I Got Robbed Yesterday Part 1: The Incident Tuesday, May 12, 2009

'I'll probably be murdered for the shit that I said/But I bring the real, be a legend/Breathing or dead' - Tupac Shakur, Against All Odds

The hood is fucked up... and if you didn't know that, then remain in your bubble; trust me, it'll work out better for you in the long run. Where I was and when I was there is of little importance at the moment, but the bottom line is that I was doing little more than exercising my right to live as I walked down the street yesterday (in broad daylight, mind you) when initially one guy approached me. The fight was on.

Without hesitation, me and this guy proceeded to man up in formidable adversarial combat... it was the three or so of his homies that I wasn't prepared for. Long story short, they got me for little of value and I received no injuries (unless you count a scraped elbow and a disappearing welt on my temple). In hindsight, I'm grateful for the fact that most of these dudes nowadays lack strong males figures (in addition to the requisite testicular fortitude) in their life that could have taught them how to fight. My pride was in pain and my ego was bruised, but outside of that the kid was good; not to mention I needed a good fight.

What did I learn? Nothing. You can't stop niggas from being niggas; and in today's economy, you can't stop niggas from acting more niggardly (that's an actual word). It's just so sickening out here today that no one ever considers going without until their situation gets better; instead these knuckleheads resort to taking from other people just so they can say that they have something. What happened to me, happens everyday and all day all around the city; my situation was only different in the sense that I didn't lose my life over what amounted to slightly less than a hundred dollars in value (good luck at the pawn shops tough guys; they actually have a surplus these days - the real indication of a recession).

I really hate to wax philosophical about some bullshit, but sometimes even bullshit deserves a second sniff. I remember being in a car with a group of friends riding down 79th (doesn't matter where, because 79th and anywhere is the hood) when one of them went on a rant about how niggas need to get off the corner and do better. I was in agreement somewhat, but I also understood how daunting of a task it is to 'Git Up, Git Out' (if you don't know that reference, then go back to listening to your chopped and screwed version of 'Gucci Bandana' and stop telling people that you're a rap fan) and get something when there's nothing available to be gotten. But let's be honest; due to the sickness that runs so deep, there's a certain segment of our community that carry on like natural born predators.

There exists some in our community that it really is too late for. The thought of going to school/getting a job/starting a business has never crossed their mind. They truly are satisfied with the crumbs they can snatch off someone else's table; especially when everything that's labelled black culture glorifies such existence: i.e. our music, our movies, our fashion, our false state of mind. And that's just what some of us are doomed to; an existence, and not a living.

'I ain't never ever ran from the Ku Klux Klan/And I shouldn't have to run from a black man' - Kool Moe Dee, Self Destruction

Part 2 (coming real soon)

Jehovah's Witnesses vs. The Thugs Saturday, May 9, 2009

Today I saw the most awesome crime-fighting force ever. I went on my morning runs on foot (even though my Saturday mornings are usually dedicated to Hannah Montana; hater), and after a few blocks I decided to post up and catch my breath for a second (it was less of a 'decision', and more of a 'I'm a rapidly aging smoker that gets winded after a few blocks' type of deal). The only thing moving on the street this morning was myself, the trash that litters the South Side as it blows in the wind, and the Jehovah's Witnesses (you already know how they do). One witness tried to hand me a copy of The Watchtower, but the hidden jewel about walking with headphones on is that you can selectively hear people.

Anyway, I decided to dip off the main street and hold it down outside the library before I continued my journey. As I turned the corner, I entered Bizarro World; it was about a quarter to ten in the morning and the thugs were already out in full force. I was under the impression that thugs don't usually get out of bed before 11:45 am... just in time to get cleaned up, watch the noon o'clock news on WGN (to see if the headlines report that the person they shot the night prior was indeed the right target; it usually never is), catch The Maury Show (which also comes on WGN to account for the fact that some thugs aren't even ambitious enough to grab the remote), and open up for business outside the house they grew up in and have never once thought about leaving (except the one time when Big Mama decided enough was enough; but even then, that wasn't their decision). But this was Saturday morning; meaning no news, no Maury, no reason to do anything before 3pm. Yet and still, they were congregated outside of an apartment building roughly nine or so deep. No need for me to panic though, because I dress like I too own an unregistered firearm (and if it really comes down to it, we can all like monkeys round'hea).

