A day in the life...

Guess who's got a new home?

2008-08-22T14:39:00.004-04:00

I do.

E-mail me (marlon.a.walker@gmail.com) for the link. I'm trying to shake the haters off!

Holla!

Making it do what it do

2008-03-18T04:43:00.002-04:00

It was pouring down rain when I returned home from the gym, so I figured the Hispanic family standing in the walkway to my apartment building was just waiting for the drops to subside.

That is, until I saw the piñata.

I walked a bit slower, watching as the little boy with the blindfold on his face tried his damnest to get a good crack at the thing, which was hanging from the stairwell in my uncovered apartment walkway.

Damn. They were having a birthday party.

The balloons, the little boombox and the gifts should have been giveaways. But the locale was a bit odd. There they were, about 30 deep, standing in the space that had to be about the size of my first dorm room: about 14 feet long, and 9 feet across. Not to mention there was a big ass staircase in the way.

I was outdone. I was embarrassed for him. I was pissed at his parents.

As I slid my umbrella into its caddy behind my door, I realized I never had the most extravagant affairs. There was the party on the side of grandma's house, limited to cousins in the same age range, all clad in skates and too small clothes, eating cake and racing up and down the 30 feet of pavement beyond the gate. Another time, Mike and I got breakfast -- hash browns, eggs, bacon and pancakes, -- from the Coney Island hand-delivered by our sister. Both great times.

It was about the thought, not the effort behind it.

As I lay down to relax from my three miles run on the treadmill, I heard a loud echoing sound, followed by the crowd roaring. Ol boy, all 50 pounds of him, had managed to defeat the piñata.

I smiled, knowing then just how much fun he was having.

Piggybacking on yesterday...

2008-03-14T00:08:00.001-04:00

In the back of the closet, tucked away on the top shelf, sits a plastic container where I keep my memories. I've been known to take more pictures than a little bit, but the jar holds memories only I'd be able to decifer.

The friendship bracelet Smiley left in my car.

It takes me back to the barbeques on the balcony at The Exchange, where I first started hanging with my boys Anwar — aka Smiley — and Will. Where Lazara lived downstairs, and I knew I could go there to get full if I didn't feel like cooking.

The birthday card from mama Sharon.

It was 2004, and I'd just wrecked my car. Sharon's not my richest friend when it comes to money, but she is when it comes to faith. She knew I was hard up, and wanted to do something about it. All it took was that card — and the $75 check inside — to brighten up one of my lowest moments.

My Gold's Gym keychain.

That was the hangout spot for myself and Kara. We were rolling in there doing whatever we could to get fit.

Racquetball? Check.
Elliptical Machine? You know it.
Treadmill? I mean, not fast, but yeah.

It was also the first place I saw her after we fell out. I canceled the membership soon after that encounter. It was hard to run into her in "our" place. We're good now, but I keep it to remind me of what we went through to get where we are in our friendship.

I even took the wrapper off a Hawaiian Punch Lemonade bottle. I'm not gonna say why, but it's a helluva story.

There's also a tennis ball, a durex condom, a 50 cent piece and a cookie box where someone wrote "I Love You," among other things.

Living in a new place can get rough sometimes. But not when I have my world of wonders to maintain me. And, as odd as they are, they help.

Know when to fold 'em...

2008-03-13T00:44:00.003-04:00

I pulled a pair of jeans out of the closet to wear on my daily errands Monday. Nevermind the fact that they have a hole in the crotch literally large enough for everything to fall out. They're comfortable. They were the only item I kept when I lost a lot of weight in 2004.

They still fit when I gained it all back in 2006.

I've got t-shirts from programs I did back when I was in high school and other mementos collected along the way. Some of the stuff is just... strange.

Seriously, who keeps a paper peer-graded in 1994 by a deceased classmate? Me.

What say you? What's the oldest thing you have in your house that you just cannot get rid of?

No better time for a detour

2008-03-09T05:01:00.004-04:00

When you're sliding into first, and you feel a sudden burst...
GET OFF THE TREADMILL!

So I was beginning my third mile when the older lady took her position on the treadmill in front of me. I only had 75 cents, so I wasn't fearful she'd mug me.

What she did was far worse.

Five minutes later, I caught a whiff of one of the foulest gas attacks a (wo)man could have. At least I thought it was gas, until the smell didn't go away.

That's when I spotted it.

In the back of her pants, you could clearly see the outline of a diaper. Chick had "used it."

I struggled through my third mile until I just couldn't take it anymore. Moving was not an option. Not only did she smell me out, but others had started scattering for an open window, too.

I've been taking music to the gym to keep me focused. I take a towel to keep (somewhat) dry. The water bottle is to keep me hydrated.

I never thought I'd need nose plugs.

Yeah, I wrote this for the wight loss blog, but I'm putting it here, too, since I want everybody to know of my situation... lol

Lost in translation

2008-03-07T21:48:00.002-05:00

I opened up my phone expecting another text from a new friend, but the contents of the message made me cringe:

I just made you open your phone for nothing. Its great having your ass in check. Whose my Bitch? Youre my Bitch. Now close it...

Nevermind there's enough errors in there to make me clown the sender. It was from my 17-year-old nephew.

My 17-year-old "still in high school needs a job or a college acceptance letter in the next three months" nephew. My "old enough to curse at me, but young enough to still be calling me uncle" nephew.

I shot off a reply, to which he laughed, or lol-ed.

I was seething.

Whatever happened to knowing your role, and how to act in front of elders?

Nevermind I have 11 uncles and aunts who probably don't even know I've lost my virginity.

Why should I not be upset? Is there any excuse for the text? Maybe I should chalk it up, like his mother did when I told her two weeks ago about his signature line on his text messages.

"True Nigga."

Maybe I should let him be who he wants to be. Then again, my uncle would've beat the hell out of me for sending him either message.

I looked up cheap fares online, and the lowest I could find was $450. And even THAT was for two weeks in advance.

For now, he'll live. At least til Memorial Day.

What I can't stand...

2008-03-06T22:23:00.002-05:00

I hate people who renig. If you make up your mind about something, why don't you stick to it?

I ran into a girl who I was "hanging out" with when I first got to town. Let's just say we didn't part on good terms.

More like she told me to leave her alone.

But there I was, standing in line to get a book at Barnes & Noble, and she approaches me.

"HEY you!" she said, trying to look into my arms for a peek at what I was buying.

I ignored it. I mean, I keep the voicemail she left me months ago as a reminder.

"OH, SO YOU CAN'T SPEAK?" she responded.

I didn't. I acted like I didn't know who she was talking to. When she kept going, I pulled out my earphones, cranking the mp3 player loud. I'd rather listen to Keyshia Cole scream than to hear what ol' girl had to say.

Don't blame me for your indiscretions. Blame the fact that you couldn't keep up with your own words and vows.

I had a girl break up with me and not call me for months, then have the audacity to say she wondered whether I would speak to her if we ever ran into each other.

DUH! It was your idea to stop talking in the first place...

Thoughts

2008-02-25T15:37:00.002-05:00

When you lose your wallet, why do people always ask you "Where was the last place you had it?"

How is it that sales of "Head-On" actually spiked when they started making fun of their own commercials?

Why did Kanye only make half a video for a great song (Flashing Lights)?

Why are people clowning Paula Abdul like she hasn't sold more than 40 million records?

Speaking of celebs, why is Lil' Lipgloss judging people when she has yet to sell ONE album?

Why, with no album in sight, has she released FOUR singles?

Why does she continue to tell people "This is a competition," when they should've learned that as they WENT THROUGH ROUNDS AND OTHER PEOPLE WERE ELIMINATED!

Why is new music so bad lately?

Why does Ladynay have a new car that she's only put 95 miles on in the last two weeks?

Why am I about to hit 2000 on the Tahoe?

Uh-uh...

2008-02-21T19:34:00.002-05:00

I remember a time in undergrad where I didn't get paid til Friday, but needed groceries on Wednesday.

So I made it work.

I took out my checkbook, wrote a hot one to the cashier at Wal-Mart, and was able to eat another day. No one knew the difference -- not my mom, the cashier, or my bank.

Some people just don't know how to do it.

A few days ago, a Mercury Cougar rolled past me on the way home. Something was amiss. Either dude was driving Mrs. Daisy's 500 pound sister, or his car had a helluva lean to it.

The tires told the story.

The chrome rims shined masterfully on the driver's side. But when he got over to make a left turn, I noticed his car's deficiency. The back rim had been replaced by a donut.

