LYFE PURSUITE

As first I thought the studios and Will Smith had done us dirty by releasing “The Pursuit of Happyness” the week before Christmas. I mean, come on—a film about a homeless man (Chris Gardner) and his son (Christopher Gardner)? “Feel good movie,” is not the term that comes to mind you read the summary or see the trailers. Still, I went anyway…

Damn is this a good flick!

Ever get tired of banging your head against the wall? Ever feel like if you do not step away and make a change, you are going to explode? But at the same time, do you think that if you change courses you will fail miserably? Well Chris Gardner’s story is, in part, about when there is no other alternative but to change courses, even though chances are, that you will fail miserably.

Another part of the movie that almost got lost because of the film's pace is the relationship between a father and his son; more so, the commitment of a man to be a father to his son. It sometimes means having to say no, or break a promise or two. The scene where they run for the bus and Christopher loses his favorite toy ripped my heart out; missing this bus might mean sleeping on the street. As a parent, these are the things that happen; tough choices have to be made, even if it means you lose something in the process.

It is really out of sight that Mr. Smith is doing some different things. Oh, can’t wait for him to do another shoot ‘em up movie. But between “Hitch” and “The Pursuit of Happyness,” he is doing out-freaking-standing work. We can almost forgive him for “The Legend of Bagger Vance” and “Wild, Wild West.” But I digress…

Would love to meet Mr. Gardner. Not just because he is a homelessman-turned-multi-millionaire. But to thank him for sharing his story. His Pursuit of Happyness has given me an infinite amount of encouragement.

Axe.

Currently Listening To: I Almost Let Go by Kurt Carr, Hold On To Your Faith by Detrick Haddon

SURE THING

Freedom of religion means all religions
(seen on a bumper sticker in upper Alabama)

Lost a neighbor back home over the holidays; heart attack. Known this person for over 20 years; surprised but not terribly shocked by the news. Saddened almost beyond words; they will be missed.

A relative, who also knew this neighbor well, and I, discussed the tragedies that seemed to plague this neighbor's life. It is my hope that they find peace, rest and joy in the after life. However, my relative could not help buy note that this person did not regularly attend church and that perhaps that was the cause of the turmoil in their life.

I totally disagree, especially since my neighbor, besides the occasionally gossip, was a person one would dig to have as a friend and they were not putting ill vibes out into the universe. Yes, everyone should have a spiritual walk and give respect to a God or the Higher Power of their choice. But that does not mean your life will be trouble free. Bad things happen to good people--that is a fact.

My neighbor's woes were not caused by her decision not to have a church home, or because she did not "praise Jesus" every time she greeted people. For all we know, behind closed doors, she could have been "praying Heaven down." Her misfortunes, although great in number, were just facts of life. But that's just my opinion...

Axe.

Currently Listening To: God Bless The Child by David Peaston, Just To Get By by Talib Kweli

THE VIAGRA MONOLOUGES





Having a little girl talk with some friends from work last night; we were discussing world peace, the affects of pollution on global warming and when the US might actually pull out of Iraq, and then the subject of sex came up, quite figuratively. The debate in a nutshell (no pun intended), was if Viagra, which is medicine, is a false display of affection and, in theory, a lie. “He is not showing me he loves or cares about me,” Diane argues. “If he can’t get it up by looking at or thinking about me, I don’t want it (an erection, and ultimately, intercourse) to happen because he takes some drug. That is not natural.”

I had never thought of taking medicine as “unnatural.” So, does the same rule apply to cough syrup? Vitamins? Herbs?

Admittedly, I am not the type of person who goes to the doctor like she should. I find seeking medical attention, even routine visits, to be a sign of weakness. Hence, when I am really sick and must take a prescribed remedy, I somehow feel less outstanding and more handicapped. But that is just me…

For a few minutes, the Viagra conversation drifts into the “playing God” zone, but eventually winds up back to the original topic. Are the affections of a man tainted when he makes love to a woman, but he needs help in order to do so? Is it the same as getting the promotion even if someone else did all the work? Or do the ends justify the means—“sexual satisfaction, ‘by any means necessary?’”

HAIR RAISING DISCUSSIONS

Went to get the hair braided yesterday. The usual. Sixteen cornbraids with a little hair added to give my nat’ral some support. This takes about 3 hours. Sometimes longer if the shop is crowded or we’re talking smack. Smack covers a wide variety of topics: politics, music, film (my favorite), race, religion, gender, sex and men (I love when we talk about sex and men).



This shop, in the “unnamed county 30 miles east of Alabama,” is both a barber shop and a beauty salon. Sometimes there are a lot of men in there, sometimes there are a lot of women, too. Yesterday, the place was packed. However, my beautician, “Lisa,” had an opening, so I sort of glided on through. After she washed and trimmed my hair, I began talking with the beautician next to her “Judy.” It started with “How were your holidays?” From there we discussed the movies we have seen lately, family updates, and other community tidbits.

Four braids later, I noticed a stare. Not just any stare; a long gazing look that could not be mistaken for anything else, but someone checking me out. For about 15 minutes, I honestly thought I was being paranoid, especially with my hair all over my head. Then Judy picked up on it, too, and discreetly proceeded to tease me about it. You see, my admirer was without question, old enough to be my father, or perhaps even my grandfather.

Needless to say, this disturbed me. Genereally, I don’t like going to a salon to get my hair done. I feel this is time I could be writing or watching a movie. But I'm forced to admit that in order to keep my “quaff” looking half-way decent, off to the salon I must go. Plus, the beauty parlor has become my muse of sorts; I usually gain some insight and something to write about. When it became apparent that this mature gentleman was digging me, I realized that I had not yet been inspired. Now, with him drooling over me, I was ready to get the hell out of there, but minus the usual inspiration.

I have been hit on by older men before; especially while in the military (there must be some sort of “Sugar Daddy Sergeants,” club). Yet, I have always been able to politely advise that I am not interested and that they should move on. Yesterday, I was in an unusual predicament. Should I get up out of the chair, walk over and say, “Look Pop-pop, I am not interested in your dusty-ass”? Or would picking my nose, snorting at Judy’s jokes and cursing real loud turn him off?

Another beautician, “Carol,” suggested that I should entertain the advances of this well-dressed, obviously interested man. I am not hating on the May-December relationships, because How Stella Got Her Groove Back, is one of my favorite love stories (although I am sure that currently Terri rues the day she wrote that story). Still, unlike "R (Kelly)," older-younger deals are just NOT my thing. Some would argue that a woman in my position (Black, educated, with children) cannot not afford to be choosy.

About 2 years ago, I finally made the transistion from “earning a living,” to doing what I love. It took 18 years. Now I am on a financial journey. Don’t know how long it will take to accomplish my goals. Some friends who are also on the same mission and I recently discussed that having a significant other with bank could certainly help… Still, I am simultaneously on a journey to make my heart and soul happy. After a marathon of bad relationships, I have decided not to date outside of my race, and that ex-cons are just not my speed. I have friends who have told me that being so selective means I may never find anyone. And while I am sure that my decision yesterday to stay firmly within a 6 year radius (older and younger) of my age, adds even more serious limitations, I am willing to do that.

A friend recently, exasperatedly aksed, "Well, what kind of man, exactly, are you looking for?" I am sure if I could tell her, she would not have been able to pull what I desired out of her back pocket. Nevertheless, I feel silly that I could not really describe "him." However, if he were were still alive, my age and not already married, Malcolm X would embody my ideal mate. One of his quotes even suits this blog entry: A (wo)man who stands for nothing will fall for anything (anybody)."

Axe.

Currently Listening To: The Soundtrack from School Daze (favorite tracks: "Good or Bad Hair," "I Can Only Be Me")

NO ICE SKATES NECESSARY

Found myself in an awkward, emotionally painful and uncomfortable position this week; the need to speak with my best friend arose, but alas, they are unavailable...to me. Last weekend, about 4 days prior to my need, I made a severe error in judgment and made said friend of almost 7 years, angry. Not something I intended to do, but it occurred nonetheless. The deed is done.

Of course, I thought about this friend on the 3-hour drive back from visiting them. Ironically, the radio show I was listening to while driving dealt with forgiveness, or more specifically, why people choose not to forgive for so long. I listened intently, trying to stay focused as traffic grew thick in certain areas. I was convinced that my transgression would be forgotten before night fall. This friend always made sure that I arrived home safely and would be calling, or at the very least sending a text asking if I had in fact made it in okay. Yes, I assured myself, they wouldn’t be able to sleep until they knew I was safe. Besides, I had already apologized—and I meant it, too, so there was nothing else left.

Or was there?

