♪ TWENTY QUESTIONS TO THE BEAT… (PART 2) ♪

(Or Earth Shattering R & B/Neo-Soul/Hip-Hop Music Queries)

1. Even with a style that is unusual and hard to categorize, is Nikki Minaj not larger than life? Can Nik eclipse Madonna’s career?

2. Who found Willow Smith annoying at first, yet now can’t help but “whip their hair” every time the radio plays her song for the 1000th time that day?

3. Aren’t we glad Ne-Yo, Dondria, Maxwell, Sade and Jill Scott have stayed away from Auto Tunes? Aren’t we disappointed that Usher, Mary J. Blige, Jamie Foxx, Chris Brown and other truly naturally talented artists have started using Auto Tunes?

4. How many women still dig Alicia Keys’ music, but won’t ever let her near their man/boyfriend/spouse?

5. Doesn’t it stink that Dead Prez is too controversial and profane for the radio?

6. Is Robin Thicke the new official “baby making music” artist?

7. How many of us knew Whitney was done for good when she told Diane Sawyer, “Crack is wack?”

8. Aren’t we digging the musicianship of Bobby Ray (a.k.a. B.O.B.) and don’t we “wish right now” that he would get more radio play?

9. Isn’t Lupe’s battle with Atlantic records, reminiscent of Prince and his showdown with Warner Bros., which is textbook, “fight the power!”?

10. By a show of hands, how many of us no matter where we are, “put our hands up,” when we hear “All I Do Is Win”?

11. Aren’t we digging Janelle Monáe, but dying to know how in the hell she gets her hair to stay in place while performing those wicked dance moves?

12. Don’t we miss when music videos sorta had a plot? Do we ever think there will be a day when booty-shaking, breast-popping, and straight-up denigrating videos will be passé, outlawed and simply fade away?

13. By a show of hands, how many of us knew that Jermaine Dupri was out of his league with Janet Jackson?

14. Should Lauryn Hill join Whitney on the “never will be, again” bench?

15. Wouldn’t you want the Roots to play the funkiest concert at your funeral if you could afford them?

16. John Legend: straight, homosexual or bi-sexual (come on, y’all KNOW you been wanting to ask this one!)?

17. Has Beyoncé truly paid dues and earned the right to be mentioned in the same breath as Patti LaBelle, Chaka Khan, Teena Marie, Tina Turner and Diana Ross?

18. Biggie or Tupac?

19. Still in shock, mourning, or denial over Michael Jackson?

20. Isn’t Sean Combs gift to his son Justin on his 16th birthday (a $360,000 Maybach with a chauffeur) a smack in the face to those of us who actually work for a living?

Bonus: remember when an artist would do a complete project by themselves instead of having one, two, three or even four additionally artists on almost every single track?

♪ TWENTY QUESTIONS , TO THE BEAT… (PART 1) ♪
(Or Trivial, Yet True, Non-Earth Shattering R & B/Neo-Soul/Hip-Hop Music Queries)

These are semi-rhetorical questions that may or may not have crossed your mind:
1. Will there ever be another Luther Vandross?

2. Don’t Fantasia and Kanye remind us of the relatives we do NOT allow to be the spokesperson when the police show up?

3. Don’t Fantasia and Kanye remind us of the relatives who are the reason that the police show up in the first place?

4. By a show of hands, who thinks the following artists to STOP having children out of wedlock: El DeBarge (12), Flava Flav (12), Erykah Bady (4), Bobby Brown (5), Lauryn Hill (5), Lil Wayne (4) and Sean Combs (5.5)?

5. How many of us love the following groups/artists but know that they are “done” and should call it a day: EnVogue, Tony, Toni, Tone, Dru Hill, Anita Baker and Outkast (the latter as a group, not individual artists)?

6. Aren’t we digging R. Kelly’s comeback, but still would not let him anywhere near our teenage daughter, niece, granddaughter, etc.?

7. Will there ever be another Minnie Ripperton (and no, it’s not Mariah)?

8. How likely is it that Minnie is spinning in her grave over the fact that Kandi of the RHA has deemed herself a singer?

9. Should somebody tell Chrisette Michelle that starting a beef with a rapper who has a criminal record, is bad for your health (especially over bullshit)? Or how many of us think it’s a publicity stunt for her new CD?

10. Should someone tell Charlie Wilson that at his age, he can “fall in love,” but dammit he’s just too old to “have some babies?” (Re: lyrics to “There Goes My Baby”)

11. Aren’t we digging the genius of Prince, still going strong at 50+ years, and humble enough to other brilliant artists at his concert series, but a little disturbed that he still uses the word “funky,” which takes on a whole other meaning at his age?

12. Will we be mortified if at any time during the concert series Prince wears the pants with the hind parts cut out?

13. How many of us won money on how Usher’s marriage would turn out? And who thinks Chili is sitting back, arms folded, saying, “I told his ass…”?

14. How many of us are not mad at Tameka Foster for taking the opportunity to “get hers” and get out?

15. Isn’t Melanie Fiona’s “It Kills Me,” and Jazmine Sullivan, “Bust All Your Windows” the best female heartbreak songs of the year and the cuts to play repeatedly after a breakup?

16. Aren’t we glad El DeBarge got a Second Chance?

17. (Regional NYC question) Will there ever be another Frankie Crocker?

18. Aren’t we digging the recent mainstream popularity of Doug E. Fresh and marveling in “non-hip-hopper’s” fascination with learning how to “Dougie”?

19. Should there be a Classic/Sacred R & B Music Remake/Sample Permission hotline for artists and should calls be blocked from Sean Combs, Mary J. Blige and any artist who has not paid dues?

20. Are we more surprised or more disappointed in T.I. & Tiny?

AND THE POINT WOULD BE…?
(Or Is It Just Me?)

Did a charter for a party the other night that left me quite sad about the state of human relations. Now I gotta do the public service announcement: rich people, in my experience are inconsiderate and a pain in the ass—most of the time, but not all of the time. If my opinion equates to “hate,” jealousy, etc., so be it.

So some rich cat paid about 4 large to have some five buses take his party guests from a rally point to his “mcmansion” and then back again at the end of the party (I know this dude don’t have no roaches; even the help went to Harvard, okay?). He also had an Escalade for good measure, which a few guests thought was their own personal free taxi at the end of the night.

The guests did not seem all that enthused with this dude, but seemed somehow obligated to attend this shing-dig. I got the impression they were either co-workers, fellow parents whose children attend an elite area school, members of a board, etc.—never seen so many sour pusses going to a party. They even had the gall to bitch about the “free ride” the host was giving them—“Do we have to go this way?” “It’s too hot on this bus.” “How long before we are leaving? (even there were only two people on the bus!)” “You all will be back to get us at the end of the night, right?” (really wanted to respond to the latter, “Hell no. Walk your happy ass back here…”)

But all of this (plus the lack of tip) was not what disgusted me the most: it was the host’s attitude towards his guests. Not only was it disheartening, it was by definition both disgusting and downright ugly. The party started at 7. At 10:40, he is pushing his guests towards the door. “You don’t have to go home, but you got to the hell out of here,” was his attitude. Damn. Let me say that again: Damn. I mean is it really a party when you watching the clock and telling folk to “get the fuck out?” four hours later?