Not even a regular tire. A donut. Dude's car looked like it was getting ready to pop a willy.

In the end, his cover was blown. Everyone knew he couldn't afford to get a new tire after whatever happened. I tried to wonder what I would do in his place. My best friend got her rims and kept the factory tires for her BMW. I'm hoping he sold his, because rolling around like that was foolishness.

What say you? I know you've seen someone out there who wasn't "ready for the show," but got on stage anyway...

The Sendoff

2008-02-14T17:46:00.003-05:00

It started as a poem, to the tune of NeYo's "Do U."

For some reason, I was glad for the missed moments. The time apart made me understand why it was never to be. And she moved on, which I was sort of glad to see.

First off, let me say congratulations
Heard you and ol boy had got it back
Sounds like you have got yourself together
And your life is finally on track.

Then I thought a letter would be the more appropriate route. For some reason, I kept coming back to that damn song.

I don't wonder
If you ever
Think of me
Cause I know
You do.

I couldn't wrap my head around sending it. Did I sound like I was full of myself? I didn't want to be like that. But I did want to get my point across: Over means just that, but sometimes it feels like the line gets blurred. And you've got a man. Who am I to make you — and hell, myself — uneasy about that?

I poured out all my emotions, and put the poem in the mail.

Now I'm waiting for the answer. "Nothing" will be the best response.

Girl Scouts, how you deceive me...

2008-02-13T17:46:00.004-05:00

These look familiar?

They shouldn't.

In an attempt to bring my favorite pasttime up to code, the little girls in those Russian Army uniforms have decided to make their cookies more conducive to America's new way.

Basically, they cut the trans fat.

I wasn't bitter til I finally got my four boxes. I always order Girl Scout cookies because of the mission the girls are out to promote. The fact that they're good as hell doesn't even come to mind.

Or it didn't, until I got mine.

The first thing I mentioned is that it seems they've updated their packaging.

Remember these? ------->>>>>

My mind said "two Do-Si-Dos and two Tagalongs." Instead, I got "Two Peanut Butter Sandwich and two Peanut Butter Patties."

And they don't even taste the same. It was like I went to WalMart and bought Chips Ahoy, but I got Great Value chocolate chip instead.

What to do?

I saw one of the little soldiers on the way to work. I demanded to be heard.

"Hey you," I screamed from to her.
"Huh?" she said back, smiling innocently. A trash bag filled with cookies hung over her shoulder.
"You take these back!" I said, chucking the two full boxes of cookies in her direction. The "Peanut Butter Sandwich," which weighed more than their counterparts, smacked into her forehead, knocking her unconscious.

OK, so that really didn't happen. But I wanted it to.

These girls have got to stop! My livelihood is being stripped away.

Next, Chipotle will cease to exist...

Guess what my truck did?

2008-02-11T00:54:00.000-05:00

The call from my editor had me excited and hesitant at the same time.

On one hand, I'd be making overtime, which is greatly needed since I looked at my bank account and my bank account is rocking the two digits. On the other hand, I'd be putting those miles onto Oscar, who guzzles gas like the big boy he is.

Four hours later, while making my way back to town, I noticed I hadn't used a quarter tank of gas. My mileage for the trip had just crossed 100 miles. On the street, I've been getting about 350 miles for a tank of gas (I admit, I have a lead foot!) so 100 miles would normally be a little more than a quarter tank.

But my car has Flexfuel.

According to the good folks at Chevy, that means when I'm on the highway, my car drops to a 4-cylinder from 8, chugging lightly as I make my way to my destination. The miles per gallon slowly crept up into the 18 mph range, up from 16.1 when I left the house.

It was like an added bonus to buying this SUV. not only is it (a little) safer for the environment, but it won't put me in the poor house for those trips I'll be taking.

I knew I'd made a good buy, but damn. I almost shed a tear.

A random rant, if you will...

2008-02-06T17:24:00.000-05:00

I hate people who brag about things they can do. More than likely, if someone says they can "throw down" in the kitchen, they're gonna cook you a bland meal using canned products. I'm not havin it.

Don't ask me something I recently answered.
Friend: "What time are you going on break tonight?"
Me: "I'll be on break from about 7 p.m. to 9 p.m."
Friend: "So you're going on break at 7?"
Me: ". . ."

I always get more exercise when I get a new vehicle. That's because I'm hardly trying to park next to the Buick driven by the old lady with her bad eyesight. I remember one time I was sitting in my Grand Prix and this lady's son swung the door open so hard it got stuck in the dent it made on my car. She didn't understand why I wanted her to pay for it. "Kids do these things, it was a mistake," she had said. "If you want to just pay me for the damage, fine."

Needless to say, my insurance company got involved. Don't sleep, son.

Not fully telling the truth is almost as bad as lying.

If anybody ever starts a story with: "If you heard something about me, would you tell me?" Don't answer. Change the subject. They've heard something about you, and don't want to just come out and say it. And yeah, it was bad.

Super Bowl commercials

2008-02-03T20:30:00.000-05:00

OK, so I'll admit this year's Super Bowl was nothing for me to really get excited about.

But there's always the next best thing: the commercials.

While none really made me wanna laugh out loud this year, I found a site containing all the ones from some of the past years.

Pepsi: Big Love - Pepsi-Cola

This was a personal favorite

What say you? Didn't get much out of the game? Liked the commercials better? What'd you like?

What's that? You want more money?

2008-01-31T22:52:00.000-05:00

I hit another button I hadn't hit yet.

This time, somebody spoke back to me. The voice took over every speaker in the car.

"Hello, Mr. Walker, how are we doing this afternoon?" I heard.

"I'm doing very well, thanks."

With that, my relationship with OnStar began.

We'd flirted before when I first got a glimpse of you in Inga, but the fun ended almost immediately. This time, you were playing for keeps.

"Safe and Sound" for a year. Diagnostics by e-mail monthly. Free minutes for talking? Got those, too.

"We can get you even more," the voice whispered, egging me on.

"More minutes?" I asked.

"Yes. A hundred more."

"Thanks."

"It's usually $39.95, but today, I'll give it to you for $14.95. What credit card would you like that on?"

It was like being surprised by a hooker in a back alley. I wanted no part.

"You know, I only came down here to move my car. My wallet's still upstairs."

"I can wait."

I like aggressive, but damn.

I left my car with everything I'd been given at the dealership last Friday. The 100 minutes were not to be. I pay enough already. What do you want from me?

I think I like you just the way you are...

Go, Go, Gadget...!

2008-01-30T16:47:00.000-05:00

So I've been enamored over the last few days with the new functions and strange buttons inside my vehicle, which from this point on will be referred to as Oscar. From the DVD player to the radio controls being on the steering wheel, I've never been more, well, satisfied.

But the problem is I've become too taken by one function.

(Stands up to address the circle) Hi, I'm Marlon, and I'm a chronic mpg watcher.

IT'S TAKEN OVER MY LIFE!

Seriously, I bought an SUV that is supposed to get like 14 mpg. I knew I could do better. So off I went.

It hovered around 14.2. Then I realized I was doing too much on the initial takeoff, so I slowed off my approach. For the better part of the week, I've been around 16 mpg. It's a small victory, I know, but when you beat the monster out of an extra 50 miles for a tank of gas (in these trying times of $3 gas), you know it's worth it.

Today, it dipped to 15.8. I took a route to work that, while longer, ran no risk of hitting a light.

When I got in, it was at a cool 16.2.

I love my truck!

Right there, next to the Visa...

2008-01-28T17:24:00.000-05:00

Dear friend,

Should I call you friend? Or do you want more clout?

I called you Friday with exciting news. I made a HUGE purchase. Three small victories — better credit, good paying job and good money management — made it possible. I was proud.

But you tried to steal my shine.

Why not just say congratulations on my new car? Don't you think I know it's gonna cost me my firstborn to fill 'er up? That's not why I got it. I told myself when I finally felt like a big boy, I'd get a big boy toy. That day has come. I sat and lost sleep over the fact that I'd be doubling my current car payment, then moped as I thought about how much gas would not cost me.

"But you can afford it, and you've always wanted one," I told myself. A week later, I drove off the lot with it.

I wanted you to share in my joy. You obviously mean that much to me. Instead you tried to find a way to bring me down.

Instead, I found a way to cut short the conversation.

Thanks, but no thanks. I've never opened my wallet and seen anything with your name on it. Until you start chipping in on my monthly debt, just be happy for me. And if you're not, feign it — and keep it movin.

Chat time...