The sun set and rose again. Then it set and rose again. It has repeated these actions several times over and I still had not heard a word, nor a syllable from my friend—or I guess I should say ex-friend now…?

What I had forgotten is that when people hurt, whether it is physically, mentally, spiritually, or emotionally, they need time to heal. Sometimes, unfortunately, they may never heal. I hope this is not the case with my friend, whom I took major advantage of in a fit of neglectfulness cause purely by selfishness. What I did, exactly, is not important. But the fact that I was looking out for number one without considering anyone else’s feelings is cold-blooded and cold-hearted. While I deserve to be called a number of things, I would not want to thought of as an unfeeling, mean bitch…well, the latter is okay if used in the right context.

Never say never, but, hurting someone and letting them down is the worse feeling in the world and I hope to never feel this way again. This person became my friend with the expectation that I would always treat them with respect and not act an ass. Of course, people do not come out and ask, “Are you going to screw me over? Cause if so, we cannot be friends…”

I pray that someday I will get a second chance to be a true friend again to this person. However, at the moment, they probably wouldn’t consider my friendship, even, “if hell freezes over.”

Oh yeah, the point: if you have friends, cherish them. And let them know how much they mean to you.

It takes a lifetime to find and keep good friends, but only takes a second to destroy a friendship.

Axe.

Currently Listening To: Giving Up by Donny Hathaway

LEAVING ATLANTA...












...and spent a little time reflecting. It ain't been half bad. And I may even return; then again, I may not. Regardless, there have been lessons learned here.

LOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING
If you drive past Edgewood Ave., near Grady Hospital and across from the Auburn Market, there doesn't appear to be much except a bunch of hole in the wall buildings. Closer examination and you'll see the Harlem Bar, a retro joint that has it going on. Slamming food (I suggest the Blackened Catfish with Shrimp), bumping music and throwback movies on the wall (The Wiz, Let's Do It Again, Coffy). On a Saturday or Friday night getting a table is impossible, but worth the wait.

SAY IT LOUD
Always been an expressive person and I have lived in a couple of different places in the South. But in Atlanta, people really say what's on their mind. Sure, there is a helping of Southern politeness in the delivery, but if folk have issue with you, they are going to let you know. And they don't stutter, either.

LOOK OUT FOR NUMBER ONE
While it bothered me that more often than not that while walking through the streets of the A-T-L, I would be hassled by homeless people, I never wished them ill-will. So it was quite heartbreaking for me the day that the Atlanta City Council voted to ban panhandling in the city limits. Stuff happens, and there but for the Grace of God goes anyone: becoming homeless could happen to ANYBODY. The City Council's decision was definitely a dark day for those of us with a conscious and even darker for those without a place to lay their head that night.

THE LIBRARY IS YOUR FRIEND
Although I resided outside the city the limits, I learned about two years after moving to Georgia that an Atlanta Fulton County Public Library card had the potential to be the passport to adventures beyond my wildest dreams...well, not quite, but it was pretty close during those weekends with inclimate weather and EVERYTHING was closed.

BE YOURSELF
And no one will ever be able to dislike you for it...maybe; depends on what kind of person you are. Still, one of the greatest examples of "doing the damn thing regardless," and never putting on airs has got to be Mayor Shirley Franklin. After Bill Campbell left office in shame, and more importantly, with the city $71 million in debt, one would have thought that Her Honor would not only be able to turn things around; but Mayor Franklin has become one of the most revered, popular people in her position. In April 2005, Time Magazine named her one of the Five Best Big-City Mayors in America. Had the pleasure of meeting the Mayor on a couple of different functions and even saw her decked out in jeans and a baseball cap at one of the local movie houses. She is "real cool peoples" and if I could ever accomplish a third of what she has done, I would be most pleased.

KEEP THE FAITH
Yeah, things are bad all over: war, crime, poverty, illness...the list goes on. But I never met a true Atlantan, who dislikes being from Atlanta. Despite the tons of Nu Yawkers and other Nawtheners moving in everyday, the crazy traffic, some serious historical hiccups and such (the flag fiasco, Atlanta Child Murders, Centennial Park bombing, Runaway Bride, Super Bowl murders, floods, nasty unseasonable ice storms), people who love Atlanta are proud and never waiver. No matter how much crappy stuff happens, true Atlantans believe in their city and that is it a great place to live.



I do not debate that Atlanta's a nice place to chill. However, I am very sure I cannot live here at this point in my life...maybe later. Still, I am taking that sense of unconditional loyalty and pride with me (no, I am not stealing; just borrowing). Wherever I land, I hope the Atlantan faith in who I am and where I come from--Bed-Sty, Do or Die, by way of Greensoboro, NC, home of North Carolina A & T State University (a.k.a., Aggieland), stays with me.


Axe.


Currently Listening To: Fly Like A Bird by Mariah Carey, Cristo Redentor by David Sanborn

JUST (DON’T) DO IT

Was reading an comment online for a co-worker’s recent column on Democrats. In a nutshell, the column details that the Democrats ain’t got it and probably will never have it again. In case you are wondering what “it” is, check out the article because I do not want to give poor summarization of my colleague’s writings: Hello, any Democrats out there? However, the comments regarding the column gave me serious cause to pause. The commentator states that they do not like any of the candidates for the Georgia Gubernatorial race. So, they will put the late Coretta Scott King as a write-in. Hmm…

“What an idiot,” I thought, laughing. Yet, I, too, have to admit that I am not at all happy with any of the candidates. Proudly, Unaffiliated, I am (since 1995). Also, very unsure of who to vote for this time around. There has been a minimal amount of mud-slinging and some serious backtracking on previous “firm beliefs.” And although every voter will never truly be 100% pleased with whom they pick on Election Day, I am still hurt by the results of the last major election in November 2004.

I was literally sick for at least two days afterwards. It was like my heart had been broken by an infinite amount of betrayal or deceit, and consequently caused immeasurable pain that I could feel, but could not see or actually touch. This hurt was not caused by love for anybody or anything. My hopes and dreams had been placed in a system—democracy—and I was more disappointed than I had ever been in my life. It was worse than finding out that there is no Santa Claus. I was not the only one, either; as I talked to fellow voters, there were others who expressed that they, too, felt cheated, or a lack of validation and as if they vote did not count.

As I pondered over my emotional and spiritual ill state of being in November 2004, the thought of writing in Mrs. King’s name in the spot next to Governor became ever so tempting. Tempting; interesting word. It is another word for attractive, or alluring. Fascinating; exciting. Not boring.

But after more time to reflect, and watching a few African-American icons on television this weekend, a word comes to mind that stops me cold: responsible. My ancestors paid for my right to vote with their blood, sweat, and some even their lives. I now have, “it.” And the “it” here simply means the right to vote. Although America’s leaders are shady and downright scandalous, that does not excuse me from doing the right thing. I must act responsibly with my vote, even if afterwards, I feel it did not count. Maybe one day I will feel that it did. Until then, I must exercise my right, but not do so recklessly or carelessly. I will treat my vote as if it were a piece of inheritance that I will hand down to my children, and that they will give to their children and so on. Axe (*pronounced Ah-shay).

COCK-A-DOODLE DOO?

At this point, I, along with a lot of other sane people, have grown tired of the whole Star Jones-Reynolds v. ABC & Barbara Walters thing. Still, the situation gives me cause to pause.

Let's re-view. Star, super accomplished attorney, joined daytime talk show, The View, in 1996. Had heard a thing or two about her; wasn't crazy about her opinions on O.J., Mike Tyson, or the fact that she successfully had a 13-year-old convicted of murder as an adult. The show is the brain-child of news guru and celebrity in her own right, Barbara Walters. Star was the only African-American co-host and a bit overweight at the time. Nevertheless, she was articulate, did an outstanding job, and always for the most part remained true to her people.

As her career blossomed (guest roles on television and gracing red carpets across the nation), Star began to gain more weight. Soon, she was obese. People poked fun at her (comedian and radio co-host J. Anthony Brown was the leader of the pack); she was having health issues. Star decided to do something about it. What that something was, she will not tell.

Simultaneous with her serious weight loss, the 40-something North Carolina native found love with Al Reynolds, an investment banker; Star was ecstatic. And who could blame her for being so damn happy? The stats for black women finding available black men, especially ones of her status—money, education, job, are extremely bleak. Hell, even Halle Berry has a hard time keeping a man, having married and divorced twice.

As Star continued to peel off the pounds, the love between she and Al blow-up-chu-waited; a deaf person could hear the potential nuptial bells ringing. During half-time at the 2004 NBA All-Star game, Sir Reynolds pops the question in front of millions of people. A November date was quickly set and the preparation began. It was a wedding fit for a queen; and that is what some folks were calling her: a queen bitch. Bridezilla. She was getting freebies, endorsements, “corporate sponsors,” etc., by the truckload and loving it. She blew the off the complaints about “using what she had, to get what she wanted,” and continued to brag about her fairy tale wedding.

