www.cheers-saleem.com

Anybody that knows me and sees that picture probably thinks I’m bigging up my Cowboys also known as Big D.  When my Cowboys beat the Giants this Sunday top of my list was to go talk shit to my boy “Big D” a staunch Giants fan.  I just found out he passed in his sleep a few days ago.  I always find it so suprising and remoresfully sad when someone I know from other realms of life die.  I mean I have friends that have been dancing around bullets for years and when the music stops I go “damn”.  When I heard D passed I went “Noooooooooooo, What??? WTF???”.  It’s one of them unexpected sad, sad things that really shake you.  He was a cool jovial dude who bartended at The Midtown Yatch Club here in Baltimore a few blocks from my house, yet I met him years and years ago when both of us were on the same side of the bar chugging down beers and berating eachother’s teams.  Rest in peace Big D, may God bless your soul–you were definitely loved by many, many people.

Click here

Here’s where it gets interesting.  One of my boys who was also at the spot with us with his new girl who left prior to us leaving gives me a call.  He says his girl left and went to a club and was drugged and he just recovered her laying on a curb and returned her home.  Now he wants to go “get the motherfucker”.  I want to look out for my boy and any female taken advantage of but I got a “we will lock your black ass up for 10 years if you ever lay your hand on another human being in the next five years” clause hanging round my head– well for at least two more years.  So he assures me that I have to do nothing–so I tell him if he gets permission from my guardian–I will roll out.  Micki hears the story: “she was drugged??? let’s be out” and I trade in my slacks for something in black and we all roll out to the club.  It was closed.  so we meet up with our boy–an old school rapper from back in the days and we go bar to bar to find this mofo (we had a description). 

Unfortunately encyclopedia brown Micki also had a description of the drugged girlfriend.  Not unfortunate for us but for my boy-the boyfriend.  Micki gets the bartender to divulge that yes his girlfriend was in there with another woman and proudly pronouncing her lesbianism before leaving–undrugged.  Also the club that she claimed to be at–which is notorius for drug misuse–has not been open in weeks.

 Moral of the story?  Don’t try to get shit past Micki–not that I ever tried–I aint that stupid.  And that was our night.

 In other very more important news–I’ll believe it when I see it–baby girl is sposed to come home this weekend-9 years early.  We already paid for the plane ticket.  I am in a perpetual state of balled up emotions and will relapse/explode as soon as I am assured she has set foot on American soil.  Pray for us.

She died 30 minutes later at Shock Trauma. The attack happened as Nicole and her brother were heading home from their jobs at a fast food restaurant in Linthicum.
This is a sad sad story, but what’s even sadder is my speculation that Baltimore Police are up to old tricks.  Every article I read on this story says the light rail stop was in West Baltimore.  Anyone who lives in Baltimore will tell you the light rail doesn’t let off anywhere that would be coined “West Baltimore”.  By the looks of it the incident had to occur somewhere between Falls Road and Timonium–affluent middle to upper-class neighborhoods that don’t want to have a murder in their stats which may affect their property value.  So this murder will be documented as occurring in “West Baltimore”

March 9th is once again upon us, and every March 9th me and my man P-Funk, my favorite and best DJ in the land somehow find a way to pay tribute to Christopher Wallace, AKA Biggie Smalls, AKA Biggie, AKA, B.I.G., AKA The Notorious Big, AKA Big Poppa, AKA Frank White, AKA The King of New York. More often than not we have a show, a party, etc. etc. but this year even though we may attend a tribute show, my homegirl, Brooklyn’s Finest Diva gave me the idea to do it here in blogland. Actually she didn’t give me the idea– it was her idea and being the geek I am, I figured out how I could make it happen.

With that said let me mention my reasoning for my appreciation of Biggie (as I like to affectionately call him as seen in this post). Simply stated, I love Biggie because he sang my life to me. Away in College going from a 100% minority environment to a 3% minority environment– Biggie kept me home, kept my memories of home alive. Negative as they may be, it was like a Roberta Flack song– he was strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words. Sitting in classes, playing badmitton, eating hot wings and pitchers of beer that wasn’t malt liquor, barbequing with no BBQ sauce– all elements of culture shock– had me grasping for Big. Not the luxurius lifestyle but the constant every day grind– the every day struggle– hustling– every single allusion Biggie makes to hustling– I get, I recall it. I loved it because someone knew my story– and made a song about it. Then as I heard more– the robbery allusions and avoiding being stuck up made me think that Biggie was somehow my brother or my best friend who somehow learned to rap and sent the stories we had been through and news of what was going on to me– in song.

Also, Big in my opinion, in the genre, was and is the greatest lyricist of all times. His rhyme scheme was so abstract it could not be metered. A lot of people put Tupac above Big as a rapper–that’s impossible. Big has not and can not be duplicated– his look maybe– his voice maybe– his rhyme scheme and basic abstract lyricism can not be duplicated– there have been 10 or so Pacs-only one Biggie. As a phenom, as an entity, Tupac was way bigger than Big– hell people still see him at Greyhound stations or whatever. I dug Pac, he was our shining black prince, not to align him with Malcolm but he represented the abivalent situation given our generation. But as far as a rapper he was not Big.

This is my 2006 tribute to Biggie, by blog. Check out the tracks I have here, there are some tracks I guarantee you have never heard, for example Biggie & Frank Sintra tracks mixed, and a never before heard Big song that just surfaced this year “Biggie Got the Hype Shit”. Enjoy– the greatest of all times.

It’s been a long, long time coming
But I know a change gonna come
Oh, yes it is.

I was born by the river in a place you might know
Some call it the ghetto - but I always called it home.
Times were good and bad, happy and sad
And since the good and happy didn’t outweigh the bad and sad
I grabbed my bags
And went
And just like that damn river I been running ever
since –Can’t keep running away-Away from all the hookers, Benjamins, and bullets screamin my name
So I ran downtown

I go to the movies, and I go downtown
Ran right into one of them big old office buildings
There I ran into bigger crooks and bigger pimps-with no hats
Gave me a few thousand so I could make them a few million
So to them my soul I owe-I sold my soul to the company stoe
I eat, shit and sleep “My Company”, I.N.C.
And as far as I can see, this is the way it’s gonna be
Be careful of what you wish for black man
You wanted your chance
But I ain’t done-I still can run
Cuz I know-a change gone come.

It’s been too hard living
But I’m afraid to die
I don’t know what’s up there beyond the sky

It’s been a long, long time coming
But I know a change gonna come
Oh yes it will

Damn right it’s been too hard living
Why do I feel like I am the one always giving
And life is just take take takin my ass like I’m some
old hoe
Gangsta pimp daddy IRS keep tellin me how much I owe
While I can’t buy a goddamn tie without being followed
around the store
Can’t drive 5 miles below the speed limit in a car
less than five years old
Without standing on a highway with my hands behind my
head while my rights are being told
Better yet withhold

While they withhold my rights I with hold my rights,
lefts, jabs and uppercuts
Cuz I ain’t going out without a fight-I ain’t done
I know damn well a change gone come

Then I go to my brother
I say brother help me please
But he winds up knocking me
Back down on my knees

There’s been times that I thought
I wouldn’t last for long
But now I think I’m able to carry on
It’s been a long, long time coming
But I know a change is gonna come
Oh, yes it will

I go to my brother and he says “excuse me brother can
you spare a dime”
And I say “hell no I’m tired of that line”
And he says “are you my brother’s keeper”
Yes I am
He says “are you my brother’s keeper”
Well yes I am
But I’m sorry Mr. Co-Cane user I’m really not Abel
And I ain’t keeping my brother if he doesn’t want to
be kept

And I ain’t talkin about no I’m keepin it real thug
ass fake pork chop revolutionary Alan Keyes wanna be
Are you my brother or not–I am not Tiger Woods
I know who I am

Yet when it’s all said and done they’ll be black
Like Harry Bellafonte and James Weldon Johnson came
back
And what do I mean by that?
Black, black as the color of your Id
Not cuz of any of the shit you did

Transcending Faddish, contemporary, pop culture
coolness
Basic black that can bask in bonafide blackness

Not black that
That- skates around in airwalks and baggy jeans
Black that says “power to the people” and knows what
it means
When being black, not acting black is cool
When racism becomes the exception not the rule
When regular reagan era non republican radicals
realize
Not all racist wear white capes or live in trailer
parks
That’s when my mission is done
And it’s gonna happen
Cuz my man Sam, Sam my man-told me-a change gone come

It’s been a long, long time coming
But I know a change gonna come
Oh, yes it is

co. 2000

Ring the alarm�ring the alarm
Another youngster�s dying woe �ooh
�
He sat back and laffed
�And said �you do the math�
you work 9 to 5 and sometime more,
get paid on the 1st and on the 2nd ya broke
I make 50 geez off every key
Da fuck do you know
Your tired ass sittin on a bustop waiting for the number 64
And your ass still fuckin with windows?
Sup with that yo?�
I began to speak but the elder ceased my rant
He said �let me handle this cuz apparently you can�t�
Looked at the youngster and began to spew
�you say you make alotta money and this may be true
but them boys in blue is making a fool outta you
building jails, hiring more cops
half of America employed cuz of the shit you do
Our people fought for 40 acres and a mule
Gave your ass 40 ounces and a white horse and you cool
See them white folks across the street peeking at us through the windows?
I remember when this entire neighborhood was black and them houses were owned by negroes
I worked 40 something years through rain sleet and snow
Stood on picket lines and marched to give yo ass a window of opportunity
And when all else failed they put me in a cell and for 10 years and I wish I had a window
So to thrive, survive, and stay alive, this is all I know
My family eats well everyday and that�s for sure
No regrets feeling free to reap what I sow
And to keep my life high and away from the lows
To work I go
�
So I � wash on � wash off
And my brother there
Click �click-double click
We
Do windows.

co. 1998

*coincidentally this is the basis of my first script completed 2006

EDUCATION:
1972-1990 School of the Hard Knocks

The streets of Philadelph, Illadelph, make sure you don�t kill yourself
Major: Survival � Degree: Denial

1990-1995 Penn State University � I know you heard of me–40,000 plus �but that was none of us�Culture Shock, Ock

Major: Political Studies, Liberal Studies, Journalistic Studies, Communication Studies�or basically whatever I could study– studies

Degree: Baccalaureate of the “You must be artful to use this degree” arts �with smarts in African America studies.
Don�t expect monies �cuz uh actually you aint from or never been to Africa and you aint guaranteed all your rights as an American
So forget all you can while you attempting to claim African and or American in the meantime being played by the man.

WORK EXPERIENCE:

1972-1985: workin on my momma nerves

1985-1992: hustla, playa, convict too misguided youth partime �half conscious blackman fulltime

Duties including but not limited to the following: Gambler, scrambler, coke dealer, gun dealer, genocidal killer, money peeler
And the girl at the end of the block�yes I am feelin her

1992-1995 bustin my ass to thrive and stay alive
learnin schoolin�showin the nonbelievers I aint foolin— around
I aint that same clown that stayed locked down�robbin all the sweet vics around town
Penitentiary or hellward bound�
but best believe�Tif is still down

1995 to the Present: You wouldn�t believe how far I went�psuedo member of the establishment

Duties including but not limited to the following:
ass kisser, non butt kicker�no more malt liquor�finger off the trigger, pockets are thicker, opportunities are bigger, exemplary figure
But yet and still I know�I�m still considered a nigga

AWARDS AND ACTIVITIES:

Unwilling volunteer: young black man in a society that hates me, bates me, degrades me�blames me
And whose fate we can all see through the disparity�but then again maybe �it�s just me

AWARDED:

Over 25 years of life and that�s no hype�a purple heart for all that got lost in the fight and still continue the plight and neglect factors�white

Member: strong black man club
Member: I was amongst a million club
Member: I aint never gonna give back my black club
Member: Praise God Above and profess my love club

AWARDED: A baby girl. Life, L-I-F-E, eternity, my destiny, bringing out the best in me.
Fate, F-A-T-E, eternally through paternity I will be the best that I can be�and you will see the me that: My momma sees, see that my dramas relieved
See the me that my daughter needs�see the me that God feeds,
See the me beyond me, see the me that is really me.
That�s who I be�it�s all in me.

ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
PEACE, P-E-A-C-E�maybe temporarily or sporadically nonetheless– Peace � Peace of mind peace of soul peace of what I know
And with every little bit of my baby girls glow
Grimmly reapin my sow , I remember the words my grandma tole
“First come God then come you”
Even though that you meant me�I�ma maintain that philosophy and my you will be we and that we will be�a society in search always of that place called free
To mankind above and beyond
all the nonsense
Living by the true meaning of my name �common sense
For my Lord, myself, and my fam�
I�m going to be who I am
Through all the adversity
Whether learned through street or unviserity
I�m going to be � to the best of my ability
With or without stability– me
And we will see the me that is you and the you that is me –that we all may be
Is we�phenominal, multi faceted , people that�s who we be
I�m every one of you�you�re all in me.
Outsandting black man that�s who I be

References Available upon request

co. 1999

*note in my laziness I decided to add a poetry section and eventually put all my old crap there

hip hop is dead–dead I tell ya
hip hop used to be two turn tables and a mic,
hear the beat drop and get hype.
zhigga -zhigga -zhigga Yes - the rhythm, the rebel
Without a pause - I?m lowering my level
The hard rhymer - where you never been I?m in
You want stylin? - you know it?s time again
D the enemy - tellin you to hear it
They praised the music - this time they play the lyrics

Lyrics
anybody remember when you could read lyrics on the inside of an album
cover?
You can?t do that today? how you gonna quote a mumbling brother

I remember hip hop back when LL would rock bells
before everone sold out to get record sells

When to turn a party out all you had to do was shout:
?Is Brooklyn in the house?

When no one could do it better than the 18th letter

hip hop was just a boom and a bip
back before Puffy started fuckin with it

Give me a beat

I was born son of Byford brother of Al
Bens my momma and Runs my pal
It?s McDaniels not McDonalds
these rhymes are Daryl?s but them burgers are Ronald?s
I ran down my family tree, mother my father, my sister and ?

and then the music stopped

Bye bye Afro-American style
Drove my Impala Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry
and good old homeboys drinking malt liquor and wine saying
saying I remember Scott LaRaock
saying I remember Scott LaRaock

Yet never ever thought to question why?
Who, what, when, where or why?
Well let me explain like instructions to a game
a whole lot of shit has changed

I?m talking about hip hop when Common used to lover her
when Run DMC was tougher than leather
Not Reverend Run, Deacon DMC, and Grand Pastor Jay

I?m talkin addidas and puma not Versace sneakers
milk crates full of wax and big ass speakers

I?m talking Timberland not gator boots
Live shows fuck a video shoot

When they used their minds as nines and pens as mac tens

but you know what

Lottie doddie

Lottie doddie we likes to party
we don?t cause trouble we don?t bother nobody
we don?t allegedly stab people in clubs and beat down record producers

and the music stops again

and they got me singing

Bye bye Afro-American style
Drove my Impala Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry
and good old homeboys drinking malt liquor and wine
saying I remember Freaky Tah
I remember Freaky Tah

Think ?where were you when Tupac got shot?
The second time

Doubts on whether he alive yet and still
They Reminisce Over You ?for real

Cast of Self Destruction and We?re all in the same gang
where are they now?on the next Maury Povich

Hot Boys and Ruff Riders sounded gay back in the day
look at how far hip hop has went
you gotta remember it has? No Limit

Where else can you make an album all about weed
stolen from some tripped up P-Funk steez

and ladies
you know we love sweet lady?
is the ladies in this muthafucka?

ladies?when the hell did yall become bitches?
I remember when the only hoe was Evette, dear Evette
And I still haven?t figured out who the REAL roxanne is yet
now Foxxy Brown and lil Kim tellin yall it?s cool to do three or four
best friends
and yall listen like your daddy?s a trick a
and your mommas aint teach yu nann

all about beats? nothing about the streets
whole new rap world out there even a cannibal couldn?t handle
What we need to do is take it back to the Roots

You know hip hop is a hard knock life when muthafuckas will record anything
I?ll do?anything

You know what?

