afrykan

Archive for the ‘Random’ Category

Hung-Over

In Humor, Random on June 9, 2009 at 6:10 pm

I seem to be recovering from a hangover of sorts. I have no idea what happened these past few months. Unlike the movie Hangover however, I had all my teeth when I woke up

and there were no naked Asians in the trunk (that is a friggin’ hilarious movie by the way!). In one morning, I ended up making a video for my blog, writing a blog, paying homage to the establishment by logging on to Hotjobs.com and resume wrestling with Wharton and Harvard MBA’s for the bookkeeping position at Chucky Cheese, connecting with friends and associates, checking my bbq lists, and a slew of other random shit, and all before 3pm (not on pace with the army’s to do list but not bad for me). Things I haven’t been able to accomplish in months are now complete. As some of you who read my blogs (thank you btw) may have noticed, by a lack of anything to notice at all, I have been bullshitting around for some time now. I have a plethora of viable reasons for not being able to work as of late, but as one of my mentors once told me “Nobody Cares.” I do, however, remember bits and pieces of the past few months that finally led me to get off my ass – so please, allow me to share. Frankly, you don’t have a choice because you are still reading this . . . still (thank you btw).

On a Thursday night in late April, I found myself surrounded by urban fashionistas with long beards and sexy shoes on Atlantic Avenue. WTF was going on?

Why is Mars Blackmon on the NBA finals, on my computer, in my music keyboard and I think I saw him tap dancing on my chest?

(Ladies, avert your eyes.) I think I may have just seen the biggest booty in a night club in my life. Fellas, discuss.

I have this old porno DVD and it seems to have gotten scratched in a terrible, non-affixation related accident (like I’m the first to make fun of David Carradine). After I wipe it clean, do you know who can repair it?

My momma used to constantly tell me “No one is better than you and you are better than no one,” or something like that. It was mainly meant to encourage me while keeping me humble. It partly worked (I’m working on the humble part but I’m so damn nice that I just can’t help it, see?). The unintentional portion of this parable is the “No One” you choose to associate yourself with and compare yourself too. If you are in pursuit of anything, it would behoove you to be in constant communicado with those who also share similar goals, in this case, the pursuit of economic independence visa vie entrepreneurial ventures. Nothing like a co-pilot, navigator, flock of birds, the North star, AND the direction the sun sets to help you stay the course. Cheers to all those making moves with more mistakes than money but learning along they way. Happy to be a member.

Advertisements

Word to your Mother

In Humor, Random on March 29, 2009 at 8:10 pm


Did I ever tell you guys about the time I almost got arrested for pissing on the mayor of New York City? So it’s around Friday night in the city and I was on a blind date of sorts (around some Mexican restaurant on 54th and 8th). This is a few years back when Rudolph “My Quality of Life is Contingent on Your Wrongful Death and / or Sodimizing” Giuliani was our beloved mayor (and by beloved I mean behated). My date wasn’t that blind considering we had seen each other’s BlackPlanet.com’s profile and enjoyed the other’s mega pixels very much (Her mega pixels were huge fellas!) Things were progressing extremely well until I violated my Funkmaster flex “No Drinks in ‘96” Policy. Only twist to this policy – it was directed at myself, I am in fact a lightweight and after two drinks, there may or may not be a vile and / or bile occurrence, but I am definitely playing Russian roulette. So five drinks later, I am feeling like something bad is about to happen. Really, really bad. You know the feeling you get when you know some liquid is about to emerge from somewhere but you are not certain which orifice is scheduled for today’s false start? Yeah, that was me. Thank Jehovah, Allah and Imotep that it was the lesser of three evils. My bladder had had enough and my urethra Franklin decided to sing the praises of Long Island ice teas and Coronas (without lime as not to violate the man code). I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to stop and there was no bathroom in sight. I alerted my date of my quandary and she told me to do what I had to do. So, I untucked my penis from my sock, unleashed at least 2 feet of it, and then proceeded to urinate on the backdoor of a restaurant. Would you like to guess who decides to makes his exit from said backdoor while I was writing my name in lower case, Time’s New Roman, 24 point font, mid stream? Yes, you guessed it. “Nice shoes Mister Mayor!”