Fast forward to June 27, 2006. Star announces that she is leaving the show in mid-July because she is about to be fired. Barbara Walters is unmistakably pissed. The next day, The View airs with Star visibly missing from the opening credits and she does not enter, stage left, with the other co-hosts. Walters stated that Star blindsided her and the other hosts the day before. Stupposedly, the plan, accorinding to Walters, was for Star to find another another job, and then announce her depature so that Star could "leave with dignity.” Translation: so we (ABC) would not look like the bad guys; oops, too late. Walters ended with, “Regrettably, Star will no longer be on this program.”

According to Walters and ABC, research showed that people were turned off by Star’s glitzy wedding. What people? Did they ask me? Or my cousin Maurice and them? Let’s be real, it was white people who were upset that this sister was living the life that some of them will never be able to afford.

Valuable lessons for folks here:
1. Never, ever, ever brag about what you have. Ever. If Star had kept her mouth shut, there would have been nothing to “turn people off.”

2. Never quit. If fired, you can collect unemployment. Besides, there is no shame in being fired. At an NABJ Short Course once, one of the media professionals advised that if you are good at what you do, you can still be fired. That is no reflection on you personally, or your abilities; just poor judgment on the part of your employer.

3. Keep your private life private. It does not matter how much other folk share; what goes on in your house stays in your house (with the exception of a few close relatives).

4. ABC giving Star the boot proves that black folk have got to get it together and keep their own shop (BET does not count; their programming is ghetto and ignorant. Plus they did Tavis the same way).

Question regarding the Bottom Line: Can Mrs. Jones-Reynolds' termination be likened to a case of “chickens coming home to roost”?

Still, I wish her the best and have no doubt she will land on her feet.

Axe.

Currently Listening To: David Sandborn, TimeAgain
Mood: Pleasantly Pleased

TALE OF TWO STATES

Often heard it said that there are two Georgias: Atlanta and the rest of Georgia. Never really gave this much credence. Still the recent political climate and the fact that I am surrounded by political talk on a daily basis gave me cause to pause, figuratively, not literally, during a trip from Atlanta to Savannah.

On the three hour drive down Interstate 16, I noticed how bleak and desolate some places looked. There were a few places that looked as if there had once been corn or wheat fields, but they were now barren; pretty much they looked abandoned. It was creepy.

Once in Savannah, there were quite a few campaign posters and billboards. Darryl Hicks, black, and Hecht, white, were well represented in the poorer neighborhoods, near the beach and along Liberty St. Where were the signs for the others? Are these two candidates the only ones who care about the working class people struggling "to make a dollar out of fifteen cents?" One might say that I was in looking in all the wrong places; hell, I was in vacation, I wasn’t really looking anyway.

I continued to look for signs of proof that Georgia is "one state 'under a groove' and walked around downtown Savannah for a while, almost four hours. The small shops, cafes and boutiques were quite appealing; I kept thinking I would love to live there.

Still, I did not see what is so common in Atlanta: white-collar Blacks. Almost every brown person I came in contact with had on a uniform of some sort. No suit & tie, or neat Donna Karen outfit. Mostly all were domesticates or in some type of civil service position that is clearly non-management or requires physical labor.

I cannot confirm or deny if there are “two Georgias.” However, I do know what I saw. And it was very separate and not equal.

NOW WHAT WE GONE DO, IS GO WAY BACK...

In no particular order, here is my list for the must-have LPs of all time. If you have these, you are at least 32, actually wore Chuck Taylors and remember when kids could play outside without a trouble in the world "until the street lights came on."

The 25 Essential Old-Head Albums List

1. Tenderlover by Babyface
In my mind, this is the ultimate party album. Dance, grind, cool down, cuddle—it’s got it all. Added to that, almost every cut was a (certified) hit; even inspired me to write a screenplay. Babyface’s sophomore solo project after leaving the Deele, there is everything on here. Sir Face even had the nerve to put new meaning and new life into the phrase, “Whip Appeal,” particularly as it pertains to a woman’s affect on a man. And the lyrics of the other cuts like “Sunshine,” have in the dictionary under the definition “smooth (“…maybe we should settle down and raise a family, a girl for you and maybe a boy for me”).” Was Babyface laying rap or what? I even had to let my teen-age son know that the words to “My Kind of Girl” might come in handy some day.

2. Head Hunters by Herbie Hancock
No Grammys for this one, but it is a party pleaser for shore. “Chameleon,” recognizable almost within the first four notes, is the longest R & B, jazz hit to date. And while the creepy album cover (the Herb-ster at the piano with a weird mask that looked like a radio over his face) gave me a nightmare or two, it was still one of the most played LPs in our house.

3. Rapture by Anita Baker
Although her sophomore project, there was no real pressure for Ms. Baker on this one. First, she belonged to the group Chapter 8. One hit, the group folded and Anita went solo, with Songstress. A few cuts from the album did well especially “Angel”; the momentum died and Anita couldn’t get a hit even if she was Reggie Jackson in October. Legend has it that no one would sign her; record execs advised, “go back to your day job.” She returned to being a secretary...for a little while. Somehow, she got back in the studio. When “Sweet Love” hit the airwaves, it was a breath of fresh air; I remember hearing it on WBLS in NYC...in stereo. Within a few short months, I’m sure Anita crossed her arms, jerked her neck, sucked her teeth and said, “Damn a day job.”

4. Funky Divas by EnVogue
What a title…what a project! It is what makes it so hard to believe that this group is gone and never coming back. Listening to Terry, Cindy, Maxine and Dawn get ready backstage (singing the "bumblebee warm-up," no less) and the in-studio girl chat at the beginning of “Give It Up, Turn It Loose,” is priceless. But the hook for me was their rendition of the Beatles “Yesterday.” When Donnie Simpson described this particular cut during an interview with the group on Video Soul (back in the day, baby), I had no money. By the end of the week, I had scrapped together enough funds to purchase the cassette; still have it and cannot bear to part with it.

5. Promise by Sade
Dance, marathon lovemaking, or kicking back with a bottle of wine–Sade proves versatile. Whatever your mood, whatever you want... she has your back.

6. Who? by Tony, Toni, Tone!
What? When? Where? In the late 80's, these Oaktown cats were laying down the sounds on an ultimate party album...west coast style. With churchy rhythms and preachy lyrics to match (“something’s gonna get you little Walter,” “money, have my own, drugs, don’t indulge, sex, have the right person...”), the message in the music will live on forever. The love songs on this project, while not well-received, would serve as preludes to ballads on future TTT albums.

7. Purple Rain Soundtrack by Prince & The Revolution
The autobiographical film about the purple genius was hot and this soundtrack even hotter. From the title track to “Let’s Go Crazy,” “Take Me With U,” “Darlin’ Nikki,” “When Doves Cry” and “I Would Die 4 U,” his royal badness gave it all he had and then some.

8. Life, Love and Pain by Club Nouveau
Initially, this album’s single “Jealousy” gave the off the “one-hit-wonder” vibe. Then “Lean On Me,” a remake of Bill Withers’ 1972 classic dropped. This certified jam required a double-take at this project, produced by Denny Foster and Thomas McElroy (the Denny and Tommy who would mold and present EnVogue four years later). The bad thing, though, is that "LOM" was played to death; I was absolutely sick of it a year later when my fellow recruits in basic training adopted this song as our unofficial theme. Other cuts got some play (“Situation #9,” “Why You Treat Me So Bad”). Still, the group would have just more hit—“Frances,” off their next album and then disappear.

9. Take 6 by Take 6
Even Aretha never made “Mary Don’t You Weep,” sound like this. These a cappella brothers put the get-down back in Gospel. Sadly, with member changes and too much commercialism, they could never capture the same spirit that they did on their debut. A few hits on a couple of soundtracks and collaborative pieces is the best we have heard from them to date.

10. The Best of Earth, Wind & Fire, Volume 1 by Earth, Wind & Fire
It is hard to pick just one album by “the Elements.” They are all so dang good. But, but…this one has all of the hits on it, plus “Reasons.” ‘Nuff said.

11. Simple Pleasures by Bobby McFerrin
From the moment I heard and saw the video for “Don’t Worry Be Happy,” I pegged Sir McFerrin as another cheese-eating Negro who had “crossed over” with this pacifying, subservient song. Yet at the time of Mr. McFerrin’s popularity, circa when he did the theme for The Cosby Show, I was dating a brother who was a bit more open-minded. My beloved challenged me to listen to the entire album. Sha-zam! Still can’t stand “DWBH,” but the rest of the cuts, mainly remakes, are pure works of art. I play SP on long road trips and pray that I do not get a ticket as I get caught up.