Yall gone make me loose my mind?up in here ?up in here
Since when did a dog bark become a rap lyric ?roof roof

What yall like this new hip hop crap?
Uh huh? Ok? What?s up? Shut up!!

give me a lil bit of that ooontz ooontz

What happened to hip hop ? huh
I can basically grab a mic and say whatever I want- huh
Men As long as I got a fat beat I?m straight -huh
Ladies as long as I got a fat ass I?m straight -huh

Stop the music

Rip Big Pun

Got me singing

Bye bye Afro-American style
Drove my Impala Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry
and good old homeboys drinking malt liquor and wine
saying there will never be another Frank White
saying I remember when Biggie died

And that was the day I cried

The day that hip hop died

Gordon Parks died recently at the age of 93. This man was a true Renaissance man, the photography, the poetry, the Life magazine covers, Shaft– what more can one man do. Rest in Peace elder.

Being lazy I will add my comments on the Three-Six Mafia Oscar performance from Rell’s blog rather than make it a post. I may expound on it later.

Let me start by saying I “hate” on southern music, hell I “hate” on all music, I hate on bafoonery, and I also support the claim that black actors are more appreciated in stereotypical and negative roles from Haddie McDowell to Morgan Freeman, I researched and made this a speech in college. But I have to disagree with Rell. The movie (Hustle ‘n Flow) was very good in my opinion and gave me an appreciation of Southern music– not a like of Southern music– just an understanding. It made me compare it to hip hop as we back East see it and at the time when it was the CNN of the ghetto. The movie made me aware of Southern “culture” and the sound was so applicable it could not be ignored as best song for a movie this year. Not that the song is good at all– it embodies that movie moreso than any song has in years. Straight up Menace (MC EIHT, Menace to Society) was 10 times better a song and it spoke the movie– but it wasn’t as influential as this song. I think the Academy is really appreciating the art, I think this is a boundary broken for urban music and art.

Interesting Post Article

A favorite political track. People Get Ready, Curtis Mayfield
The song you’d use to tell someone you love them. Could It Be I’m falling In love With You, The Spinners
A song that has made you sit down and analyze it’s lyrics. American Pie, Don McLean
A song that you like, that a two year old would like as well. Whoomp There it is, 2 live Crew
A song that gives you an energy boost. Notorious Thugs, Biggie & Bone Thugs
A song that you and your grandparents (would probably) like. One in a Million, Larry Graham (one of my grandma’s favorites)
A song that you really liked when you were 14-16, and still really like now. Candy Girl, New Edition
A sad song that would be in the soundtrack of the movie about your life. Change Gone Come, Sam Cooke
A peppy song that would start the opening credits of the movie about your life. Rebel Without a Pause, Public Enemy
A good song from a genre of music that no one would guess that you liked. Red Hot Chili Peppers (Under the Bridge)
A song that you think should have been playing when you were born. Greatest Man Alive, Three Times Dope
A favorite artist duo collaboration. Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell, You’re All I Need To Get By
A favorite song that you completely disagree with (politically, morally,commonsenically, religiously etc.) Secret lovers, Atlantic Starr
The song that you like despite the fact your IQ level drops several points every time you listen to it. The Whisper Song, Ying Yang Twins
Your smooth song, for relaxing. Ellington/Coltrane, In a Sentimental Mood
A song you would send to someone you hate or are mad at. I Don’t Care, Audio Two feat. Milk D.
A favorite track from an outfit considered a super-group. I don’t know any “super-groups”
A song that makes you reminsce about good times with a family member. Better Days, Diane Reeves
Your favorite song at this moment in time. Redemtion Song, Bob Marley

I got this from narrowcast and find it utterly hilarious. FYI I despised the last Puffy Biggie creation, I really hated the dope verse Puffy spit on the one track. Only reason it was dope is because Eminem wrote it. Puffy gotta be the smartest, richest talentless mofo on the face of the Earth.

Ebony, by Lerone Bennett, Jr.

New Book Says Most Famous Act In American History Never Happened

THE presidential campaign of 1860 was over, and the victor was stretching his legs and shaking off the cares of the world in his temporary office in the state capitol in Springfield, Illinois. Surrounded by the perks of power, at peace with the world, the president-elect was regaling old acquaintances with tall tales about his early days as a politician. One of the visitors interrupted this monologne and remarked that it was a shame that “the vexatious slavery matter” would be the first question of public policy the new president would have to deal with in Washington.

The president-elect’s eyes twinkled and he said he was reminded of a story. According to eyewitness Henry Villard, President-elect Abraham Lincoln “told the story of the Kentucky Justice of the Peace whose first case was a criminal prosecution for the abuse of slaves. Unable to find any precedent, he exclaimed angrily: `I will be damned if I don’t feel almost sorry for being elected when the niggers is the first thing I have to attend to.’”

This story, shocking as it may sound to Lincoln admirers, was in character. For the president-elect had never shown any sincere sympathy for Blacks, and none of his cronies was surprised to hear him suggest that he shared the viewpoint of the reluctant and biased justice of the peace. As for the N-word, everybody knew that old Abe used it all the time, both in public and in private. (Since Lincoln supporters are in a state of constant denial, I have not used elision in reporting his use of the offensive word n–r.)
[full story]

Reading a story in the Philadelphia Daily News I was reminded of a story I have retained over the years. I was told the story by my father’s brother, Edward Torrance, BKA Fast Eddie, about his son (or step-son, things are still sketchy), who was my age when he was arrested years ago. The only particulars, coming from Fast Ed himself, was that his son was railroaded for a murder kidnapping charge and something about a body in the trunk. Fast Ed, my favorite living family member, told many stories. He escaped a life of crime, and drugs in the early 90’s to the immediate South. He told stories of robbing banks, and being arrested for killing someone who turned out to be himself in a gang fight, where he legally died. He told of the Black Mafia and of The Sound of Philadelphia, he spoke about pimpin’, conked hair, wearing capes and carrying canes, and gang warring in North and South Philly.

Here in the immediate South where I escaped to join my uncle, father, sister, and cousin– running from a life of crime and drugs, I re-met my uncle, and this is where he told these stories to me. He tearfully spoke of a youngster that got caught up in the wrong thing at the wrong time. He told me to guide me because I was once a hot head youngster at one time, a youngster that “lucked up” and never had the “activities” I partook in as a wayward youngster result in someone being kidnapped and killed by the hands of someone much more mature and street-wise and deliberately dastard, than the eager kid who wants to “be down” and make a few dollars like I was.

I never met my cousin Stacey, and my reluctance to visit the walls of justice that once held me, will never allow me to do so. By my uncle’s encouragement, and not my father’s–we never really bonded like that– I made of myself into someone as did he– we did it together. Fast Eddie (moves now at a snails pace) is a legend here in the closest major metropolis to the South than Philly, as a Chef, a friend and an overall good guy. His prot�g� (me) armed with a college degree, became a business owner, a 3 time Fortune 500 worker, friend and peer of senators, mayors, lawyers, etc. love, respects, and appreciates what he would later learn and pass on to me.

It’s too bad Fast Eddie hadn’t ascertained and passed on this knowledge to Stacey at the time. Fast Eddie changed, I’ve changed. I still believe in the streets’ “eye for an eye” but Stacey was just a 15 year old kid who’s only direction came from an actual killer– who killed the man Stacey is spending his eternity in jail for being a part of the killing.

Fast Eddie regrets it. So far, he’s saved myself, Eddie Jr. (an exec at a major food chain), my cousin G, and I don’t know about them but I’m pulling people from the hood (mainly my neighborhood of Nicetown/Hunting Park) out, moving them here, giving them the life skills that they need and letting them fly like a butterfly.

Stacey Torrance does not know who I am and probably doesn’t have memory of Edward Torrance. But because of Stacey’s situation, a lot of my family and friends are neglect of the degradive cycle of nothingness we were destined. For that reason alone I think he should be given a new chance at life–his intent may have been skewed, but I guarantee his intent never was murder. I think he should be given a chance, because he gave me a new chance and every and anybody I get in an earshot of a possible chance. Think about it, he’s the only convicted murderer we know of that has never killed anyone. And at the same time, unbeknowingestly stopped a lot of people from killing people. Is he paying too high a price for his role? He deserves a refund– that’s justice.

*actual letter sent to the Philadelphia Daily News

Can this organization stop effing up?

WASHINGTON Feb 12, 2006 (AP)� Vice President Dick Cheney accidentally shot and injured a man during a weekend quail hunting trip in Texas, his spokeswoman said Sunday.
Harry Whittington, 78, was “alert and doing fine” after Cheney sprayed Whittington with shotgun pellets on Saturday at the Armstrong Ranch in south Texas, said property owner Katharine Armstrong.

Armstrong said Cheney turned to shoot a bird and accidentally hit Whittington. She said Whittington was taken to Corpus Christi Memorial Hospital by ambulance.

Cheney’s spokeswoman, Lea Anne McBride, said the vice president was with Whittington, a lawyer from Austin, Texas, and his wife at the hospital on Sunday afternoon.

Copyright 2006 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

Good thing he was hunting quail and not deer therefore using birdshot and not deadly buckshot. *sigh

So, my main man the Baba man has been out of town on work and vacation forever, he texts me about meeting for happy hour. We usually drink up at least thrice a week, so I text him back and agree to meet him for happy hour at a slightly posh spot that offers a two-for-one-anything for happy hour. It�s pricey, but it�s two for one-anything, including top shelf. So if you order a $13 dollar drink�you get two�well worth the cost. I know my baby is downstairs at the gym so I stop by to extend her the invitation, to which she agrees to meet us as she is almost finished and only has to shower. She is in tight fitting sweat pants and a sports bra�sweat glistening all over her Cleveland. This was so sexy to me�I tickle my boobies and pat my booty�give her a smooch and tell her I would see her later. So damn sexy she is. On the way to the establishment I decide to text her. (For All the impaired this is text dialogue via cell phone)

Me: I got a woody
The Baba man: Good 4u
Me: ooooooooooooooh shit�sorry Dawg, my bad, wrong window!

Yes, my text went to Baba instead of my baby. It was hysterical to me even given the implications�glad it was the Baba and not a co-worker.

No-homo

*Although this is basically what I see when she is on the treadmill– this is not my baby: IMG courtesy of nsI from ElementsParty.com

OK, Friday night, just got paid, me and the lady live it up– all the time. We’re at my buddies club, same club (former owner) that gave me a bottle of Moet because I told her I was a one woman man now, same club I met Indie Arie twice, same club Derek Jeter, Ray Lewis can be seen in. So we get it in, last I know tab is over 100– which is not much but alot for a non-celbratory regular Friday. The club is closing the missus is hungry she goes to the late night pizza parlor to get something to eat.

Micki : Tif, do you want anything to eat?
Me: No
Micki: Are you sure, we’ve been drinking all night, we haven’t had dinner?
Me: I’m good, I’ma meet my man at the bar and you hit me when you have the food

So I go have a drink with my man approximately 100 feet where she is ordering food, we do this often, I have a nitecap while she gets some late night vittles. So she calls me, I join up with her and we’re a few blocks away from home when we have an argument neither one of us can recall. We also do this often, the stubburn Taurus in me vs. the Ivy League “I’m always right chick” — add alcohol and it’s a terrible combination. We argue all the way home and she has to use the restroom upon entry in our house. I say “I’ma eat your cheesesteak!”–in spite, as I was hungering about the time. She says “you better not!”. So the night ends for the both of us, as we are too drunk to recall what happened.

The next day and the week following, she jokingly retells the story of how after everything I stated above occurred, she returned from the bathroom and apparently I ate her entire cheesesteak. I think to myself: “damn I must of been mad at her, no way I can choke down an entire cheeseteak in 5 minutes.” She thus went through the fridge and ate every leftover I had in spite. Made for a funny story to our friends because I never eat an entire meal at one setting, and how I ate her cheesesteak that she waited for at about 3AM in the morning– out of spite.

Micki brang this story up several times during the week. Everyone laughed and chided me for being an asshole, yaddy, yadda, yadda. She also brought up the fact that I hadn’t Spic ‘N Spanned the kitchen because it had a smell. I had cleaned the kitchen and had no idea where the smell was coming from. On Saturday I do a thourough cleaning of the kitchen, and behind a sign that her sister had given us that states “Tresspassers will be given a shot”, I discovered a wrapped object. There behind this sign that graced our kitchen “island space”– was a cheesesteak.

I guess I hid her cheesesteak to spite her, and to humble her furious argumentation ,and forgot to tell her I was just joking– here’s your cheeesteak.

Oops my bad.

I’ll touch on that light skinned dark skinned good and bad hair never dying monster later, right now this is black and white. Late in 2005 there was some prime time specials on Black women not getting the cover of magazines and constituting X amount of the readership yet appearing on the cover something like one percent of the time. Some Black women’s advocate agency spoke up, they got some drops from Tara Banks and the thin lipped girl, umm umm Gabrielle Union and some other folks, and contacted some magazines and I guess the mojo was in motion. The next few months Ms. Knowles is everywhere albeit absent the infamous “money maker”. Yet not only was the laffy not taffied, her skin tone was several shades lighter, hair bone straight and the lips and the nose looked like modern day Egyptians had taken a chisel to them. Not to say Beyonce doesn’t get her unbeweavable Euro look on– the chick is blonde half the time, but Black-blonde, sorta like a stripper hoe or a really cute Lil Kim. Now to further complicate this “black/white” thing, I do not wish to assert that white magazines portray her as white and black magazines as black– several white magazines appreciate the bodacious bronze beauty– just not your John Q. “the white woman’s godliness is the standard of beauty, why you think we started the Klan” Whiteman mags. Some may argue that the ilk of the magazine may deternine her “look” but she can be Black and sophisticated and classy.

Now I’m no card carrying member of the Beyonce fan club like most dudes I know, I can’t front she looks damn good, but I would never grab some lotion and a rag, lock a door with screams of “oh Beyonce, oh Beyonce” filling the air, so don’t think this is a worshipping admirer’s defense or anything. I just think it’s some bullshit– major bullshit. For a Black woman to don the cover of Cosmo she has to rock the Elle McPherson look? Do an image search and when you find white Beyonce look at the source, and do be careful, there is a porn star that’s named Beyonce and in comparison even while naked she looks like a rash with a weave. Well that’s just my honest opinion. I’ve added a few mag covers below.

White Beyonce on the cover of Vanity Fair

Black Beyonce–Juice Magazine

Black Beyonce–Rolling Stone

Which brings me to part deux of this post. Up above I said “cute white woman” as if it’s an oddity and white woman aren’t cute. That’s simply not true and not what I believe at all, my preference just happens to be for Black women and white women don’t get the drool glands working or Mr. mojo rising. It has nothing to do with how I was raised or some Black power shit or anything, I just can count on my fingers the white women I have found really attractive to me. I can see how other people can find them attractive as in some are so attractive they just exude attractiveness and you can’t front on how banging they are (see: husband stealing, pregnant, chronic adopter). So for me it’s not a Black/white thing, quarterly me and the lady might get into an argument because she thinks I have a thing for Hispanic/Latin women. Hispanic/Latin women or light skinned women to hear her tell it. Now my only thing is her, but to be fair, I did have a preference for fair skinned women.