Then the most remarkable thing took place. As the Jehovah's Witnesses rounded the same corner I had just bent, I literally heard one of the d-boys (dope peddlers, for my increasing number of Caucasian visitors) say, '... oh shit, here come the witnesses!' Then they immediately took it indoors. Not only did they go inside, but they refused to open the door of the building when the Jehovah's Witnesses came knocking.

Suddenly I had a great idea in my long series of great ideas (though no one supported my Blind Man's Boxing League idea; bastards); they should pair up every cop in the city with a Jehovah's Witness unit (one single Jehovah's Witness isn't enough; their fear is derived in their numbers). Just one blue and white squad car being followed by an old school Cutlass/Impala/Lincoln Continental full of old women Jehovah's Witnesses in big hats (the big hats is also another intimidation tactic they employ). I predict that we can have these streets cleaned up by the end of the summer; well at least cleaned up of crime - I'm sure there will be an influx of discarded Watchtowers littering the ground.

A Word About the Deaths of Chicago Public School Students Thursday, May 7, 2009

The truth is always the last thing we see when looking in the mirror. No one should blame anyone other than the perpetrators of these senseless murders that are taking place among Chicago Public School students. But I have made some disturbing observations about the situation. Shall I continue?

In more than one instance, the victim's family/friends are reported as saying that the victim didn't belong in a gang, but hung out with gang members.

Let's evaluate that for a second.

Being a black male who grew up on the South Side, I understand how it is/was nearly impossible to not have friends that have gang affiliations. At the same time; however, I was always cognizant of the fact that there exists an ultra-thin line between knowing gang members and actually being a part of that gang. I could not help that by the age of twelve, the majority of my friends; dudes I had known since first-grade in elementary school, decided to draw lines across the battlefield known as my community and pledge allegiances to one of the many gang sects eager to accept them. They were still my friends and I both acknowledged and loved them as such.

In actuality, two things prevented me from waving flags of warfare in the form of colored bandannas and baseball caps tilted in either direction; the first being that I was plucked out of the neighborhood school and whisked away to various 'gifted' programs (by third or fourth grade, the CPS system had already determined who was on the college track and who wasn't), and the other being simply that pop and mom dukes wasn't having it. Which brings me back to my point. How can so many family members be aware that their loved one has these gang associates and do nothing to intervene until it's too late?

Granted, as a former a hard-headed teenager, I understand exactly how little input parents have when their children leave their presence; but in today's social climate (with the parents in our community being closer in age to their children than ever), there seems to be more acceptance of the fact that even the 'good' kids hang out on the wrong side of the tracks. Back in the day, being in a gang and/or being friends of gang members was something kept out of earshot of individuals over the age of 30; because the last thing a black teen wanted circa pre-1998 was Mama and/or Big Mama coming to snatch his ass off the corner and showing him that all a real gangsta needed was a belt (or an extension cord is she felt you were really challenging her for the O.G. crown), a disrespectful kid, and an enclosed space.

Other quick personal observations.

I'm sick of seeing reporters at the crime scene while residents of the neighborhood pass by in the background smiling and waving to the camera as if the news crew was there for something positive. Ironically, I've even seen people flash their gang signs to the camera. In addition, someone needs to remind these teens that when you're telling the reporter that gangs are a problem in your neighborhood, it might be a good idea to turn your hat straight.

Again, I'm not blaming anyone nor calling out the families/friends of any particular victim; but at some point Black Chicago is going to have to engage in a tough and honest discussion with the other half of Black Chicago before anything changes.

'Unless we shooting, no one notices the youth' - Tupac Shakur, Me Against the World

If I Were An Ex-Offender, Then... Tuesday, May 5, 2009

... I would have the world at my fingertips. Or at least more local resources at my disposal.

Going all the way back to the middle of last year, it's been both slim pickings and a rough time to be a freelance writer. I'll bet you can't guess how I attempt to make my living. Freelance writer, you say? Wrong! I'm a porn star... but until that takes off, I've been freelance writing (ok, I'm not really an aspiring porn star). With the need for local writers being virtually null, I've been finding ways of tightening my belt by cutting down on expenses (I'm almost a non-smoker these days). One of the expenses I was almost certain I could find help with was my transportation; because CTA has been digging into my pockets for quite some time. So me being a bit naive, I figured I could hit up some of the 'community employment assistance' (in hindsight, this is a misnomer) programs to a slide a brother some free bus passes as I attempt to be the 'black Carrie Bradshaw' of this mofo (not that I would ever admit to watching that show).