12. Stevie Wonder’s Original Musiqarium I by Stevie Wonder
The title is Stevie-ism for “this is my ‘Best of, Part 1.'”

13. The Great Adventures of Slick Rick by Slick Rick
Though very little of this album can be played on the air, “Hey Young World,” and “Children’s Story” are favorites among young and old heads. The latter, I might add, written back in’88, has lyrics which bear an eerily close resemblance to Atlanta courthouse shooter Brian Nicholas’ actions some 16 years later (Slick Rick...a prophet?).

14. Hot, Cool and Viscous by Salt ‘n Pepa
They are truly the First Ladies of Rap. Yeah, Ladies Love James…but Salt 'n Pepa made rap super-dooper sexy. And they did it with tight spandex, fly hair-dos, modest make-up, some major gyrating-slash-booty-shaking, catchy rhymes and skill. Stress on the latter because unlike some other lady rappers, they would not have gotten far without it.

15. The Real Chukee-boo by Loose Ends
Tell me something...why is it so cold on the airwaves nowadays? No Loose Ends! This group burned up the charts so bad they just had to go away. Intimately poetic, preachy, passionate and oh so powerful lyrics over electronic earthy beats made you feel that they were talking to you and group of close friends (“there’s no gratitude...even the birds in the sky, must touch the ground. And what goes up must surely come down.”)

16. Introducing the Hard Line According to Terence Trent D'Arby by Terence Trent D’Arby
This album makes the list for two reasons. First, I truly love it. Second, I got dogged by folks about listing Mr. D’Arby as a one hit wonder. Well, this album was indeed his only hit LP to date…so? Nevertheless, he laid it down on "If You Let Me Stay," “Dance Little Sister,” “Who’s Lovin’ You (remake of the Jackson 5 classic),” “Wishing Well,” and of course, "Sign Your Name." He tossed around his unmistakable soul pitch, totally in sync with his braids and fly dance moves. Alas, however, Mr. D’arby’s alleged trash talking about Prince and arrogant tendencies may have jinxed him.

17. Graceland by Paul Simon
Despite the over-the-top video with Chevy Chase, and teaming up with Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Paul Simon’s heart of gold shines through on this piece of work. He is both transparent and artistic. It is difficult to enjoy without almost catching the Holy Ghost.

18. Back on the Block by Quincy Jones
Have to be brutally honest, not a huge fan of Sir Q because he never actually sings on his albums. Still, one absolutely, positively has to give him props because he produces magic with almost everyone he works with. This project had some of ‘erbody on it. More importantly, it was, I believe, Mr. Jones’ first foray into hip-hop. Added to that, it introduced Tevin Campbell plus gave us the “unofficial” theme for African-American weddings (“Septembro”). And there are plenty of kids 16 and under who have “Secret Garden” to thank for their existence.

19. Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack by the Bee Gees and Various Artists
The Bee Gees lyrics, John Travolta’s moves, the time (mid-70's), the place (Brooklyn)...forget about it!

20. The Wiz Soundtrack by Various Artists
Though the movie was a box office flop, the music is classic and has never been duplicated, sampled or anything of the like (...yet; keep your fingers crossed that some snot-nosed “rapper” does not come along and ruin a good thing). Michael Jackson sings “You Can’t Win” as if he really has the Man’s foot on his neck (hey, maybe that man was Joe Jackson). Then of course, there is Nipsey Russell’s ambiguous, “Slide Some Oil To Me,” and the mostly instrumental theme at the Emerald City medley (“You’ve Got To Be Seen In Green, You’ve Got To Be Seen In Red, Gold”). Yes, Diana Ross was way too old to play Dorothy, but she rocks on “Can’t You Feel A Brand New Day/Everyone Rejoice (written by Luthor Vandross)" and “Ease On Down The Road.”

21. Don’t Be Cruel by Bobby Brown
Another sophomore project that knocked everyone out of their socks. Produced by Teddy Riley and Babyface Edmonds, Bobby came strong with the club crowd pleasers (title track, "My Prerogative," "Ev’ry Little Step") and the ballads ("Roni," "Rock Wit Cha'"). He even created the “Bobby Brown” push-up; for those who don’t know, try to catch the video…

22. Family Reunion by The O’Jays
Before LA Reid & Babyface, Denny & Terry, or Jimmy and (the other) Terry, there were producers Gamble & Huff. Though they are now both deceased, they live on via songs they created for the O’Jays. This project has a little something for everybody. Family song (“Reunion”), get ready for the party (“Livin’ For the Weekend”), party (“I Love Music”) and “you sure are looking fine…(“Stairway To Heaven”).” As Bernie Mac says on his show, “Let’s move on.”

23. Rhythm Nation by Janet Jackson
No doubt in anybody’s mind that Morris Day kicking Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam out of The Time was the best thing that happened to the dynamic duo. How else would they have been able to “be there” to “Control” Ms. Jackson and then for this follow-up smash? But besides the funky dance cuts (title track, “Escapade,” “All Right”) and love songs that are borderline stalker themes (“Miss You Much,” “Love Will Never Do” and “Come Back To Me”), Ms. Jackson expressed true concern for the youth. Although not a hit, “Livin’ In A World (They Did Not Make),” spoke directly to the tragedy lower-income and children of color had been witnessing long before mainstream media deemed it newsworthy: shootings. At the time of this album’s release, Janet was partnered with then Joint Chiefs of Staff Colin Powell encouraging literacy among young people. My firm believe is that if she would have earnestly continued this campaign, no one would have given a damn about her exposing herself on national television; hell, it probably would not have even happened.

24. On The Radio (Greatest Hits Volume 1 & 2) by Donna Summer
Toot-toot, hey, beep-beep! Say what? Donna does the damn thing and more. "Love To Love You Baby," "Dim All The Lights," "I Feel Love"…Keisha Coles, Lil’ Kim, Mariah and them need to take notes on how to get a man in the mood.

25. Claudine Soundtrack by Gladys Knight and the Pips (produced by Curtis Mayfield)
Here is another album with cuts to fit any mood. Feeling blue? “To Be Invisible.” Got a man who is loving you right and you just cannot get enough of his ass? “On and On.” Feeling bound by the ‘man’? “Mr. Welfare.” Think your man is cheating? “Hold On.” Or, how about if you are just happy for no dang reason? “Make Yours A Happy Home,” and “Claudine’s Theme.”

Honorable Mention
Faith by George Michael
“...sex is natural, sex is fun. Not everybody does it, but everybody should.” This is what my impressionable teen-age mind heard blaring through radios and saw on television screens back in ‘88 thanks to Mr. Severely-Perverted-though-we-didn’t-know-how-bad-at-the-time Michael. Still, hits from this one makes it a must have.

Too Hot To Handle by Heatwave
The lyrics to the modern day slow jams ain’t squat compared to this group’s words of adornment. Even New Edition’s “Can You Stand The Rain,” cannot truly compete with “Always And Forever.”

Guy by Guy
Jam...oh, jam. And jam for us, Teddy did. That is all we wanted to do. Have block parties, go to clubs, sit on the steps outside the house, plug in our walkmans, turn on our MTV and JAM. If hip-hop were a religion, these guys would be the founders, ushers, deacon board and ministers of music.

C’est Chic by Chic
There are quite a few songs that say, “disco,” or “club scene in the late ‘70s.” Some may actually put you in the time and place. “Le Freak” suits you up in the clothes and styles your hair from the second you hear, “Awww, freak out!”

Colonel Abrams by Colonel Abrams
Folks outside of NYC may not know this cat. He is a classic one-hit-wonder...but with style and house-ism finesse. Born in Detroit, but raised in New York City, the Colonel (reportedly his name from birth), had ‘em jumping on the dance floor with “Trapped.” While the rest of the project did not make it to the charts, many a block party DJ rocked “Not Gonna Let,” and a few other cuts to nastify their scratches.

Still Bill by Bill Withers
The voice, the lyrics, the simple yet solid beats. Young heads must take note and give respect to the message in the music that has classic cut-to-the-chase, get-to-the-point lines such as, “who is he and what is he to you?

Heresay by Alexander O’Neal
If you look up the term “southern-style funk” in the dictionary of R & B, there is a picture of Alexander O’Neal. Mississippi-born and probably cornbread fed, “Fake,” “Sunshine,” and “Never Knew Love Like This,” proved that talent is not just restricted to L.A., Georgia, New York, Detroit or Chi-town.

Candy Girl by New Edition
This album only scratches the surface of what these cats could do. Their debut, this album is innocent, hopeful and still a good listen.

