My Knowledge of BET Makes Me Smarter Than You Monday, October 19, 2009

I was at a cookout recently and somehow the topic of BET came up; don't ask me how... maybe the fact that we were eating chicken, drinking liquor, and listening to Gucci Mane inspired us to discuss other pertinent aspects of black culture. At any rate, one of my guys goes on a rampage that since being sold to a non-African American entity, BET has went down the crapper.

All in agreement so far.

But then he goes on to say that it has only been a few years since this selling of BET took place. I paused for a minute.

Was I in the jig version of the Twilight Zone? I responded that it has been more than just 'a few' years since Plymouth Rock landed on BET; but with a confidence that shook my belief in some shit I thought I knew for sure, he replied that it has only been a few years (a few meaning three, four at most). I looked around for at least one other colored person to back me up (because I expected all of our white friends to stare uncomfortably at the floor; which they did), but they all shook their heads in agreement with him.

Had it all been just a terribly prophetic dream I had back in 2000 that BET was sold to Viacom? Did it in fact not happen until 2006, meaning I had time to warn my fellow Negroids of our impending doom and chose not to? Had I taken the blue pill after all? Will there be enough chicken left after the cookout to have for lunch the next day?

A couple of days later (after the itis from the cookout wore off) I did the most astonishing thing; I decided to read about it (cause normally I don't be reading for fun). And indeed (and as usual) I was right and the rest of these fools were misinformed (but that has never prevented anyone from opening their mouth to give a firm opinion).

Now I nearly wrote this incident off as me hanging out with a bunch of people who know nothing (which I sometimes do in my efforts to feel smarter and/or gooder about myself), but I decided to bring up BET in random conversations with people whose intellect I respect. Believe it or not, most of them got it wrong. The consensus was that it happened back in 2005 at the earliest.

What in the Dixie-Birth of a Nation-Diff'rent Strokes hell has this country done to the Negro? It's been nearly a decade since BET sold us out and yet somehow in the collective minds of the average spook I spoke with, it's been a few years tops. I mean I know my attention span is short, only because I smoke weed and hate listening to other people while they're talking, but I will never forget the day Robert L. Johnson admitted that his name was Toby so massa would stop hitting him sold BET to Viacom (I bet some of you will also fail to remember that he backed Hillary and not Obama).

And check this out if you're really interested in how greasy BET is nowadays (or maybe you just want to read a good old-fashioned airing out).

Shit like this makes me so upset, that I'll probably barely enjoy the next episode of Frankie and Neffe.

How to Legally Choke Kids Thursday, October 15, 2009

As many of you may already know by now (and by many, I mean the twelve of us who bother to read my blog; sometimes even I forget to read it), I am back working in the education system; because times are hard and education is always looking for more black men to jerk around. School ain't what it used to be not even in the four or so years that I stepped away from working with kids.

Part of the problem is that there is way too much damn coddling going on with these little bite-sized terrorists. The fact of the matter is they need less Mr. Belvedere and more Mister Joe Jackson. Say what you will, but he raised two musical icons in the forms of Janet and Michael; even Jermaine had a shot, but he didn't know how to tell his stylist 'That's too damned much vaseline you be putting on my face!'. I'm tired of watching one of these little brats punching the little brat sitting next to him, and then the principal wants me to pull him to the side and discuss his feelings about punching his neighbor.

Eff yo' feelings nigga! They don't need their feelings to be discussed.

They need to be told '... sit the eff down, shut the eff up, or someone's going to come through and beat the eff out of you!' But alas, that isn't allowed when other adults are present.

I remember the last time I worked for the school district, I got into trouble for breaking up a fight between two sixth graders; not for breaking up the fight, but because of how I broke up the fight. One student was trying to stab another student with a pencil, so I horse collared the lil' sum'bitch; similar to what they outlawed in football, except I yanked this heathen by his soul. The principal pulled me into a conference, I thought to give me a medal for saving a life, but instead he wanted to talk about the life I almost took. Douchebag.

They got too many first year teachers in the schools these days. They're the opposite of neva scared... they're always scared. I can't tell you how many times (this week) I've had to personally escort a student to the dean's office, all because his/her teacher was a punk and a half.

Here's a new rule: you are not allowed to be scared of someone that you could literally sit on to death. Write that one down.

Eff yo' segue nigga! Brief tangent alert.

I run into a lot of jigglets that act like our president can do no wrong. I support Obama still, but here's something he did wrong; he took the CEO of a failing education system, and put him in charge of all the failing education systems. If two students get shot a week (notice that they don't keep stats on all the students who were simply shot at) in your school system, I feel like you've forfeited any promotion that may have been coming your way. Could you imagine me consistently burning the apple pies at McDonald's, yet still getting promoted to fries? Ronald McDonald would turn into Homie D. Clown over some shit like that. But what isn't good enough for fast food is apparently good enough for our kids.