2008-01-23T18:20:00.000-05:00

Ever wish you could get some questions answered by people you'll probably never meet? As a reporter, I feel that way all the time.

Usually, my day is spent tracking down family members of those who have departed this life through harsh routes. But it's the folks from imaginary land (read: TV) who perplex me the most.

Today, I wanted to ask some hard-hitting questions that I've never gotten the answers to, so I decided to ring up Chip Fields. For those of you who don't know, Chip has been directing episodes of our favorite UPN/CW shows for the last half-decade. She's been behind the lens on One on One, Girlfriends and The Parkers. She got her TV start about 35 years ago. One of her more memorable moments was why I decided I needed answers from good ol' Chip.

Chip: (Answers phone) HELLO?
M_Dubb: Hey Chip, there's something on my mind that only you can answer.
Chip: Who is this?
M_Dubb: Don't worry about all that. I wanna know why you did it?
Chip: What are you —
M_Dubb: WHY DID YOU HIT PENNY WITH THAT DAMN IRON!
Chip: Boy, wha, WHO IS THIS?
M_Dubb: I mean, you never hit Tootie, and you DAMN SURE weren't gonna get at Regine like that, so I'm just wondering. She seems to have been your most behaved child. Why, Chip? Or should I call you Mrs. Gordon?

Chip: Who put you up to this foolishness? You know Janet is not my child.
M_Dubb: Who the hell is Janet? I asked you about Penny.
Chip: (Huffs, then walks away from the phone) This child is out of his mind...

I hung up, somewhat dissatisfied with the results of our conversation.

The folks who wrote the Good Times theme song finally decided to tell us what that line was after "Scratchin and Survivin," and I wanted to know the second most important question in the show's history.

Tomorrow, I'll make a call to John Amos. Like you, I'm wondering why he left Florida to take up with Mrs. McDowell, producing Lisa and that other ugly daughter. And why he led his kids to believe he was dead somewhere because of some mysterious "car wreck" in Jackson, Miss. I never bought it!

It's not about knowing, it's about taking the high road...

2008-01-12T00:44:00.000-05:00

He's wondering why his girl takes so long to call back. She's been waiting damn near 10 years for her man to propose. He met a guy on the Express train to the Bronx, sees him there every day -- but cannot ask him out.

I think we all know when somebody's got our number.

In the end, she's just exercising her authority over him. She knew he'd be pissed if she hesitated before she returned the call.

The woman's not going anywhere, so he'll wait as long as he wants to propose.

And dude on the train is probably just on a power kick.

They know what they have. And they know how to control it. But they never lead on. It's one of the oldest unwritten rules that exist: Somebody HAS to have the upper hand.

Tradition leaned more toward the man. Men ruled the households, drove the cars, made the bread. Some religions even require women to cover themselves as a showing of respect to their husbands. Every relationship has someone playing Geppetto, pulling the strings as you struggle to make heads or tales of the situation.

My question is this: Do you think the tables ever turn? Got any examples?

I, myself, don't think they do.

Go with your gut...

2007-12-31T17:12:00.000-05:00

I stood in the front entrance to the White Castle on Clark and Peterson, struggling to catch my breath while searching out the card Kelley had given me for Christmas.

This $10 was about to be worth it. It had to be.

I decided I'd go for a walk around Chicago. It was about 40 degrees outside and I hadn't done anything strenuous since I'd been in town. A good stop would be White Castle, I figured, since Kelley had given me a gift card for Christmas. Since there are no White Castle locations in North Carolina, I had to use the card before I got back.

So I set off, walking a leisurely pace with Mary J. Blige blaring from the mp3 player (man, this CD is hot!) just to keep myself entertained. About a mile up the road, I realized I had no idea where I was going, so I called Kelley on the phone.

"Where are you?" she said, laughing at my latest adventure.

"Was I supposed to walk up Lawrence?" I asked, wondering where I'd gone wrong on my adventure.

"No, fool! You were supposed to make a right at Clark."

"Dang. That's like a mile back."

Her friend tried to help get me back on the right path, but it was useless. I was determined to get there, and on my own.

About 30 minutes later, I'd walked about four miles in the wrong direction. I even saw a 7-Eleven, something else missing from my diet since leaving the Sunshine State last October. There was a sign for a 1/2 pound big bite. Sounded good, but I had other things in mind. When I finally neared a big street, I hailed a cab.

"White Castle, please," I said.

"Mmkay," the driver said, setting off in another direction from the one I'd been walking. I called Kelley again.

"Where's the place?"

"Peterson and Clark."

"OK."

I asked the man if we were headed in the right direction. He assured me we were. Then we pulled up in front of Somebody's Sushi.

"This isn't it," I said.

"Yeah, de castle, huh? HUH?" he said.

"No, White Castle. Peterson and Clark."

With that, we were off again. But I noticed the cab's fare was creeping close to $15. I asked him how close the place was. He said 12 blocks. I got out and walked.

But it didn't last long.

By now, it was snowing, and I'd walked about 10 blocks. Still, no White Castle in sight. I guess cab drivers are bad about distance like journalists are with math.

I hopped in another cab.

About $5 later (he didn't hound me about the extra quarter), I walked into the White Castle, ordering anything I could think of on the menu. I sat down with my white castles, cheese sticks, hot chocolate (did I mention it was snowing?) and sweet potato fries (they're here for a limited time only) for good measure.

None of it was good.

I'd just wasted an hour of my time and $15 in cab fare to get to this place, and the experience was the worst I'd ever had.

When I stepped outside into the blizzard already kicking into high gear, I thought for a minute of going back to that 7-Eleven. "Now which way did I see it?" I said to myself. Not remembering, I grabbed a cab back to Kelley's. The hot dog and a Slurpee wasn't really worth the hassle I was possibly facing, I figured.

Fighting fire...

2007-12-21T01:03:00.000-05:00

The e-mail made me put my hand over my mouth in shock.
(P.S. I'm leaving some things to your own imaginations.)

Racking your brains over a Christmas gift for your lassie?

Don't doubt, she will be especially glad to discover
a massive (oops!) in your pants!

VPXL allows you to attain the desirable size of your (oops)!

Bustle up, the time is limited!

Usually, I erase and continue like nothing's happened, but this time, I felt like defending the honor of e-mailers everywhere.

So I wrote back.

I think I'll pass. I think my "lassie" is quite happy with my (oops!), especially since it's (oops!) (oops!)

A few hours later, there was a response:

Chicks dig big (oops!), you don't know what you're missing out on.

Not wanting to concede to the conversation, I kept it going:

Who said my (oops!) wasn't (oops!)? I mean, (oops!) and the thing about you trying to tell me about my (oops!) like you've seen it. Did we date? (oops!)? Somethin?

Needless to say, I knew I wasn't hearing from Krystal@cgafin.com.au anytime soon.

I relayed the story to a friend of mine last night, and he laughed hard. Mostly about the fact that I put myself through so much. And the fact that I could've just put them on my blocked list.

I think my way worked better.

"Now, I ain't sayin she a gold-diggah..."

2007-12-12T22:51:00.000-05:00

She was gawking. I mean, not just looking in my direction, but memorizing little things about me. The way I laughed. The way I got louder when I really wanted to get my point across. The way I smile at people when they're not looking.

She noticed it all. She told me so.

When we bumped into each other at the bar, and I invited her to sit with me and have a drink. There was something about her that reminded me of all those girls I knew in college.

It should've been her age.

More and more, I find myself attracting girls I was interested in when I was in college. I mean, it's only a few years, but the culture shock sets in when I bring up the immediate future.

"What's your schedule looking like this coming weekend?" I ask.

"Besides studying for finals, not much." she replies.

Damn. She was 21, and a junior.

When a younger woman sees you out and sees you're attracted, she comes for only a few reasons. One is that she thinks you're already established. (read: Able to spend money on her.)

When did I — an attractive guy ready to take on the world — become, gasp, a sugardaddy?

I was telling my best friend, Danielle, about the situation I've been finding myself in more and more lately. She laughed. Honestly, I told her, if she wasn't boo'd up, it would be happening to her, too. I remember looking at the older women in the club thinking they'd have pity on me for being a student, pay for a few things, show me the nice things life offered on the "outside." Now, I'm getting it back.

Karma's a bitch, I tell ya.

"I can do for..." who?

2007-12-04T22:43:00.000-05:00

The greatest phrases ever said have been built into a paperless list where people can pull them at random for use. Some use them for strength. Others as encouragement.

And then you have that other list.

I call it the "Why was that even said?" list. It's full of degrading, useless babble that should have never been spewed over the airwaves, through the television, on paper.