Affair by Cherelle
Produced by Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam, sister girl threw down on this album for no damn reason.

Paid In Full by Eric B. & Rakim
Block party, club, block party, backyard barbecues, block party, gym jams, block party. Consider the style of these cats to be first cousins to EPMD and Public Enemy, but the lyrics are strictly about being cool.

Pronounced Jah-Nay by Zhane
No comments...just a question. Where in the ham sandwich are these two sisters?

MORE OR LESS...

Was talking with a co-worker the other day and the subject of street names came up. We specifically discussed roads that have been renamed in honor of civil rights leaders. My associate became intrigued when while during our conversation on another subject, I referenced a street named for a 1960's general for justice, but only called the thoroughfare by the honoree's last name. Now, I must mention here that this co-worker is of the caucasian persuassion and grew up in the North.

They seemed shocked that I simply said, "Lowery," and not "Rev. Joseph L. Lowery Boulevard." Most people, especially Blacks, tend to say the entire name as it is so named. Never really thought of my shortcuts as sacrilige, or anything of the like. Still, I wonder how other folks feel. It is wrong to simply say, "MLK," "Abernathy," "Parks," or "X"? Does it in any way take away from the meaning or momentum behind the renaming, recognition of their sacrifice, and dedication of the street in their honor? Is it disrepectful?

FINALLY

(Spoilers. If you are an E.R. fan, missed a few of the last episodes from Season 12 and plan to watch them at a later date, you may not want to read the following).

Avid fan of E.R. Been watching since mid-way through its first season. A few years ago, the shows producers decided to change the scenery from Chicago to Africa. Not the beautiful coasts that we dream of, along with other utopic like images that playfully and forever occupy our minds. No, first one doctor, Luka Kovac, who is Croatian and used to war in his own homeland, went to war-torn Africa in an attempt to heal some personal pain. Soon, another doctor, John Carter, also having some "issues," followed. He, too, is white. As I watched the plot lines unfold from week to week and, eventually, from season to season, I thought, "Damn, are they only letting white folk into Africa?"

Then, four episodes before the Season 12 finale, it happens: a Brother from the "fictional" hospital set in Chicago's inner city would go to Darfur. Ironically, he is sent by the person who began the whole thing: Kovac. Luka wanted to return (to Africa) himself, but with a baby on the way, his girl told him, "Hell, no. You ain't going no where." But somebody had to go. Carter, who worked at County General for several years, was now in Africa semi-permanently and needed help.

Enter Dr. Gregory Pratt, played by Mekhi Pheifer. Pheifer plays Pratt like he has known him all his life. The character's mantra has always been about "doing the right thing," especially when it comes to blacks. This was not something that one of the other main black characters, Dr. Peter Benton (Eric LaSalle), was allowed to do so much. Benton was written as a cold, unfeeling, anti-affirmative action, and typically afraid of commitment type of man. Probably even a Republican. In the beginning, Pratt was an arrogant, cocky hothead hell-bent on looking out for Number 1. But somehow, he has always seemed more compassionate than Benton.

While trying to "right the wrongs" of this world, Pratt made a serious error in judgement. In an honest attempt to keep a kid out of foster care, he rigged the blood test of an alcoholic father, named Darnell. Darnell's very impressionable teenage son volunteers at the hospital and has stayed out of trouble since he got the gig. Pratt figured that the Darnell going to jail would mess things up.

But Darnell continues to drive drunk, almost killing someone. When Pratt realizes what Darnell has done, he makes D turn himself in. Still, Pratt was at fault from jump, and has to admit his mistake to Kovac, who is chief of the emergency room. Of course, there is an unofficial suspension. But Pratt still needs to learn the difference between doing the right thing and being responsible. So when Carter asks for Kovac's help in Darfur, Kovac remembers Pratt; Pratt always wants to do what is right. Going to Darfur is right.

On the plane to Africa, Pratt brags to an African native (Erika Alexander) that having worked in Chicago's County General and being Black, this trip will be a piece of cake. Alexander's character very quietly and sharply breaks things down for Dr. Pratt; the countless murders, serious injuries and rapes. The sickness, hunger, and disease.

Towards the end of her description of what he was about to face, the audio moves to a voice-over and we meet up with Greg as he is about to be challenged at customs, by two of Africa's finest. (Note: Great direction by Skipp Sudduth. He "put his foot in it" with regards to moving from scene-to-scene and handling the action within those scenes). Pratt did not speak the language--at all. However, the brothers in customs immediately let him know, "Punk, you cannot pass through here without our approval." Pratt tries to go toe-to-toe with these cats regarding the contents of his luggage. Of particular concern to them is Pratt's seemingly harmless trashy novel they deem "questionable contraband."

The more Pratt argues, the harder time they give him. The scene reminded me of African-Americans who intentionally step on one another. There are those who have "arrived" and claim not to "hear" the side of those who are struggling to get ahead. Then there are those who could benefit from the tough love that Dr. Cosby has been dishing out recently, but are too arrogant to think that "it's them." Either way, it is the same sort of animonsity seen here; senseless and unexplainable. While watching this, the words of author Zora Neale Hurston came to mind, "Everyone who is my skin folk, ain't necessarily my kin folk."

Debbie, Pratt's escort from the representative from the IDP (Internally Displaced Persons), or refugee camp, realizes that he is probably being detained. Cut to the two of them finally leaving customs and Pratt snaps, "You know it would have helped to have someone who speaks English meet me." Her remark (cannot remember what it was at this juncture), simply tells Pratt, "You ain't in Chicago anymore. This here, is Africa."

The ride to the camp proves quite adventurous. Pratt becomes irrated by the native African driver's selection of music: Sonny and Cher's "I Got You Babe." Next Mr. Arrogant wants to know why there has been no investment in roads. But he would soon come to appreciate the bumpy ride. As they continue, they suddenly, literally, out of nowhere, have company: Janjaweed. These cats are the Bloods, Crips, Klan, and Neo Nazis rolled up into one on crack. Pratt has been the victim of road rage before (Final episode, Season 10). But these guys were on horses and this was not Chicago. There was, to quote the title of this episode, "no where to hide." No side street to turn off onto or building to run inside of; just miles and miles of desert. No bystanders to call the police.

The driver is ordered to stop the vehicle. The Janjaweed assume Pratt is African and try to communicate with him. Once they realize he is "American," they decide to go off on this "cotton-picker" and his friends. They begin to beat the driver; Pratt tries to help and they knock him around a bit, too. In the end, the Janjaweed trash the vehicle, making it inoperable, and take Pratt's shoes. Ironic that Pratt, an African descendant, returns to his Motherland and within a few short hours is challenged by low-level authority figures, gets jacked for his shoes and must now walk barefoot on the road he just moments before criticized. Damn.

When they finally arrive to the camp, the camera zooms up behind Pratt, whose feet by now are severely blistered and perhaps bleeding. As he looks across the valley at the rows and rows of tents, filled with people, he is shocked. Pratt grew up in Chicago and can handle his own in the hood, but this ain't Cabrini Greene. I could almost hear a remixed version of Jermaine Dupree's song "Welcome to Atlanta," in the background. We'll call this one, "Welcome to Darfur..."

But Pratt's day is not over. He gets a lesson on culture when he attempts to give medical attention to a woman who has been raped. Not allowed. He is confused as to why a nurse is helping the victim, who is in major pain and distress, when it is obvious that a doctor is more qualified. He gets a "that's just the way it is" answer from Carter.

Then there is a commotion outside. Abruptly, Gregg is in the midst of a crowd that is beating to death a member of the Janjaweed captured by the men of the camp. But the good Dr. Pratt does not bother to come to this dude's aid. Not because the mob's victim could have been one of the men on the road who robbed and beat him. And not because he didn't want to get involved. But because Greg knows (without anyone telling him) that if he intervenes, the men, some of them just boys, would probably kill him, too. Watching in horror (along with Carter, who has probably seen this sort of thing before, but nonetheless sickened by it), Pratt accepts that "this is just the way it is," in Darfur. The scene ends with a young boy raising a huge rock and violently dropping it on the African gangster's head.

Over two episodes, through different eyes--African-American eyes, viewers saw the realities of what is going down in the Sudan. I cannot say that I am ready to pack my bags and head over there myself. But it was validation that, yes, blacks do in fact give a damn about the murders, rapes, underhanded bullshit and plain idoicy occurring in Darfur. Still, we have some of the same going on right where we are. There is still black on black crime; we still sell drugs to one another. But it doesn't mean we don't know or that we don't care. The same goes for Darfur. We know. We care.

One-Hit Wonders Worth Remembering


In no particular order, here are some cuts that are guaranteed to make any old head sway from side-to-side.