Ironically, at the rate we're going, most of these little shit stains won't be able to get jobs at McDonald's. Oh yeah I almost forgot, I believe children are our future.

Vh1 Behind The Music 'Lil Wayne' and Inadvertent Racism Sunday, September 13, 2009

I caught the majority of Vh1's Behind The Music 'Lil Wayne' episode (my limited attention span won't allow me to look up the next airing in hopes of catching the episode in its entirety), and I must say it was actually good viewing. I'm not a huge fan of Lil Wayne, but I've always found Vh1's Behind The Music to do a fairly good job of providing that much needed and oftentimes severely lacking third dimension to some of these artists'ss (RIP ODB). So in that sense, I guess I walked away with a little bit more respect for what it is that Lil Wayne does as a rapper; though Vh1 provided no in-depth analysis on why it is Lil Wayne kisses men on the lips (from this moment on, I need not see anymore studies/surveys that classify us lowly jigs as less tolerant of homosexuality more so than other communities).

Anyway, you have to see Vh1's Behind The Music 'Lil Wayne' episode for yourself to get the full effect, I'm only here to talk about the gist.

At some point during Behind The Music, they delved into Lil Wayne's childhood. I didn't quite catch what exactly it was that happened to his biological father, but Vh1 described Wayne's life as 'finding stability' when his mom married a street hustler.

Let's analyze the coonishness of such niggerdom.

Where in America does having a street hustler for a stepfather equal stability in the home? Could you imagine? My dad sells crack and, aside from the ever present threat of law enforcement kicking in the door without warning and making the entire family lay down on the floor and spreading our butt cheeks while they execute a search warrant, life is stable.

I doubt that if Britney Spears' dad would've converted the family's kitchen into a meth lab and commenced to serving The Smack to the neighboring trailer trash, Vh1's Behind The Music would have hardly referred to it as stable. As a matter of fact, they would have listed it as adversity that she had to overcome.

But see for us black colored African-American negroes (pick one), having a pimp, gangsta, and/or prostitute for a parent is good enough in the eyes of Vh1's Behind The Music. The way they see it, slanging crack rock is much more lucrative than having a wicked jumpshot (because clearly school is for dummies and you uppity negroes).

Actually Vh1 kind of highlighted the larger issue of society painting black people in a singular dimension. I'm sure Wayne's stepdad kept him geared up with the revenue he was making, but that doesn't make it a stable household. I'm sure Wayne oftentimes worried about pop duke's safety in such a growing career field as street hustling. Hardly stable in my opinion. But society seems to think that if black folks got money, then they should have nothing to complain about. Hence, mom duke marrying a street hustler is just the same as you and your big brother Willis being adopted by someone with the last name Drummond (one day I'm going to find the time to break down my thesis on why Diff'rent Strokes is way more racially offensive than Birth of A Nation).

I'm not saying Vh1 meant to be racist, I'm just saying they can go to hell (wit' dey racist asses).

Don't Trust Dem New Niggas Monday, August 17, 2009

So I'm starting over yet again. Recently just moved from the Chi, back to where it all started... the college town where I learned to a. be man, b. smoke weed (without coughing up a lung), c. lie to women, and d. backtrack out of said lies to said women. I've decided to go back into the field of education; and if there's one thing I learned from previously working in the field of education, it's that all resemblances of a social life go out the window.

Ear Hustlin is what I started when I was King of the Red Line and hearing shit that was too good not to share with the group. Now I'm thinking about changing the name of my blog to 'Go to Work, Come Home, Drink the Beer, and Poke Fine Women on Facebook' (don't be so modest babygirl, I do mean you). And a lot of people have asked me why would I ever leave such a wonderful city like Chicago for Smallville. My answer: you ain't live where I lived.

You ain't lived (or died) until you've played Roseland's version of the 'Grand Prize Game'... some folks call it a drive by. Scratch that. This is how you know we living in a recession; cause there's been way more walk bys than drive bys. You really have to have a certain amount of disdain for the next man when you shoot them, and the best exit strategy you can come up with involves escaping back to Big Mama's house on foot. Can you imagine the prep talk someone gives himself before committing a walk by?

'I ain't got no car... but this nigga think he good... nigga think he can whoop me, and I know he can't whoop me... the nigga's whole style is chump!' (bonus points if you can name that movie)

But I mean, gun violence was only a minor determining factor. Freelancing/consulting had dried up for a sec, but even when it was good I still need that stable money because Uncle Sam was getting more and more suspicious of my tax returns (prove that I earned more than a hundred dollars over the last three years).