For every:

"To be a leader, you have to make people want to follow you, and nobody wants to follow someone who doesn't know where he is going."
— Joe Namath

There's a:

"Nobody in football should be called a genius. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein."
— Joe Theismann.

Other things that should've been left on the cutting room floor:

"You ain't gotta take ya panties off, just move 'em to the side."
— 50 Cent

"Damn, that was so good, I wanna buy him a short set."
— Beyonce

"I can do for you what Martin did for the people."
— Beyonce (MLK? For real?)

"Pat your weave, ladies. Pat, pat, pat your weave, ladies."
— Again, Beyonce

"He's got really short legs. He's gon' be a referee."
— Lady on my plane from Tampa

"In case you missed it, this week, there was a tragedy in Kansas. Ten thousand people died — an entire town destroyed."
— Sen. Barack Obama, on a Kansas tornado that killed 12

I know you've heard some things, but what? Make me laugh, dangit!

Single people don't need that...

2007-11-30T13:58:00.001-05:00

I'm the type of person who goes through anything new, looking for what's there, what works, what's fun, what's... you get the point.

But I've realized there are some things we're given that we don't all need.

I'm 26, single without kids and having the time of my life. Why was the man at the Chevy dealership trying to sell me a Suburban? Maybe he thought I would've loved to floss the school-bus-looking piece of machinery. Of course, the SUV was loaded with all the gadgets and things that a man would love, but how much will I get to enjoy alone? Huh?

DVD players in the back of seats? For real?

"You can control the air from the back seat!" he said, yelling from the third row.
"But I'm all the way up here!" I said, not looking back at him.

Same thing goes for the house. Besides C. Spence, who really uses that bathroom fan?

It's just like making dinner for two, then realizing it's just you. None of that stuff will do.

What's your take? What do you have that screams "plus-one?"

What changed?

2007-11-25T01:39:00.000-05:00

I met a man whose wife was the bread winner in their household. She made about three times what he did, was totally responsible for them having a roof over their heads and kept him in line so that stability was present.

But, as she always said, she made it clear he was the leader of their household.

"It's mostly for his ego," she said. "Afterall, he IS the man."

But a conversation last night made me wonder how many people were going about relationships the wrong way.

Traditionally, men and women have had their roles laid out for them, sort of in a predestined way. But as times have changed, and the new millennium rolled out, women have taken control of their lives more than ever.

Unfortunately, that control may be to the detriment of their potential mates.

Many women have walked into the new millennium finding power being handed to them in a way it was never given before. I'm not saying there's a role for a man and for a woman, but I'm saying if you're gonna stray so far from the traditional roles, have the decency to know what compromise is.

In my last relationship, we talked often about how things would work if we ever moved in together, the first in many steps toward that ball-and-chaindom.

"You clean and I'll cook," I used to say often. There was never a problem in that area.

Maybe women who've run into guys basically not worth their weight in anything are beginning to not take "it" anymore.

Women are in positions of power in their jobs more than any time before, and maybe a guy took advantage of that. Maybe these women are treating everybody like that one guy who was supposed to be "the one," but ended up mooching off the money mill.

Maybe she's just one of those girls who doesn't like to be called a girl, and goes about making her power felt.

Maybe guys are intimidated by the new woman.

All I know is that something's changed. But what?

Wondering...

2007-11-21T15:09:00.000-05:00

I pulled up to the mailbox at my old townhome to check it one last time, and something immediately caught my eye.

The tree across from where i used to live was withering. It's leaves, now a reddish brown, were mostly on the ground below. It had succumbed to its life's process so that a new season could emerge.

The changes aren't so obvious with human life.

People constantly throw around the "I've changed" designation when they want something they've had before. But we all know an aesthetic change is the only obvious one to recognize.

Maybe it's a trust thing. But I don't trust many people as far as I can throw them. It comes with the job, I guess.

With the tree, it shed its leaves, a sign that new things were in store.

With some people, I just don't know.

Heard in Tampa Bay

2007-11-16T22:24:00.000-05:00

"He's got really short legs. He's gon' be a referee."

— Woman talking to flight attendant about woman's infant son, talking about clothing that doesn't fit the little guy's torso

"It's been itching for a few days. Now I've got to find a way to tell my wife."

— Man standing in front of Baywalk (the mall) in St. Petersburg, presumably talking to his mistress

"Oh. My. God. That's the guy from Full House!"

— A participant in a workshop I spent four days at last week. The name was Dave Cuillier, not Dave Coulier, who played Joey Gladstone. He was standing in front of us, which made her error worse.

We so HOOOOOOOOOOD!

2007-11-06T01:24:00.000-05:00

DETROIT -- I headed to the hall for Grandma's 80th birthday party, pondering the coon casserole of enormous proportions that had already been served up in the four hours I'd been in town.

Relatives were bickering. The program and the decorations weren't done, and the party was starting at 5. The only thing on the buffet was turkey and dressing Grandma had made.

That's right, they duped Grandma into making her birthday dinner.

There are things I expect from my family. They won't be on time. They won't do what they're supposed to do. If there's work involved, a select few, as always, will pick up the slack.

I got to town Saturday afternoon with intentions to stay away from Grandma's house. That would've spoiled her surprise party. I also had no plans to work for the weekend. I pulled a nearly 60-hour workweek that I wasn't getting paid for, and I felt this weekend would be a needed break.

As always I was wrong.

"What kind of car do you have?" my mother asked me as I watched my sister furiously cooking away in her kitchen.

"A Kia Sportage. The little SUV," I told her.

"Good. Lont's at the balloon shop on Kelly Road, but you're fine. I think they almost got it."

You know who raised you when they can easily hoodwink you into volunteering yourself for odd tasks.

Needless to say, I ended up at the balloon shop, carrying 20 balloons over to the hall where the party would be held.

At 5, I called my mother. Only two of Grandma's five children were present. One was to get her to the party, so that made three.

"Nette and Grandma will be here in 15 minutes," I told her, urgency obvious in my voice.

"OK?" she said, not worried about her tardiness.

The party went well for the most part. There was a lot of ad-libbing for the part my cousin Sean was supposed to do. Then, because the planners showed up after the guest of honor, the program was thrown out the door.

Grandma sat in the middle of the dance floor holding up a tall, clear glass for money consumption. My cousins and I were to each place $50 in the glass.

At least, that was the plan.

Three cousins stuck their money into a card. Their tally would be known only to Grandma when she opened the card. We all knew it would be less than the expected $150.

One cousin and her husband slid $5 bills into the cup, the husband promising to paint her house.

Another planted a kiss on her cheek. Not amused, she raised the glass higher, her hand slightly trembling from the stretch.

Mike and Angela put in more than $50. I added $100, backed with an explanation for outdoing the others to take away the attention.

Once the party died down, I grabbed a piece of cake from the back table, vowing to not get suckered into more work before the night was over. But when the DJ started packing up his stuff, two of my cousins stood nearby, watching the frail older man as he tried in vain to lift a heavy speaker.

I left the party with my hands filled with a 70 pound light set DJ Smitty used to keep us entertained. As the swinging doors closed, I watched as one of my cousins took a bite out of my piece of cake.

I wouldn't expect anything less.

What's convenient for me...

2007-10-29T22:09:00.000-04:00

It was 8 a.m., and I was halfway through a night's rest.

"I'm a movement by myself..."

It was my phone, vibrating across the new computer desk I'd built for my new apartment. All my alarms are scheduled to go off between noon and 2:15 p.m. This was surely not within those time parameters.

"But I'm a force when we're together..."

I started my job a year ago this week, letting everybody know I was the night guy, which meant catching me on the phone would be harder. I'm at work most of the day, then I'm up doing things at night. I haven't heard an alarm clock in months, and my visits to the gym are more frequent. It's great to have a job you want and...

"Baby you, you make me better..."

Neyo and I are about to have words. Why won't that thing quit ringing? I pick it up, telling my "friend" that I was in the bed, that I work late - as was already known - and that I needed my rest.

"Yeah, but I wanted to ask you something before I forgot," she said.
"You have my e-mail address," I said.
"But I wasn't by the computer," she insisted.

I told her to call me before I went to work.

It's 6:30 p.m., and the phone is ringing again...

"Hello?" I ask, somewhat annoyed.
"So can I ask you now?" she said as if nothing felt askward.
"You know I'm at work, right?"
"Yeah, but I didn't want to forget, and you were all cranky this morning."

ARGH! Why don't people listen?

"You make me better..."