The story you have just read is a complete and utter fabrication. As much as I would’ve loved to tinkle all over Giuliani’s Johnston and Murphy’s, this never happened. If you remember Rudy well, had this actually happened, you all would be pouring out forty ounces to honor me on the anniversary of yet another African mistakenly shot 72 times in the spine.

I lied for a reason. The reason is: I am getting tired of people lying for no reason. Is there any integrity left anywhere? I lie to my friends, family, strangers, and anyone within earshot and they all happily reciprocate. My closest relationships are quasi – defined by the people that I lie to the least or am the most honest with (however you chose to spin it). We have grown so accustomed to lying that we find many ways to couch it as to not unravel our perceived moral fibers. Fibbing, white lies, not keeping your word, dishonorable, etc… All those are variations of lying and you are lying to yourself if you believe otherwise. Here are some examples of low-grade lies, but lies nonetheless:

• When you tell your friends you are attending an event or party then you don’t show up or call. Because they will disown you if you just say you can’t make it, right?
• When you tell someone you will be somewhere at a certain time but you are not there on time. Because you didn’t know you were gonna be late and couldn’t call ahead right?
• When an employer tells you they will be in touch after an interview and lack of correspondence is their means of correspondence. As I was the only black man in the building upon entry, I already knew I wasn’t qualified for the position. You could’ve told me when you first saw me and saved us both some time.
• All the lies you tell your kids when you want them to leave you alone, don’t know the answer or don’t feel like explaining (“Word son? Santa Claus bought you that Playstation 3 son?”)
• All the lies your parents told you when they wanted you to leave them alone, didn’t know or didn’t feel like explaining (“Word father? The holy spirit is real son?”)
• All the lies my teachers told me because they were told to tell me (“Word Mr. Kotter son? Ponce DeLeon was looking for the fountain of youth and not trying to capture Native Americans as slaves son?”)
• All the lies my doctors told me to make a profit. (“Word Dr. Sonstein? I need to see you 30 more times at 30 dollars per co-pay so you can tell me that dust makes me sneeze son?”)
• All the lies the advertisers told me to get me to buys some product (“Word son? Snapple is made from the best stuff on earth son? WTF is STUFF son?”)

We all justify our dishonesty by affirming that it is either innocuous or since others constantly engage in prevarication also; it wouldn’t make a difference if we amended our behavior. You are right. It won’t. So maybe we should all start taking responsibility for ourselves AND those around us. Maybe not checking your boy when he shows up 9 hours late isn’t the best means of furthering personal development on anyone’s part. Maybe you should call that employer and let him know you spent time and money to interview and letting you know the outcome is not a privilege but a professional courtesy (you already didn’t get the job so what do you have to lose?) .

As for the harmless nature of lying, we live by words (constitutions, contracts, laws, promises, etc…) You have nothing but your word. Even ACTION is a word. Every instance you engage in dishonor, you strengthen your ability to resist peace of mind, as your well-being is a direct reflection of your ability to keep your word. Look around you. Now look inside you. What have you said you were going to do but has yet to be accomplished? Now, how does that make you feel?