Here’s how I picture a party—at least 60 or 70 of my friends and family coming over to the crib, getting their grub on, drinking as much as they can without becoming ignorant, playing games, dancing, watching television and of course, serving up the Spades ass whippings (bring your A game or go the hell home. Next!). Arrive as early as you want to the day of the party, but please understand that I won’t be dressed til ‘round 8pm. Bring a bottle or a dish; if opt for the latter, your ass better be able to cook, dammit, or we will talk about you.

Stay as long as you want. Really, I mean it. Crash on the couch, fix a pallet on the floor, put two folding chairs together—shit, I don’t care. No one leaves Casa de Clark too drunk or sleepy (just as bad) to drive. Period. Not on my watch. Besides, its kinda cool watching folks leave after a night of straight up house party boogying. Plus the look on my neighbors’ face the next morning is usually priceless (yes, I’m a good neighbor, but hate Homeowners Associations—they are the devil!).

Sure one has to have some limits during a party and guest should not be allowed to trounce through every corner of your house. But a gathering that is soooo binding—like the one I drove for the other night is better suited for a clubhouse, restaurant or banquet hall. To me, an invitation into your home should be just that, an invitation. Not a directorate with a litany of do’s, don’ts and “you better nots.” That’s not showing hospitality—that’s just bullshit.

Axe.

WHAT SHOULD I DO?
(Or, a quickie I wrote sitting @ McDonald's)

Been arguing for over 36 hours with a colleague regarding LeBron James. For the record, I think King James is very talented, a little spoiled, slightly selfish, but a gentleman otherwise. Furthermore, the way he left Cleveland pisses me off. It was almost like having a spouse telling you on national television, "We're getting a divorce." Not a good deal at all. The fans pay to see LeBron and others play. Fans support the team when things get rough. They make the stadium or arena loud when things look bad and the team is trying to rally to pull within single digits. Fans are the "6th Man." They are a member of the family, for crying out loud. Fans deserve respect. Now, how I feel about the money-grubbing asshole owners is a whole OTHER blog...

My colleague contends vehemently that LeBron "did what was right for him," and that he should "not pay attention to the fans because they are not the ones who have to put in all the work." And it is true that fans will turn on you in a heartbeat. Added to that, I would never advise someone to stay in a situation that is hurting them emotionally, physically, financially or anything of the like. But at the very least, at the end of last season, LJ should have made a statement to the fans and said the following, "I may be leaving you. It would hurt me as much as it would hurt you if I do. I LOVE YOU, but this is what's best for me. Please know that you have been wonderful; better to me than I have been to myself. Its not you, but it's me..." And so on, and so forth. Sure, fans still would have been pissed off, but right now they are beyond pisstivity. They would have to orbit the Earth 20 times to get to the point where pisstivity is in sight (for real, for real...). With my suggested statement, a precursor, if you will, to do damage control, time would have eventually healed that wound. But because LeBron ripped the fans' hearts out, threw it on the ground, stomped on it, and spit on it on national television, he and Cleveland will probably never "kiss and make up." EVER.

So, to the fans, I say, "Move on." Treat LeBron like that man who dumped you even though he knows without a shadow of a doubt that you were the best thing that ever happened to him: lose his number and if he calls you, don't answer the damn phone! When LeBron showed up at Cleveland's stadium last night, all he shoulda heard was crickets. The (ex-)fans should have stayed home to show him that they don't give two shits about him. But by buying tickets, selling the stadium out, booing all night, and holding up signs dissing him, they showed just how crazy with hurt they are. And anyway, I thought the City of Cleveland was in such dire straits...? Somebody got money for some NBA tickets, though...

But I digress.

The fans are truly behaving like the deranged ex-lover who goes around slashing tires, pouring sugar in gas tanks, and making the other person miserable--that is, until somebody breaks out a restraining order. Bottom Line to the fans: support the team you have left with all your might. Make the current Cavaliers feel as if they are the only team in the world and you love them will all your heart. Be there for the losses, the wins, the ups, downs, injuries, etc. Act like LeBron never existed.

Now, if, if, I say again, "if" LeBron ever decides he "needs to talk...," the city and the fans should be dignified, classy, and the bigger person--make his ass get on his hands and knees and beg!

Axe.

LITTLE DEBBIE VERSUS JIM CROW: WHO’S THE BIGGER BOOGIEMAN?

Lotta of controversy these days about weight, obesity, health, race and all that jazz. First Lady Michelle Obama claims that the problem for African-Americans these days is not Jim Crow, but Little Debbie (damn). While her stance on racism in this country gives me great cause to pause and makes me wonder if she really “has a clue,” I kinda have to agree. Her comments crossed my mind recently, as I drove through College Park. I am surprised at how many people, mainly folks of a darker hue, were walking. I observe their demeanor—and what, if anything, affected their disposition. With or without heavy groceries, crying children, etc., it was easy to see that most did not want to be walking. Furthermore, most were likely traveling to or from a bus stop. See, when your choice to travel is limited to mass transit (i.e. using public transportation to save money versus because you have to), it can weigh heavily mentally, especially when the scenery and the path en route to said train or bus is an ugly backdrop of where you spend most of your free time. Those driving in and around College Park did not look much happier, either.

Moreover, with few lucrative jobs in the ‘hood, traveling is a must to make money. So the place we probably hate going—work, is usually located in a neighborhood we cannot afford to live in. Hence we are stuck abiding in an area of town that more often than not, is quite, “unpretty.” Adding insult to injury, one is either forced to drive in abusive traffic (that’s if they can afford an automobile) or wrestle past piles of trash, walking treacherously narrow shoulders to the train or bus.

No denying this scenario is depressing, regardless of race. Still, is it our fault and should we do something about it? It’s sorta our fault, and you damn skippy we need to get busy changing our reality.

Black folk have always been creative. Why, pray tell, haven’t we figured out how to re-invent commutes into a genuine workout and keep people from opening greasy, artery clogging eateries in our ‘hoods? Guess the bottom line, as always, is money. When I look at areas like Dunwoody, Chamblee and certain parts of Decatur, there are plenty of sidewalks and jogging trails. Residents living there can afford to pimp their house with a gym or acquire a gym membership, plus they can still “go outside and play,” or exercise, as it were. In contrast, citizens of the SWATs, Bankhead Highway, East Point, Candler Park, etc., trudge over overgrown roadside weeds, never searching because they know they’ll never find any real recreation except maybe a movie theater. Those in the more affluent parts of Atlanta speed walk in their neighborhoods, they have parks nearby and can stop at a Smoothie King, Starbucks or Panera Bread. Meanwhile, other areas of town lack manicured landscapes, the footpaths are just that—paths created by foot traffic, and are limited to “the corner sto,’” Church’s chicken, or McDonalds. The latter, by the way, is not your kinda place, calorie-wise. The damage to your body is far worse than the “French fries between your toes, hamburgers up your nose,” etc.