Before you guys head straight to the comments page “Tif you just spewed all that b.s. and now you hating on dark skinned sistas you light bright and damn near white house nig..”– I said preference. And I honestly believe Freud had some major points and I think my preference is Oedipal. Not that I have or had any desire to– ick I won’t even say it– with my mom, I think I am a human being that always envisioned their partner in the image of their mother. A fair skinned curly haired, thin woman. Now my mom has put on the grandma weight, yet I have no “fair skinned graying, grammommy weight” preferences, but I think my youth inked in my head what I liked and it was in the vision of my mother.

Therefore it takes a special look on a white woman or a dark skinned woman to attract me. I was thinking about this the other day and thinking of the chocolate sisters that I’ve found myself attracted to: Kenya Moore and the chick from House Party and Class Act that disappeared off the face of the Earth. I think she quit acting and joined the CIA, because if Google can’t find your ass, you don’t exist. Google is like God’s website– if you aren’t Googable to some extent you are a symptom of metaphysics. As I digress, I’ve tackled a few things here that may be hard to swallow if you don’t chew with an extremely unbiased mouth. Let’s talk about it.

me: (cleaning my monitor with wet wipe)

Old Guy: Why are you in DOS?

me: I just wanted a black screen so I could see all the spots

Old Guy: Tif, you know you could of just turned the monitor off.

Tif <– turns red

I mean I like Kanye as much as the next man, definitely more than the no homo guy (after I looked up his page I noticed he blogged about the same thing I’m blogging about this second). I love his music, I love his comment about the president, but c’mon– this pisses me off and I’m not even Christian. Then again, I guess it can be considered art, it pisses me off, but I’m not pissed with a passion.

I was strolling by Nia’s spot and I read her Stereotype of a black male post and the comments associated with it and it provoked a lot of memories and even more thought. Being a black male from the inner city you come to grips with the fact that at any time you can have your human rights violated by an officer of the goddamn law at any point. Now I was an admitted bastard growing up but most of my run ins with the law occurred when I was a matriculating undergrad student. I’ve blogged about being arrested for robbery and being locked up for months mistakenly. These things are an oddity but the everyday profiling and harassment by power hungry policemen is really out of hand. Currently here in Baltimore, city council is meeting with the mayor and police chief because the police have a habit of arresting people “just cuz”. Arresting them and offering no charging documents, just arrested Negroes to be arresting them.

Nia sympathized with black men and I’m glad she’s aware because not everyone has experienced this harassment and may think it’s a NY or LA thing. The love of my life had to witness first hand how a black man has no rights against the law as stated here in the Fells Point story.

Another instance, once in a traffic stop back home I was nervous and wasn’t aware of the mechanics of my buddies door lock when I was told to get out the car, so the officer pulled my skinny ass right through the window and laid me on the ground.

In Grand Central Station post 911 I was harassed by a black cop for having an open container when everybody knows you can buy beer in Grand Central and drink on the trains. The irony here is, it was a black cop and when the other officers got wind of “a situation” brewing they drove their little buggies over to kick some zero tolerance ass or to drop 41 bullets into me. They get pissed: “open container???” They left in disappointment. [Walking away] “We can’t kill a nigger for open container can we?” “Don’t think so Bob, it’s not in the manual”. “Let’s go, no fun here”. I was being facetious (ala the late great Richard Pryor) on that last part but you get my point.

Now I can go on and on case, incident, etc. I’ve even sat on panels on the subject. I was scheduled to speak at an ACLU event on racial profiling and the night before the event we were “pulled over”. I had some friends come to pick me up to go out, they were parked outside, I go jump in the car, a SUV that was in park. Before my buddy could start the car the sirens sounded and they were barking instructions. There’s no way there was any violations as the car was in a valid parking space in park. Well to a cop there was the SUV, the dreads, the bald head– that’s cause for harassment alone. They ask several questions as to what we were doing in this neighborhood, etc. etc. and eventually let us go. I had to change my entire speech to reflect this. Excerpts were actually aired on the local news channels.

Philadelphia and Baltimore with the current rises in murders are contemplating “jump out” techniques where officers randomly search people for weapons. I seem to recall an amendment or something that was supposed to guarantee us against this “unlawful” act. Philly claims they would never do it, Baltimore currently is fighting for the right to illegal search and seizure.

So boys and girls, black boys regardless of age or socio-economic status, will always be at the mercy of the boys in blue. It’s just a part of life that many of us have learned to accept. Imagine how humiliating and emasculating it is as a human being to know that there is the inevitable chance that you will always face the possibility of being punked by the boys in blue– regardless of their skin color.

Appendix I

The last sentence reminded me of the scene in the movie Crash where the officer played by Matt Dillon (I don’t want to be a spoiler) does the thing and the Hustle & Flow dude is rendered helpless. That is an entire blog that I will post sometime later, and describe the entire scene as not enough people read this blog for it to be too much of a spoiler.

So when my daughter leaves me a voicemail asking me to come to her first basketball game, I first am flabbergasted (she’s 6) and then wondered when/how my lil prissy micro-computer (she’s been reading since 3) got into sports. Then I wonder how do they do this, 6 foot goals? One of them mini balls that you shoot into the mini basket for $5 at Dave and Buster’s or your favorite sports bar? How was this going to take place?

We get to the gym and there are bleachers full of parents and a boys game going. These boys had to be a bout 10 or so and they had a real full court game going with two referees, scoreboard, the whole 9. So again, not being sexist but where is the 6 year old court? So the boys game ends and my daughter who had already greeted me and Micki ran onto the floor with her team in tow. Seven little girls so cute in their sweats. They didn’t have uniforms like the boys but they matched in pink.

So as I await them to pull out the bumpers for bumper basketball and keep my eye on the door for the new equipment and glance at the ceiling to see if they are going to lower the court, the teams set up for a “jump ball”. I think “you gotta be kidding me”. So as they set up and my daughter’s coach walks on the court to place each girl where they need to be for the jump, I think –what the hell? My daughter wasn’t on the court, she’s a bench rider like her daddy. To my defense the folks on the court and on the bench next to me were always the best players in the country– hell we were #1 in the nation my senior year. Now before I begin, I’m not saying I’m a stellar athlete– but two things I know in and out like the back of my hand is basketball and boxing. I’m not the greatest of ball players and lord knows I’m not the greatest of boxers– but I know the game.

So the game is about to start and it’s an obvious opportunity for the boys to score two points off the jump, so I try to get the misplaced girls attention then look to their coach who is looking at a clipboard with a basketball illustration on it. yeah right these folks have got to be kidding me– this geezer is gonna try to get some 6 year olds to run a play? Let’s watch. They jump ball, the boys (or their center) being no b-ball guru missed the obvious chance at an easy 2 points and did what any 6 year old would do when you hold a basketball in front of them and throw it up– smack it. So they scramble around for the ball and the boys pick it up run down court, throws up an inadvertent air ball and it’s the girls turn.

So like almost any basketball game in the hood you have to have the obligatory token white kid. There was a white girl on my daughter’s team and for some reason this white kid was “the point” or “the one”, i.e. the kid that distributes the ball to the other players. Now I understand sportsmanship and things of that nature but if you gonna teach the kids, teach them right. Plus this kid was a lil rotund, her roundness would be better served in the paint (under the basket). But alas, the lil round white girl was the point and she commenced to commit may 30 turnovers in the first 6 minutes of play. I get a little over zealous and yell “who made her the point!” and Micki shushes me and points to the only other white people in the building sitting two feet behind me.

But this girl was bad, and they had another little girl who could control the ball better. She would dribble–well sometimes she would–depending on what kind of mood she was in and how close her defender was, because she would oft times pick the ball up run ten feet and dribble again– this being no apparent infraction on kiddie court. Anyways she would somehow get across half court, stop and throw it to someone on the opposing team. Never fail. Another thing the girls could not understand was coming to the ball.

When it was time to inbound the ball there would be just one girl there with the ball, and the referee would have to coerce some other teammate to come get the ball. This was very frustrating because I could tell the reason: they were poorly coached. Now I know what you’re saying “they’re only 6″, but girls develop faster than boys and the boys seemed to get the gist of it. When my daughter found her way onto the court, I wanted to tell her what to do but that would be breeching the first rule of sportsmanship– it’s coach’s ball team not your parents, not your homeboys. You can get advice before and after the game but while you are on the floor there is only one commander and chief.

Another thing is at 6, you can really groom a person into being a good ball player– they haven’t had to chance to learn themselves and thus screw up their fundamentals like I did with my golf game. I learned basketball fundamentals at a very young age. Anyone from my neighborhood close to my age and anywhere in as much as a three miles radius of my neighborhood knows who Mr. B is. He’s basically “Coach”. He taught literally thousands of children how to play basketball– not for a fee–for the hell of it. Every morning at 6am we were ringing each other bells to gather and meet Mr. B in the park. He would already be there ready for us, shooting foul shots. We met at 6am to avoid the impending sunshine.

Mr. B taught us the fundamentals of the game before we even were allowed to shoot– rules, basics, etc. The basket was irrelevant at this point– kinda like how Mr. Miagi taught Danielson. We would run chest pass drills, bounce pass drills, shoulder pass drills, dribbling drills, figure eights, learned how to use your weak hand as much as your strong hand. If you got fancy and did some behind the back crap, you did laps. We didn’t see an actual game for maybe a year, besides scrimmages amongst ourselves and pickup games after Mr. B. left.

Irregardless my daughter is being “taught” basketball by some geezer who throws them into a regulation game against boys without any systematic training. And even with the hand he was dealt he did a horrible job. I saw a million ways for the girls to make opportunities for a chance at a shot at the hoop– which they had maybe 3 all game. I’m not sure if more than two of the girls had the upper body strength to propel a regulation male basketball (even the WNBA plays with a smaller balls) 11 feet into the air into a 10 foot basket. The final score was boys 8 girls 1– after four quarters of play. Teach them kids to play, don’t just throw them on the floor.

Sidenote: If what my mother tells me is correct there is a hefty weekly cost to be a part of this “team”. As I suspected before, just another case of some Negro with a racket. *sigh. Kinda like the “modeling agency” that my sister enrolled in as a child with hefty fees, tons of money for headshots, etc., yet they never found an opportunity for her. “Maybe if she tries some of our modelling courses she will be more friendly with the camera”. People should burn in hell for taking advantage of ambitious parents and kids. I won’t mention it to her mama. Me challenging her decision would kinda be like announcing Sharon’s death. Well, long as my daughter is happy.

Police in Brazil kill hundreds, yet stir little outrage
By Henry Chu
Originally published January 8, 2006

RIO DE JANEIRO, Brazil // The five bodies in the bar were riddled with bullets fired at almost point-blank range. Four of the dead were boys no older than 16. The admitted gunmen: police officers carrying out a raid in a squalid shantytown.

But in this seaside city that has become hostage to gruesome acts of violence, the Dec. 3 killings barely caused a stir, in contrast to a bus burning by suspected drug traffickers the same week, which also killed five people. That incident was front-page news.

The lack of outrage illustrates growing public indifference to alleged police brutality in a society that is increasingly accustomed to such harsh measures and even, at times, supportive of them in the fight against rising crime.

Brazil, the biggest country in Latin America, has one of the highest homicide rates in the world. And the number of killings by police has climbed steeply, even though, activists say, the authorities’ use of lethal force has failed to put a dent in crime.

In Rio de Janeiro state alone, police killed nearly 1,200 people in 2003, according to figures compiled by the local nonprofit group Global Justice - an average of more than three people a day. The overwhelming majority of victims are young black or mixed-race males who live in the city’s favelas, the teeming slums that blanket Rio’s hillsides.

The favelas have become personal fiefdoms of drug kingpins. Fearful residents find themselves caught between the iron rule of local drug lords and the repressive tactics of police who regularly invade their neighborhoods in military-style operations.

“The people in the favelas are victims twice over,” said Marcelo Freixo of Global Justice.

Residents of the slums, most of them poor workers who provide services for Rio’s tiny upper crust, routinely hear gunfire outside their homes or firecrackers set off by scouts to warn drug traffickers of the presence of police.

Nighttime raids by heavily armed police commandos, sometimes backed by helicopters, are common. Research released last month by Amnesty International said police often exceed the limits of their powers by using single search warrants to sweep through entire communities.

“They are issued by judges against the spirit of the law, and they basically give police carte blanche to go and search houses in whole neighborhoods,” said the human rights group’s Patrick Wilcken. Putting up a fight can result in injury or a fatality that is classified as “resistance followed by death,” Wilcken said.

In the Dec. 3 raid that left four boys and a young man dead in the suburb of Niteroi, officers said the youths had ties to the drug trade and had fired on them.

But after hearing the officers’ conflicting accounts and visiting the bar where the killings took place, members of the state’s human rights commission said there were “very strong indications” that the boys had been summarily executed - that the only shots were fired by the police.

One of the victims was 11-year-old Wellington Santiago, who had stopped at the bar with friends to buy sodas for a birthday party they were on their way to attend.

“He was shot five times, in the head, in the stomach, which destroyed his internal organs, and the arm,” said Fernanda de Oliveira, his mother. “He was killed in such a brutal way. So very cruel.”

Wellington was a conscientious student who had nothing to do with drugs, de Oliveira said.

She described police incursions as a constant horror in Morro do Estado, the favela where she lives: “They invade all the time. The schools are constantly closing” because of confrontations between police and drug traffickers.

Twelve officers have been detained in the killings.

Whether any will be punished remains to be seen. Brazil’s judicial system grinds agonizingly slowly, with the result that cases go untried for years.

But the worst rampage attributed to rogue cops in Rio state occurred in March. A group of gunmen, believed to be officers who were upset about an internal investigation of some of their colleagues, mowed down 29 people.

The state Ministry of Public Security did not respond to requests for comment on allegations of widespread police abuse and impunity.

But police officials have publicly defended their department’s actions. While acknowledging the presence of wayward cops, whom they say they are trying to root out, the officials note that their officers’ lives are in constant peril, threatened by drug gangs and other criminals who are often better armed and increasingly ruthless. Last year, 52 officers were killed in the line of duty in Rio de Janeiro state.

Many members of the force are uneducated. Police complain of being poorly equipped, poorly trained and poorly paid, contributing to the well-documented history of corruption within their ranks. Officers struggle to support their families on a salary of about $380 a month.

This year, the government of President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva cut the federal budget for public security. That marked “the first time there’s been a reduction,” said Freixo of Global Justice.

Officials have encountered no sustained public outcry or pressure for a thorough cleanup of the police. Protests by shantytown dwellers are not infrequent, but their grievances carry little weight with politicians who are beholden to richer, more powerful sectors of society.

In fact, it is not uncommon to hear members of Rio’s middle and upper classes express support for a harsh approach to law enforcement, describing the loss of lives as the price that must be paid for safer streets. However, it is rarely the well-to-do who pay, activists note.

“Perhaps this is the gravest consequence of Rio de Janeiro’s public security policy: the trivialization and acceptance of violence by police against residents,” Freixo said.