Also, while some people find teaching (which isn't exactly what I'll be doing) stressful, I like the fact that working in a school means that I don't have a boss who's above getting cursed the hell out (now, runteldat!). I had a disastrous cursing match with this one principal a few years back. I don't remember the details of what led up to it, but I'm sure it revolved around the fact that he was a cracker-ass cracker that hated black kids (but don't quote me on that; it could've been because he was a cracker-ass cracker who just hated my black ass).

So umm yea, I'm going to be throwing chalk at people shorter than me working with the kids for the next year or two I suspect. No disrespect, but... all these other dudes is good artists'ses; but Castro is for the kids!

SNL "Mother Lover" Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg - Sequel to Dick In A Box Thursday, May 14, 2009

Things I'm Tired of Hearing About on the News Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Local news stations across the country are having a hard time figuring out why they aren't making as much money as they used to. Here's a hint: people change the channel on reruns; and the news has a tendency to repeat itself daily. Now this could be just a 'me' thing, because in my quest to stay informed I watch a lot of local and national news (some of you jigs change the channel promptly at 5:30pm central; yes, I did have to be a jerk about it).

Media needs a new business model, period. We entered the age of information a long time ago and news (t.v. and print) aren't keeping up... no longer is it acceptable to bombard us with the same garbage several times a day, several days a week. The media (or as Farrakhan would put it, 'The Jews!') can no longer force us to care about things the decision makers think we should care about. They are losing their business to the internet (or as my dad would say, '... the who, what, which it?') but aren't taking note of what the internet is doing right. Sucks to be them (takes a step off my soapbox).

At any rate, I've made a short list of things that have given me nightmares because I can't escape them. I know way more about these people/things than I ever wanted to (or needed to).

_______________

Drew Peterson

Not sure if you've been keeping up with this one, but Drew Peterson is basically going to be tried for murder based on conjecture and hearsay. Now I only found this information useful because it's messed up to have your freedom jeopardized based on hearsay, and his lawyers are challenging the constitutionality of such a thing; as well they should. The irony, however , is not lost on me; as a former cop, Drew Peterson has probably locked away many people for many years based on hearsay. Negroes have been getting locked up on hearsay since the first slave thought it wise to follow the north star; but as soon as it happens to a white dude, all of a sudden it may be unconstitutional. Regardless, they either need to 'Sadaam Hussein' this dude or let him go; I'm sick of hearing about him. Drew Peterson is the white people's O.J. Simpson; except he merc'd two of his wives and we all know Drew did it.

Swine Flu

This was a major disappointment; here I was re-upping on supplies for my underground bunker (and sharpening my wooden stakes in case the people who die from swine flu, don't always stay dead from swine flu), only to find out swine flu (or as Farrakhan would put it, 'God's punishment for being a Jew!') is really not that serious. I mean 35,000 people die annually worldwide from the regular flu (you probably thought I was going to quote that cliched line about AIDS/unprotected sex that's been floating around people's Facebook statuses; some of them even have the nerve to try and pass it off as an original introspective thought), and we're tripping about less than a thousand people dying from the swine flu. Not to mention, most of the people who have died from it have been children in countries where people still die from Polio. Here's a new rule: don't ever try to break me up with my bacon and egg sandwich for such foolishness ever again.

Rod Blagojevich

G-Rod claims to know something that we don't know that will prove his innocense. Believe it or not, I actually ride with Rod Blagojevich on this one. Do your history Illinoisans (is that what we're called?). Governors of this state always get into trouble when they do too much to help the poor/black/underserved constituents. Ex-Governor Ryan was taken out when he decided executing innocent black men was in fact, not what Jesus would do. As a person who worked for non-profits in the city, I know firsthand that Rod Blagojevich did a lot to see that funding was pumped into minority non-profit organizations, and because of that the white voters downstate (read: the Illinois Chapter of the KKK) sought to ruin him. Ok, so he tried to screw over the Tribune and the Cubs; but it's just the Tribune and the Cubs. They've been screwing over the city for years. So he tried to sell a senate seat; big deal! When the Blue Line is crowded and a fine chick gets on, I use my train seat as a valued bargaining chip. If I was Blago, I would have put the vacant senate seat on eBay, and then hired a mole to drive up the bid.

Twitter

This is only new to you if the whole concept of a web browser is new to you. How dare the local news attempt to bring us news about something they were sleeping on? Then they speak on it as if it's something mystical and to be skeptical of. Not to mention, I've heard it mispronounced several times by people that have only one real job in life; to pronounce shit correctly!