They asked me two questions which I ultimately had the wrong answer to. A. Are you an ex-offender? B. Are you receiving any welfare benefits? The answer to both of these are no (though if a couple of these publishers that owe me money don't soon fork it over, I may become a future ex-offender). Then, without a smile on her face (she may have been smiling; after all, it was a phone conversation), this chick proceeds to tell me that there's nothing she could do for me.

But I'm college educated, worked with various local non-profits, and my resume is pretty impressive... there's nothing you can do for me? She then enlightened me to the fact that because I was so educated, it was actually a liability to receiving assistance. In my warped (and sometimes fragile) little mind, I almost got the feeling that with a nod and wink, she was implying that the best course of action would be for me to go out and immediately do some dirt, and then flag down a swine flu carrier cop to confess my crimes. Then they would help me?!

Even she admitted that it was a bit odd (hesitantly so, and only a bit odd) that they weren't able to do a thing for me. The lessons I learned? School is for dummies, and I need to get the hook-up on a package.

Black Dudes Are Not All Alike Tuesday, April 7, 2009

I was conversing with some of the young hogs off the block the other day; the oldest of which was about sixteen years of age. And they were informing me how much differently I presented myself from most of the other 'big homies' on the block. Not necessarily in terms of style of dress, or even mannerisms, but a certain aura I have (yes, one of these lil nigglets used the word 'aura' correctly in a sentence). I contrast that to a recent phone conversation I overheard at a McDonald's downtown. I guess this white chick was annoyed by the way this grimy ass black dude went about trying to holla at her; and he was quite the modern-day Amos n' Andy soft-shoe stepping jig (damn that was hateful of me), but that's not the point. So once he bounces, she's on the phone saying something to the extent of all black men are overbearing in their approach to women; and that we all dress the same, talk the same, etc. It just got me to thinking about all the things society assumes I get down with by me being a black man, and all the things I actually get down with by me being a effing individual. I wrote a list about it; like to to hear it, here it go.

What I Should Like: Beyonce
What I Actually Like: Hanna Montana
Now there's nothing sexual in terms of this preference (compared to me, Miley Cyrus is six years old), but I'm speaking in terms of tolerance level. I wake up bright and early every Saturday morning to catch Hanna Montana; however, I can't listen to a thirty second interview with Ms. Knowles. Listening to this chick speak is like watching a moose trying to do calculus.

What I Should Like: Sex with lots of fine women
What I Actually Like: Stress-free living, peace of mind, and no STDs
It's common knowledge that the finer a woman is, the more drama she brings to the table. Sex was a big thing in high school (when I got none) and more so as an undergrad (when I actually had to beat several chicks off me with a stick; not to get them away from me, but because they were into that sort of thing). Nowadays, with the exception of one-night stands, sex with a woman comes with the underlying assumption that you are now obligated to listen to her problems. That fine woman ain't so fine when she's in tears, relating to you the story of how her uncle used to fondle her while in his gorilla costume and that's why she freaks out at the sight of loose strands of hair.

What I Should Like: Smoking blunts
What I Actually Like: Hitting the bong
All praises due to the white cats I smoked out with in college... the switch from blunts to bongs profoundly impacted my life. As a matter of fact, I'll be right back...

What I Should Like: Whatever expensive liquor rappers are promoting these days
What I Actually Like: An ice-cold 40 oz
These nuccas (niggas + suckas) will buy whatever Jay Z, Fiddy, or Lil Wayne tells them to. I've seen cats (quite often) go to the bar and drop a bill on a bottle of whatever. I'm sure it's some type of status symbol, but I ain't with all that. Gimme the four-O (doesn't even matter what kind), and I'm good to go! As a matter of fact, I'll be right back...

What I Should Like: BET
What I Actually Like: PBS
Certain aspects of television viewing can be life enriching, depending upon what you're watching; as long as it's not BET. Watching BET is like masturbation without a happy ending; now you're just doing it because it's part of your routine.

What I Should Like: Being loud and ignorant
What I Actually Like: Being drunk, loud, and ignorant
I'm neither loud nor ignorant by nature (don't give me that look), but I'm at my loudest and most ignorant when I'm drunk. My personal motto is: if I'm going to be loud and ignorant, don't mess around with it; do it expeditiously! Word to Keenan Ivory Wayans as Joe Clark.