OK, I’m not hood– but then again I am- I have denounced the hood– but I was once hood. It’s like a lesbian or a gay guy claiming they aren’t female or male perspectively, so even though I haven’t had myself scientifically altered, I am not hood– yet and still, I guess I am. What brought on this dilema is after celibrating my recent engagement, and the New Year, one of my boys was killed a day later. A real bummer, I’m floating amongst the clouds and a day later one of my boys is gunned down. And the worst thing about it, I had no clue who it was for over an hour. Originally this post was intended to be about my ups and downs– for every good thing that happens to me something bad happens, etc. etc. etc. but, as my studies gear me, as my heart and anger lead me, my own personal belief that everything a Black man endures is related to the above DuBoisian issue of double conciousness, (which I extremely over-use)–I will go that route.

After mentally mourning and being visibly shaken terribly after getting “the calls”. Let me briefly explain what the calls are. I’ll take you back to 1992 sophmore year of college. No one back home really had long distance, it was like $10 a call in those days, and for all you young folk there was no such thing as “free long distance”. So me and my roomie had the clicheic answering machine with the message that started off with us talking: “Whassup?, hello?” and then yelling “AHHH we’re not here, we got you!” Well several times that year I would get several messages from home from several different people saying “call me”. Now, hood rules– you just can’t leave a detailed message of someones death on an answering machine. So I eventually found out in college– if I had three or more messages from home– someone was dead.

Fast forward 21st century, cell phones, free long distance– regardless, the hood aint never really used the telephone except to say a quick ‘’this-that-and-another”. Guess you gotta be hood to understand what that means, that could be illicit activity or a booty call, but in the hood a phonecall is a “this-that-and-another”– that’s it, no extreme discourse. So Tuesday I get “the calls”. I get the calls often with the onsought of cell phones, whenever someone’s NFC East team beats my NFC East team. Aside from that, “the calls” are still bad news. It’s not always a body, sometime it’s someone getting locked up, which is still not good news.

I get the calls from 11pm to 3:15 Am Monday night. I wake up shower, get dressed, check my voicemail. I get the “Yo, you hear what happened? Call me!” from my CNN/MSNBC on site affiliate who’s out of the game too, but alas still in the hood. I know what this means. But who was it? My ace, my brother, my cousin– could be my oldhead– sometime these calls come for folks over 60. I tremble brushing my teeth like it’s -10 degrees outside. My fiance tells me “relax honey, it could be nothing”. Nothing? That’s a pipe dream, I’ve been through 15 years of this shit.

I call around and get voicemail after voicemail. I finally find someone, and they tell me it was my man Key. Now I haven’t seen Key in about 6 years, follow me: because he took a bid for shooting some broad that boyfriend killed my other buddy. He took it like a champ, even though the man that actually shot the chick was incarcerated, and probably could of run his sentences concurrently (along side his own sentence), yet Key didn’t “snitch”. His cred (credibility) in the hood was top notch. Before he went down (locked up)his cred and my respect for him, and his for mine impressed me. His relationship with my brother was much tighter and any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine, and he treated me like a big brother.

“When keeping it real goes wrong”–Dave Chapelle

But as I digress, I was sorrowful and mourning Key as I hadn’t seen him in a while and wanted to build with him when he got out. I was a tad too late as somebody else in my hood didn’t take a liking to Key beating their ass New Years Eve, and shot him in the head this past Monday.

In an effort to make this simple, let’s say I’m an indifferent Eagles fan and I know that T.O. kicked McNabb in the balls several times causing his season ending injury– not the story you heard on ESPN. Now, for the slightly stupid I have no inner knowledge of the Eagles lockeroom, but I know who kicked McNabb in the balls, where he lives and where he may be, and McNabb is my man, and I think T.O. needs a bigger kick in the balls, yet it’s not my job (being out of the locker room) to do it, (nor do I want any of my former teamates to do it a)because they may become permeanately retired b) they will become a target for a serious nut kicking c) it’s gonna be some nut kicking retalliation for every nut that’s kicked–and we’re all in the same locker room!

Question arises– should I go to the league or a coach? I also fret that me and my brother being coaches/prime time running backs are more fond of McNabb than T.O.– so will the other members of the team try to “tackle” us before we “tackle” them– even though we have no intention of “tackling” them and basically we’re kind of fond of them as well? Will we become targets for going to McNabb’s going away party? Will we be targets at other parties? Will we be targets by the”officials” and questioned before/after the party, thus being labeled as “snitches”– even if we don’t speak or offer information, and becoming targets by default? Will we be targeted/arrested for carrying weapons/wearing body armour, in around the place of ceromony– and being in danger around places such as our MOTHER’S home.

“Stop Snitchin” –unknown

I danced all around this post with inuendo and bullshit. The bottom line is some cat killed my man and I know who he is and where he may lay his head. Options are, handle my business, turn him in to the cops, or avoid it completely. My answer, avoid it all together. Some of you may say– act. that’s not my job, I’m 33 years old– if you want to keep it hood–I’m not the one- i’m a grown ass man.

At the bottom of the internet news article detailing my boys killing, it said, “if you have any info call…” My new ego debated with my inner id on whether to make the call. Myself told me that I could never make that call– hood or no hood, this is about integrity. My integrity says the hood governs itself. I saw all the ignorant DVD’s and T-Shirts and plum stupidness involved with the Stop Snitchin campaign. None of that shit mattered to me. The hood spoke to my mentality– it didn’t exactly say “stop snitchin” but it said “that’s not what you do”. It said to me snitchin will cause a whole lot more killing that they will never see, nor honor, nor defend you– when you have to defend yourself. Snitchin will turn your family, your elders, your community against you– your trust, your word, you’re good in the hood– becomes bad.

I don’t fear for anything but God so the reprocussions aren’t the dilema. Then again they are– I’m eons away from the hood– I make that “other call”, a man is locked up and someone is labled a snitch (not me)– and some innocent person is targeted because I didn’t obey hood rules. My DuBosian two-ness divided, regardless befuttles me– my duty as an “American” or my duty as a human being. It’s not a concern of my breathing– it’s making a decision that will keep the more many people breathing.

If Saddam was killed this war on Iraq might not of cost so many lives, if Saddamn wasn’t caught, it might not have cost many lives. Saddamn is caught and alive and there are lots of lives continually dying. He might be worth alot more to many people’s love one’s dead. You can say the same for George W. Bush. It’s the same in the hood, and all hood rules apply–in any hood.

Regardless, there’s a war brewing and I love people on both sides. Kind of like being a muslim and an American. My two-ness has boiled down to me and my squad. Give them peace and you have peace from me.

My question is– what would you do? Confront the guy, turn him in, live your life?

I’m really interested in hearing.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” “Yes, but they were all bad” Arnold Schwarzenegger (in acting role)

OK where, shall I start, I won�t bore you with the details on when I planned this or how I had the ring picked out for about a year (because I didn�t), but here we go. We are in the Poconos staying in a rented cabin with five other couples that went to college with me. (Sidenote, we play our bowl game tonite�WE ARE�PENN STATE!) We have reservations for 12 at a place called Sam Snead�s Inn, and me and a few of the fellas argue who Sam Snead was. I said a �famous gangster� another friend said a �porn star�. I�m totally internet dependant, and in the woods with no connectivity, we agree to disagree.

We get there and it�s apparent that he�s a famous golfer. This makes this the perfect place since me and the lady are golfers. Golf paraphernalia everywhere and clubs of other famous golfers, Arnold Palmer, Bobby Jones, everywhere. I take the first seat at the table and ask that we sit facing our mate as we sat next to them last New Year�s and I don�t think that would be conducive to my plot. So we�re sitting around the table, eating, drinking and having a merry old time. I go to the bathroom which I thought was 3 flights down, but that�s because I�m an idiot and should of realized there were bathroom�s on every floor. On this bottom floor was a bar, a band, and a bunch of table parties, party favors, hats, the whole 9. I think, wow this is where the fun is, because we were upstairs in the seated dining area. So I go to the bathroom lock the door and stare in the mirror and pull out the ring and ask myself �am I really gonna do this?� At that moment as if on cue, the band goes into Phil Collins �In the Air Tonight�. If you aren�t familiar with the song the lyrics start like this:

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord
I’ve been waiting for this moment, all my life, Oh Lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord, Oh Lord

Once, they got to that guitar riff, it was over, I was hyped and ready to do the damn thing�but how/when? I go back to the table and looked to my friend who I had stayed up until 4:30AM the prior night and the only other person in the house that knew I might be up to something, to no avail, he was enjoying his dinner. At that moment someone suggested we go down stairs to watch the ball drop�I think perfect I�m more comfortable down there anyways.

We get there and we all have a flute of champagne in our hand, so at about 11:55, I propose a �pre-New Years Eve toast�. You don�t know how hard it is to get 12 people together who have been drinking and are anticipating a ball dropping any minute now. I finally get the last wife�s attention (I yelled at her�I apologize) and thank everyone for another great New Years gathering, blah blah blah, and then took the knee, and pulled out the ring and said �I want to ask my girlfriend to marry me�. Micki � has some sort of conniptions or something fanning herself backing into the servers entrance to the kitchen. I have to crawl forward on one knee to keep up with her, at that point I thought she was going to be the runaway bride.

By now our party of 10 go crazy and this gets the attention of the entire lower level who are cheering and yelling �what she say??� I thought the ball had dropped there was so much commotion. She said yes to me and I could hear her but it was sort of like a panicked yes. Finally after more yelling�still spazzed out she yells �Yes! Yes Yes!� So everyone yelled �put the ring on her finger!� I reach to grab her champagne flute which is empty (she told me later she pounded that puppy like a sailor) and slid the ring on her finger (wrong hand, we were corrected later). At that point I was swamped by the wives who had to get a look and pictures. My boys were dapping me up when somebody yelled �10-9-8..� The ball dropped we hugged and kissed and got a congratulations from everyone in the place. When we got back to our table the entire third floor knew and were congratulating us. Even the servers and the owner, and the management on the way out.

Micki wept and kept this �what the hell just happened� look on her face for another half hour or so. I think it went rather well. Darn sure she was surprised.

Close friends email me and I�ll forward you pics.

Still on my knees- does this mean yes???– unhand my chin woman!!!

Merlot
Pinot Noire
California White Wine
Bloody Mary Mix
Triplesec
Egg Nog
Apple Cider
Coke
Milk
Vodka
Yuengling Beer
Heineken Beer
Grolsh Beer
Champagne
Belini Mix
Hawaiin Punch
Deer Park Water

I had to stop myself from making Kool Aid. So if I get real bloated and drunk and starve to death tell my baby I love her and miss her, and her momma’s Turkey.

Appendix I

I’ve added Hot Apple Cider and Spiced Rum to the mix– I am Toast-eee!

If you can’t tell by my discourse or by the friggin title of this blog– I am an asshole. I just am. But sometimes I humble myself for the sake of mankind, and I think this is one of them times. So I go to one of my favorite watering holes with my baby on Friday for drinks and vittles. This is the place in the previous blog where the mean black tranny got into the argument with a John Q. whiteguy typed dude– it was friggin hilarious. This bar is not a gay bar, but like any bar in a gay neighborhood– gays frequent it. I like this bar because it is truly diverse and I’ve met some of my bestest friends at this one bar. In this bar you can find a young thug and a millionaire in heated debate over firing the Ravens quarter back or Intelligent Design. I’ve seen many movie stars stumble across this bar, it’s just one of them cool ass bars. I used to live directly behind this bar and me and Micki basically lived in this bar. I’ve held meetings in this bar, had debates, gotten into fights, passed out drunk– everything you can possibly imagine happen in a bar, so basically it’s my “Cheers”.

We’re at the bar spending some time together before Micki flies to Tennessee, I usually go with her but for the first time in the past 5 years, I’m not– we’ll tackle that at a later date. So the bartender a friend of ours has some broken fingers/wrists and is in a sling. Apparently her and her boyfriend, a mammoth of a guy 6 foot 7 a few hundred pounds– linebacker size– not fat– had an accident during sex. They were being creative with a chair or something and the end result was he was unconscious and fell on her hand. You gotta love a bar with a bartender that still works her shift after a sex act gone wrong. So I decide to take it easy on her and ask the other bartender for my Martini. This bartender is a 40-ish white chick who tries to look youger, she’s blonde and wears pig tails. She’s been fired from this place once but was brought back somehow because they were short staffed.

Micki sat directly to my left and a bar tender who just got off her shift to my right. Since I frequent this bar so much everyone knows what I drink– even the new bartender, but today she on some other shit. So me and Micki sit there mouth watering staring at her ass sit in the corner 4 feet in front of us. So I finally say “can I order a drink?” She looks at me stoically and I look at the off-shift bartender to my right and she just shrugs. I say may I have a dirty Stohli martini no Vermouth. She goes “all you had to do was ask”. I once again look around for assurement that I am not being an asshole at the moment. So a guy I know says “I don’t think she heard the no-vermouth part”. I yell to her “No vermouth”, she looks at me in confusion, I say it again, “No vermouth”. She still looks confused, we all say it, me, Micki, off-shift bartender, and guy at the corner of the bar together in cadence “No vermouth”. She gets pissed– “I heard you the first time!” We all look at eachother and shrug. She brings the martini– Micki tells me “she made that with rail vodka” Now, I’m no prude, I’m going to probably make me a rail vodka martini after I complete this post- but if I’m in a bar and there’s only a dollar difference– I want my premium vodka. For those non-drinkers, rail equal gut rottening hangover vodka usually made from potatoes, premium equal smooth no-hangover vodka made from grain.

Me: excuse me what type of vodka did you use in here
bartender chick: the kind you asked for
Me: what kind was that
BC: the kind I put in there
Me: and what would that be exactly
BC: rail
Me: No I asked for Stohli
BC: you asked for rail
Everyone Together: he asked for Stohli

So at this point she gulps a huge chunk of the rail martini down–and anyone that knows anything about a martini– that’s alotta vodka in one gulp, and declares “taste fine to me”. Why yes but I asked for Stohli, I think yet I didn’t say it– that would of been assholic. She goes across the bar and asks “who snitched” and the ladies look at her like “what the hell are you talking about” and Micki announces, “that was me, I saw you pour from the rail”. So BC grabs the martini shaker and a bottle of Skyy Vodka and starts pouring. Everyone yells “he wants Stohli!” She yells “I quit and storms out the back door”

Now at this point we all are utterly confused and wait to see if she was kidding or not. I’m worried she may come back with a knife because she ran out the kitchen entrance. We wait and ask the sexual acrobat bartender what’s the deal. She is slightly mad at me because SAB (sexual acrobat bartender)and OSB (off-shift bartender) know I am a complete asshole and let’s just say we’ve broken eachother in. So SAB is like “Tif, if I have to work a Friday night shift with no backup and one hand I’m going to kill you”. OSB stands up and says “I’m out of here”. So we’re sitting around waiting for the chick to maybe come back and she does– grabs her jacket (that’s the thing about a storm out– you forget things) and runs out the front door with SAB on her heels to no avail.

So one of my favorite bars was/is short staffed– was I an asshole?

Appendix I

I found out yesterday that another employee of the same establishment quit the same day as BC, and she quit because of BC and other factors. I was feeling sorry for her until I realized she was getting boozed up in the same place she had quit the day before, so there couldn’t be any hard feelings. Also her keys had these tabs on them with addresses. I asked them what they were, they were her houses. She has five. I couldn’t help to think what is a waitress doing with five houses in the hood, then she told me she was jewish and it made perfect sense. Well kind of.

http://tif.everythingsoul.com/?p=144

OK I plan for a simple night. The sexified Micki goes to her office party– is it because of the recession that companies don’t invite spouses to these things anymore? Anyways I’m sitting at a bar minding my own business sipping on a martini and this drunk girl keeps bumping into me, apologizing, starting conversations, quitting mid sentence–ok, whatever. So the girl is with a group of maybe 5 guys and one of the guys comes over to me and tells me he is conducting an experiment.