But I digress.

Perhaps Little Debbie is gaining on Jim Crow. Shit, maybe they’re in cahoots together. I dunno. But I give the First Lady this: part of the problem is on us. We must find ways to better our community—force local grocery stores to stop carrying shit that’s bad for us and quit patronizing places like, “This Is It,” or, “Popeyes.” Stop sitting and waiting for solutions to be handed to us; stop looking for folk to wave a magic wand and end generational issues of poverty, obesity and mis-education. No sir. In Michelle Obama’s words, we have to, “Get Up and Move.” We gotta do it ourselves. Walk our families to the library monthly and have everyone including yourself borrow at least two books. Push back from the table. Read the ingredients BEFORE tossing items into the cart (my kids and my nephews, especially, “Esai the Apple Cider Alcoholic” constantly remind me of that). Have a “poor folk” dinner night at least once a week; something inexpensive that will fill you up, yet low in calories. Suggestions: soup & sandwich, chili with whole wheat toast or cornbread or tuna fish with a green salad. And for Pookie’s sake—stop drinking Kool-Aid and extra cheap soda loaded with dyes (that’s a whole other blog on genocide right there).

Demand better and accept nothing less. Write your congressman, councilmen, etc. and tell them that you want a Whole Foods, or (decent) Publix in your neighborhood. Tell them the library just does not stay open late enough. Tell them that you want a park within 4 miles of where you live. Above all, be a registered voter and let them know that you do in fact vote. Yes, I believe there is still some Jim Crow crap going down, but we gotta battle it with all our might. Shoot, during the fight we may lose a couple of pounds or three…

Axe.

AHA MOMENT #10 (D WIDTH)
(OR NO LOVE )

For almost 3 decades, I’ve had a love-hate, and “hate some more” relationship with shoes. I love them, but my feet do not. I wear the same size shoe as Oprah, except my feet are wide. Moreover, I do not have Oprah’s money; hence the “hate some more,” part of the union.

Now, this is no pity party—just the pitiful facts. By the time I was 12-years-old, my shoe size rivaled that of the average grown woman’s. The constant joker, I thought the shit was funny. That lasted about 3 minutes when I realize that I was stuck with my feet and that they might not stop growing. I grow straight up embarrassed and ashamed. Even the mention of shoe size brings me to tears. Many a shoe shopping trip with my Mom ends in an argument. Everything that she picks out that was affordable I find ugly. Anything I think the least bit attractive is either outrageously expensive, or simply not available in my size. Salesgirls look at me with either disdain or pity. By my sophomore year of high school, all I want are sneakers or boots. Neither let me down on cost or fit. When I join the military, combat boots fit me, like an old pair of shoes—pun intended. Sure, they blistered the first few months, but as soon as I could afford it, I buy a couple of different pairs of stylish boots that make me feel like a rock star.

I dated my (now ex-) husband for almost six months before he knew what size shoe I wore. From jump, I was determined he would never know that the sweet young thang he was seeing had ocean liners for feet. But one night as we cuddle on the couch in his barracks room, he happens to look down and see my shoe size staring at him. Initially, he guffaws and teases. When he realizes, however, how sensitive I was on the issue, he offers the following words, “Big feet, tight coochie.” As he is a decade older and had “been some places,” he probably thought (and maybe still thinks), this was some deep shit—pun intended. And as a young girl impressed by almost any damn thing, I giggled then, and any time he told me this when I became frustrated with my “big ass feet.”

Yet as I trudge through Dillard's tonight, I am not giggling. I’m pissed, hurt, and almost depressed. Why cannot I find shoes I can afford in MY size? A male friend recently suggested I order them online. “It's just not the same,” I whine. For me, it is about walking into the store and having a pair shoes call out to you. Or walking past the window display—especially on 5th Avenue in NYC, and seeing “the” pair of shoes. Once, upon finding the most perfect pair of Bjorn sandals on clearance in Value City, I declared aloud that if I had to choose between the sandals and a man, the sandals would have my undying love and the man would receive my deepest regrets. Ordering online takes all the romance out of buying shoes. Plus, if they don’t fit or just aren’t the shoes you thought they were you gotta send them back.

Recently, I was at an event at Carol’s Daughter in Lenox Mall. While there, I cross paths with a tall woman about my age with the natural yet radiant looks of a model. In a word, this Sister was gorgeous. She overheard me talking about my shoe issue and chimes in, “I have the same love-hate issue to—I love ‘em, but hate looking for them! I can never find what I want!” She further advises that she wears a size 11, wide!

While I should have been relieved that a beautiful woman who simply lit up a room was having shoe issues, too, alas I was even more saddened.

So tonight as I reflect on the whole pathetic situation—plight of the big feet women, I consider my ex-husband’s remarks again. Over time, of course, I realize that he made up this outrageous, ridiculous shit to win the affections of an impressionable, naïve girl. Still, I feel that perhaps there is some validity to what he said. You see, women with large feet have a difficult time finding shoes to wear, and therefore more often than not, do not date much—hence the tight coochie…

Axe.

Currently Listening To: Square Biz by Teena Marie

PARK AVENUE WEST & BAKER STREET
(OR BE SPECIFIC)

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. It is that we are powerful beyond measure.
~ Marian Wright Edelman

No humbling experience or “a-ha” moment here. It is, what it is, as my little brother, “Big Jerm” loves to say in his serious grown-up tone (you gotta talk like that when you got two older sisters who always boss you). And what it is, is a lack of definition, void determination, and deficiency of clarification, all brought on by overdoses of trepidation.

Tonight I am working a charter in the Centennial Olympic Park area. After I dropping the group off, I head over to Subways. Upon approaching the door, I hear, “Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me.” I turn, and standing just outside the door, out of the store clerk’s view is a guy in his mid 50’s. He is neat, but clearly down on his luck. I throw my head back and shrug my shoulders as if to ask, “What?” “I just want something to eat,” he says and I realize he is perhaps slightly mentally challenged. I fish around in my pocket and come up with $.36. I am sorta surprised at my actions, too. Of late, my attitude toward those asking for money has been downright nasty. I usually spit back, “Shit, I’m hurting, too!” I know it’s wrong, but it’s how I been feeling…

Nevertheless, as I fork the change over to him, he turns it down. “No, I want something to eat. I was hoping you could buy me something,” he says, his voice still quiet, yet unwavering. He wanted food—not money. At first, I thought, “The audacity of this mofo.” But then, I took a step back, literally and thought, “Shit, what’s he got to lose?” Either I will say yes or no, and by stating exactly what he wants and being specific, there can be no misunderstanding. Then he adds, “I have not eaten since Friday.” Howsonever, I ain’t impressed. And then the shitty tip week I had comes to mind. Calmly, I advise, “This is all I got,” placing the change in his hand.