I Almost Shot Mic Geronimo

In Humor, Random on January 31, 2009 at 1:41 pm


Halloween. 1994. Sophomore year of college. Don’t know how or why exactly, but I am the treasurer of the Black Student Union. This was my brief foray into student government politics, and I still have my Robert Rules of Order to prove it. More importantly, I am the check writer! Any and all funding for student events must be sanctioned by the President, Vice President, and myself. The president of the Black Student Union was a TRINIDADIAN-American woman, so President Obama isn’t really that ground breaking. It is also quite convenient that my comrades and I happen to deejay parties, so I wonder who is going to get the no bid contract for all events that semester? All student government organizations receive a budget that needs to be spent in it’s entirety or it may be reduced the following year, so we proceeded with a Brewster’s Millions mentality (I wonder if that’s why congress buys 1,350 screwdrivers?). Needless to say, I was cutting $1,200 checks for an hour’s worth of deejay services and violating all sorts of Generally Accepted Accounting Principles (GAAP). Easy to talk shit about Halliburton until you wield all the power and your cousin Vinny owns the bidding company. It’s not just a cute saying- Absolute power corrupts absolutely!

Extracurricular activities on campus leave something to be desired and we are trying our damnedest to bolster some sort of “this is the place to be” reputation. It ain’t happening. I have a brilliant idea to throw a party and have Mic Geronimo and Cash Money Click perform @ Crystals, or was it the Que Club? There weren’t that many clubs in Queens at that point, so pick one (whichever one was close to the library and across the street from the bus stop). Mic Geronimo is my boy’s cousin somehow so it wasn’t too hard to pull off. I met the manager, worked out the logistics, booked the venue, printed out some pumpkin colored fliers and we were off to the races . . . And I wonder who we can overpay to deejay the party?

Imagine if you will, a small group of barley post pubescent 19-year-old’s running around New York City with thousands of dollars of equipment in a U-haul truck. Does the phrase “Tourist in Time Square with expensive cameras around his neck” mean anything to you? We are basically begging to be robbed just for being progressive entrepreneurs. Needless to say, we also had a mini arsenal in the truck, but only for preventative measures. This is the early 1990’s after all, and Brooklyn was still the Wild Wild West. No one was a thug but no one was trying to lose all we had worked for either (like guns somehow prevented that if someone really wanted our equipment). Where we got the kind of firepower we had I will never know, nor did I ask, but we had some serious moose hunting side canons at our disposal. I distinctly recall the Desert Eagle that was so heavy , I could barely lift it, the Tech Nine, and the cute little .32 caliber revolver reminiscent of the innocuous pee shooter fired in Harlem Nights after the Tommy gun discharge would subside (“Don’t shoot that little motherf*cker no mo!”). It’s so crazy to me that I was in any vehicle ridin’ that dirty, but who really thinks rationally at that age? And yes, that is my piss poor excuse for bad decision-making, as this could’ve easily been a prison memoir had we been pulled over on the wrong day.

It’s party time! Oh it’s party time! Having a party! Doesn’t matter that there is a another party going on simultaneously upstairs in the same club and half our crowd could potentially be at the right venue but the wrong party (thanks for the heads up dick face club owner). Doesn’t matter that the rappers are running late (I’m as shocked as you.) Doesn’t matter that our crowd basically consist of the deejays a.k.a. my boys, the student union delegation a.k.a. my boys, 3 special invited guest who seemed to be the only ones who saw the ORANGE fliers a.k.a. our girlfriends, and I believe a cockeyed bartender with a parrot on her shoulder and hair growing out of the unicorn shaped mole on her chest, to give you an example of how paltry our venue seemed. And I am certain there were problems with our deejay equipment. Although I cannot recollect specifically, I can most definitively attest that EVERY party taking place in the five boroughs between the years of 1979 –1997 had equipment issues. The staggering amounts of non-union reggae deejays and “Trevor the ’Lectrician pon de weekend” audio technicians had reached endemic levels.