So, I live in a gay neighborhood and am not much for experimenting–at all. But I hear him out. “Dude we just left 5 bars. At each bar we pick up someone new. We go to bars that we wouldn’t normally go to and each bar we drink something different and you can’t repeat the drink.” The guy goes on to say the only stipulation is no gay bars are involved.

My motto on getting drunk is: Micki’s away– hey OK! So the girl who was way drunk takes a while to leave as she places her breasts on every dude in the place, and she tells you “I’ma just put my breasts on you”. Whatever lady but I forewarned you not to do it and when the lil woman comes around I am not responsible for whatever occurs if she finds you “putting your breasts on me”. So we finally pry her away from whoever she was “putting her breasts” on and go to the bar of my choice to recruit the newest member of this crawl. We get there and we are immediately joined by a few more guys and a another girl. The irony of the situation is most of the guys worked for a company that I interviewed with three times and almost sealed the job and they also wanted Micki to take a position there, so that made for some banter while we were relatively sober.

So we drink a round of something or another and I try to recruit an interesting to say the least friend of mine, Middle Eastern young lady, attractive to most, but she is doing laundry. She desperately wants to go and wants us to wait but the laundry factor made her a no-go. Our experiment was floating around the bar and the gayest of gay guys insists on joining our crew and taking us to the gayest of gay bars. Now I will not repeat my stance on homosexuality or I guess I will– it basically goes like this, I do what I do– you do what you do– I don’t care if you do what I do but I don’t do what you do. So the head of the experiment decides to bend the rules if everyone is in agreement. The second girl in the crew comes over to me and says “quick find someone else I don’t want to go to a gay bar”. So I tell her my girlfriend is coming, so we come up with the plot that I hide and she approach Micki as if she is a complete stranger and get her to join the experiment. Micki not a real fan of drunkenness, only when she decides to bring out her alters, the crowd favorite being Mimosa Micki. There are also Margarita Micki and Martini Micki. oh there’s another ‘M’ Micki but that’s a whole nother blog. So I tell the girl what Micki looks like, black girl sexy black legs, black skirt, black hose black pumps (I’m getting a woody typing this).

During all this drunk girl decides to start making out with a co-worker. They would later go on to leave the experiment. Head of the experiment also bended in that rule as it was relative to his experiment as he is trying to get people together. So Micki comes and I tell head guy to ask these girls I know who basically use their cleavage to get free drinks all the time to join us. Reminds me of the movie mean girls, so I send him over to the “mean hot Black chicks” table. I tell him the one chick– the server happens to have a dick so not him/her. So he goes over to him/her and explains the experiment– the group is looking on in awe like what the hell is he doing. So from what I heard and what was filled in to me later, the discourse went something like this:

HeadGuy: Hey you want to join our group, I know you are a Tranny and all but it’s an experiment
Tranny: What? Who the fuck are you and yes I am a Tranny what you wanna fuck? huh bitch $20 I will fuck you
HeadGuy: No we are conducting this bar crawl experiment and my friend Tif over there said
Tranny: 20 dollars muthafucka and I will fuck you up the ass
HeadGuy: no we go bar to bar and choose a drink and last person…
Tranny: 20 dollars and I will fuck you up the ass!

The entire group is in tears– I’m thinking what went wrong? I’m also thinking let’s get the hell out of here, visions of jail and hate crimes are dancing through my head. So we grab an older guy, let’s call him “Hip Hop Digest” because he although being over 40 knows every single tidbit of hip hop history possible. So HHD works at one of Baltimore’s famed crab restaurants therefore he only has money during crab season. I had already reluctantly bought him a beer that night. I’m against bringing HHD because I know he is broke and I damn sure wasn’t carrying him through the rest of the crawl. Also because HHD is totally useless socially– he can’t talk about anything but Hip Hop, but I’d take him over the overly gay guy– who was 120 pounds, 22 years old maybe, flamboyantly gay and left with his “ex” who looked like the fat white guy that was on Sanford and Son when Redd Foxx left the show.

We depart to a bar, one of those OK bar and grille typed places where you throw your peanut shells on the floor. The girls of Sex & The City may not like it but Micki loves it. But I couldn’t persuade her this night, Micki breaks away and gives me a kiss and we continue to the bar. We get there and I see some folks I know and dap em up. For all you uncool people that’s the really cool thing cool people do when they see other cool people that usually ends in a shoulder tap and a snap– you know the cool thing wish you wish you can do. One of the guys I see is an incredible beatbox and I see there’s a mic and PA set up (some folk singer was on his break) and I ask some folks I know that work there can Beat Box guy get on the mic. Big D who is about 6 foot 5 300+ tells me to ask the new owners. This place a usual Baltimore staple was sold by the original owners after several years of great service and sold twice in the last 6 months. That’s not good. So I ask D and he tells me to ask the new owner– I go “what you don’t run this place anymore?”, because Big D has been there through all the owners and kept the place running smoothly as you may not even notice it changed owners. He tells me to talk to the owner in the yellow hat, and I look and Head Experiment Guy is already talking to him. So HEG comes to me and says the owner says it’s cool he can get on in 5 minutes. So BBG goes over to the owner to thank him for the opportunity, and he changes his mind. BBG is Black HEG is white. So HEG goes over to the owner guy who states to him (as I find out as we were on our way to the next bar) something to the effect of “This aint MTV”.

At the next bar, an Irish bar that actually has a Mick and an O’ in the name–pure thoroughbred Irish bar– they had a R&B band playing. I knew this band well, they were the house band for me for many an occasion. I dapped up members of the band and asked could BBG do some time. (Industry term for time on the mic–I guess I never mentioned in my blog that I may be sort of an Industry guy). So the band leader dude (BLD) says of course and after a few rounds of drinks BBG gets on the mic accompanied by the bass guitarist. They did a few covers– yeah BBG can actually do songs and the house was livid. To which BLD takes advantage and grabs the other mic and they tear the house down with songs like Lenny Kravitz’s “I Want to Get Away”, The Roots “Silent Treatment” and Prince’s “Purple Rain”. Everyone had a great time the band sold out of CD’s and we all parted ways to drunkenly find our way home.

I think everyone reading should try this experiment in their town. I also hope the Experiment folks are reading this, as it took me a few days to get this up. And if you do read it please fill in the gaps because there’s a lot that I can’t make sense of. Thanks guys I had a ball– hope to see you guys again soon.

Micki gave me this idea on her post of the same nature. My alma mater:

Simon Gratz High School
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Jump to: navigation, search
Simon Gratz High School is a secondary school located in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. An inner city school, it is perhaps best-known for its famous alumni (listed below).

Its address is 1798 Hunting Park Ave., Philadelphia, PA 19140.

[edit]
Famous Alumni
Roy Campanella, former MLB player
William “Bill” Ellerbee, Gratz basketball coach
Gloria Gayman, Gratz teacher
William H. Gray, former U.S. Congressman, now President of the UNCF
John Green, Sheriff of Philadelphia County
Leroy Kelly, former NFL player
Pat Kelly, former MLB player
Joan Little, cause c�l�bre of the civil rights, feminist, prisoners’ rights, and anti-capital punishment movements.
Herman Mattleman, Esq., former President of the Philadelphia Board of Education
Aaron McKie, current NBA player
Katherine Streeter Lewis, the Honorable Judge of the Philadelphia Court of Common Pleas
Meldrick Taylor, 1984 Olympic gold medalist
Rasheed Wallace, current NBA player
Tif, occasional Blogger

Simon Gratz High School, named for the noted Philadelphia civic leader, legislator, educator and philanthropist, has been servicing the Tioga-Nicetown community of Philadelphia since 1927. The beautiful Gothic architecture of our comprehensive, academic high school stands as a monument to education, supporting the proposition that all children can learn at high levels and should be educated to their fullest potential. Not only is Simon Gratz renowned for it’s fine sports programs and graduates who have become professional athletes, political and civic leaders and professionals in their fields, but also as a school of Career Academies.

Our motto is “Educating the children of today for the opportunities of tomorrow.” Each Career Academy is committed to educating students in areas of their interest; each holds the philosophy that to educate students in an academy setting develops strong personal relationships and bonds. School-to-Career is a component of each academy, as well as Service Learning, Advanced placement and college preparatory courses of study.

Simon Gratz is a school committed to developing programs that promote success. Toward that end, the school community has moved to a block schedule of classes, a two semester school year, mid-year promotiom, and a full after school academic program. The schedule provides students and teachers more instructional time in each class and a curriculum that is more challenging.

Gratz also provides a comprehensive athletic program which has resulted in especially strong wrestling, football, baseball and basketball teams. The basketball team has participated in many celebrated tournaments, including Atlantic City’s Sea Gull Classic in 1972, 1976, 1984 and 1986; the Holiday Prep Classic in Las Vegas, Nevada in 1986 and 1989; the Pepsi Challenge Tournament in Philadelphia, 1985 and 1986; the Peach State Classic, Atlanta, Ga in 1989, and the Beach Ball Classic in Myrtle Beach, SC. Gratz’ teams have made the Philadelphia Public League Playoffs for the last 8 years, going to the semi-finals in 1984, 1985 and 1986, 1989, 1992, 1995 and 1996 and were City Champions in 1990, 1991, 1993 and 1994.

Many Gratz graduates have risen to professional prominence: Leroy Kelly, formerly of the Cleveland Browns; Pat Kelly, formerly of the Minnesota Twins; Meldrick Taylor; 1984 Olympic gold medalist; Rasheed Wallace, of the Portland Trailblazers; Aaron Mckie, the Philadelphia 76er’s; Gratz Basketball coach, William “Bill” Ellerbee; Gratz teacher, Gloria Gayman,

Other outstanding graduates are: Baseball Hall of Famer Roy Campanella, William H. Gray, III, former U.S. Congressman, now President of the UNCF; the Honorable John Green, Sheriff of Philadelphia County; Herman Mattleman, Esq., former President of the Philadelphia Board of Education; the Honorable Judge Katherine Streeter Lewis of the Philadelphia Court of Common Pleas; and James G. Slaughter, former Principal of Simon Gratz High School and our own Basketball coach, William “Bill” Ellerbee.

Simon Gratz High is a school on the move.
We have a vision of what we can become
and a belief that this vision will become a reality

I take a nap on the train for my 9am interview. I fall asleep when we get to the city (what suburbanites call Manhattan) at Penn Station 34th & 8th I believe. My honey calls me and tells me a plane has hit the world trade center. I tell her the pilot must of been drunk or something. A plane did crash into The Empire State building by accident before, so it didn’t seem strange to me. I looked back and couldn’t see the world trade center and went back to sleep. I won’t mention my proximity to the towers because I don’t think it matters–it’s irrelevant– me like you weren’t in them– that’s all that’s important. So she calls and says another plane has hit the other tower– I tell her not to wake me up again, I need to get some rest before the interview. I rest my eyes and think– what the hell is going on. I get off the train safely in Stamford, CT almost an hour north of the city and proceed to the job interview where people are running into the office with televisions. I interview and find my way back to my baby who can only call me because seemingly Sprint PCS as crappy as it may be was the only carrier that worked that day.

So of course there’s pandemonium everywhere, funny now that I think of it I didn’t get a call from anyone else, wow that’s love. I get to Micki ’s office and there are a few folks still there and it dawns on me: “I know who did this!”

me: I know who did this!
followed by strange looks by Micki and co-workers
me: I know who did this!
mind you I’m a black bearded Muslim in a lily white worldwide banking corporate office
Micki:(a little above a whisper) Shut up!
me: no, I know who did this!
co-workers look on in curiosity like I’m going to say “Tyrone from 125th street got fired from the WTC gap last week”
me: Osama Bin Laden
everyone: who???
think about it no one knew who he was until that event
me: Osama Bin Laden

*tangent*My brother once wanted to get a Osama Bin Laden tattoo in the 90’s– good thing that didn’t pan out. I’m not gonna mention which brother– CIA please don’t torture us–we were young and stupid– we even drank malt liquor!*tangent*

So Micki thinks I’m an absolute idiot as she oft does and just rolls her eyes and tells me to shut up. I tell her to look it up. We head to the internet- few if any articles about Osama Bin Laden, so I could not prove my point. We found one article where he was interviewed by some mediocre journalist like in a McDonald’s in Jordan or some shit. So embarrassed corporate world bank working Micki and idiot boyfriend leave the office– to where? There was no way to get anywhere, highways, trains, airports– all immobile. So we go to a bar. Why not? A brewery in fact.

I’m pounding away libations and somewhere during the meal with a mouth full of some surf and turf mixture I ask “you gonna expense this right?” **soapbox**I don’t want to seem flippant but there was nothing I could do in that situation but live my life. As far as the dead, death is a part of life and I’ve seen so much death I don’t take the time to be concerned with it anymore. Hell I’m from Philadelphia, 370 murders this year, and I live in Baltimore, 260 heinous murders year to date. Also the same amount of Americans (if not more) have died in Iraq as the result of a ruse and it doesn’t seem to be the same empathy for them.**soapbox**

At dinner Micki calls around for hotels and there are no vacancies, so at that moment we had no where to stay, we knew no one in town and couldn’t reach– nor locate our friends. That’s when something hit me– the buddy that I was staying with worked for one of the companies that lost several hundred employees that day– Morgan Stanley, so many they had their own 800 number hotline–which I called and got no information. He didn’t work in the towers but you never know what meetings he had that day. I found out days later that he was OK and that was cool.

We find a hotel that would let us stay on a renovated floor if we promise to realize and accept the insufficient amenities. We gladly accept as we have no options. We check in I look at Micki “you gonna expense this?” We watch the news, most of which never was mentioned outside of New York– how white teens and white militia groups were getting caught with car/trucks full of bombs everywhere, trying to get to the tunnels and bridges. We watched other buildings collapse as stupid reporters and camera men explored them, we saw it all from a spectators view.

During the midst of all this commotion our future landlord called upset that we had stood him up at the lease signing and insisted we come sign the lease. Dude– you can’t be serious.

That was our welcome to New York.

September 11th, 2001

I typed a long post yesterday and somehow lost it so I will fill this post with a little anecdote that you probably haven’t read in your studies or learned in church. I will ad-lib rather than look for the detailed account of this occurence. It goes like this. Disclaimer: I believe that none of these people are God so I don’t deem this blasphemy in any way.

So, someone wanted to know who was the greatest person on Earth– Jesus or Muhammad, so a contest was held. St. Peter the judge decided on a programming contest (guess you can tell I’m a programmer). The two gents were to devise the greatest computer program ever in under 60 seconds. So two laptops and desks were situated opposing eachother. I’m not sure the brand of laptop or what wi/fi connectivity they had -I just know it was a pure text pad for code like true programmers do.

So the whistle blows and Jesus and Muhammad start coding and they are typing feverishly. Jesus’s code is good but not great. Muhammad is coding up a masterpiece program and Jesus is trying to catch up and just before the minute is up lightning strikes- and all power is lost. Muhammad and Jesus yell some expletives and St. Peter intervenes and says that the contest is still to be decided upon once power is restored.

Power is restored and St. Peter walks over to Muhammad’s laptop, takes a look, makes a smirk and goes to Jesus’ laptop. He smiles and announces “we have a winner– Jesus!”. Muhammad is livid– “what-how– the power went out!” St. Peter looks at Muhammad and announces: “Jesus Saves”.