PSA: You must be 30 or over to enjoy this ride down memory lane.

1. Ghetto Heaven by the Family Stand
2. Cherchez la Femme/Se Si Bon by Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band
3. Just Got Paid (Friday Night) by Johnny Kemp
4. Wishing Well by Terence Trent D’Arby
5. Respect by Adeva
6. Native New Yorker by Odyessy
7. Shake It Up by The Jamaica Boys
8. Keep On by D-Train
9. Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now by McFadden & Whitehead
10. Turn The Beat Around by Vickie Sue Robinson
11. Double-Dutch Bus by Frankie Smith
12. I Do Anything For You by Denver Morgan
13. Electric Slide by Marcia Griffiths
14. Do The Hustle by Disco (seriously)
15. Thank God It's Friday by Love & Kisses

Livin' Life Like It's Golden

Went out with few alumni the other night. It has been a while (almost a year) since I had the pleasure of hanging with any of my folk of the Blue & Gold persuassion. It has been a brisk year, though. I have moved closer to publishing a book and finally crawled out of the dead-end job pit. Or should I say, finally doing what I went to school for and love unconditionally.

As with my college years in general, I sometimes feel a little awkward at these gatherings. I started college in my mid-20's; I was divorced and had 2 kids. Being around people, even the ones I spent the best four years of my life with, who are 8, 9 or even 10 years younger than me, can be a little weird. No one has ever dissed or dismissed this old head with the raggamuffins. In fact, most of my fellow classmates thought it was pretty cool that I had kids, especially ones as interactive and polite as mine are. My awkward feeling usually passes after a moment or two. However, sometimes, Sean B., usually has to tell me, "Yo, we're here to party. Stop talking about them kids!" That almost happened at this gaterhing the other night. But then someone asked me about my new job and I started rambling about that for a few minutes.

After answering a barrage of questions, I listened to the others relay the exciting happenings in their lives. I looked around the table and beamed. Everybody is growing up: new homes, careers advancements, vehicle upgrades, etc. (it is how Aggies do).

Now here is where I would have usually started to feel old again. Except I felt oddly quite comfortable. This feeling was not a superior one, either. Yet, I do in fact, have something on these Aggies: parent'hood. None of these buppies/b-boys/bohos have any children, yet. Mine on the other hand, will both be out of the house in about 6 years. When this realization hit me, I smiled and nodded my head.

I am not a gung-ho parent ready to push the kids out the door. Headly, Sneadly and I have been through a lot together. And I pray that the good times continue, always outweighing the bad. I will be as close as they will allow me to be through the college years (oh, they are going; if I can do it, they will, too). But I will be done with worrying about who has or has not eaten and concern over wardrobe issues. It is going to be tough going from full-time parent mode to the chick in her mid-forties who still thinks she is a kid. I still drop it like it's hot everytime I hear a Luke cut or a jam from my clubbin' days (I love the Sprint commercial with Salt 'n Pepa's "Push It.") Yet, I am a conscientious, half-way decent parent that tries to keep the kids active while I maintain a stable lifestyle. No revolving door on the personal life or such.

The thing that makes me happiest, though, as I reflect—and this is not hate, is that we are now past certain phases. Teething, potty training, car seats, tooth fairy, baby-proofing—damn, I am breaking out in a sweat just typing this. No doubt there are parents with children older than mine laughing and saying, "Just wait. It gets much easier." I do not expect that parenting will be a cake walk from here until my youngest graduates, or even beyond that. Being a parent is an over-rated position that everyone wants to do, but few are really cut out to handle. You must take one day at a time.

I listened intently as one of the Aggies mentioned sponsoring an Aggie cruise soon; I am actually considering going. The last time I even thought about taking a trip of this sort, it fell on the same weekend as my youngest kid's birthday and I passed; not this time. While the kids will definitely have to stay with a relative, it should not be too much of a hassle; they are not babies anymore...they are damn near grown.

Ladies First

The following are just some brief notes on The Revolution...yes, it was televised.

Lots of thoughts come to mind regarding the passing of Coretta Scott King. There is the irony that Dr. King was killed April 4, twenty-three days before Mrs. King's birthday and Mrs. King died January 30, fifteen days after his birthday.
And, although I was personally against it, Mrs. King laid in state at the Georgia Capitol today. When Dr. King died, then Gov. Lester Maddox refused to fly the flags at half-staff, let alone allow the Drum Major for Justice lie in state.

We watched the beginning of the service from home. It made my heart swell a million times over as the horse drawn carriage approached the capitol. The two drivers, one standing, one sitting, covered their hearts with their hats. When Mrs. King's casket was withdrawn from the carriage, the sun broke through the clouds and let out some awesome rays. The gloomy morning paused to acknowledge this historical moment. The crowd cheered and roared thunderously as Mrs. King, carried by Georgia State Troopers, made her way up the first set of capital steps. Via the Troopers' synchronized motions, her casket strutted past the statue of Eugene Talmedge, former Georgia governor and proud segregationist. I declare Talmedge's outstretched hand went limp, dropping his hankerchief, and his jaw dropped.

My eyes filled with tears as Mrs. King's body ascended upon the second and final set of outer steps. Breaking the threshold, she passed under the flags that sit atop the capitol, which under the ordrers of Governor Perdue, have been at half-staff since her death was announced. The crowd's response grew even louder, as if they were gently, lovingly pushing her through the door with their vocal encouragement. I believe that at that very moment, Lester Maddox' dust, buried a mere sixteen miles north of the capitol doors, burst into flames. Her body safely inside, representing for all mankind, the sun nodded, drifted behind the clouds and then a light rain began to fall.

I had mixed emotions as we made our way towards the capitol; it sits at the intersection of thoroughfares named for the father of this nation (Washington Street) and the father of the civil rights movement in America (Martin Luther King Jr. Drive). Although I sometimes pass this building several times a week, this would be my first time actually inside since moving here six years ago. Up until it was announced that Mrs. King would lie in state, I had no previous desire to enter the building. In my admittedly sometimes jaded mind, it has always represented racism at its finest. Still, I was determined to pay my respects to a woman who's picture should be in the dictionary next to the words sacrifice and integrity. The forty-five minute wait only seemed like ten; though it was a bit chilly, the atmosphere was light. People fellowshipped and reminiscened. My family and I were three of over 40,000 to honor her memory. Mrs. King looked beautiful.

On the way home, we talked a little, mostly reflecting. I wondered aloud how Mrs. King is enjoying Heaven. The spiritual, "Hush, Somebody's Calling My Name," came to mind. It's been over 20 years since I have heard this song. It was sang by characters in Roots when they received word that Abraham Lincoln had been shot. I have been humming it all evening.

The Revolution is still being televised. Come on out...we'll save you a spot in line.

Functionally Addicted

Yet certainly not proud of it. But at least I own up to my addiction. You see, I have a dependency. It is sugar. Not just any sugar, either. I am a complicated addict. Like most people, I love ice cream, but it has to be butter pecan. Cookies are a straight up sore spot. And most of the time, I crave chocolate chip with pecans. Not walnuts or almonds--pecans. My response to most cakes is the same as with the no-good brother with the smooth lines, clear complexion and irresistible smile: I simply cannot say no.




I am, however, a sort of sugar-snob. There are certain things I just do not eat. Fudge? No thanks. Double chocolate (anything)? Pass. Kripsy Kreme donuts? Gag me with a spoon. And generally, I am not a big fan of candy. Guess I share Whitney's "crack is whack" attitude. M & M's with almonds (once almonds hit the scene, peanuts just seemed to taste so cheap), Hershey's Kisses, Snickers (hell yeah, they satisfy) and select breath mints are pretty much it for me.

A friend of mine has been sugar-free for over a month now. I applaud her effort (you go, girl!), but know any attempt to give up sugar is a feat my psychie is sure would kill me. In my teenage years and adulthood, I made several earnest, conscious attempts to kick the habit, but to no avail. It is sad, but I know there are others, who cannot overcome their addictions, either. Moreover, I often think of the character Fran Boyd in the HBO mini-series The Corner. The award winning six-part production chronicles the lives of several people in a drug infested Baltimore neighborhood. There is a poignant scene where Fran (flawlessly played by Khandi Alexander) is being turned away from a rehab center; they just do not have room for her. "Come back next week and there will be a bed for you," they advise. But Fran protests that they simply had to let her in; she could NOT go back. She had made her mind that this was the week she would stop. No, she just could not go back. The final shot of the episode (Fran's Blues) is a wide shot of Fran walking down the street. She is dragging her belongings in a trash bag behind her, returning to the house she lives in with other addicts. She is forced to carry the monkey on her back little while longer...

