Police Show Up to Fenger High School Late As Hell Monday, September 28, 2009

[via ChicagoBreakingNews] Chicago police lined up in a show of force outside Fenger High School this morning in the wake of the beating death of 16-year-old Derrion Albert last week during a melee nearby.

Of course they're going to show up the first school day after the beating death; but where were they to prevent this? And where will they be to prevent future occurrences like this? This happened less than a mile from my parents' house where I grew up, and unfortunately this isn't as uncommon as it should be. The only thing that sticks out is that A. this young dude lost his life (RIP) and B. there were no guns reportedly involved.

The shame of it all is that this happened outside of a community center, where children should be able to find some sort of sanctuary.

"We want to provide reassurance to the public that there's a police presence and they can feel safe in the neighborhood and kids can feel safe at school," said Morgan Park District Commander Michael Kuemmeth. [via ChicagoBreakingNews]

Unfortunately, either Cmdr. Kuemmeth doesn't know the area he's responsible for or he's flat out lying just to calm the public. The fact of the matter is that kids don't feel safe at that school (in particularly Fenger, but other schools on the South Side as well), they don't feel safe in that neighborhood, and there's next to no police presence (basically the opposite of everything he said).

I remember when it was time for me to graduate middle school and go to high school, the last place I wanted to go was Fenger High School (or Corliss High School, which was the second option for dudes in my neighborhood). I had heard stories; which inspired me to keep my grades up and get into someone's gifted program for high school. That's not a knock against Fenger per se, but it is a knock against the idiots who were known to hang out around Fenger and cause problems. Dudes who dropped out of high school, hang out at the high school everyday all day? Didn't make sense to me then either; I wonder if they took attendance in the parking lot.

Also, here's an interesting tid bit for those not acquainted with how the hood really works.

This incident happened around roughly 3pm, around the time school lets out basically. But what you may not know is that also around this time is when police in the area have their shift changes, which grossly affects their response time to anything happening around 3pm.

True story. There was incident that went down involving a neighbor and he had to call the cops to file a report (which is pretty much all cops do anyway). It was about three in the afternoon when he made the 911 call, and it was about four in the evening when the cops finally did arrive. The cops excuse? Because of the shift change.

I would like to speak to the person responsible for scheduling shift changes around the time kids get out of school.

I did see a brief and egregiously pedestrian story about the Fenger incident on the national news, which means Jesse Jackson will be showing up for a photo shoot any day now (I hate to use my 'Life is like a public bathroom' metaphor, but this clown needs to stand up or sit the hell down; cause right now he's hovering and getting shit everywhere).

And in case you've never seen this movie before, let me spoil the rest of the plot and ruin the ending for you.

There will be a vigil (I believe it's being held today), I'm sure somebody is planning an anti violence march somewhere nearby, Jody 'They Should Have Been Done Fired Me' Weiss will point fingers at us coloreds, Mayor 'Black People Will Vote for Me As Long As I Reach Out to The Black Preachers/Ministers/Pastors/People At the Top of the Pyramid Scheme/etc. Around Election Time' Daley will wave one specific finger at us coloreds (for being colored and for taking away from the time he could be spending making his friends even richer via Olympic 2016 contracts), and us coloreds will hold our heads in despair after being scolded by not one, but two white men in suits. Fin.

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.

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.

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.

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.

When Jesus Calls, He'll *67 You Tuesday, August 19, 2008

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.