I picked up the phone after work, making sure it was the perfect time for a quick call.

"(Sniff, sniff) Hello?"
"So what was it that you were trying to tell me earlier?"
"You know what time it is?"
"Yeah, but I was trying to make sure you didn't forget to tell me."
"BUT IT'S 3 A.M.!"
"Yeah, but I'm in WalMart, and I just remembered you called me."

This schedule has even me out of wack sometime, which was the point I was trying to get across during our conversation. She didn't get it. She just saw me being inconsiderate for calling her so late. I've been telling people for months that you've got to treat me like I'm six hours behind. If I work from 4-midnight, what tells you I'll be up at 8 a.m. like you?

That time, I thought she might've gotten the hint.

But then my phone rang again. It was 8:45 in the morning...

For a day, it all felt ... different

2007-10-24T02:29:00.001-04:00

My eyes were planted on the floor from the moment I walked into the store, seeking out any sign of blood splatter. The store owner had been killed there just over a week ago.

Nothing.

As I made my way to the drink cooler, my mind began to wander. Where was he found? Is anything out of place?

The cleanup crew had done its job. Not a thing in sight told of the gruesome discovery someone walked in on last Sunday morning.

I talk about my job and the ins and outs of the missions I'm sent on every day with almost too much ease. Sometimes I can't believe how excited I am when news breaks. Being in the actual murder scene just makes it all too surreal.

A smear on the floor by a snack cake shelf gave my eyes hope that I'd found something the cleaning crew overlooked. To my disappointment, it was only a muddy footprint.

I talked to the clerk about his job, and how it changed since his boss had been killed. We exchanged pleasantries, I bought something to drink, and made my way out.

A group of men met me as I exited. They were settled in to stay with Anthony until closing. He wouldn't be caught alone in the store until the memory of his boss' death wasn't so fresh. Basically, they helped keep him employed. You can't argue with that.

Where's my wallet, Sylvia Browne???

2007-10-20T01:57:00.000-04:00

I was getting ready for work, and Montel Williams was on the TV.

Now I'll admit that every so often, Montel does a show that I actually wanna see. Helping the people who were abused by loved ones, sending people off to school wit scholarships and supplies, reuniting long lost third cousins. The man's a genius! (lol)

But one day I turned on, and his favorite Garbage Pail Kid Sylvia Browne was telling this lady that she was being haunted by some guy named Estaban.

And to get her uterus checked out.

I didn't know what to think. I remember when she would come on once a month, telling the people about the last case she'd helped the police with, hawking a new book and letting a few Montel audience members know what was going on in their paranormal lives.

I love the music they added, don't you?

1. It's time to get a job at Kroger's bagging groceries. Stop wasting others' time with your shenanigans.

2. "She can't be right all the time." Hell, I can go out there just guestimating stuff for people!

Woman: "Where's my child?"
Me: "I see him in a warm place."
Her: "We're at a waterpark. It's friggin 95 outside!"
Me: "Then he's still here. Go look for him.

3. Didn't know she'd been brought in on the case of the missing kid who turned up after several years. Montel, when this case actually had a happy ending, you shoulda let her loose, playa!

I've been missing something all day. Maybe I should call her up, pay her the $700 and see if she can help me find my wallet. Or could you give me a suggestion. Seems anybody off the street has more success than her...

Blogging live from...

2007-10-17T02:20:00.000-04:00

OK, so my editor suckered me into working the fair today.

You can check all the hijinx out here: The N&O's N.C. State Fair Blog.

I'm going to try and sneak little things in to jazz it up a little bit. Comment there if you like what you see...

"OOOOOOH I wish you WOOOOOOOULD!"

2007-10-16T22:41:00.000-04:00

R. Kelly needs Jesus. His boys need to stop cheating at Dominos.

Real Talk. I think this is his version of the Britney Spears meltdown.

In other news:

Did you know Young Jeezy and Joc were members of the Jena 6?

"Case? What case? I'm tryin ta crank dat!"

Me either. Seriously have a problem with the fact that these guys are now using their new notoriety for self promotion.

I wrote the song...

2007-10-09T03:43:00.000-04:00

Inspiration struck one day while watching Fox News. Some guy named Larry Craig had been busted for doing something millions of us didn't even know existed.

Except for Soraya.

Did you know about the three toe tap? Me either.

But I wrote a song about it. Like to hear it? Here it go:

(To the tune of Showstoppers, by the now defunct Danity Kane)

We in the stall
Touchin the wall
We doin things like the old pervs do
The man stares
He stand back
Hopin for a sign of life so he can attack, YEAH!

Toe tappin in the bathroom staaaaaaaaaal
Keepin ya balance so you don't faaaaaaaaaaaaal
Take a squat on the toi-let seat
Waitin patiently for noise before you beat your feet

Three fingers by your leg, real niiiiiiiiice
Wigglin fast tryin to entiiiiiiiice
sumn sumn sumn sum sum sum (hey, I came up short, sue me!)
Or you stick ya thingee under and he'll play real fast

We in the stall
Touchin the wall
We doin things like the old pervs do
The man stares
He stand back
Hopin for a sign of life so he can attack, YEAH!

Toe-tappin
We toe, toe tap-pin! (Yeah!)
Toe-tappin
We toe, toe tap-pin! (Yeah!)
You got to keep it tappin
So something real will happen
No need for finga snappin
Cuz we be toe tap-pin!

(Dawn's part)

This is for my fellas
who be too lazy to pay and
figure this may be the way to play
and get a nut today

So say oh (OH!)
O-O (OH! OH!)
work it out, keep it poppin like a real toe tap-pa!

Seen and heard in... RDU

2007-10-05T23:32:00.000-04:00

In the last 11 months, people have said or done the weirdest things around me. I felt it was my duty to make sure they made the light of day. Enjoy!

I was walking out of the Wal-Mart on Glenwood Avenue when I heard somebody whispering at me.

Notice I say whispering, because he didn't want anybody else to hear him.

"Ay young man!" the older guy said in a slightly-above-a-whisper voice, with a bit of urgency.

I turned, thinking something was wrong, or I was about to get asked for a dollar. "What's good?"

"Ay man, do they sell that Viagras in there?"

"Honestly, I wouldn't have any use for it, so I've never checked."

"I'm just trying to make sure I don't let my girl down," he said, nodding his head in the direction of the car. From the passenger side, you could see an attractive girl, probably in her late teens or early 20s, bumpin to whatever was playing on the radio.

"Ah, I feel ya. Go in and look near the vitamins. I'd look for something called Cealis, too."

And with that, the older guy with the single-toothed smile sauntered into Wallyworld with high hopes for a long night.

Overlay...

2007-10-02T06:00:00.000-04:00

You know how you can spot somebody who wants something?

They'll come to you on some useless nonsense.

Case in point: Titan and I were playing tennis Sunday when this crackhead/homeless guy named Gary started hollering through the fence at me.

"Hey big man! Why you usin both hands to swing that racket?" he says.

"I have a two-handed backhand," I say, continuing the volley I had going with Titan.

"Man, You bigger than me, but I could wear you out on the court big man."

"If you say so playa."

With that, we went back to our practicing. But it wouldn't last long.

"Hey Big man, trust me man. You gotta let go of that racket and let that power come through."

"I've had a two-handed backhand forever, man. I can't stop it now."

"That's why I'd beat you if I was out there," Gary said, shuffling past the court for the third time.

While chasing after one of Titan's wild tennis balls, I spotted Gary across the street, talking to somebody in a Cadillac pulled over in the middle of the street. I mean, there'd been two hookers picked up there - including one by the police - so I didn't know what was going down. Then the car pulled away, and my favorite crackhead made his way back to the fence to hassle me.

"Big man! Big man! What's up man? I ain't givin you no more lessons today man. Talk to me real quick man."

"Aiight. What's up?"

"I'm Gary. I don't mean no harm... (conversation always goes to God and all His glory)... I'm homeless... (speaks in tongues like Juanita Bynum after her husband went Ike on her)... mymommashuddaboughtahonda... lemme borrow a dollar?"

"I ain't even got it, man. If I did, it would mos def be yours."

(To Titan): "Ay little fella? Gimme a dollar."

"I ain't got it man," Titan responds.

Gary tries to give me dap through the fence (like it's part of his routine when he asks people for money) then realizes it's impossible.

"Alright man, but if you see me in the store, buy me a drink."

Am I T-Pain? Is he a video hoe?

Needless to say, I won't be buyin Gary no drank. And he ain't comin home wit me...

Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh...