It does pain me that I cannot seem to function without sugar, so I am not a "happy adddict." This type of dependancy is a dangerous game indeed since my mother is the first generation not to have diabetes, a disease that claimed the lives of my great-grandmother, a great aunt and several cousins. Still, I fully comprehend that sugar is something I should not live with, but just cannot seem to live without. The consolation, I guess, is that I can admit I have a problem. Plus, and most importantly, I work and can support my habit; that hit of hot chocolate made with soy milk and two teaspoons of natural sugar is paid for with money I earned.

I try not to belittle or dog anyone's dependency--drugs, alcohol, sex or even shopping. No matter who we are, there is some sort of hell we endure; duplex, condo, mansion, or studio-sized. For some it is private, for others it is out in the open. All I can say about mine is that my high does not interfere with the "live and let live" motto. The sugar I crave does not cause me to break into anyone's home or hit a person over the head to get it. Noboby gets hurt.

Kiss and say goodbye

I want a divorce. It wouldn't be the first time...hell, it may not be the last. I have tried, but the differences are simply and undisputably irreconcilable: I am tired of being married to my vehicle. We spend way too much time together. To work, to play, to the movies, to the grocery store, the doctors, the park...even to the bus station (!)

Tonight, at 7 p.m., on my way from mid-town Atlanta to the "unnamed county 30 miles east of Alabama," there were as many cars on the road as there were during my early morning drive 11 hours earlier; maybe more. Two accidents and more vehicles weaving through traffic than yakki hair at a beauty parlor in the 'hood. Days like these have me seriously longing for the pungent, sometimes straight-up funky smell of a big city subway system--after 8 hours at the j-o-b, that odor is almost like scent of a dozen roses. Well, okay, not roses, but it is better than the exhaust fumes of a urban southern highway.

It is also less dangerous. Now, I am no wuss. I traveled the autobahns of Germany doing 80, maybe 90 miles per hour and rushed through the streets of Lloret de Mar, Spain (tourist trap) on a moped with no license. But back then, before earning a college degree, way in front of being selected for and accpeting the parenting gig, prior to acquiring a 9-to-6, and ahead of the whole "responsible" phase...I didn't care. Hell, now, I got a thing or two (or three) to live for. But how does one actually live when they are braving the elements on the sometimes fatal highways of the South?


The commute is not always bad; just most of the time. Music is the bond that has kept my vehicle and I together this long. I listen to everything from Kirk, to Jill, to Donnie, to Donny, to Donnie (if you do not know the difference, holler and I will explain), to Anita, to Mariah, to Norah, to The Sounds of Blackness, to the Five Mo' Tenors. The kids and I even listened to Al Roker's book, Don't Make Me Stop This Car, together while riding around a few weeks ago. Still, it feels a little weird "listening" to a book. But it is my only recourse in getting some quality reading in. At home, back in the Big Apple, I read while riding the train or bus. While Al vivdly relayed his parent 'hood tales, I felt like we were committing sacrilege.

Nevertheless, the un-Godly amount of traffic plus poorly planned roads has forced a girl to use what she has, to get what she wants. Since arriving in Georgia six years ago, I have skillfully learned the main roads, back roads, alleys and such throughout Atlanta and a few surrounding cities. It has been an adventure of sorts. My Mother is from South Carolina, but has lived in New York City almost 40 years. Every time she visits Atlanta, she marvels over the fact that my sister and I know how to get to from point A to point B as if we were born here. Her compliment is a small consolation to my quandary.

Still, I long to be an unhappy straphanger, a slave to the token and at the mercy of mass transit. Yes, maybe it is time for this Nu Yawker to pack it in, head Norf' and not look back, lest I turn into a pillar of grits...I mean salt.

Sticks and Stones…

…may break my bones, but racial and derogatory words about people of Caribbean decent will get your ass kicked!

Miss Jones, a NYC DJ recently called Trinidadian-born Transit Workers’ Union President Roger Toussaint “a dumb coconut,” “who probably does not have a green card.” Aside from the comments being ignorant, they are crass and way out of line. True, there is a spoken and sometimes unspoken dividing line between people of Caribbean decent and Black Americans. Don’t know when, where, how or why it started. What I can attest to, is that Caribbean people have a strong sense of history and tradition, a concentrated work ethic and are not prone to assimilation. Black Americans, on the other hand, have major issues with why and how we got here, the debt we are still owed (40 acres, a mule and mad interest) and where we “belong.”

This aside, it is just plain wrong for Miss Jones, also known as Tarsha Nicole Jones, to make the divide even larger. As a member of the media, one is not allowed to incite a riot on a whim. Sounds like she, has issues with Caribbean people who have been able to come to the United States and make something out of nothing. It is jealousy, plain and simple. Sort of like that scene in School Daze where Dap and his boys run into some locals at the neighborhood KFC. The head local, so eloquently played by Samuel Jackson with a drip-drip curl in his head, has not done squat with his life. He blasts Dap and ‘em for he (the local) and his friends crappy lives. Jackson’s character also calls them "college fags." “We were born here, gone die here and can’t get jobs because of you college punks,” he declares. The claim is bullshit. Homeboy cannot get a job because he is lazy, shiftless and looking for a handout.

Added to that, Miss Jones better recognize; Caribbean folks own NYC. If they decided to shut it down for 48 hours, there would be mad pandemonium; way worse than that little 3-day transit strike (ya’ heard?). For now, a tab bit of advice for Miss Thang: the next time you become so inclined to do a little name calling or talk shit on the air, say whatever comes to your mind to yourself first, then don’t say a damn thing.

In Other Words:
Calling Toussaint...By Chanel Lee

“Say What?”


In November 2005, I had the unfortunate pleasure of watching the American Film Institute’s “Top 100 Movie Quotes” on AMC. The list was whack and lacked color, to say the least.

To date, nine people of a darker hue have earned Academy awards in the Actor category (Denzel has won twice: Supporting and Lead). There is no denying Black folk can act. With this much progress, you would think the AFI could have put in more effort than one stinking line from, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? And I think that was just "honorable mention." Pathetic.

Moreover, it is disheartening to see a list from an organization that brags of being american, but does not list any black americans as having made any contributions to film. Brings to mind a quote from The Tuskeegee Airmen: I know how I feel about my country. But how does my country feel about me? (Andre Braugher as Col. Benjamin O. Davis).

So, here is my list of 50. Regardless of what the AFI thinks, we have, in fact, said some profound shit.


PS This list only actually has a little more than 40 quotes. I could use some help from the movie aficionados. I am looking for quotes (as accurate as possible, please) from The Five Heartbeats, Shaft (the original), Stormy Weather, The Wiz and older classics.

	Movie	Line	Character
1	Armistad	Give us us free!	Joesph Cinque
2	Boyz ‘n the Hood	Either they don’t know, don’t show, or don’t care about what’s going on in the hood.	Doughboy
3	Mahogany	Success is nothing without someone to share it with!	Brian
4	Lady Sings The Blues	You want my arm to fall off?	Louis McKay
5	A Raisin in the Sun	Willie! Willie!	Walter Lee Younger
6	The Color Purple	All my life, I had to fight…a girl-child ain’t safe in a house full of men.	Sophia
7	The Great White Hope	Here I am…here I am!	Jack Johnson
8	Jungle Fever	I smoked the t.v.	Gator Purify
9	Do The Right Thing	Always do the right thing.	Da Mayor
10	School Daze	Once again, we as a people are late!	Vaughn “Dap”Dunlap
11	Boyz ‘n the Hood	Riiiiccccky!	Tre Styles
12	Boomerang	Love should have brought your ass home last night!	Angela
13	Coming to America	Girl you look so good, somebody oughta put you on a plate and sop you up with a biscuit.	Rev. Brown
14	Cooley High	I want to live forever.	Preacher
15	The Color Purple	It’s gone rain on your head.
16	Boyz ‘n the Hood	Why? They want us to kill ourselves.	Furious Styles
17	She’s Gotta Have It	Please baby, please, baby, baby, baby, please!	Mars Blackmon
18	Menace II Society	…asked if I cared whether I live or die. Yeah I do. Not it’s too late.	Caine
19	Claudine	…(regarding marrying Claudine) it would take welfare off the hook and put me on!	Roopert
20	The Color Purple	See Daddy, even sinners got soul, too!	Shug Avery
21	Malcolm X	We didn’t land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on us!	Malcolm X
22	Soul Food	One finger pointing the blame can’t make no impact. But five fingers balled up can deliver a mighty blow!	Mama Joe
23	Love & Basketball	I’ll play you…for your heart.	Monica Wright
24	A Raisin in the Sun	In my Mother’s house, there is still God.	Benenthea Younger
25	The Color Purple	I’m poor, black, I might even be ugly, but dear God, I am here!	Celie
26	Bingo Long All-Stars	Don’t cost nothing to dance.	Leon Carter
27	Friday	It’s Friday, you ain’t got no job and you ain’t got shit to do.	Smokey
28	Cooley High	For the brothers who ain’t here.	Coolcheese/Preacher
29	The Color Purple	Hell, no (!)	Sophia
30	Malcolm X	The only thing I like integrated is my coffee.	Malcolm X
31	Cotton Comes to Harlem	Was that black enough for you?	Barry
32	Love & Basketball	All is fair in love and basketball.	Quincy McCall
33	Superfly	Freddy’s dead.
34	Ray	I gone make it do what it do.	Ray Charles
35	Love Jones	I am the blues in your left thigh, trying to become the funk in your right.	Darius Lovehall
36	The Color Purple	Until you do right by me, everything you even think of is going to fail.	Celie
37	Claudine	It’s doesn’t matter Mama. It’s gone wind up chicken (!)	Charlene
38	Boyz ‘n the Hood	(repeating his father’s words of advice)…Any fool with a dick can make a baby, but only a real man can raise his children.	(Young) Trey Styles
39	The Color Purple	You sitting at the head of your own dinner table and acting like the waiter!	Old Mr.
40	School Daze	Wake up!	Vaughn “Dap” Dunlap
41	New Jack City	Am I my brother’s keeper?	Nino Brown
42	Claudine	…before you go to bed tonight, take a good look at Charlene, grandma.	Charles
43	The Color Purple	You just a big ol’ heifer!	Squeak/MaryAlice
44	School Daze	You either work, or you starve. And I want to eat sirloin.	Grady
45
46
47
48
49
50