As I wait to place my order I am shaking my head (SMH for you twitters, FBer’s, textaholics, etc.). Again, it has not been a good tip week. Executives flying in on private jets, drinking up “complimentary” water that I am required to buy, making racially f’d up statements in front of yours truly (I almost put those bastards out on GA 400—for real, for real…)—yet not leaving a dime! Plus, a couple of my “easy” trips had major hiccups (wrong location, wrong flight information, clients running ridiculously late but still asking me to make stops, etc.). Needless to say, I hate this job and not too crazy about the other two I have.

Then I begin to wonder, what specifically do I do wrong, or not do right, to wind up here? What about the man outside begging? What’s his story? Regardless as to the answers to all these questions, what struck me was that despite whatever his situation is, dude does not feel less than man and he stood up for himself. He knew what he wanted and that’s what he asked for—specifically. No stuttering or hesitation.

Not sure if it’s just the economy or the “way of the world,” but we used to happily ask for stuff and folks would happily give it in return. Remember? “Hold the pickle, hold the lettuce…have it your way!” Nowadays we ask for nothing, keep our heads down and pray for the best. We are all scared individuals afraid to “rock the boat.”

Or we are asking for shit we don’t need—“Can I super-size that?” “We are a family of four, but we have to have 3.5 bathrooms, ‘just because’…” I’m guilty my damn self. One small bag of M & Ms in one week was like, the max when I was a kid. Now that I am “grown,” I inhale two in one day. Furthermore, if I feel up to it, I’ll kill a large bag by myself inside of 3 days and dare someone to ask me for any (I don’t share boyfriends or my M & Ms).

But this guy wasn’t asking for anything he did not need. He said he needed to eat. Nothing more, nothing less.

I buy 2 bags of my favorite chips to go with my 6” ham sandwich. When I get outside, however, the guy is gone. I take a quick stroll through the south end of the park to get some exercise in since the hectic work schedule over the past 2 weeks has left me without time to work-out (really, really SMDH!). As I approach my bus, I look across the street and there he is, this time in a different spot, yet still stating his case to those who will stop and listen when he asks for something to eat. I grab an unopened bottle of water out of my cooler and hustle across the street. I walk up to him just as a guy is turning him down. “Here you go, Bruh,” I say, handing him a bag of chips and the water. “God bless you!” he exclaims “You, too,” I quickly call over my shoulder as I turn to jog back across the street.

Back at the bus, I could see him eating and drinking like it was the Last Supper and he KNEW tomorrow he was going to be crucified. He was hungry. I watch the light change twice as random thoughts play in my head. He finishes, puts his trash in a corner can and walks around the corner, out of sight. Specifically, he knew what he wanted and was not afraid to state his desire. Specifically, he got it—plus $.36!

Axe.

FRED SAID...
(Or How Proud I Am Of Headly & Sneadly)

Yeah, I’m one of those parents who does not tell their kids enough how much they mean to me or how extremely glad I am that the Most High blessed me with them. No excuse really. They are great kids who are normal but of course they do the average stuff that makes a parent scream. The latter doesn’t happen too often, yet, I am a task master to be damned—ask my son how heated I get if I even think he is going to miss the bus in the morning. But I digress. Notwithstanding, when they individually or collectively make my heart swell, I must share it. Today was one of those days. My son, Sneadly, was inducted into the Kappa League, a mentoring program of Kappa Alpha Psi.

It’s been a rough few years for the three of us. I have had to make some adjustments that neither my son nor my daughter, are digging too tough. But I continually press on, with and without regrets at every turn, hoping they can make the adjustments, too. There are moments where I feel totally defeated and want to give up, both as a parent and even as an adult who simply gives a damn. Yet, I keep putting one foot in front of the other. Waaaaay deep down inside, I keep hope that my actions are not for naught. And this morning, I got confirmation that the President is not the only one whose audacious hope has paid off.

We arrived as the young men were lining up in the hall, checking each other’s ties and what not. The men of the Kappa Alpha Psi were observing and giving pointers. I hung back and let Sneadly go ahead of me—apron strings were definitely a no-no here. So, I stood at the end of the hallway and quietly watched my son walk towards his fellow Kappa Leaguers and the Men of Kappa Alpha Phi. I got a little teary-eyed and a huge lump developed in my throat. As Sneadly made his way to the end of the line, each of the Kappas and Kappa Leaguer greeted him with a handshake and a “brother hug,” (i.e., handshake planted in between accompanied by a slight embrace and a welcoming slap on the back). Sneadly seemed right at home; I let out a sigh of relief. This is his first year with the group and although this day had been on our calendar for weeks, I was nervous. Headly, my daughter, did very well as a mentee in a sorority mentor program. Matter of fact, in her last year of said program, she was the Savannah Alumni Chapter Mentee of the Year. But children are not all the same—they are individuals. Will Sneadly like this program as much as Headly liked hers? I pray so.




As the president of the Kappa League concluded his speech today, he asked his fellow leaguers to stand, and lock arms. “If one of us struggles we all struggle,” he said defiantly. Now I really wanted to cry—Sneadly has some folk to lean on besides his mother and his sister. Moreover, these are young men who look like Sneadly and will “dig where he is coming from,” when his back is against the wall and “Mama just don’t understand.”

While those young men stood there shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, pledging to keep each other afloat, I thought about Frederick Douglass’ quote, “If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” We have struggled as a family financially, emotionally and across the boards (yes, boards, plural). But shoot, what family doesn’t struggle? And, I deem the biggest challenge is the recent deaths of men in our family—my father and two of his brothers, passed within an 8 month period. These three men were awesome characters whom we all miss, especially my son. Nevertheless, I do not expect the mentors of the Kappa League to fill this void, I hope their guidance will ease some of the “stress of the struggle.” And there is plenty of struggle left—PSAT, SAT, college campus trips, finals, senioritis, etc. Furthermore, now that I’ve seen some “progress,” I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to get to the “success” part.

Headly is already majoring in some thing or another at Savannah State (I forget all the time; I just the sign on the dotted line and keep it pushing). Sneadly has expressed an interest in History as a major and perhaps a music minor (huge Jimi Hendrix fan, he is). To say I’m proud is an understatement—I am thrilled beyond words.

Axe.

THE QUIET

The only way you can learn is to listen. Everyone has two ears and one mouth. So this a.m., I quietly mouthed the article, published on the Huffington Post’s internet version of the paper twice before I decided what I had learned. The article, “Rags to Riches: Self-Made CEOs Who Started With Nothing,” listed 10 people who are now “rich” but had to struggle to get it. There are absolutely no men of color on the list; not even honorable mention. Two sisters made the cut; but, Oprah, who I give mad props to, is really overdone.

What I learned from this article is that sometimes if you want something done, you have to do it yourself. Have to. I want my son and nephews to be inspired. So I wrote the following about six men—brothers, who have “arrived,” and had some sort of adversity as well. I just cannot believe that the author (who is not listed) never heard of at least one of the following men: Jay-Z (Shawn Carter), Tyler Perry, or Russell Simmons. Granted, they actually may not have ever heard of Chris Gardner, Les Brown or the late Reginald Lewis. May not, but when you write, you research; took me a total of about 75 minutes—and I’m not a writer by trade.