This joke brought to you by you by a Muslim who happens to be a programmer who’s learned that saving is very vital in this day and age. Thank you Jesus.

I don’t talk to anyone about almost anyone but maybe three people– I’m not the guy at the bar depressed telling my boys “man my girl tripping”. If she is that’s OUR discussion. Not saying that other blogging couples do– I don’t do it– It may interest yall but I just can’t let you into my household. Sure I can blog about the three times we’ve moved and that she “the librarian” has carted along 3 tons of books– but the little lady doesn’t like to be made fun of. I can spew on how a professional mover for millionaires complained about the boxes pon boxes of books we move and the boxes that we have stored at a friend house, but as I said the little lady doesn’t appreciate it.– Especially since I don’t read books.

She doesn’t blog about me: “honey you were drunk last night and slept at the neighbors, are you sure you’re booty hole is in tact?”

“Some guy claiming to be your brother showed up at our place said something about losing a machine gun? and asked was it in our household, honey isn’t your brother still in jail?”

“Honey, why does your other brother come over drink all the alcohol in the house, do his laundry, use the internet, and leave– shouldn’t he pay?”

And then there’s the fact that I work for a major media conglomerate and can’t nor will post about my job.

Then there’s the antics of folks I know that I could NEVER put on blast.

Then there’s the drug aspects– me involved in knowledge of minute volumes of all drug use and peddling– to the moving of major quantities of each– just cuz I know people of all walks of environment.

Me knowing who’s gay (Politicians/Professional Athletes) in this town

Me knowning the drug/political/real-The Wire/stuff and identiities in this town

Me knowing/have been/ involved in major stories/movies/news article events in the past

Me not knowing anything about relationships

All this leads to me not knowing anything.

Nothing that I can blog about.

Nothing that can/can’t get me: no sex/locked up/killed– honesty is a bitch

I’m not absolutely sure but it is my belief that Dave Chapelle is back in business!

Tell me what you think

Appendix I

Turns out to be propoganda for a movie by Charlie Murphy and one of the writers of the Chapelle show. I aint mad at them– they gotta eat too. imagine if you’re part of a 50 million dollar deal and someone leave you high and dry (no pun intended). I aint mad at Dave Chapelle either– that man gotta conquer his own destiny and be mindful of his own intentions and only answer to God (subhana wa ta ala).

More info

By Gus G. Sentementes
Sun reporter
Originally published December 16, 2005

Boom Boom

So Big Willie throws monthly parties with his friends, hip hop aficionados and DJ�s from far and wide. The crowd is diverse and by that I mean the true meaning of diverse, but cool, grown and sexy people nonetheless. Usually gets 200+ people and is a great time. So Saturday we had a great time at the Boom Boom, politicians, doctors, media, rappers, DJ�s, drunks, et al and the party is coming to an end. So Baba and Big Willie are in deep convo looking at me and it�s approaching 1:45 and I�m paying my tab before the establishment closes. So I see a few nods and Baba comes to me � �hey we were thinking�after party at your place�. I think whatever why not�and see Big Willie depart. I know the Lil Woman will get livid if she finds out about it before I give her the pitch and frantically wade through 300 people to get to her. Too late: �I hear, it�s an after party at our house�. I say no, baby I haven�t confirmed anything until I talked to you. Too late the rumor was around�the address was in the AIR. She was surprisingly game and it was on.

I told a few folks I was familiar with including the bar tender and owner of the club and they responded �oh we know where the after party is at��this after I just confirmed it less than 2 minutes ago. We go to leave, in a six car entourage. We depart drive down one block when Big Willie calls: �yall have to pick me up!� We circle back around and all six cars park and people exit looking for my house. Look you drunkards we haven�t gone anywhere!

So we get Big Willie and head to my place. I alert the desk clerk that I have some guest coming over. It�s already 2:30 AM and he isn�t happy. So we go in another door but of course due to the 17 surveillance cameras he sees how many people are with me from and was pissed, and told the Lil Woman that the first complaint he�s calling the cops. She convinces him to alert us first so we can rectify the situation without involving the authorities. So we fill two elevators with folks to spare. Obviously I couldn�t be on both elevators but one elevator never left, I guess it was drunk proof�I just kept hearing bells and the doors opening and closing. So the beer carriers decide to go up about 10 flights of steps carrying three cases of beer because the girls didn�t know how to operate the elevator. So we get to my place and the festivities begin.

Some of us started playing a drinking game that also involves a pot (every player puts in $3�winner take all), when someone gets fed up and finds some dice. So there�s a crap game going on in my place, while others have found my liquor stash, so it�s drinking, gambling, and people making out all over the place. It wasn�t exactly Caligula but it was definitely a step from the norm in our usual conservative gatherings.

So this one kid is pissed he lost his money at what he calls a game of luck (craps) and wants to play an intellectual game (chess). He chooses Baba who isn�t an avid chess player and declines several times while the kid goes on and on about intellectual games. Sooner or later Baba agrees and they play for 10 bucks and Baba beats the kid in less than 10 minutes. So much for the intellectual games.

There�s no smoking in our place so people kept leaving in droves to go to the court yard to huddle in the cold and smoke cigarettes. The night went on and the last guests left around 6am after a long drunken night. In the morning we found a cell phone, cigarettes, and a case of beer�where this case of beer came from I have no clue�someone must of acquired it somehow later because I remember when we ran out of beer.

all in all it was a great night, nothing broken and no cops. Gotta love the impromptu after party.

Payments to family of riot victim approved
York, Pa., settles suit in 1969 killing
Associated Press
Originally published December 7, 2005
YORK, Pa. // The children and sisters of a black woman who was killed during race riots in this Pennsylvania city 36 years ago will share in a $2 million settlement, city officials announced yesterday.
The deal would settle the lawsuit that Lillie Belle Allen’s family filed against the city and five former police officers, one of whom was more recently the city’s mayor.

It also calls for the creation of a memorial to Allen and Henry Schaad, a white city policeman who also was shot to death during the 10 days of rioting in the summer of 1969.

“I thank God we’ve finally come to closure,” said Hattie Dickson of York, one of Allen’s sisters, who joined other family members and city officials at a news conference.

York Mayor John Brenner apologized to Allen’s family.

“We are very sorry for your loss, and I know no monetary settlement and no community dialogue will bring back Lillie Belle Allen,” he said.

The lawsuit had been scheduled to go to trial in April.

The settlement, to be paid by city taxpayers, was approved last night by the five-member City Council. Council President Cameron Texter had called the settlement “absolutely fair.”

The settlement agreement provides for annual payments of $200,000 over 10 years to Dickson; Allen’s other sister, Jennie Settles; and Allen’s two children, Michael, who was 9 when she was killed, and Debra Grier, who was 11.

Allen, 27, who lived in Aiken, S.C., was visiting relatives when she was killed. Family members were confronted by a mob of white youths when they drove into the city on July 21, 1969. Allen was shot when she got out of the vehicle to take the wheel from her frightened sister.

Her case went unsolved for more than 30 years until prosecutors convened a grand jury and uncovered new evidence.

The wrongful-death lawsuit accused former York Mayor Charlie Robertson, who was a police officer at the time of the shooting; four other former officers; and the city of inciting violence and covering up evidence and identities of those involved.

Robertson was acquitted of murder charges in a 2002 trial. Two white men were convicted of second-degree murder and are serving lengthy prison sentences, and seven other white men pleaded guilty or no contest to lesser offenses.

Two black men were convicted of second-degree murder in Schaad’s killing.

Being that I don’t see being a Supreme Court candidate anywhere in my future, I think I’ll spew on the death penalty a bit and for the record I’m pro-choice. This decision not to join the high court is not because I’m not a judge, that doesn’t seem to matter, it’s just because I’m no friend of your president and that’s all it seems to take. So recently lying in bed one morning listening to the news, me and the lady learn that MD is to execute some guy for killing a woman in front of her grandchildren in 1991. “Kill him!”, the lil lady yells, I concur at the time. Why? Because some bastard killed this grandmother in front of her grandchildren. My initial thoughts.

So I get to work and I read up a bit on it. So this black dude goes to a mall finds a victim to rob– who happens to be white and shoots her in front of her grandchildren. Not to make light of the situation and label it any less heinous– in my mind I saw children in a house tied up and forced to watch some evil man make a woman die a slow death– had to be– why else would the death penalty be bestowed upon this dastardly being. So I immediately changed my mind– oh hell no I thought– this dude does not deserve the death penalty. Why did I go 180 degrees?– because if that was me, my brother and sister leaving a mall with my grandmother (we’re Black) and she got smoked, hell toss in a rape for good measure–in 1991– the guy would not only not get the death penalty– he’d probably be out on parole right now. And as a co-worker said “working some government job somewhere–delivering mail or some shit– ready to flip”.

Now let’s look at this a minute– if that were my grandmother, I would indeed want that dude to die and would probably waste my life away trying to kill or get the dude killed. You may think, so yes the death penalty is appropriate in this case. Yes, I think he should die, but the fact of the matter is– I’m an idiot– and no idiot should be able to rightfully make the decision whether a man is put to death or not. But idiots do however make that decision– everyday. Someone is killed each day because someone decided that person didn’t deserve to live anymore. But those people are idiots– 12 people randomly selected from all walks of life to decide on a man’s fate apparently aren’t. And I’m not talking 12 Supreme court justices, I’m talking about 12 people so insignificant in life they can miss a week or month of work and nobody gives a damn. I’m talking 12 people not astute enough to figure out how to avoid jury duty– finalizing the fate of a human being.

Now all racial implications aside– I can go on forever about how unless you kill a white person or a cop, you can avoid the chair. My beef is with the death penalty and the process in itself. So 12 idiots decide a guy should die, and the only mortal who can alter that decision is a politician. So you got 12 idiots saying a person should die and only one idiot who can say otherwise. And why should he– 12 people already said he should die

So say this happened to my grandmother and I hunted the guy down and killed him– do I get the death penalty? I probably wouldn’t but I would spend a good portion of my life unfree, demeaned and destined for failure for making the same decision 12 idiots would of made anyway. And that’s the irony of our justice system. Black or white.

Story:

Appeals Court Denies Stay of Execution for Baker
Wednesday November 23, 2005 4:24pm

Annapolis, Md. (AP) - Maryland’s highest court rejected a request for a stay of execution from Wesley Eugene Baker Wednesday.

Baker’s lawyers had argued that he should get a new trial because of a state study showing racial and geographic discrimination in the way the death penalty is imposed in Maryland. Baker is scheduled to die the week of Dec. 5 for a 1991 murder.

The court ejected his request for a stay of execution. It also denied Baker the right to appeal a Harford County court ruling that rejected his request for a new sentencing hearing.

Baker was sentenced to die by lethal injection for killing 49-year-old Jane Tyson in a Baltimore County shopping center parking lot as her grandchildren watched.

His attorney, Gary Christopher, said he will file an appeal with the U.S. Supreme Court next week. He also has filed a new appeal with the state Court of Appeals saying that the lawyers who represented Baker at his sentencing did not present evidence about the abuse he suffered as a child.

Copyright 2005 by The Associated Press.
All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Appendix I

Forgot to mention they did kill the guy yesterday (12/6/05)
FULL STORY

Appendix II

Tookie Washington Tookie Williams, crips co-founder (other co-founder was Raymond Washington hence the mistake), murderer, latter children’s book writer and Nobel Peace Prize candidate is scheduled to be put to death this month and the only person that can say otherwise is Arnold Schwarzenegger. Go figure.

Appendix III

The executed Tookie last night around midite EST 12/13/05

You can’t come in to no negroe’s home–even if you gave it to them–and tell them when to get out of bed. Two wrongs don’t make a right but two Wrights made an airplane.

A gift of generosity goes awry
Ties are broken when a vacant home offered to a displaced Katrina family is left in disarray
By Rona Marech and Mary Gail Hare
sun reporters
Originally published December 2, 2005

The Brown family of Louisiana fled Hurricane Katrina with nothing. The DiMaggio family and its Westminster church, the Firm Foundation Worship Center, had a vacant home and the desire to help.

But what seemed like a fortunate connection gradually dissolved into a flurry of accusations and bruised feelings.

Sandra and Keith Brown, who drove to Carroll County after the hurricane with seven of their eight children, say their hosts were patronizing and disrespectful. The DiMaggios said the Browns left the house in disarray and didn’t appreciate all the community had done for them. The DiMaggios were stunned, they said, when they found the words “MD sucks” spray-painted on the new white siding on the home’s exterior.

While cases of generosity gone awry are in the minority, disaster-relief experts say some misunderstanding and frustration are practically inevitable as people - even those with the best intentions - come to terms with what it means to help and be helped.

A man from Nashville, Tenn., who had opened his vacant retirement home to a family of Katrina evacuees said the family left the property damaged and filled with trash, an experience that he said “left a bad taste in my mouth.”

In a Minnesota town, the story of two women who took in a family displaced by Katrina - highlighted on Good Morning America - ended unhappily, after tensions in the household led to the Louisiana family leaving.

“There are times when people expect a grateful victim,” said Ande Miller, the executive director of National Voluntary Organizations Active in Disaster, a Virginia association of faith-based institutions and other disaster relief agencies.

“We don’t always pay attention to the fact that they’ve had a terrible thing happen to them, and it’s hard to be grateful when your home was just destroyed. You have to put in perspective what we’re asking them to be grateful for.”

It’s unclear exactly how and when the relationship between the DiMaggios and the Browns unraveled. But most of the Brown family left for Louisiana on Sunday without so much as a “thank you” to the congregation, church members said.

When Firm Foundation Worship Center pastors and several members of the congregation visited the home shortly after the Sunday service, they found piles of donated clothing littering the porch. A trampoline lent to the children was slashed. A small hole around the electrical socket in the bathroom is now much larger. Trash, broken glass and clutter filled the house, said the DiMaggios, who have since cleaned up with help from volunteers.

“We gave them a house to live in for free, so that they could work and save their money to get back on their feet,” said Marge DiMaggio. “They had nothing when they came, and we were happy to help them. We passed on donations that came to us for them.” Donations included a car, a refrigerator, washing machine and clothing for the family.

Keith and Sandra Brown said two of their sons, who have found jobs and remained in Westminster, were planning to clean the house once the remaining family had moved out.

Elijah Brown, 19, helped with the cleaning Monday. Josh Brown, 22, who admitted spray painting the words on the house, has promised to remove the graffiti. It’s unclear whether the two brothers, who are living with other volunteers, are going to stay in town.

“I am more grateful than anyone will ever know. People we hardly knew gave us so many things. I have thank-you cards ready. … I really thought Maryland was beautiful, and I felt truly blessed,” Sandra Brown said in a phone interview yesterday. But she said some church members continued to act like the house was their own and “treated my husband and me like children.”

Rosalind Blakey, who connected the two families through her grassroots organization, Home Resources Services, said church members would “come into their house and not knock and tell them it was time to get up and not to sleep so late. … Treating them as if they were their project or their assignment.”

Paul Wilson, the executive director of Katrinahous ing.org, a Salt Lake City-based organization that helped connect thousands of donors with evacuees in need of housing, said he has received all-too-many after-the-fact e-mails from exasperated survivors and benefactors.

“You’re going to have conflicts like this arise when people open their homes,” Wilson said. “It’s not fun to see the ugly side of humanity. It hasn’t soured me, but it’s not easy to bear a lot of this.”