In Other Words:
Oscar History: Is the Oscar...by Emanuel Levy


Blacks had long wait...by Robert Booker

Hattie or Halle by Mark A. Rawls.

And the Oscar goes Black by Rasheeda Bhagat

Shiny or Tarnished, Oscar still golden by Tony Norman

(A) Peer point of view

I try to keep work and my work separate. While I love what I do for a living, it is not equal to what I do away from the job. Still, I felt moved to give a huge shout-out and kudos to an article, and especially to the author. Although I do not know this person outside of work, I know how hard she worked on this piece. Additionally, I know how much flack she has caught since the article's publication.

Although evolving by the minute, most Atlanta (and Georgia) residents still considers the city (and the state) the top notch in the Bible belt. Nevertheless, pornography--good, bad, ugly, tasteless, or however you want to categorize it, is very much a part of the American fabric. This young, but talented reporter decided to write about it. While harsh words of criticism are par for the course and most writers learn to accept it, I think Alyssa deserves to hear that she did an awesome job--even it is just from one of her co-workers.

In Alyssa's Words:
King of Porn

Bugging Out in the ‘Burbs



Not so gently into that good night do the woods and creatures who inhabit them go. Well, they go, because the bulldozer leaves them no choice. But the aftermath of their unceremonious evictions and in some cases, their death, causes reverberations felt by the funky Homosapiens who should know better than to allow this to crap happen.

In 2002, over 70% of the green space in “the unnamed county 30 miles east of Alabama” was cleared for development (commercial and residential). 70%. Now, that may not seem like a lot, but it sure has made an impact on Bambi and ‘em. Incidents involving deer have risen tremendously. I, myself, have had to hit the brakes quite a few times to avoid hitting the ones wandering on Rose Ave. on foggy spring mornings. Said mornings, in the natural scheme of things is when these deer would be out mackin’ because it is their mating season; instead, they are house hunting.

Other animals are just plain pissed. Fox attacks on humans were visibly higher in 2004. With no where to go, these half-feline, half-dog creatures are striking back. And where indeed, are they supposed to go? Should they pitch a tent in the Outdoor section at Super Wal-mart on Hwy. 5?

The wildlife inhabitants of the county are being forced out for more shopping centers, homes that cost an astronomical amount of money and people who really don’t give a rat’s tail about what all this building is doing to the environment.

When territory that God beautifully created and should be left “untouched,” is constantly being invaded, it causes major problems with ants, crickets, frogs, snakes (yes), lizards, spiders, lady bugs (ugh, they leave such a nasty red stain when you smush them), and termites.

The infestation of termites and the fight to keep them out of our home intrigues me, especially with regards to a new subdivision. Heck, the termite is only doing what we have started and continue to do: eat away at stuff and destroy creations of beauty.

Still, we spend hundreds of dollars to get rid of these bugs, slugs and whatnot because we feel they are invading our turf. But hey, weren’t they here in the woods not bothering anyone when we came along and built several houses on top of their houses?

So how can we get upset when there is a new ant trail running through the living room? Or frogs keep hanging around the patio door? Or, if every morning we catch Bambi nibbling on the peach tree we planted in the backyard? If R. Kelly is sitting at home, watching television, and without warning, someone kicks his door in, tears his house down and builds a daycare center in its place, can we blame him if he begins lurking around said daycare center with a video camera…?

Sign O' the Times...

It is so scary to think about the fact that there are very little activities or simple functions in life that do not require one to "sign in." Unfortunately, there is so little trust. And rightly so. One slip, blink or pause, and someone has stolen your identity or snatched some cash from your bank account. Your word is no longer your bond. You must VERIFY who you are.

The most extreme measures of security occur at the work place. Whether subtle or the straight-up requirement for DNA and blood sample prior to carrying out daily work responsibilities, the lack of trust is undeniable. To get on your computer, to check your voice mail, to get into the building, to enter your work time card--all of these functions require a username and password.

It is the password that bothers me the most. With so many to keep up with, I can never remember them. Experts (Clark Howard 'n em) always advise not to use the same one. "Try to mix it up." "Use a variation of numbers or letters." Well, there are only so many variations one can remember. I once worked for a company whose computer automatically requires users to change their passwords every 90 days. Moreover, if you try to use the same password within a six month period, the system rejects it.

Even doing a little research for a column I was writing required that I "register, setup a usersname and password." For pete's sake! But said requirement is simply a part of the Big Brother conspiracy; that issue requires a whole other blog and one I am not sure I want to write. But I digress. It is frustrating to have all of this knowledge at my fingertips but to have to jump through hoops to gain access to it.



Even more frustrating is the two ID requirement for deposits at my credit union. How twisted is that? I have to prove who I am beyond a shadow of a doubt to put my money in my account.

My consolation in dealing with all this madness is that there will be no passwords or usernames in Heaven.



In Other Words...
Those Nine Little Digits

Appearances and (Our) Perceptions

Was at my Grandparents’ place over the holidays. Every time one of us (2nd, 3rd and even the 4th generation) pays a visit, we cannot help but complain about the massive amounts of “non-useful” things cluttering the house. My Grandmother probably has close to 30 pots and pans; yet, it has been 40 years since the last child moved out. The stove that was replaced recently is on the back porch; it is not quite 10 years old, and my Grandmother does not want “anybody” to have it. You see, the computer chip in said item is busted ($300 to replace), causing the oven not to function; still, the top of the stove itself is in perfect working condition. To people of my Grandparents’ generation, it would be a waste to throw it out; save it for someone who “might be able to use it.” To someone like me, who is trying to rid their life of junk, the fact that a broken stove was taking up space when it should be in the trash, could have, if I would have allowed it, driven me nuts. But I digress.



Then there are the giant-sized tins in the cupboard. I had not really noticed them before, but now they stood out like a sore thumb. They have been there forever and are all rusted over. There used to be a design or drawings on them, but they have long faded away. “What possible use could one have for these things?,” I wondered. On the second day of our visit, I inquired where the grits was stored. “Look in the tins,” was the reply I received. “Those rusted out things under the sink?,” I thought quietly. Sure enough, inside of the tins were four or five fresh, unopened bags of grits. Amongst all the junk, here was food at the ready. I took the liberty of going through the other tins: rice, canned preservatives, sugar, flour and other items that would come in handy if flood, hurricane, unnatural disaster, etc. were to strike.

My Mother later informed me that these tins are at least 45 to 50 years old. The junk cluttering my Grandparents’ house aside, I thought about how I was so quick to dismiss the tins because they were “old and rusted.” How many times do we, in general, look at something, or someone for that matter, and dismiss them because of appearance?

“Oooh, girl! You going out with him? He has a really good job and knows how to treat a lady, but he is not the most attractive man…”
“These boots are warm and comfortable, but they don’t do anything for my wardrobe.”

There is no stand-out lesson to be learned or anything here. Just something that will probably cross my mind if ever I am in the market to buy a home and I encounter one that is sensible, reasonable, in a near-perfect neighborhood and is bright orange with neon green Berber carpet.