Why I Picked These Gentlemen:
They are not simply rich, they are wealthy. There is a difference. Chris Rock defines the difference as (paraphrased), “wealth is the people who own the basketball team, not play on it.” They all own companies and/or they are CEOs. And in the case of Reginald Lewis, his company is still around today despite his death in 1990 to brain cancer.

Why They Truly Make The List:
Jay-Z from Marcy Projects to owning several companies, selling millions of records and hobnobbing with the President.
Tyler Perry from being poor in New Orleans, to homeless in Atlanta, to the chitterling circuit with his plays, to having his own movie studios.
Russell Simmons from dropping out of Community College, to selling records to owning Def Jam Records, to producing Def Comedy and Def Poetry Jam to owning Phat Farm (not exactly rags to riches but hailing from Queens, NY automatically makes his story sort of “riches from rags.”)
Les Brown from being abandoned by his mother at 6 weeks, to be declared retarded to being left back twice to becoming a motivational speaker and author who talks about wealth and overcoming obstacles.
Chris Gardner from being in the medical field to deciding that was not in fact for him to being homeless to taking a non-paying internship where he had to work twice as hard as everyone else to earning the job on the other side of that internship to going to become a CEO to having a movie made about his life and Will Smith playing his part.
Reginald Lewis from working to pulling together enough dough to secure McCall patterns which was bankrupt to turning it around to leaving this earth AND, most importantly, leaving behind a legacy his family could continue.

People of color did not write the book on struggle and overcoming adversity—however we do take up a great many chapters and should be deemed experts if the circumstances are in order.

(NO) WELCOME MAT

I met a gypsy and she hip to some life game
To stimulate then activate the left and right brain
Said baby boy you only funky as your last cut
You focus on the past your ass will be a has what
~Andre 3000

The President is coming to town and nooooobody wants to hang out. Seriously. Roy Barnes, former Georgia governor and Democratic gubernatorial front-runner for this year’s election has plans to campaign in middle and south Georgia. It’s the part of the state un-affectionately known as the “other Georgia;” it gets little attention and needs help with a capital h. John Barrow, another Democrat, and running for Congress is in DC undergoing minor surgery (shazam! He’s got healthcare? Wonder if he’s single…?).

Congressman and civil rights icon John Lewis’ staff has simple stated he “has other plans.” Jim Marshall, also running for Congress, is helping his daughter move (on a weekday?). And Hank Johnson, who has the President’s endorsement prominently featured in his dry-a radio spots (can we get some hip-hop music in the background, please!) is also in DC, preparing for his spot on an impeachment board prosecuting a judge.

It doesn’t matter if we feel these gentlemen’s reasons are valid or not. We live in a democracy. Hence, if the man who is not exactly your boss, but sort of in charge of the company you work for, comes to town, you do not have to bend over backwards to see him. But this does show how the tide can turn. One day you can be hot stuff, and the next… Furthermore, it isn’t really surprising since President Obama did not get Georgia's electoral vote in 2008.

Still, the last time President O. visited Georgia (February 2010), he spent most of his time in Savannah. It is said that a good time was had by all. He even went by Mrs. Wilkes and got down on some fried chicken—the First Lady wasn’t with him, so he got to do whatever he damn well pleased (pretty sure, though, he caught hell when he got back to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.).

But that was then.

The honeymoon America had with its first African-American President, who still “speaks so well and is articulate” but just not saying what we need to hear, is over. Matter of fact, the memo came out with the last unemployment figures.

Yet another way to look at it is that Barnes is about the business of getting re-elected. Given the rampant, crushing, joblessness, poverty, etc. occurring statewide, surely, getting an up close and personal look at his constituents’ needs is more important than the President’s trip. In 2012, regardless as to whether or not President Obama is still at the helm, he won’t be hurting for much. But the people that Barnes is going to visit may not be as fortunate.

And perhaps Congressman Lewis’ very short yet crystal clear message is that he does not want to be bothered with the dude he did not support initially. See, it wasn’t until after Obama clinched the Iowa Caucus in January that Lewis switched his support from Hillary Clinton. It’s sorta like, “I only did what my people told me to do. I wasn’t feeling you then and now…well, you ain’t all of that.”

I watched part of the President’s appearance on “The View” last week. Everyone was all abuzz and shit. Shoot, even Barbara Walters, who is recuperating from heart surgery, came by to see him (Barb really loves the brothers, doesn’t she…?). But it’s apparent, especially with Hasselbeck digging and damn near calling the man a liar, that the President ain’t getting much love when he travels these days.

It’s like that cousin dropping by your crib with his bad ass step-kids—not his fault they are bad; they were like that when he married his wife. He’s doing his best, but they’re simply off the chain. You cannot tell him to go away because he’s your favorite cousin. So you let he and his family in, but make up some shit you “gotta do” so they know they “can’t stay long.”

Indeed I feel sorry for the President. No worse feeling than to go “whisitting” (my late Dad’s southern way of saying, “visiting”) and folks put the “gone fishing” sign out before you even arrive in town. Damn.

I’m just a low level reservist, but if the President asked, I would have lunch with him (and since he’s technically my boss, he’d treat, right?) We would not even have to talk shop; just about music, movies and parenting in this day and age.

But that’ll never happen.

Hey, maybe he should see if Jermaine Dupri, Tyler Perry or Outkast are at home…

AHA MOMENT # 3
(HOW TO STOP, BUT THEN START AGAIN)

life can bring through many changes
just don’t give up
it’s gonna be alright
people come and they go
it’s just the way it goes
everything is everything
its alright…
~ Ledisi

Sometimes it is okay to turn around and go back. And there are times, literally, that you have to “cut and run—” backwards. This revelation came to me while running on Friday. See, on Monday, I got drenched during my workout; if only I had turned around...

The afternoon sky was full of bright, fluffy, non-threatening clouds that looked like pillows almost too good to sleep on. And a nap was in order once I completed my very tardy run (bad, lazy soldier!). It was noon already and half past scorching hot, but I needed to tackle some fitness demons—small hills and lunges, or Iron Mikes. Both are about mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it don’t matter. And since I had a lot on my mind, this workout was necessary.

About two months ago, I began stopping at a nearby recreation center halfway along my route to jump rope, and get in some Iron Mikes. It took a while to get used to this, because I felt that stopping, was resting, or cheating. Moreover, I was scared that if I stopped, I would not start again. Starting, stopping, and starting again has never been easy for me. I explained to someone recently, that I’m an “all or nothing” kinda person.

Again, it’s hot as hell, and now I’m a little thirsty (forgot my canteen). Nevertheless, I pause my run, and began exercising while intermittingly directing the choir as Mariah Carrey’s “Fly Like A Bird” blasted in my ears. After 20 minutes, I glance up at the sky. A few more clouds had gathered and appeared to be forming a tight affront, but no big “whoop.” I stretch again and wiped a few tears from my eyes because Mariah puts the “B” in “A & B” solo (if you don’t know, ask a southern Baptist Fire-Baptized Pentecostal and they’ll explain it to you).

