why does BET get a pass to push black people down? Because they got the word black in the title?

To me, getting BET off the air (because it is beyond the point of repair) is a more pertinent discussion than the N-word discussion can ever be.

And let's state the obvious, BET is not ran by black people; no self-respecting Negro (or even the laziest and most shiftless form of Negro for that matter) would say 'Hey, let's show Hell Date four times a day; Rap City episodes featuring the same set of four songs; and top off the primetime line-up with black cinema's finest films such as Vampire in Brooklyn; then to all the n-words coming in from a late night of drug selling/abusing, we'll hit them with Morning Inspiration, featuring white Jesus! Ooooh Weeeee... BET is going to be better than fried chicken AND watermelons!'

We like to point fingers at various rap artists (of whose names none of us will remember next year, mind you) for killing hip hop music; when will someone accuse BET of killing the hip hop movement? And yes, the hip hop movement is synonymous with the current generation of black culture; don't let nobody tell you otherwise.

I Swear to God! Vol I Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Continuing on with my righteous anger streak this week, I would like to take some time out to make some promises that I may or may not keep (depending upon if you're a member of law enforcement that happens to be reading this).

There are just some people who deserves what life (or a crazy black dude) gives them. With that being said...

I swear to God, I am going to slap to sleep the next unfortunate moron who says something to me about this fictional 'demographic' known as Generation Y. First of all, I'm a member of the so-called Generation X; which wikipedia defines as being coined by some eggheads from across the pond. But my first recollection of Generation X's usage was in commercials that were trying push soft drinks and clothing to me and all my friends in high school. And from Gen X, we get Gen Y which is even more bullshit than the bullshit it was based off of. That's what it is and that's how I see it.

And see, I would not have a problem with all of these marketing schemes (especially since I work in marketing) if all of these ploys weren't straight playing with people's heads (and by people, I mean some of the feeble-minded chicks that I happen to date from time to time). I not too long ago broke up with my girlfriend, but I remember a specific argument we got into towards the end of our relationship. I'm roughly two weeks shy of being a full five years older than she is (we were both adults; no Robert Kelly), but she learned about the whole Generation Y concept from some class she was taking in grad school. So in this argument, this intelligence-deprived dizzy broad proceeds to tell me that (after a few years of us shacking up mind you) we're a 'full generation apart'. WTF?! I honestly thought about tapping my elbow, climbing onto the top rope, and proceed to do what comes naturally. A full generation apart? Really? This is what crackpot marketing does when it reaches a textbook of a second-tier grad school, and wanders across the eyes of a dummy.

And I see all types of articles in the newspapers that further enforce this concept of Generation Y; and since people are stupid they buy into it (particularly if they happen to fit into the Generation Y category), and proceed to feel like they're special in some sort of way.

So yes, this is formal notice that I plan to 'Chicago-Southside-dirty cop-bent over the hood of a suspected stolen car-sucker punch' the fool who comes at me with any mention of a Generation Y.