2007-09-30T20:09:00.000-04:00

I stared around the restaurant, looking for the server who was nowhere in sight. She'd promised me a water refill, and I was about to get up and get my own.

When I got back, she was heading in my direction. Without the water.

She was busy, I told myself, and she kept letting me know she hadn't forgotten when she would walk by.

Toward the end of my meal, she asked me if everything was OK. That was my cue.

"OK? OK!?! It took you three minutes to bring me a water refill. And yall don't even bring bread to the table anymore. I don't even understand why I still come here!"

With that, I slid my chair in and headed toward the door. Betty, the African woman with the poofy ball in the back of her head, was clearly in shock after my outburst. I had been one of her favorite customers for several months - she even met my mom when she was in town - and I was always a good tipper. I looked back as I hit the door, and I swore I saw a tear falling down her cheek.

Now, I felt like crap.

All that because I didn't want to feel bad for not having tip money...

Random thoughts...

2007-09-12T23:05:00.000-04:00

Somebody needs to take a hot rag and an ab lounge over to Britney Spears' house.

She stinks, and it's time to finally get rid of the pregnant belly.

I was talking to KLC today and she said something that I've been saying for about a year now: Black people don't buy music. If your stuff is so good that it's got Becky and Jimmy rockin to it, then you're gonna make a buck. Sadly, Shaquita and Tyrone are gonna get it on the underground railroad for the price of 45 minutes of online airtime.

I bought Kanye West. Sadly, I'm finding out that I should've bought Late Registration instead. The beats are hot, but I think his gimmick has finally run its course.

Fiddy, on the other hand, has sort of reclassified himself as the hardest pop star there is. With Robin Thicke, Akon, Justin Timberlake and Nicole Scherlalalalablahblah from the Pussycat Dolls, he's become what he said he'd never be: a sellout.

But put a Dre beat with some bubblegum sh**, it's gonna be hot though! Remember Family Affair?

Tuesday was the first time Sept. 11 fell on the same weekday it did back in 2001. Back then, I was the editor of my college paper skipping out on a class to make sure we covered our nation's biggest tragedy since the Rams won the 2000 Super Bowl. This week, I slept in. I couldn't sit through 7 million gongs, countless recounts from survivors and the list they read every year of the folks who died.

What have you personally done to make sure it never happens again?

I'm a journalist, but I'm civic-minded, nonetheless. I've written stories about people who were in the towers when they were hit, and I've talked to children who will never see their daddies because they lost their lives fighting overseas. It's taxing telling the millions of stories that came from such a horrible event.

I'm 9/11'd out.

No, I don't love you anymore...

2007-08-30T23:17:00.001-04:00

What does it take to muster up the strength to feel that way about somebody you once shared those sentiments for?

What kind of heartless bastard...

Just kidding!

I did a lot of thinking about the subject after I had a long discussion with an ex-girlfriend several weeks ago. She and I were catching up on our lives. Mostly it was her, filling me in on the house she'd purchased, the car that was "bigger than I ever needed" and the lack of mates that have fulfilled her since graduation.

I was in LOVE with this girl. BAD.

She cheated on me, and we went our separate ways. But somebody always decides to pass on a number after a short while to make sure we've exhausted all hopes of getting together.

I'm sure we have.

But I've still got love for her, which is why I think I even let the conversations take place.

At the end of the conversation, she let it slip. "I love you, baby."

And I froze.

How do you respond to the person who you thought would be "The One," who decided to take a detour into another's bed, then act like it wasn't a big deal, then beat you to the punch and dump you first?

Some people would've never entertained the conversation. I do it because I'm bigger than that.

After about 10 seconds, I let go of the phone, letting it flip shut as I turned toward the door, heading out to the tennis courts.

I still love the girl, but I guess not telling her is my way of reminding her that I'll always be that "catch" who got away.

Don't touch me

2007-07-17T23:02:00.000-04:00

Your fingers on my back are unwelcome
For now it's my time to retreat
My rolling to the other side of the bed
Was a sign that the night was complete

The whispers to come hither are too late
So cut that stuff out for heaven's sake
Cause the only sounds I would like to hear
Are the ones that my nostrils will make

Just act like I'm gone - you can't see me
Ignore the lump on my side of the bed
If I don't get enough of that me time
The only thing I'll be seeing is red

I'm not trying to go off the deep end
There's not a problem with my tone
Nothing's wrong, just don't touch me
Sometimes I just wanna be left alone

Quotables...

2007-07-03T19:03:00.000-04:00

"I believe in God, just as I do my parents, but I live my life for myself."

What do you think?

When bad things happen to good people

2007-06-16T18:44:00.000-04:00

Remember Paris Bennett from American Idol last season? Yeah, the little girl with the booming voice. Grandma is Ann Nesby. Mom sang backup for grandma.

Talented family, to say the least.

Until you get to her latest LP, "Princess P."

I liked Paris Bennett. I loved her voice. I hated her arrogance.

Let me say that again: I HATED her arrogance.

Something about her screamed "I'm gonna be great whether you like it or not." That may have been her downfall. Basically, she put out a record full of songs that make her seem to have multiple personality disorder. I dunno if she'll be able to pull it off.

(1). She needs management that's not related to her. If Prince is my uncle, I'm not going to have him tell me what to do with my career. He's done his thing, and now I have to do mine.

(2). She needs an identity. Are you going to be the soft-talking dynamo, or the big mouth with the equally big voice?

(3). She needs a stylist. My friend Lindsay pointed me to the video below, which screamed crisis. Sometimes, she looks like a homeless hoodrat. Others, she looks like the girls I used to clown on the Set: from Miami, and don't know that boots and earmuffs are not needed when it's only 55 degrees outside.

Enjoy!

Found on the Internet...

2007-06-05T12:58:00.000-04:00

:: Who I Am

An eduacted thug.

Things that make you go hmmm...

"...As soon as I get out of these clothes..."

2007-06-01T22:49:00.000-04:00

Standing outside north of my newsroom where two families had just lost their homes, a woman was trying to get her granddaughter out of her house.

And into mine.

"What happened out here?" I asked, just making small talk with the random black lady standing in a sea of white faces.

"Yeah, they said a propane tank on the deck exploded," she said staring zombie-like, oblivious to the flashing lights and gallons of water being poured on flames behind us.

"You from the newspaper?" said the woman, who I'll call Sugamama.

"Yeah."

"Oooh. Cute AND a good job."

I blushed. She was a little older than my liking -- about 5'7, 150 pounds with butterscotch skin that reminded me of my own -- but everybody gets a chance to get turned down.

"You got a card?"

"Sure," I said, digging into my wallet to pull out the crisp white card. Usually when I'm on a scene, I get in touch with people who I talk to later on about other issues.

"You would like my Lisa."

With that she walked away.

I was amused. I was confused. I was standing 20 feet from a home that was half charcoal, half singed plastic. The smell of smoke permeated my clothes.

After I talked to a family who'd just lost their home, I spotted Sugamama and an eager woman walking up the hill to where she'd left me. It was a determined "You-told-Harpo-to-beat-me" kind of walk that scared the hell out of me.

"Mah-lon!" She said aloud, trying to put her hazel eyes back upon me.

I was trying to hide 6-foot-8 inches of man behind random people as I made my way back to my car. Her granddaughter was fine, and she would NOT be meeting me when I look and smell like a hot dog fresh off the grill.

But Sugamama got my card, so I'm sure I'll get a call from her or Lisa.

Unless she saw me running from her...

"How'd you get in through the door?"

2007-05-25T02:22:00.000-04:00

No matter how bad things go for you, there will always be something at the end of the day to reward you for making it through.

Last year was supposed to be the year.

The year that I kept my guard up and made sure I got my list of things accomplished.

It didn't happen.

Life happened instead.

Last year, I learned that what I want for me may not be what's best for me.

This year, I'll let it happen freely. No planning.

"I had fun this weekend man," he kept saying to me on the phone.

I love my brother, but I really wanted to know where he was that I wasn't. Obviously he spent his birthday in another place.

I honestly had one of the most hilarious birthdays of my life. Not "ha ha" hilarious.

More like "hell naw" hilarious.

Our born tradition of toasting in the new year was bombarded by Mike including his boys on the festivities. After the round of toasts to "my n**** Mike," this scrawny lad of 20 turns to me and says "Why don't you pay a little tribute to your brother?"

WHAT?

"They're twins!" chimes in my sister's boyfriend. He actually earned 5 minutes of my respect with that.