What I Should Like: Fathering a slave-ship load of illegitimate children
What I Actually Like: Giving these broads aliases and bogus social security numbers
I'm not a deadbeat dad until the court (or Maury) tracks me down and says so.

What I Should Like: Being thugged out
What I Actually Like: Not being afraid
'Ooooh, is he finna get deep and philosophical on this one?' Prolly not. But I will say that it's strange that the hardest dude on the block, is generally the dude with the most amount of people willing to fight for him. What's the first thing a so-called thug does when the drama pop? The same thing the cops do; call for back-up. Not gangsta at all homie.

What I Should Like: Chicken
What I Actually Like: Chicken
And in this sense, I'm just like every black dude you have ever met.

How the CTA and PACE Conspired to Ruin My Life Tuesday, January 13, 2009

I've been doing a lot of exploring different streams of conscious thought. That may sound like total bullshit, only because it is; however, you didn't know that for sure until just now. But that wasn't my point at all.

So sometime in 2008, the CTA/Pace decided that Chicagoans were getting spoiled by a transit system that nearly made an ounce of sense; hence, in 2009 they decided enough was enough. You now need two completely different passes to get aboard buses that travel nearly the same route (and are both usually late). Did I mention that even the CTA and Pace buses that travel identical routes don't necessarily make the same stops. Totally not a good look when you're waiting at the bus stop in near blizzard like conditions. The icing on the cake is that this new system will also cost you more this year than it did last year (they put the squeeze on me while your granny, who never leaves the crib unless someone comes to get her in the first place, still has the option to ride for free).

For about fifteen minutes this morning, I inadvertently became the 'Loose Square Dude' up at the Red Line. See, I generally give away one or two cigarettes per day as my way of ensuring there's never a dull moment in hell for when I get there spreading the love. So this guy asked me if I had another cigarette (besides the one I was smoking, as I stood there pondering the pros and cons of me waking up with ambition and purpose every day), and as I handed it to him he filled my hand with two quarters (the market value of a loose square) before I had the chance to inform him that I'm not the Loose Square Dude.

Next thing I know, a dozen or so people bum rushed me (three of which I suspected of being actual bums) waving dollar bills and quarters (I felt like a stripper who couldn't command the salary she did in her prime). I wanted to tell them I wasn't in fact selling cigarettes, but I had a feeling that they would have taken them from me.

Rewind that.

I ain't no punk, no hoe, no bitch; and I stalk these South Side streets with a subtle yet sophisticated dose of righteous anger. And with that being said, I still had the wisdom to understand that these nicotine baseheads were going to take my cigarettes from me. After all was said and done, I had enough dough to get the 6 Wing Dinner from J and J's Fish (yup, I went into a fish place and still ordered the chicken; why must I be such a nigglet).

With public transportation imploding, and the price of gas declining I now see fit to never turn down a friend when they offer me a ride. This past weekend my friend came and picked me up bright and early on a Sunday morning. I can't quite remember exactly where we were, but we got into a completely minor and inconsequential accident. We were sitting at a red light when the car behind us apparently decided that wasn't good enough reason for him to sit at the red light; he barely nudged us.

My friend was not raised on the South Side, nor in the city for that matter. However, through life experiences and ultimately settling down on the South Side, she officially earned her South Side armor. As such, she responded in the way all South Siders respond to traffic accidents; she exited the vehicle cussing as if God had let her down for the very last time. I've never been more scared proud of her.

Back to how much I hate these buses.

A little known Chicago fact is that these bus drivers are in cahoots with the stick-up kids. No, it's true. When the bus drivers say 'Good Morning', it's not because it's the proper and polite thing to do. They're screening to see if you're soft enough to say it back. You must ice-grill that simple sum'ama bitch with all you got. When he says 'Watch Your Step', it's not because he has a vested interest in seeing you get off the bus safely. He's testing you fam! Now you have to exit the bus as recklessly as possible; like you don't give a damn if you slip and fall or not, cause you a 'G' like that and you gone be ok.

I wonder how I'm getting home today.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Proposed Law Against Baby Mamas Thursday, August 28, 2008

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?

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.

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.

Oh, So This Is What They Mean By Gentrification? Wednesday, August 13, 2008

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.