Carroll County’s tempest has at least partially cooled, however. Most of the Browns, who didn’t intend to stay in Maryland, are back home trying to rebuild. “You can try to make it as cozy as you can here for them, but their home was in Louisiana,” Blakey said.

The DiMaggios said they’re moving on.

“We are not discouraged, and this won’t stop us from helping other people in need,” said Marge DiMaggio.

“If you help 100 people and three of them don’t treat you right,” her husband said, “it doesn’t stop you from helping.”

First Genocide, Then Lie About It
Why I Hate Thanksgiving
By MITCHEL COHEN

With much material contributed by Peter Linebaugh and
others whose names have over the years been lost.–MC

The year was 1492. The Taino-Arawak people of the Bahamas
discovered Christopher Columbus on their beach.

Historian Howard Zinn tells us how Arawak men and women,
naked, tawny, and full of wonder, emerged from their
villages onto the island’s beaches and swam out to get a
closer look at the strange big boat. When Columbus and his
sailors came ashore, carrying swords, speaking oddly, the
Arawaks ran to greet them, brought them food, water, gifts.
Columbus later wrote of this in his log. Here is what he
wrote:

“They brought us parrots and balls of cotton and spears and
many other things, which they exchanged for the glass beads
and hawks’ bells. They willingly traded everything they
owned. They were well-built, with good bodies and handsome
features. They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for
I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut
themselves out of ignorance. They have no iron. Their
spears are made of sugar cane. They would make fine
servants. With 50 men we could subjugate them all and make
them do whatever we want.”

And so the conquest began, and the Thanotocracy — the
regime of death — was inaugurated on the continent the
Indians called “Turtle Island.”

You probably already know a good piece of the story: How
Columbus’s Army took Arawak and Taino people prisoners and
insisted that they take him to the source of their gold,
which they used in tiny ornaments in their ears. And how,
with utter contempt and cruelty, Columbus took many more
Indians prisoners and put them aboard the Nina and the
Pinta — the Santa Maria having run aground on the island
of Hispa�ola (today, the Dominican Republic and Haiti).
When some refused to be taken prisoner, they were run
through with swords and bled to death. Then the Nina and
the Pinta set sail for the Azores and Spain. During the
long voyage, many of the Indian prisoners died. Here’s part
of Columbus’s report to Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand
of Spain:

“The Indians are so naive and so free with their
possessions that no one who has not witnessed them would
believe it. When you ask for something they have, they
never say no. To the contrary, they offer to share with
anyone.” Columbus concluded his report by asking for a
little help from the King and Queen, and in return he would
bring them “as much gold as they need, and as many slaves
as they ask.”

Columbus returned to the New World — “new” for Europeans,
that is — with 17 ships and more than 1,200 men. Their aim
was clear: Slaves, and gold. They went from island to
island in the Caribbean, taking Indians as captives. But
word spread ahead of them. By the time they got to Fort
Navidad on Haiti, the Taino had risen up and killed all the
sailors left behind on the last voyage, after they had
roamed the island in gangs raping women and taking children
and women as slaves. Columbus later wrote: “Let us in the
name of the Holy Trinity go on sending all the slaves that
can be sold.” The Indians began fighting back, but were no
match for the Spaniard conquerors, even though they greatly
outnumbered them. In eight years, Columbus’s men murdered
more than 100,000 Indians on Haiti alone. Overall, dying as
slaves in the mines, or directly murdered, or from diseases
brought to the Caribbean by the Spaniards, over 3 million
Indian people were murdered between 1494 and 1508.

What Columbus did to the Arawaks of the Bahamas and the
Taino of the Caribbean, Cortez did to the Aztecs of Mexico,
Pizarro to the Incas of Peru, and the English settlers of
Virginia and Massachusetts to the Powhatans and the
Pequots. Literally millions of native peoples were
slaughtered. And the gold, slaves and other resources were
used, in Europe, to spur the growth of the new money
economy rising out of feudalism. Karl Marx would later call
this “the primitive accumulation of capital.” These were
the violent beginnings of an intricate system of
technology, business, politics and culture that would
dominate the world for the next five centuries.

All of this were the preconditions for the first
Thanksgiving. In the North American English colonies, the
pattern was set early, as Columbus had set it in the
islands of the Bahamas. In 1585, before there was any
permanent English settlement in Virginia, Richard Grenville
landed there with seven ships. The Indians he met were
hospitable, but when one of them stole a small silver cup,
Grenville sacked and burned the whole Indian village.

The Jamestown colony was established in Virginia in 1607,
inside the territory of an Indian confederacy, led by the
chief, Powhatan. Powhatan watched the English settle on his
people’s land, but did not attack. And the English began
starving. Some of them ran away and joined the Indians,
where they would at least be fed. Indeed, throughout
colonial times tens of thousands of indentured servants,
prisoners and slaves — from Wales and Scotland as well as
from Africa — ran away to live in Indian communities,
intermarry, and raise their children there.

In the summer of 1610 the governor of Jamestown colony
asked Powhatan to return the runaways, who were living
fully among the Indians. Powhatan left the choice to those
who ran away, and none wanted to go back. The governor of
Jamestown then sent soldiers to take revenge. They
descended on an Indian community, killed 15 or 16 Indians,
burned the houses, cut down the corn growing around the
village, took the female leader of the tribe and her
children into boats, then ended up throwing the children
overboard and shooting out their brains in the water. The
female leader was later taken off the boat and stabbed to
death.

By 1621, the atrocities committed by the English had grown,
and word spread throughout the Indian villages. The Indians
fought back, and killed 347 colonists. From then on it was
total war. Not able to enslave the Indians the English
aristocracy decided to exterminate them.

And then the Pilgrims arrived.

When the Pilgrims came to New England they too were coming
not to vacant land but to territory inhabited by tribes of
Indians. The story goes that the Pilgrims, who were
Christians of the Puritan sect, were fleeing religious
persecution in Europe. They had fled England and went to
Holland, and from there sailed aboard the Mayflower, where
they landed at Plymouth Rock in what is now Massachusetts.

Religious persecution or not, they immediately turned to
their religion to rationalize their persecution of others.
They appealed to the Bible, Psalms 2:8: “Ask of me, and I
shall give thee, the heathen for thine inheritance, and the
uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.” To
justify their use of force to take the land, they cited
Romans 13:2: “Whosoever therefore resisteth the power,
resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall
receive to themselves damnation.”

The Puritans lived in uneasy truce with the Pequot Indians,
who occupied what is now southern Connecticut and Rhode
Island. But they wanted them out of the way; they wanted
their land. And they seemed to want to establish their rule
firmly over Connecticut settlers in that area.

In 1636 an armed expedition left Boston to attack the
Narragansett Indians on Block Island. The English landed
and killed some Indians, but the rest hid in the thick
forests of the island and the English went from one
deserted village to the next, destroying crops. Then they
sailed back to the mainland and raided Pequot villages
along the coast, destroying crops again.

The English went on setting fire to wigwams of the village.
They burned village after village to the ground. As one of
the leading theologians of his day, Dr. Cotton Mather put
it: “It was supposed that no less than 600 Pequot souls
were brought down to hell that day.” And Cotton Mather,
clutching his bible, spurred the English to slaughter more
Indians in the name of Christianity.

Three hundred thousand Indians were murdered in New England
over the next few years. It is important to note: The
ordinary Englishmen did not want this war and often, very
often, refused to fight. Some European intellectuals like
Roger Williams spoke out against it. And some erstwhile
colonists joined the Indians and even took up arms against
the invaders from England. It was the Puritan elite who
wanted the war, a war for land, for gold, for power. And,
in the end, the Indian population of 10 million that was in
North America when Columbus came was reduced to less than
one million.

The way the different Indian peoples lived — communally,
consensually, making decisions through tribal councils,
each tribe having different sexual/marriage relationships,
where many different sexualities were practiced as the norm
– contrasted dramatically with the Puritan’s Christian
fundamentalist values. For the Puritans, men decided
everything, whereas in the Iroquois federation of what is
now New York state women chose the men who represented the
clans at village and tribal councils; it was the women who
were responsible for deciding on whether or not to go to
war. The Christian idea of male dominance and female
subordination was conspicuously absent in Iroquois society.

There were many other cultural differences: The Iroquois
did not use harsh punishment on children. They did not
insist on early weaning or early toilet training, but
gradually allowed the child to learn to care for
themselves. And, they did not believe in ownership of land;
they utilized the land, lived on it. The idea of ownership
was ridiculous, absurd. The European Christians, on the
other hand, in the spirit of the emerging capitalism,
wanted to own and control everything — even children and
other human beings. The pastor of the Pilgrim colony, John
Robinson, thus advised his parishioners: “And surely there
is in all children a stubbornness, and stoutness of mind
arising from natural pride, which must, in the first place,
be broken and beaten down; that so the foundation of their
education being laid in humility and tractableness, other
virtues may, in their time, be built thereon.” That idea
sunk in.

One colonist said that the plague that had destroyed the
Patuxet people — a combination of slavery, murder by the
colonists and disease — was “the Wonderful Preparation of
the Lord Jesus Christ by His Providence for His People’s
Abode in the Western World.” The Pilgrims robbed Wampanoag
graves for the food that had been buried with the dead for
religious reasons. Whenever the Pilgrims realized they were
being watched, they shot at the Wampanoags, and scalped
them. Scalping had been unknown among Native Americans in
New England prior to its introduction by the English, who
began the practice by offering the heads of their enemies
and later accepted scalps.

“What do you think of Western Civilization?” Mahatma Gandhi
was asked in the 1940s. To which Gandhi replied: “Western
Civilization? I think it would be a good idea.” And so
enters “Civilization,” the civilization of Christian
Europe, a “civilizing force” that couldn’t have been more
threatened by the beautiful anarchy of the Indians they
encountered, and so slaughtered them.

These are the Puritans that the Indians “saved”, and whom
we celebrate in the holiday, Thanksgiving. Tisquantum, also
known as Squanto, a member of the Patuxet Indian nation.
Samoset, of the Wabonake Indian nation, which lived in
Maine. They went to Puritan villages and, having learned to
speak English, brought deer meat and beaver skins for the
hungry, cold Pilgrims. Tisquantum stayed with them and
helped them survive their first years in their New World.
He taught them how to navigate the waters, fish and
cultivate corn and other vegetables. He pointed out
poisonous plants and showed how other plants could be used
as medicines. He also negotiated a peace treaty between the
Pilgrims and Massasoit, head chief of the Wampanoags, a
treaty that gave the Pilgrims everything and the Indians
nothing. And even that treaty was soon broken. All this is
celebrated as the First Thanksgiving.

My own feeling? The Indians should have let the Pilgrims
die. But they couldn’t do that. Their humanity made them
assist other human beings in need. And for that beautiful,
human, loving connection they — and those of us who are
not Indian as well — paid a terrible price: The genocide
of the original inhabitants of Turtle Island, what is now
America.

Let’s look at one example of the Puritan values — which
were not, I repeat, the values of the English working class
values that we “give thanks for” on this holiday. The
example of the Maypole, and Mayday.

In 1517, 25 years after Columbus first landed in the
Bahamas, the English working class staged a huge revolt.
This was done through the guilds. King Henry VIII brought
Lombard bankers from Italy and merchants from France in
order to undercut wages, lengthen hours, and break the
guilds. This alliance between international finance,
national capital and military aristocracy was in the
process of merging into the imperialist nation-state.

The young workers of London took their revenge upon the
merchants. A secret rumor said the commonality — the
vision of communal society that would counter the rich, the
merchants, the industrialists, the nobility and the
landowners — would arise on May Day. The King and Lords
got frightened — householders were armed, a curfew was
declared. Two guys didn’t hear about the curfew (they
missed Dan Rather on t.v.). They were arrested. The shout
went out to mobilize, and 700 workers stormed the jails,
throwing bricks, hot water, stones. The prisoners were
freed. A French capitalist’s house was trashed.

Then came the repression: Cannons were fired into the city.
Three hundred were imprisoned, soldiers patrolled the
streets, and a proclamation was made that no women were
allowed to meet together, and that all men should “keep
their wives in their houses.” The prisoners were brought
through the streets tied in ropes. Some were children.
Eleven sets of gallows were set up throughout the city.
Many were hanged. The authorities showed no mercy, but
exhibited extreme cruelty.

Thus the dreaded Thanatocracy, the regime of death, was
inaugurated in answer to proletarian riot at the beginning
of capitalism. The May Day riots were caused by
expropriation (people having been uprooted from their lands
they had used for centuries in common), and by exploitation
(people had no jobs, as the monarchy imported capital).
Working class women organizers and healers who posed an
alternative to patriarchal capitalism — were burned at the
stake as witches. Enclosure, conquest, famine, war and
plague ravaged the people who, in losing their commons,
also lost a place to put their Maypole.

Suddenly, the Maypole became a symbol of rebellion. In 1550
Parliament ordered the destruction of Maypoles (just as,
during the Vietnam war, the U.S.-backed junta in Saigon
banned the making of all red cloth, as it was being sewn
into the blue, yellow and red flags of the National
Liberation Front).

In 1664, near the end of the Puritans’ war against the
Pequot Indians, the Puritans in England abolished May Day
altogether. They had defeated the Indians, and they were
attempting to defeat the growing proletarian insurgency at
home as well.

Although translators of the Bible were burned, its last
book, Revelation, became an anti-authoritarian manual
useful to those who would turn the Puritan world upside
down, such as the Family of Love, the Anabaptists, the
Diggers, Levellers, Ranters, and Thomas Morton, the man who
in 1626 went to Merry Mount in Quincy Mass, and with his
Indian friends put up the first Maypole in America, in
contempt of Puritan rule.

The Puritans destroyed it, exiled him, plagued the Indians,
and hanged gay people and Quakers. Morton had come over on
his own, a boat person, an immigrant. So was Anna Lee, who
came over a few years later, the Manchester proletarian who
founded the communal living, gender separated Shakers, who
praised God in ecstatic dance, and who drove the Puritans
up the wall.

The story of the Maypole as a symbol of revolt continued.
It crossed cultures and continued through the ages. In the
late 1800s, the Sioux began the Ghost Dance in a circle,
“with a large pine tree in the center, which was covered
with strips of cloth of various colors, eagle feathers,
stuffed birds, claws, and horns, all offerings to the Great
Spirit.” They didn’t call it a Maypole and they danced for
the unity of all Indians, the return of the dead, and the
expulsion of the invaders on a particular day, the 4th of
July, but otherwise it might as well have been a Mayday!

Wovoka, a Nevada Paiute, started it. Expropriated, he cut
his hair. To buy watermelon he rode boxcars to work in the
Oregon hop fields for small wages, exploited. The Puget
Sound Indians had a new religion — they stopped drinking
alcohol, became entranced, and danced for five days,
jerking twitching, calling for their land back, just like
the Shakers! Wovoka took this back to Nevada: “All Indians
must dance, everywhere, keep on dancing.” Soon they were.
Porcupine took the dance across the Rockies to the Sioux.
Red Cloud and Sitting Bull advanced the left foot following
with the right, hardly lifting the feet from the ground.
The Federal Agents banned the Ghost Dance! They claimed it
was a cause of the last Sioux outbreak, just as the
Puritans had claimed the Maypole had caused the May Day
proletarian riots, just as the Shakers were dancing people
into communality and out of Puritanism.

On December 29 1890 the Government (with Hotchkiss guns
throwing 2 pound explosive shells at 50 a minute — always
developing new weapons!) massacred more than 300 men, women
and children at Wounded Knee. As in the Waco holocaust, or
the bombing of MOVE in Philadelphia, the State disclaimed
responsibility. The Bureau of Ethnology sent out James
Mooney to investigate. Amid Janet Reno-like tears, he
wrote: “The Indians were responsible for the engagement.”