Saturday night, as we were blowing out the 2 and the 6 on our cake, I looked down and realized I shouldn't be blowing at all.

"Happy 26th Birthday Mike and Marion"

Damn. Even the cake was clowning me.

With that said -- and you're hearing it here first -- I will no longer spend my birthday in Detroit. If Mike can't afford to go anywhere, I'll be off on a trip by myself. The reason I came up with us spending the birthday away from everybody was because when we leave our lives behind, it becomes about us. No planning. No input from outsiders. Just us.

Last weekend was about Mike. Mike's cards. Mike's balloons. Mike's friends.

Mike's birthday party.

When we went upstairs after the whole cake debacle, my sister had a cake on the dining room table. My name was spelled correctly.

Guess that's my silver lining.

When I got home, there was a card in the mailbox. Rahkia's card was the last semblance of discussion on my turning 26, and it ended a horrible weekend on an extremely high note.

Food for thought

2007-04-28T02:29:00.000-04:00

If you do what I do, but you do it on the college level, you're NOT on my level.

That is all.

"It's my... FACE... in a box."

2007-04-17T00:56:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I feel like my life is great. I have a great job, a nice house, a nice car and money in the bank that could lead me on whatever type of trip I can think of right now.

But there's a problem.

I can't free myself from the confines that seem to have a hold on me. It's scary. Not even six months ago, I was looking forward to things. BIG things. HUGEMONGOUS things.

Now, I'm fine.

I could live my life all about my career and be fine. I mean, who would rather stay home with a sick kid when they could be jet-setting to Europe and spending their hard earned money on them (after the student loans are paid off, of course).

Me, that's who.

My oldest cousin from my mom's siblings is 41. She's the single mother of an 8 year old who drives her crazy. But she loves him to death. At one point, I believe she thought about just living her life and doing for her until she was done.

But something in her changed. Almost too late.

She was 33 when she had her son, and I bet she hasn't regretted a day since. The feedings. The changings. Spitting up on her expensive blouses. Breaking things she told him to stay away from. She knew what she was in for when she decided to have him.

I know a guy who's about 45. He has the life I want - right now. He brings in a six-figure income, has three houses, two condos, takes trips whenever the mood takes over...

Now, he wants a family.

There's nobody to make those houses a home. His pictures from those trips are of him and locals. No one back home shared the experience with him. As his father's only boy, the buck stops with him. He wants kids, but feels at his age he wouldn't be able to keep up when it's time to start high school sports.

I don't want to be like that. I mean, it looks good from the outside looking in, but what about when the party ends and we all go back to our homes with our loved ones?

I have a friend I'll call Thursday. She and I are on this casual dating tip. Nothing serious. She's trying to kick us into high gear and do some things. Right now, I like the freedom. She knows it.

But every so often I wonder if I should be putting myself out there to find the future wifey and start the settling down process? I mean, it wouldn't be at the time I'd planned for it, but it would be there for me to appreciate.

And I'd rather be happy for whole ride instead of getting pissed off when the car stops.

Am I going about this all wrong?

So now they're saying you can have a gay car...

2007-04-16T00:02:00.000-04:00

She's full-figured and black with great curves. I call her Inga because, while she's American, she has a foreign feel to her.

Of course I'm talking about my car.

My 2005 Chevy Impala is no slouch. Unfortunately, that's not the case for everybody.

Remember the mid-life crisis guys who went out and bought Miatas? Seems they went about that whole thing all wrong.

According to this NYTimes article, women will be more likey to share clothing tips with them than bed sheets.

You'll never see me driving a Volkswagen Beetle or a Ford Focus. I didn't need a list to steer clear of them, either.

I don't think it depends on the type of car you own, either.

One friend of mine bought blue, green, yellow and red seat covers for his orange Explorer.

Another friend of mine named his car Tanya Toyota. Nuff said.

And as long as the Chevy Tahoe and my new fascination stay off the list, I'm good to go.

You do it... you know you do...

2007-03-29T22:46:00.000-04:00

I was sitting in the car the other evening and that damn "Irreplaceable" song by BeNONsay came on.

I'd been listening to Mims, but when the new song came on, I slowly turned down the volume on the system. Then I realized I was doing it to fit in.

I actually like the song. OK, liked.

I felt like she didn't screech the whole way through, which I accuse her of for most of the last CD. The beat is catchy and the instruments were blended beautifully.

But I'm a guy, so I shouldn't be listening to that kind of stuff. Right?

I guess. In my circle, I'm known as the King of R&B (Bobby who?) so I get a pass on stuff like that. Plus I sing. If it's in my range, more than likely, I'm gonna sing along.

Case in point: Two weeks ago, I was sitting in the car and "Baby Boy" came on. Call me what you want, but that song was hot! When it came on, I started singing along.

Doing her part.

Doing the Sean Paul part.

Drumming all over everything in the car. I was having a blast!

But it was 75 outside, and the windows and the sunroof were open. A car pulled up to me, and I saw the beautiful, light skinned goddess peak through her window, then start to roll it down. Before she said anything, I brought my "one man show" to a halt.

"You betta go 'head, boy! That was hot!"

Now I'm blushing. I can't do it.

When she pulled away, I turned it up -- just in time to catch the breakdown.

I was telling somebody the other day that sometimes I feel like I'm putting my masculinity at risk by having moments like dude in the back room in "Beauty Shop."

Who else will admit to liking a song that doesn't suit them? Where's the "suit in the boardroom" chick who sits in her car bangin Jackie-O? Where's the kat who knows he should've turned down "Weak" when he was playin it so loud that one time?

Is anybody out there?

When all's not so equal...

2007-03-14T23:36:00.000-04:00

The premise was simple.

She and I would "cuddle" together, have good conversation and let it all evolve into the perfect friendship, with the chance for a relationship when we were both ready.

All of a sudden, I feel like a bother.

Maybe I wanted to cuddle too much.

Times like this, you realize who's got the upper hand.

I've had it before.

Picture this: St. Petersburg. 2005. It was the end of the year, and I'd just started trying to see whether dating in the city would be an option. By November, I'd given up on it. But I'd met a few friends in the process.

There was one girl, about 5'5", 110 lbs, light brown skin with long curly hair -- and it was hers, no less! But there was a problem.

She was hit up from the sh*t up.

No disrespect, but she looked like somebody'd beat her in the face since slavery. But she had hella spades skills. She hit me up one night after I'd put all the furniture in the crib.

"I wanna come over," she said.
"For what?" I said, acting dumb (it was 2 a.m.).
"Let's hang out. My girls are asleep, so we can't whup you in cards, hehehe."
"Cool, I'll have to put the porn up tho, and put on some clothes."
"You don't have to..."

Long story short, it was on and poppin.

But I told Soraya the girl couldn't be anything but a "buddy" because she looked like my light skinned friend who looks like Jesse Jackson.

It went on for three months. She'd come. We'd cuddle. She'd leave in the morning. One time, she surprised me in the middle of the night. Needless to say, I was startled by the middle-of-the-night visit.

But I ended it because I'd set my sights on "the girl," who was edging toward singledom.

Now I'm laying in my empty bed, wishing she was here, and I get the feeling she'd rather be somewhere else. I know it's not because of what our situation is. Really, I do. It wasn't that I didn't want ol girl around in St. Pete. It was that sometimes I was tired. The same is true now, but it's just the other way around.

And it's hard when you want it when you want it, but somebody else has the restraint to keep reins on the "upper hand."

If I were a "Two Can Play That Game" type of brotha, I'd definitely be in the midst of making her want me as bad as I want her. But I know the deal.

Sometimes, I just wish I was the one holding the cards. Then maybe my bed wouldn't be so empty.

One day, but not today...

2007-02-12T00:00:00.000-05:00

Mary J. Blige, leading the Grammy field with an amazing eight nominations, walked away Sunday night with three wins. It doubles her total Grammy intake to six. She won in two major R&B categories - something which she had never done.

It afforded her the opportunity to stand on the Grammy stage and actually thank people for the first time. Listening to her speech, you could see she finally felt validated.

Darren suggested she was no longer our darling.

Oh, but she is.

I'm a die hard MJB fan. Hell, when she drops what's his face, I may try to go after her (I kid, I kid!). But tonight, I'm not pissed for her. She experienced yet another Breakthrough.

But, as mentioned in an Associated Press article leading up to the Sunday night festivities, we didn't get ours.

The top awards went to the Dixie Chicks.