I began a moderate-paced run back to the house. After half a block, I feel a few sprinkles. Still, not a big deal; however, in a flash, the rain became quite steady. A sane person would have considered going back to the recreation center shelter. But the last three years have been everything except sane for me, nor has anything made much sense—multiple, devastating deaths in my family, my tires getting jacked off my car as it sat outside my window, and an accident on the job that could have killed me and the passengers on my vehicle. Some would say that’s just “life,” yet it seemed to happen all at one time.

So I trudged on believing this rain was a symbolic cleansing or benediction of sorts to my spiritual workout. I kept my stride, undaunted, even when the sky completely opened up and it started raining like a—you get the idea…

By the second block, it became crystal clear I had made a mistake. I could not see a damn thing. Sweat mixed with rain stung my eyes. Making matters worse, was my cell phone, glued to my hip. All day I had been anxiously awaiting a call; the last thing I could afford was for that to stop working. I quickly tucked the case inside my already soaked shorts.

Now the frightening part—all along this particular block, the trees hang quite low and into the street. The week prior, two metro Atlanta teenagers were struck, one fatally, by lightening. I did my best not to panic, and ran to the nearest porch. Don’t know a soul in this neighborhood and I gotta be honest: I was scared. What if the owners freak out seeing a soaking wet black woman with locs on their porch and start to shoot? I decide to take the chance with the buckshot to the ass over the lightening.

After about ten minutes, the rain subsides. I haul ass and just as I reach the front yard it starts to come down again. My phone survived, alas my Adidas did not. They are lying in state on the patio while I pass the hat to raise enough money for “final arrangements.”

I was soaked to my drawers, y’all. As I rung out my clothes, muttering, “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I thought about all the times in my life I had to “turn around” and “go back.” Or how sometimes, I started, stopped, but never went back and finished; there are many. I was joining the Reserves in a few days; this is my third enlistment. The fact that I had “cut and run” from the military before—twice, and returning—again, took center stage in my mind. When I left active duty in 2008, a lot of people thought it was a dumb move—and they were very vocal about it. There were several serious, personal reasons for my decision; and I’ve tried not to let folks’ opinion get to me. Nevertheless, it hurts, because most of the naysayers are immediate family. Some, including an ex-boyfriend, indirectly called me a coward and said I was “afraid to deploy.” Whoa.

Things are somewhat different for me now. Some good, some bad; yet, enlisting is a choice I feel a lot better about this time around. I’m a little more in control and indeed better informed. So the Friday after my baptismal by “southern afternoon downpour,” I checked the sky for clouds and smiled. I was confident that sometimes it’s okay to turn around go back. Every so often in order to keep dry and prevent lightening from striking your ass, it’s damn necessary.

Axe.

The Lesson:
One of the secrets to success is to never tell what you know. No matter who you are, or how nice of a person you may be, someone will for whatever reason, want to piss on your parade. When you have a plan in mind: keep the shit to yourself (seriously). But put that plan into motion; don’t just talk about it—be about it.

MOUNTAINS VERSUS MOLEHILLS

…I’ve got my strength
And it don’t make sense
Not to keep on pushin’
~Curtis Mayfield

Don’t know who in the hell came up with the saying, “stop making a mountain out of a molehill,” but um, I have beef with them. You see, I have found in recent weeks that in fact, molehills can actually be mountains. While working on my exercise regiment for three months, using the outdoors plus anything I could find in the house and my imagination, I got in good shape. I was confident that I could not only “Be All That I Could Be” when I re-enlisted in the coming months, but I could also successfully combat any genetic or stray disease that came my way.

There are three massive hills, junior-sized mountains, within a half of a mile of where I live—almost a 35% upgrade. I slowly, but surely overcame them inside of about 60 days. Slowly, surely. Yes, there were days when I had to walk those hills; but as soon as I got to the top, I started running again. Eventually, I was able to run up those “mini-mountains,” at a moderate pace, of course, with little to no ease.



Now, the minor bumps in the road, 10% to 15% upgrade—the molehills, if you will, I never gave a second thought. I would race over those with near maximum speed and arrogant determination. “Shoot. Little ass hill ain’t nothing,” I would brag as I increased my stride and pumped my arms to whatever song I was listening to on my MP3 player.

Alas, that was in April.

Then suddenly and unceremoniously, I hit the wall, as Cliff Huxtable once explained on “The Cosby Show.” And it was not just any wall, y’all. It was the small hills along my route that were giving me as a fellow writer says, “the business.” All of a sudden I could not make it over the molehills. I would get half way atop them and have to either slow to a walk or a damn near crawl (say what?).



Cannot pinpoint exactly why this is happening, or specifically now. Heat, maybe (this is the hottest summer on record in a long time)? Lack of rest, perhaps (admittedly, I need to go to bed a LOT earlier)? Increased stress about re-enlisting (can I keep up with the young ‘uns?)? I just don’t know. But it got me to thinking about theoretical or figurative molehills.

It’s not the big fights with the ex-in-laws that drive you crazy. It’s the “little” comments about your kids’ clothes or behavior. It’s not the fact that the co-worker you have no love for purposely passes by your desk eight times in one morning talking loud and being disruptive, but the fact that she looks you in the eye when she does it. It’s not the fact that that there is no more orange juice in the house and your mouth was “all set” for some OJ. It’s when somebody’s trifling ass leaves the (large) bottle in the fridge with less than a swallow that you wanna scream. So yes, dammit, the small shit—the “molehills,” they matter.

What am I going to do about my molehills—literal and metaphoric? Shit, I have no idea. But it seems to me when you acknowledge them, realize & believe that you are bigger than they are, and make a plan, they can be eradicated just as easily as they appeared. Just takes patience; lots of patience…

Axe.

Currently Reading: Various Army History tidbits (if you have one that is interesting or unusual, please share!)
Currently Listening To: Keep On Pushing by Curtis Mayfield & The Impressions

AHA MOMENT # 29

When down and out…
…always reach out.
~ Sonia Clark

For the past 27 months, like a lot of Americans, I have been under- or un- employed. The last few months that have been the toughest though. It started back in February. I was closing in on a 6 mo. housing situation that in itself ain’t bad at all; some would say it’s ideal. Howsoever, when your ego is used to things “a certain way,” even a minor miscommunication feels like Mt. Rushmore. Add the frustration of isolation (my close friends live out of state), constant lack of funds, multiple deaths in the family including my Dad, and a minor health revelation to the mix and it’s a bad thing. A very bad thing. (BTW: I’m in good shape, but must continue to work out regularly and STILL desperately need to cut sugar from my diet completely).