The talent has finally arrived and not a moment too soon. Mic Geronimo, as did all rappers at that time, came fully equipped with the Menacing Entourage Limited Edition Hip Hop Package (“new and improved with 25% more thuggin!”). Thank God they were ALL late too because that gave the crowd an opportunity to swell from a meager 12 individuals to a fire code violating 14, creating an optimal performance environment for egotistical artists. I hope Marshall Bill isn’t too busy tonight for he may have to break all this up… using only his inside voice. In any event, it’s basically now or never and it’s time to get on with it. Lights, camera, “What?! What do you mean they don’t want to go on?” Apparently, Mic Geronimo and friends (mainly his manager) felt that it was a waste of their time to perform for the 14 people in attendance, but still felt that they required payment for services not rendered. Madame President of the student union felt that they could all kiss her ass and without saying so, basically said so. So in one corner we have the student union college kids who really have no idea how individuals from different “urban” backgrounds can react when money and entitlement is involved. In the other corner we have “Give me my Fucking Money” Rappers. In the middle we have, yes you guessed it, yours truly. I literally have the check in my possession and although I am merely the treasurer, I booked the talent and I am the dominant male here so the decision is somehow ultimately mine (notice how I was P. Diddy in the beginning and now I am “merely” the treasurer.

Amidst the escalating tension, I had managed to break away to the U-haul, retrieve said .32 revolver from the glove compartment and made my way back into the club, unnoticed. No one ever searches the promoter after you’ve gone in and out about 30 times. Plaxico would’ve been proud. And off course, the gun was for preventative purposes only. After all, these rapper savages may have guns and I am a mere college student. Lord knows what kind of shady backgrounds and broken families they come from. I will not fall victim to the ignorance of these firearm-toting hooligans (insert sarcasm here). Voices are escalating in larger increments, shoulder blades are tensing up and it’s looking like it’s about to be that time of the night. All my boys who would’ve supported whatever decision I made, violent or non-violent, just happen to be present for better or worse, and they are ready to support whatever decision I make. Everyone is yelling at me from all directions and after about 15 more minutes of all this posturing, I had had enough. I reached into my right coat pocket, pulled out the burner, pointed it directly at Mic’s head, screamed “Thug life!” and pulled the trigger . . . . Not buying that story huh? Ok. What REALLY happened was, I reached into my left coat pocket, pulled out the check and handed it to the manager. We all chalked it up to a terrible fucking night and lived happily ever after.

And I can’t believe you really wanted me to shoot him. Ya’ll are so violent! Read the title again. I said “ALMOST”. Sheesh!

I definitely felt like a pussy for: a) paying for services not rendered, b) succumbing to fear of the unknown, c) succumbing to fear in general. However, I was: a) 19 years old, b) it wasn’t that unknown what would have happened if I opted to take the “go fuck yourself” route, c) I knew I was in the Death Wish phase of my life, hence the choice to even retrieve the gun from the car, so I was even more conscious of my actions, d) Fuck principalities; It wasn’t my money, e) they did show up ready and willing to perform and f) how would my ego feel if had to perform in front of only 14 people (probably about as bad as throwing a party and having only 14 people show).

The funny thing about is, through all that excitement, all my close friends would’ve probably voted me “Least Likely to Ever See the Inside of a Prison Let Alone Brandish a Firearm”, and they would be right. I have never been arrested or even seen the inside of a precinct let alone a holding cell or jail (so much for my street cred). But you never know who is in the wrong frame of mind on any given day, so it is probably always best to just take it the fuck easy! The moral of the story here is Don’t ever book Mic Geronimo for your Halloween parties!

Sidebar: Would I have really shot him if we all started fighting? Honestly, who knows? If you asked me if I‘d be in a position to shoot a rapper in the first place, I would’ve probably chased your crazy bald head out town, but ain’t life grand? All I know is that guns change options, and if you live long enough, you learn the answers to all sorts of questions you never imagined the universe would ask in your wildest dreams. Sidebar complete.

Uncle Ben Parker

In Random on September 12, 2008 at 2:39 pm


I hate the New York City Transit system. My daily commute is unequivocally the worst part of my life, without question. There are absolutely zero personal space boundaries and I spend the whole ride restraining myself from choking the pregnant nun who just stepped on my shoes for the eighth time. Be it deliberate or unintentional, it takes every iota of inner strength to suppress the rage bubbling beneath the surface when my chi is unbalanced. I am not ordinarily hostile but I am in touch with my inner Sprewell and my anger does not discriminate. I am certain there may be others who feel the same as I do and 2 of these individuals decided to make my morning commute quite entertaining this week.