In 1970, the town of Plymouth Rock, Massachusetts held, as
it does each year, a Thanksgiving Ceremony given by the
townspeople. There are many speeches for the crowds who
attend. That year — the year of Nixon’s secret invasion of
Cambodia; the year 4 students were massacred at Kent State
and 13 wounded for opposing the war; the year they tried to
electrocute Black Panthers Bobby Seale and Erica Huggins –
the Massachusetts Department of Commerce asked the
Wampanoag Indians to select a speaker to mark the 350th
anniversary of the Pilgrims’ arrival, and the first
Thanksgiving.

Frank James, who is a Wampanoag, was selected. But before
he was allowed to speak he was told to show a copy of his
speech to the white people in charge of the ceremony. When
they saw what he had written, they would not allow him to
read it.

First, the genocide. Then, the suppression of all
discussion about it.

What do Indian people find to be Thankful for in this
America? What does anyone have to be Thankful for in the
genocide of the Indians, that this “holyday” commemorates?
As we sit with our families on Thanksgiving, taking any
opportunity we can to get out of work or off the streets
and be in a warm place with people we love, we realize that
all the things we have to be thankful for have nothing at
all to do with the Pilgrims, nothing at all to do with
Amerikan history, and everything to do with the
alternative, anarcho-communist lives the Indian peoples
led, before they were massacred by the colonists, in the
name of privatization of property and the lust for gold and
labor.

Yes, I am an American. But I am an American in revolt. I am
revolted by the holiday known as Thanksgiving. I have been
accused of wanting to go backwards in time, of being
against progress. To those charges, I plead guilty. I want
to go back in time to when people lived communally, before
the colonists’ Christian god was brought to these shores to
sanctify their terrorism, their slavery, their hatred of
children, their oppression of women, their holocausts. But
that is impossible. So all I look forward to the utter
destruction of the apparatus of death known as Amerika –
not the people, not the beautiful land, but the machinery,
the State, the capitalism, the Christianity and all that it
stands for. I look forward to a future where I will have
children with Amerika, and they will be the new Indians.

Mitchel Cohen is co-editor of “Green Politix”, the national
newspaper of the Greens/Green Party USA,, and organizes
with the NoSpray Coalition and the Brooklyn Greens. He can
be reached at: mitchelcohen@mindspring.com
In memorium. Lest we forget. The First Thanksgiving

I was reading Nia’s blog and one of her accounts in “Tales from the CCCrypt” reminded me of a similar tale. Me and my daughter then maybe 2-3 years old are chilling in my one bedroom apartment in Baltimore where crime is avidly ramped. My sweetie and I had just begun to date and lived in two separate states and she said she could not make it this weekend as she had to study, etc. etc. So somewhere in the middle of reading my daughter a book, putting her to bed– I hear a bump in the night. So I ignore it– maybe my imagination– and I hear it again– a *thump at my door. So I candidly go to the door to look out my peep-hole and it is covered. Me no stranger to danger– didn’t panic, but my daughter was in the bedroom 10 feet away, also I remember the HBO special with this hitman called Iceman or whatever who would kill his victims by knocking on their door and waiting til he would hear them come and shoot them through the door.

So I go and grab my girlfriend, and by girlfriend I do mean an inanimate object ala Tupac, and stand by the door. I announce “whoever is out there you have until the count of three to announce yourself or be gone”. I count, 1…no answer. 2… no answer 3… no answer. I cock the gilfriend (sounds pornographic) and that’s when the panic ensues: “It’s me!, it’s me!” I hear. It was my future baby. She had come all the way to Bmore to surprise me. Good thing I didn’t shoot her. She is my baby, but my girlfriend will always be a few pounds of blue steel.

Baltimore ranked 6th-most-dangerous city

By John Fritze
Sun Reporter
Originally published November 22, 2005

Baltimore is the sixth-most-dangerous city in the country - worse than Atlanta, Washington and Gary, Ind. - and the second-most dangerous of the nation’s largest cities, according to an annual ranking released yesterday.

Despite a reduction in crime in recent years, Baltimore rose five positions from the 11th-most- dangerous city last year, according to the report by Morgan Quitno Press of Lawrence, Kan. The new rankings are based on 2004 FBI crime data.

City Hall officials quickly sought a silver lining in the deluge of negative data as they repeated a familiar message that crime is down nearly 40 percent since 1999.

“The numbers also show that we are making strides in reducing violent crime,” said Raquel Guillory, a spokeswoman for Mayor Martin O’Malley. “We continue to remain focused on reducing crime here in Baltimore.”

Baltimore’s crime has already become an issue in Maryland’s race for governor, which O’Malley entered in September. Montgomery County Executive Douglas M. Duncan, also a Democratic candidate for governor, issued a statement yesterday through his campaign that said he was disheartened by the survey.

Baltimore ranked sixth out of 369 cities - more dangerous than Miami, Philadelphia and New York. When compared to cities with a population of 500,000 or more, Baltimore ranked second, behind only Detroit.

Camden, N.J., topped the list of dangerous cities, and, according to the report, Newton, Mass., was the safest city in the country.

Criminal justice scientists have often criticized the company’s rankings as overly simplistic and statistically shaky. They do not place data in the context of population density, economic conditions and other factors.

Cities are measured in six crime categories - murder, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, burglary and motor vehicle theft - and are compared to a national average.

——————————————————–

My thoughts.

I’ve lived a few places mentioned here, Philly, Bmore, New York, and even lived in Camden, NJ (voted #1 most dangerous). I always spew on the fact that Camden is gully as hell and so bad that the National Guard was called in because the police force was insufficient to handle crime in Camden. When I lived in Camden (70’s) it wasn’t so bad but what it was, was the pool from which would eventually haunt Camden. In the 70’s after gangs were pretty much on hiatus and basically defunct in Philadelphia- the resulting Black Mafia movement affluent in their ways, could no longer reside within the city limits, a) for safety, and b) for luxury- Camden was the new- Negroe suburb. It wasn’t only for Black gangsters but it was for all escapist Negroes. What they didn’t realize that they were all moving to the same small town and the same big town thug mentality resided in these new residents and was instilled in their offspring who kill eachother like it’s going out of style daily. Camden also struggles with a Napoleon typed complex, I’ll call “little city complex”. They actually strive to be the number one city in crime as to shun neighboring Philadelphia and New York.

Cities that have this “little city complex” that I’ve been too are Camden– as noted, Pittsburgh, and of course Baltimore. Now don’t get me wrong– I love Baltimore– and Pittsburgh and Camden, but this city as the saying goes– “is on some other shit”. Baltimore’s mentality is “New York got they thing, D.C. (Washington) has there’s, Philly…, let’s do our own thing”. What that thing is– I have no clue but it’s doing the total opposite of any other city– I know that much. What I do know– is that when it comes to crime– being that I’m no stranger to crime or criminal activity– this city is on “some other shit”. Besides the heroin problem that I spoke of in this post– the mind of a Baltimore criminal is totally different than any I have encountered, and I will cite incidents and facts.

First off– I know some sick muthafuckas. In High School my boy was killed by his blood- same mother and father- brother, in the streets in front of everyone. Not only did he shoot his brother– he decided to empty the entire gun into his head while he was on the ground. That is normal to me– perfectly sound. My other boy, maybe 10 years back, was in my kitchen and looked around and said “I don’t like this kitchen– looks like where I shot my pop” –again-normal– perfectly sound to me. I’m not saying any of these incidents were right– they were wrong as hell– but I can comprehend them. Hell, a real life “I kill and eat people” serial killer Gary Heidnek lived less than a mile from me- but all that would not prepare me for the Baltimore criminal mind.

Now let’s talk about the Baltimore criminal and a thing I call “couth” or “ethics”. When I first moved here my uncle, an aging 300 pound cook asked me to borrow a gun. For what I asked? Because he would get robbed weekly as he walked home. I know wayward kids and teens have their fun but what grown man in his right mind robs a wage worker? If you have the mocksy to pull out a weapon and demand money of someone a)do it to someone that has money that they didn’t slave to get and b) someone higher than you on the physical chain– no elderly, women, children, etc. Rule of the game is you only rob people in the game (drug dealers/users/hookers/etc.). Not here, check the Police logs. Here- there are no rules to the game.

Things I noticed when I moved here that had me totally in awe:

Constant robbery/burglary of churches. In one instance the whole congregation was held hostage during a robbery.
Murdering of women- four women were murdered over a drug debt- young and old– and the killer let the male live.
Also the killing of an entire family– mostly women because they didn’t like the drug selling in front of their door. And then there’s the idiots that killed and burned a teenage girl so she couldn’t testify in a statutory rape trial. I think the idiot who would of definitely got off given the sex was consensual is now serving 60 years or so, and his dumb ass boys are serving life for helping him in this mastermind scheme.

This is not to attest that Baltimore just has dumb criminals– I know some of the absolute most dumbest idiot criminals there are alive– I’m related to half of them– but regardless of how dumb they are, they maintain “couth”– ethics”. And when this couth and ethics is breeched some other criminal pulls them up on it. See Chicago awhile back where a gang member killed a civilian (can’t remember if it was a woman, child or elderly person). When the city was at arms to find this degenerate bastard– they did indeed find him– killed by his own gang. Rule of the game: don’t fuck with civilians– it’s against the law.

So in summary– what makes Baltimore different than most other cities is the instability and spontaneity of the criminal. To use a colloquialism I like: You honestly can’t figure these niggas. And it aint even just the Black people– I have never been to a Northern city where the white folks are scarier than the black folks. This as I tell friends from Philly, NY, DC- makes Baltimore harder than any city I ever been to, including Philly, NY, Flint, East St. Louis, Camden, Chicago, et al. And this is why you basically can’t control/fight crime here– you have no clue what the hell is going on in the mind of a Baltimore criminal.

Appendix I

A sampling of Baltimore Crime from today (11/22/05) alone:

Baltimore
Northeastern
Shootings // Two teenage boys were walking in the 5100 block of Hillen Road about 9 p.m. Sunday when one of three men who passed them on the street fired several shots. One of the boys was hit on the left side of his face, the other in the head. Both were treated at Good Samaritan Hospital, and were expected to survive.

Eastern
Arrest // A 14-year-old boy was arrested about 11 a.m. yesterday in the 1400 block of E. Oliver St. by members of the Regional Warrant Apprehension Task Force on warrants charging him as an adult with two counts of attempted murder. Haymond Burton of the 2500 block of E. Chase St. is accused of shooting Lewis Jefferson, 18, and Mark Smith, 25, in the 2600 block of E. Madison St. about 1 a.m. Sept. 13. Burton was being held at Central Booking and Intake Center.

Theft // A 13-inch TV, a DVD player and a briefcase were stolen Sunday from a 2000 International tractor parked in the 2200 block of N. Ellwood Ave.

Stolen vehicle // A four-door, champagne-colored 1999 Dodge Stratus with tags JLT 831 was stolen Sunday in the 1700 block of E. Chase St.

Stolen vehicle // Police were seeking a burgundy, four-door 1995 Buick LeSabre with tags LNM 327 that was stolen Sunday in the 700 block of N. Kenwood Ave.

Southern
Assault // Police responding to a report of an assault in a house in the 1200 block of E. Fort Ave. about 5:40 p.m. Sunday found a woman lying unconscious in a room. She was taken by ambulance to Maryland Shock Trauma Center for treatment and was expected to survive. An investigation found that the woman and a man, 40, were arguing when the man struck the woman in the head with a telephone. The man, whose name was not available, was charged with aggravated assault and was being held at Central Booking and Intake Center.

Theft // An in-dash stereo radio valued at $200 was stolen from a parked 1998 Chevrolet sedan between Wednesday and Saturday in the 300 block of S. Fremont Ave. by someone who entered by forcing open a vent window. The theft was reported Sunday.

Stolen vehicle // A black 2003 Nissan Frontier sport utility vehicle with tags 863M619 was stolen Sunday in the 1300 block of Warner St.

Assault // A 53-year-old man was reported in critical condition at Maryland Shock Trauma Center after another man beat him and kicked him in the head Sunday afternoon during an argument in the victim’s home in the 500 block of Vincent St. A 25-year-old man, whose name was not available, was arrested and charged with aggravated assault.

Northern
Robbery // A man armed with a handgun robbed a McDonald’s in the 3900 block of Falls Road of an undisclosed sum of money about 6:25 p.m. Sunday.

Baltimore County
White Marsh
Robbery // A deliveryman for a Pizza Hut outlet in the 4100 block of E. Joppa Road was in the first block of Waldmann Mill Court about 3 p.m. Sunday when he was assaulted by two men, one armed with a handgun, who robbed him of food and $23.

Parkville
Burglary // A sump pump and an air conditioner were stolen from a vacant house in the 100 block of Walnut Ave. between Thursday and Sunday by someone who entered through a side basement window. They were valued at $450.

Franklin
Robbery // Two boys, one 18 and the other 15, told police they were walking in the 3800 block of Lochearn Drive about 1 a.m. Sunday when a gunman forced them into a car and robbed them of their money and a cell phone.

Robbery // Police were seeking several male teenagers who attacked three 15-year-old boys at Owings Mill Mall about 10 p.m. Saturday and robbed one of them of a cell phone.

Woodlawn
Burglary // Video games and their accessories - all valued at $400 - were stolen Sunday from an apartment in the 7100 block of Rolling Bend Road by someone who forced open the front door.

Robbery // A 16-year-old was walking in the 9600 block of Orpin Road about 12:30 p.m. Sunday when a male assailant armed with a knife robbed him of a cell phone valued at $100.

[Richard Irwin]

Man charged in robbery try
A Westminster man was arrested yesterday in connection with the attempted robbery of a woman outside Carroll Hospital Center on Nov. 7, state police said. Jarod Arthur Holtschneider, 25, of the 200 block of Sophia Ave. was taken before a Carroll County District Court commissioner and released after being charged with attempted robbery. State police are investigating whether other suspects might have been involved in the assault of the 62-year-old woman, who was attacked from behind by a man who tried to steal her purse as she fell outside the hospital’s emergency department. Anyone with information is asked to contact state police in Westminster at 410-386-3000.

Killer won’t get new prison classification
Benjamin Sifrit, serving 38 years for the 2002 killing of a Fairfax, Va., woman who was dismembered in an Ocean City condo, has lost a demand for corrections officials to redo his prison classification and pay him damages. Sifrit complained last year that the worksheet for his 2003 prisoner classification was improper, but corrections officials - in a decision upheld last week by Anne Arundel Circuit Judge Paul F. Harris Jr. - denied his claim because it was filed too late. Sifrit and his wife, Erika, were accused of luring a Virginia couple to a condo, then killing and dismembering them. Erika Sifrit is serving life plus 20 years for her role in both killings.

Appendix II

FYI

Most dangerous cities

1. Camden, N.J.

2. Detroit

3. St. Louis

4. Flint, Mich.

5. Richmond, Va.

6. Baltimore

7. Atlanta

8. New Orleans

9. Gary, Ind.

10. Birmingham, Ala.

Speaking of bad shots, this is 50 in the new XXL. Magazines should send proofs to you before they go to print. Is it just me or does it look like 50 is D.L. rapper posterboy of the year. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making any accusations (and not that it’s anything wrong with it) but this pic had me cracking up. Now I know what the G in G-unit stands for lol.

Appendix I