Todd Stroger

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: white people have a certain knack for picking the wrong black people to speak for us (I'm looking at you Jesse 'I want to cut off another nigga's nuts, but can't stand when people use the word nigga' Jackson). Todd Stroger is an idiot, and has that voice of the black person in high school none of the other black students spoke to (or as Farrakhan would put it, 'Coming round here sounding like he been rubbing elbows too much with all them damned Jews!'). But I must admit that Stroger has made some valid points as of late. First the county does indeed need that tax hike to keep things running. I was a little sick about the tax increase at first, but I think of it like this; the state has raised taxes on numerous ocassions and Daley raises taxes every time his Viagra doesn't do the trick. But a beady-eyed black dude raises the tax by one penny for every dollar spent, and all of a sudden it's a problem. I ain't playing the race card yet, but you a damn fool if you don't think it's in my hand; I'm just saying.

How Cool President Obama Is

He's a black dude! Is America just figuring out how cool we are? And by black standards, Obama is only somewhat cool (after all, he is a politician; people ignore that for some reason). The real shock is going to be once America finds out how cool he can not be. Again, the man's a politician. I love and support Obama, but I also recognize that there are black aldermen in this city who will side swipe your grandmama on the Dan Ryan at 80 mph just to keep their aldermanic status; imagine what had to be done to become a black president. (I defend Stroger and Blagojevich, yet make snide remarks about Obama; it surprised me too!)

Miss California

It's a sad state of affairs when bimbos are the go to guys for views on social inequalities. I guess Miss California is slightly more intelligent than that one beauty pageant chick who thought giving away free globes would usher in world peace, but still. I guess it was somewhat newsworthy that topless pictures of Miss California floated around the net recently, but she's a white chick. I can see fully naked white chicks on Bang Bros; thoughtfully categorized based upon my particular fetish. So she doesn't believe gay people should be married, who cares? I'd be willing to bet a dime to a dollar that she also doesn't believe that 'i' comes before 'e', except after 'c'. The points and counterpoints of gay marriage should be left to Hannity and Colmes.

Honorable Mentions: American Idol, Bernie Madoff, going green/these non-existent green jobs they speak of

_

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.

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.

I'm Back Thursday, January 8, 2009

I have a habit of disappearing which, as a New Year's resolution, I've promised family and friends that I would do a lot less of. A lot has changed. Toward the end of last year I finally gathered the required testicular fortitude to leave my old job. It wasn't that hard to do, seeing as how I got paid in pocket lint and the belongings of coworkers left unattended (if it's your watch, why come it's in my pocket?). Word to the pawn shop. With my new found free time, I've gotten into spewing out random thoughts. You've been warned.

What does one do with no job during the holidays? The same thing everyone else does during the holidays, chill the hell out. Since I had nowhere in particular to be for those couple of weeks, bathing had become a completely optional exercise in padding my self worth (yes ladies, I'm quite the catch). Without my job I must admit that I fell way behind on email... I probably won't be getting up on that anytime soon. But let me address a few concerns en masse.

First I would like to thank everyone who sent email/wrote on my Facebook wall/threw small rocks at my bedroom window/etc. to say happy birthday. Things like that start to mean more when you're my age (I turned 25 yet again). Also, to my homies that emailed me about Xbox/PlayStation games of theirs I've had for way too long, have a freakin' heart... what else do you expect me to do while I battle unemployment? To those that have emailed about money I owe them, you may want to talk to my attorney G. Breadman; his office hours are a little shady, so catch him if you can.

I been eating a lot of jelly lately.

A couple of Saturdays ago, I got into a heated cursing match with this homeless blind dude from around the way (the handicap are not exempt from my aggressiveness, because that would be discrimination) who swears up and down that I bumped into him while he was walking down the street. If you are blind and in motion, can you ever really be certain that someone bumped into you and not the other way around? At the end of our exchange this dude took like six or so swings at me; but by that time I had already quietly walked past him.

If more dudes openly admitted to banging fat chicks, Maury would have a lot less of those DNA paternity test shows, thereby and hitherto making the world a better place for you and for me. I would now like to take this opportunity to swear on a stack of bibles that I have never banged a fat chick that I will ever admit to. [INSERT DIVERSION HERE]

Castro in '04 '08 '12 (I know for a fact that I got at least two write-in votes in '04 because I voted twice).

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.

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

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

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

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

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

But instead women choose to follow the cycle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hood Indications of a Recession Thursday, October 9, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast forward approximately one hour.

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

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

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

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

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

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