I was on my way to work on Monday and as the train doors opened, passengers spilled out in their normal fashion, much like an overflowing toilet after an all night White Castle binge. Out of no where, 2 guys exploded from the train as I tried to enter and began fighting for what I can only assume was due to shoving and pushing. I don’t mean just exchanging words. I mean full blown kicking and punching. I was the lucky recipient of an errant kick to the sternum and the flying sneaker that belonged to said round house. Fuck coffee. Nothing wakes you up like a judo kick to your upper intestine. A relatively young male eventually broke up the altercation and the 2 warring factions went about their businesses. The loser (after having your head sent into the stair railing repeatedly, you are the loser) retreated up the stairs and the other guy was back on the same train standing in front of me and on his way to work. The entire melee managed to take place all within one stop of the Pacific Avenue D train line (now that’s impressive). This was not another case of the Mondays.

The funny thing is I wanted to stop them from fighting because it just felt wrong watching these guys go at it and not do anything. 2 things kept me from interfering however. Firstly, the fear of retaliation directed towards me was partially to blame. I don’t aspire to be the guy on the cover of the Daily News with the headliner “Good Samaritan Stabbed Seventeen Times in Forehead”. The main reason I did not intervene however was because I had an 8’oclock conference call and I just couldn’t be bothered (I was running late as always). Showing up to work in blood stains is not the professional impression I strive to be remembered for. I embody the typical New Yorker in that if the tree does not fall in my forest, the tree did not fall at all. Basically, I can be self absorbed.

This event was reminiscent of another instance in which I could have intervened in an altercation but opted not to. This was several years ago on a Friday night in lower Manhattan around 14th Street and 3nd Avenue. As I was coming out of a 5 star KFC, I see these two guys going at it. One is clearly being destroyed as he is repeatedly kicked in the head and face. It is one thing if there is an actual fight going on but this was one sided and bordering manslaughter. It was quite gruesome. I just watched in awe like a deer in headlights. A passer by eventually stopped this fight also.

In both of these instances, I was physically more imposing than the individuals who stopped the fights but I still don’t understand why I just stood there and watched. I have been in fights before and although I don’t relish confrontation, I don’t fear it either. Growing up in the 80’s and 90’s in New York will expose you to all forms of paramilitary training. I have seen people shot to death and have had to fight multiple individuals on several occasions. These occurrences desensitized me to violence first hand but also taught me the valuable skill of running. I am no tough guy and Usain Bolt aint got shit on me when there are multiple individuals in hot pursuit. Long story short, beef is not foreign to me and I think I know how to react accordingly. So why did I turn into a flapping labia when these altercations occurred? Not sure if it was self preservation but if I am not willing to take some sort of social responsibility, even for other people’s actions and even in times of danger, what good am I to the community? Sounds overly righteous and few can believe anyone is that selfless but those 2 scrawny guys who stopped the fights felt a civic duty to intervene so my feeling can’t be that far fetched. Few would agree that I had any obligation to end these scuffles but I can’t help but feel like a punk bitch for allowing them to persist. If this happens again, I probably will intervene and I will probably get shot in the process but at least some nice things will be said about me at my funeral.

Today Was A Good Day

In Random on August 28, 2008 at 2:03 pm

October 26, 1996. My junior year in college. The time had come yet again for me and my boys to attend Howard homecoming in DC. There were certain events that one absolutely had to partake in as a college student to validate your cool and this was one of them. NY & Philadelphia Greek Fest, Penn Relays, Freaknic, Homecoming (Howard, Hampton, Morgan State in perceived order of social relevance) were all on our collective itineraries. These events were a rite of passage when I was in school and still may be today (the ones in existence anyway). Not only where they infrequent opportunities to get away from the self inflicted rigors of NYC, it was also a conduit to meet new and exciting women, get them drunk and bring them back to the hotel for some sweet love makin’. We had all convinced ourselves that girls outside of NY had never seen NY men before and were completely smitten by the mere mention of us, and we were right (mostly).