A month ago, I began asking for help from some friends, mainly fellow college alum and folks from the block back in Brooklyn. They’ve been a wealth of support and offered priceless information. No, they didn’t solve all my problems or find a job for me. Yet their advice, added to the leads I already had, and my plans to return to the military as a reservist, greatly broadened my prospects. And it is simply because I finally shared my desires and asked questions. It has been nothing short of amazing.

Yesterday, however, I started to kick myself for waiting so long to seriously, earnestly ask for help. “What took you so long?” I ask myself aloud. I was driving home after meeting members of my new Army Reserve unit. “Damn,” I say, shaking my head, realizing that months of being ashamed and embarrassed to ask for help, equates to precious time wasted. And time, is irreplaceable.

This pity part of sorts, trying to do things “on my own,” is a natural human reaction. When “wounded” or feeling helpless, we either lash out or go into recluse. We hide or take swipes at people who are merely trying to help. National Geographic or Discovery channel shows often tell of injured animals that do any and everything to keep people (or other animals) away. Why? They know they are vulnerable and can easily be further harmed or even killed. All the animal knows is to protect themselves at all costs. Big mistake, but when you are hurting, protection at any cost appears to be the usual instinct.

As I was running a few days ago, G.C. Cameron’s, “So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday” came on my MP3 player (the “original,” y’all). I thought about the final scene of Cooley High, with Preach at Cochise’s grave. Preach had ditched the funeral and was running away from home—to Hollywood, to pursue a writing career. Even before the death of his best friend, a dude he called brother, Preach was already hurting. Earlier in the film, his teacher (played by Garrett Morris) saw Preach wasting his life. So he asks the quick-witted, extremely intelligent pupil, what, exactly he wants out of life. Without hesitation, Preach answers, “I want to live forever.” Because immortality is impossible, this answer was about spitting back at life. For whatever reasons—fear probably being one of them, Preach feels his dreams were simply not possible. So the fact that he thought he could not accomplish his dreams hurt Preach. And now, with Cochise dead, he is really hurting.

However, Preach pulls himself together and declares to Cochise’s coffin, that he is “gonna make it...” With that, he turns, backpack on his shoulder, and begins to run, setting off on his quest to become a screenwriter. Cue The Four Tops, “I’ll Be There/Reach Out.” This cut is actually a love song between a man and a woman. But I have made it my anthem. I’m gonna reach out. Stop being too proud to say, “I need a little help with…,” “Really want to get my book published, yet not sure how to…” Or, “I’ve been trying to get a gig at --- yet I’m not getting a response on the phone or via email. You know anybody there…?” And I hope that when someone feels I can help, or at least point them in the right direction, they will reach out to me as well.

Axe.

Currently Reading: Why We Make Movies (Black Filmmakers Talk About the Magic of Cinema) by George Alexander

Currently Listening To: Various Army Cadence (I say, “Ho’ah!”)

GREENER GRASS AND KINDRED SPIRITS

Girls have an unfair advantage over men: if they can’t get what they want being smart, they can get it by being dumb.
~ actor Yul Brynner

When we look at our negatives, we always think that the person with the positives has it so much better. Today I realized it is not about better. It’s simply not. When I came across the Yul Brynner quote on someone’s FaceBook page, it gave me cause to pause. And it was a long pause, y’all. See, I went on my morning jog and pondered why Yul would say such a thing. He seemed like such an intelligent guy when he was alive; seemed being the key word. Maybe this shit was taken out of context. Maybe.

But then I thought about comedienne Mo’Nique. For a long time, I did not like her—at all. Oh, I gave her props for being funny and all, but she wrote two books, “Skinny Women Are Evil: Notes of a Big Girl in a Small Minded World,” and “Skinny Cooks Can’t Be Trusted.” WTH?

This hurt my feelings especially since I have in fact struggled with weight issues at least three in my life; twice even, while I was in the Army. Why was she perpetrating all this hate on women who happened to be thin (whether they had to work for it or it was simple DNA?). What, exactly, had we done? Truth be told, I am jealous of plus-sized women. Except for two times in my life, I have always been flat-chested. And without surgery, that will not change—not gonna happen; well, maybe… Anyway, all of the full sized women I know have it together—confident, no-nonsense, and handling their business. True, I often see men overlook them, and I feel their hurt because, hey, guess what? I am not winning beauty contests, my damn self. So with regards to myself and the rest of the plain women versus plus-sized ladies, in the words of Andre 3000 (“Elevators”), “…we like neck to neck.”

The other reason Mo’Nique got no love or respect from me, was her sitcom, “The Parkers.” To me it was the dumbest show on the planet that degraded Black women everywhere, even in Africa! It was supposed to be about a sister going back to college with her daughter, the challenges they faced, etc. All I saw was a together black woman voluntarily living a stereotypical life—speaking Ebonics, frequently behaving ignorant, and chasing after a man who did not want her at all. Plus, the dozen or so times I happened to watch, I never saw them inside of a classroom. The plot from week-to-week was some re-hashed “Laverne & Shirley” or “I Love Lucy” bullshit.

Yet we all know what happened—Mo’Nique used that as a stepping stone.




And I have watched her career. I loved her in “Domino (though I have fallen asleep on it twice).” Then I recognized that she was spreading her wings a little bit in “Two Can Play At That Game” and “Baby Boy.” Have to pause here and share that I recently read Mo’Nique says the most valuable advice she ever received was from Jamie Foxx who told her, “Never let them tell you what you cannot do (say what?).” Not sure when, exactly he told her this, but we all know that Ms. Thing rocked the house in “Precious” as the mother even the Devil wouldn’t want—Mary Jones. Furthermore, this role earned her mad awards, including, an Oscar. First time out in a major role, first time win. Lotta people said she was a long shot, but I was pulling for her and not surprised when then called her name.

Today was the first time in forever that I thought about her comments regarding skinny women. Not sure how she feels now because she has dropped a massive amount of weight. Nevertheless, I don’t think that Mo’Nique had it in for us thin ladies or was intentionally out to make us feel “less than.” She was merely highlighting the differences amongst us, obviously being “pro-Big Girl.” And like most comedians say, “It’s just jokes...” Furthermore, I do not think Mo’ was playing dumb on “The Parkers.” Shit, it’s a man’s world—plain and simple. And often in order to get what you want, you have to speak a man’s language…

Axe.

Don’t usually do this, but since I am neither specifically reading nor listening to anything at the moment, I’d like to dedicate this entry to the following women:

K. Redd (you got the Sunday paper?), S. Thompson-Johnson (NYPD Blue, if no one else does, I appreciate you!), M. Massey-Jones (I’m taking your spot in the alumni band), J. Hoffman (are your ears tired, yet?), J. Canty (ditto), T. C. Lagon (ditto, ditto), K. M. B. (is BKLYN--not that other borough, in the house? Just kidding. Thank you.) and my daughter—my baby (but my oldest), B. L. M., a.k.a. “Headley” (Mom loves you, sweetheart!)

PS I actually am listening to a Robin Harris clip on TJMS. Man, I miss that dude. He and Bernie Mac—both gone too soon. RIP gentlemen.