The opportunities for sex weren’t so much as important as the stories amassed on the excursion (ok, it was probably the only reason we went in the first place but since we failed more than we succeeded, I will opt for nostalgia). This one particular homecoming seemed special though. For whatever reason, everything was going better than expected. The McDonalds where everyone congregated was in full bloom. I was running into friends I hadn’t seen in years. I also had the distinct pleasure of riding shotgun in my boys Range Rover. I think TLC made “No Scrubs” for me because I was definitely the designated passenger in every car (still am). Don’t recall why exactly but I had money in my wallet and that was cause enough to celebrate. We never even bothered attending the actual homecoming game because the main strip was always where the action was. In addition, it seemed like all my boys were able to attend that year so we literally drove around Washington DC in a 10 jeep caravan with all our hazard lights flashing. Nothing says adolescence like a motorcade of drunk / high obnoxious New Yorkers parading around someone else’s city like they owned it. Ahh good times!

One of my boys from NY who went to Howard also promoted parties in the DC area so he more or less had access to a majority of the clubs. We ended up at some club that had more NY based hip hop acts performing than I could remember (Foxy Brown, Case, Mobb Deep, Boot Camp Clik, etc). Somehow, my boy had managed to get 20 of us in the concert for around 10 bucks a pop so that just added to lure of the night. Needless to say, I was in hip hop heaven. Of course the show is absolutely rocking and every time The DJ asked if NY or Brooklyn was in the house, the decibel levels in the building approached critical mass . Sidebar; I live in Brooklyn and I am from NY so I am justified in yelling and screaming but it always seemed like whenever that question was asked, the whole damn club was from Brooklyn. I know 50% of y’all bastards were from Tupelo Mississippi but thanks for making it feel special. Sidebar complete.

As if all this isn’t enough, They stopped the show to announce that the Yankees had just won the World Series. Although I am a Mets fan, I am out of New York City and a New York team had just won a championship. Do you understand the social magnitude of an occurrence like this to a partially intoxicated New York City male away from home? We were about to completely get it on! Myself and the other guys from the NY metro area (whose numbers seemed to have swelled as the night progressed) lost our fucking minds! We were bouncing around like idiots and ramping it up just a few more notches than it would ordinarily be. All I remember after the concert is we had literally stopped traffic and allowed only the cars filled with men to pass. I remember one irate trucker in particular who didn’t appreciate the audacity of my boy parking his Range in front of his semi truck and not moving until he damn well felt like it. Vehicles with women however would encounter a literal road block of men asking all kinds of illicit questions regarding where they planned to be later and what we could do to facilitate an even better experience. Of course none of these women gave up their phone numbers or designation. Jumping atop someone’s vehicle as several men approached each car window (at least 2 dudes per window) with multiple inquiries is probably not the best way to get to know someone but we didn’t give a damn. It was all in good fun and the ladies knew it too. It was just part of homecoming.

I may have attended at least 3-4 more homecomings after that but nothing could ever match the feeling from that weekend (although Busta Rhymes performing “Put your hands where my Eyes can See” 3 times consecutively while Kid Capri Deejay’ed the following year was also a site to behold.) I may have severed my collarbone dancing that night. It is so welcome when the stars unexpectedly align for you to enjoy the hell out of the moment. I truly couldn’t have had a better time if I tried. As for the tales of feminine conquest, I didn’t get any booty that weekend but I did meet my ex girlfriend of 4 plus years. Leave it to me to come back with a girlfriend instead of a story. There are some benefits to being a passenger. At least you are there for the ride. All in all, I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything in the world.