NOW…

…that I have written about never giving up (Did I Miss The Revolution?), gotta—or GOT TO write about picking up and moving on after failure. Singer and actor Chris Brown made a horrible mistake last year and people have been trying to crucify him, almost literally, for it ever since. And one of my favorite singers, El DeBarge has had recurring, serious trouble with the law, plus a dependency issue for several years. Neither of these men—brothers, had nothing to lose when they performed on Black Entertainment Television’s 10th Annual Awards show. Absolutely nothing. Still they rocked the house and reminded us—quite passionately, why we loved them in the first place.

For Brown, it was tribute to the Late Michael Jackson (first time I written “late” next to Mike’s name; perhaps my denial is slowly starting to wane…). Though I was a little disappointed that the multi-talented singer could not pack the pain away for a few minutes to at least start and try to make his way through, “Man In The Mirror,” I still had goose bumps watching him. It was amazing. The crowd loved him. Sure, that’s cliché, but there is no other way to phrase it. They were giving him his due—something he had been begging for since February 2009.

I KNOW he would have rocked the song, yet I believe that Mike was there on stage in spirit, giving Chris a magic moment to “be one with the audience,” as MJ himself had probably done on occasion. Brown was so moved by the love that he could not even speak, let alone sing. I look forward to Chris keeping his public promise (not to let anyone down); although, the reason his transgression has been dragged out is because people are looking to judge, hold a grudge and be hypocritical. We all need to mind our damn business, let this young man go back to making a living and entertaining us in the process.



But it was El. I say again, it was El. Eldra to those who know what it’s really all about—“I Like It,” “All This Love,” “Stay With Me,” “Time Will Reveal,” “Love Me In A Special Way,” “A Dream (say what?)” and “Rhythm of the Night.” Mr. DeBarge, “still fine and he can call me any time,” let us know that he had been truly bent, but not broken. Down, but not out; shattered, but now most definitely self-assured. As El turned to face the audience singing “All This Love,” and began the lines, “I’ve had some problems…,” he had a look in his eyes that let us know he was testifying.

And while he performed, “Second Chance” (new cut from forthcoming CD), he had such a confidence about him that the lyrics very well could have said, “I’m back and I’m ready.” His crisp, seductive falsetto voice has not changed a bit; that’s a blessing given that he’s been to prison and the struggled with drugs for quite some time (listen to Whitney’s chops post-rehab…). It may have seemed a little cheesy or degrading that his second performance fell into one of the “Music Matters,” segments. MM is BET’s way of showcasing new artists who have not had much time in the spotlight yet. But in essence, El has got to pay dues all and work his way back into the hearts and souls of folks. And it might be my imagination, but to me, he seemed to enjoy singing in the same category with the “unknowns.”

And did anyone else peep the teeny tiny ironies surrounding El’s return? The fact that Jermaine Jackson was present to introduce Chris Brown, who paid tribute to MJ and that Brown himself was making a comeback of sorts? See, when DeBarge blazed the scene, people sorta-kinda compared the group to the Jackson 5 and sorta-kinda said El was the next MJ (in retrospect, though, I’d have to say, “not so much.”). And that it was Jermaine, in fact, who was already producing the older DeBarges in the group Switch and then introduced the younger DeBarges (Bunny, El, Mark, Randy and James) to Berry Gordy.

Nevertheless, with or without these coincidences, El knows he is ready to do what he does best. I find the whole thing inspiring, and my heart is so full with hope it almost weeps. Everyday folks complain about their lives and what we “go through.” Here is a person who has “been there” and back, yet still able to stand and say, “I can make it.” That’s nothing short of awesome. El almost personifies Donnie McClurkin’s, “We Fall Down.”

Axe.

P.S.: Maxwell, El thanks you for holding it down (and well!); you can take a breather…

Currently Reading: Some of Everthing (SOE) ("spring cleaning")
Currently Listening To: Just letting the iTunes play...

DID I MISS THE REVOLUTION?

Was it televised?

I am simply marveling in the fact that an undecidedly unqualified, not exactly politically desirable candidate has made it to the “championship game,” and that said candidate is Black. Too rich. I am talking about what everyone is talking about: Alvin Greene. The dishonorably discharged unemployed veteran is making headlines for his lackadaisical campaigning in addition to his criminal charges. I guess gone are the days when Blacks have to be twice, or even three times as good as the next (white) man to make it.

I’m not applauding Greene’s criminal record (showing pornography to a 19-year-old college student). Nor am I too pleased with the fact that he did very little campaigning (he missed a couple of scheduled events)—even though he is unemployed (say what?). What I do like is this proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that miracles do in fact happen; you see I had given up here recently, sans the Celtics loss to the Lakers and a number of other situations located closer to home than I would like…

Trying not to highlight the brother’s negative issues, but you have to admit, it seems crazy to have this much going against you and still be able to make the cut. It’s almost ridiculous. Still, I am slightly to almost partially inspired. You see if only for a moment in time, Alvin Greene is the reason you never give up—ever. You hang in there and fight the good fight until you are about to pass out. For decades there have been people of color who were clearly better choices for a job, politic office, buy a home—whatever, were turned down, turned out and turned away. Greene proves that sometimes, the underdog does win despite having a really bad case of fleas…

Axe.

Currently Listening To: Huggy Lowdown on the TJMS
Currently Reading: Internet news

BACKWARDS…(AND FORWARD)

Never leave the one you love for the one you like because the one you like may leave you for the one they love... ~Unknown

To quote one of my favorite singers, Anita Baker, “Sometimes we play the fool.” I got played. By WordPress.com. Let me preface this by saying I am not all that HTML, javascript or web savvy, so the “own-ness” is kinda on me. Still, I was drawn in by the flashy templates, sophisticated styles and the fact that friends, and “friends of friends” had WordPress blogs. But alas, almost a month later and I cannot get shit done. In order to change the text you have to download a text package of some sort—and that’s just the beginning of my problems. I went over to WordPress.org which is somehow akin to, but not the same as WordPress.com. And they tell you straight up (in fine print, hidden behind a couple of pages) that if you are not technically inclined, using their website may be difficult (sigh.)

So this is how I wind up BACK at Blogger.com, whom I had sworn off because I felt extremely limited in how I could express myself. I found the templates boring, outdated and severely lacking flexibility, especially with regards to photo and art positioning.

I am sad. I liken this feeling to returning to that old boyfriend I said I would never go back to. You know the one you have outgrown and you assuredly advise, “…it’s not you, it’s me.” While he says nothing as you walk away, the hurt look in his eyes says, “You’ll be back.” And though expressionless, you smugly say to yourself, “Like hell…”

However, in order to “make some things happen,” I gotta do what I gotta do—move back in with the old boyfriend, I mean blog. But I have, as my sister would say, “…an exit strategy in mind.” Feel free to check me, if say, by Labor Day, I have not made the switch and moved on to a bigger and better blog.

Axe

Currently Reading: Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It: Inside Guerrilla Filmmaking by Spike Lee
Currently Listening To: Buddhist Chants