Fourteen of the 40 top honors in the last 10 years (which includes, Album, Record and Song of the Year, along with Best New Artist) went to eight minorities. That included Santana (3), Ray Charles (3), Lauryn Hill (2), Alicia Keys (2), Babyface (in a collaboration with Eric Clapton), Outkast, Christina Aguilera and John Legend. All these people had crossover (pop) success.

How can you, after watching people use words and phrases ("Too strong for too long" and "I can't be without you") from a song that broke records on the chart formerly known as the Top Black Singles chart and stayed in the top 10 on the Hot 100 singles chart for several months choose a song few people have even heard of.

Or maybe it's just that the word minority reaches beyond skin color and still takes place in voting processes such as when members of the National Academy of the Recording Arts and Sciences (NARAS) vote on the year's top songs. While not based on popularity or sales, I wonder what goes through their minds when they pick the Dixie Chicks over a Mary J. Blige.

They probably haven't heard of her yet.

All I'm sayin is...

2007-02-09T04:17:00.000-05:00

That little girl, who sat all catatonic when Meredith got pushed off into the water, needs her a** whooped.

Grey's Anatomy is officially my favorite show. Period.

Childhood dream job no longer?

2007-02-05T23:46:00.000-05:00

So I'm reading the holy grail this evening and I come across this:

A New Problem for Farmers: Veterinarians in Short Supply

What happened to the little boys and girls who wanted to work with animals forever? Where's Dr. Doolittle and his wacky daughter?

I remember one time in the first grade when Mrs. LaRose asked the class what we wanted to be when we grew up. Back then, I wanted to be a lawyer like my Uncle Norris. (Later I found out Norris was sort of a crooked breed. By then, my love for the written word had blossomed.)

At least five of my fellow first-graders stood up and proudly shouted that they wanted to be veterinarians. (The slow kid in class said he was gonna work on aminals. Ironically, he's the only one doing so on farmland in Northern Michigan).

It's gotta be the money. Otherwise, who wouldn't wanna spend their days soaking up the sun on a farm in the middle of nowhere, kicking up dust with the chickens and the pigs?

On second thought, maybe a cozy desk job was the right way to go.

Freestyle Thinking...

2007-02-04T05:21:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wish life was like
when I was 18 and back in the D
Dependence wasn't "In-" back then
And anything I did went through moms
She made me do what she wanted me to
And I did it gladly cuz i liked my life
Oh how easy it was back then
When her shadow hid me easily.

But protection fades on the outside
And haters flock like it's dinner time
To feast on a festering carcass
Picking til only bones are left
My eyes are weary from all the shade
My arms are tired from carrying the weight
Of what everyone else thinks of me
I wish they'd all just let me be.

Innuendo, lies and whispers abound
So-and-so saids from so-called friends
How'd I become the talk of the town
Especially when I'm hardly around
Either I'm this or I'm that
I'm flat broke, don't have jack
Family and friends, how could you be
when you're going around hating on me?

Won't lose more sleep on what you think
Of where I shop, with whom I sleep
How my words flow free, who my friends should be
Even if I did, you'd still hate on me
Am I that fine that all your time
Is invested in wondering about my life?
The only person I can try to please
Is this clown right here sitting at the screen.

This is the song that never ends...

2007-01-24T03:48:00.000-05:00

OK, more like a poem. Who's up for it?

We keep doing these old ass tags and things that our fore(Internet)fathers pass down to us, but I decided to try my luck at making one of my own up.

Title it: "Write a line, pass it down..."

I'm tagging three bloggers to add a line to the one I'm writing below, just to see what happens when several different energies take the same projected path. This should be fun:

I watched from the corner as you moved to the beat

I'm tagging Dance, Ladynay and Hizzle. Hop to it!

Let it go in 2007.

2007-01-19T05:20:00.000-05:00

I got one of those silly forwards with a saying from a pastor in it.

I got the same thing last year. I let go then, too.

Over the course of the year, I made friends and gained enemies (who think they're slick to post anonymously, but not so much. ISPs tell all...). In the end, it is all a part of life. You let go of some things, and you hold onto others, letting them fester and progress into something that makes no one proud.

The purpose of that e-mail was to tell me to let go of the unhealthy things in my life.

Here goes:

I'm letting go of the resentment I held about a lost relationship I actually thought could've grown into something more...

I'm letting go of the people who call themselves friends, but are only in my life to take what I can give them...

I'm letting go of my insecurities, which will allow me to live my life to the fullest...

I'm letting go of the people who can't take... me... as... I... am... (nice to have known you though.)

Have you decided to let go?
Of what, if it's OK for me to ask?

What could you live without?

2007-01-11T18:27:00.000-05:00

Once again, I'm a loser at love.

I won't go too much into detail about it, but it taught me something very important: There are things about a perspective partner that you're going to have to live with in order to exist peacefully with that person.

It's something I've always run into in the relationships I've had. And I pose this question because it may help me more in my journey toward the altar.

What about your mate could you do without?

For the sake of many relationships, anonymous comments will be welcome. Thanks.

How did he do it?

2007-01-02T20:01:00.000-05:00

So James Brown's death and funeral read like the 12 days of Christmas.

Five gol---den caskets!
Four calling hoes
Three kids a cryin
Two white horses
And a scorned woman sitting at the gate!

... you get the point.

So I'm sitting at home watching parts of it and see his wife/babymama/lover/chick Tomi (thanks to AP, I'll be spelling it Tah-MEE from here on out) standing in front of his casket. She was trying to have her final moment with the man she fathered a child by.

"Get off the stage!"

WTF? Did somebody really say that? If only the cameraman could've turned to spot somebody like Patti LaBelle or Tina Turner saying it. I would've laughed even harder.

But I seriously felt sorry for her. She'd put effort into something that was now unraveling before her eyes.

And it was all because he lied.

Made her feel comfortable. Told her he'd keep and cherish her.

Then when the time came for him to leave this world, he had his henchmen padlock the crib - her belongings, too.

I mean, yeah she was at a "retreat" when he died. Who doesn't need a retreat every now and then?

They just keep going... and going... and going...

2006-12-27T21:32:00.000-05:00

When I was 5, the son of one of my mother's friends took a big bite out of my piece of chicken. When I see him to this day, I still snarl.

It's a part of me that I'm just going to have to live with.

Hi, My name is M-Dubb, and I hold grudges. (Group greets M-Dubb.)

Sometimes, it's the silliest of things. Most times, it's because people have a tendency to see what they can get away with. All in all, there's a lot of things that I keep in my head.

Some of them, people would rather I forgot.

There's the incident where one of my closest friends came and visited me in Florida. We ended up going to DC for Howard University's Homecoming. We got a hotel room that Saturday night which cost about $180. He'd also gotten a pair of Rockports on my credit card. Those were $90.

That was 2001. He never paid for either. Oddly enough, he wonders why we don't ever kick it when I come home.

Then there was the time I felt my best friend bowled me over for a girl.

My first girlfriend and I were hooked up by the best friend. Less than two weeks later, we called it quits. I was later informed that she and he had become a "we."

Needless to say, he and I talked less and less after that.

Three years later, I acted as if there was nothing wrong. "It's a quick conversation," I said to myself, faking my way through about 15 minutes of awkwardness.

I ran into him on Facebook several weeks ago. It's been 11 years since I've physically seen him.

Time healed the wound, so I was able to befriend him again. He has a wife and kids. I have a successful career and a ride-or-die chick.

I noticed his number on his page. I jotted it down. But I haven't called.

I don't even know what to say. A writer should never be at a loss for words.

When I do call, something tells me it'll be fine.

And we'll probably laugh about the girl we both wanted.

Ironically, I later found out she chased skirts, too.

Had she told us the truth, we could've all sat back and chased them together.

Why lie?

2006-12-17T14:44:00.000-05:00

The words stung like I was directly affected.

"She had sex wit my little brother, man!" Jerrod said, tears flowing down his face, onto my new couch.

I found Jerrod about a month ago. We were in the same kindergarten class in Detroit. I used to call him Charlie Brown for his brown-rimmed bifocals. He called me twin, and still does, for obvious reasons.

Jared was in town for the week - just visiting his older brother who'd left Michigan a year previous. They didn't really get along while growing up. Recently, something about "being family" and "ties that bind" had started to mend their relationship.

Until two days ago.

Jerrod dashed home from work to make sure his brother and his woman - the one who'd dragged him from his comfort zone all the way to Durham, North Carolina - were getting along. Shaundra wasn't one to be kind with folks she didn't include in her inner circle, he'd told me many times. I knew firsthand. She and I have only said about 13 to each other.

When he got home, the front door had all three locks on it. It made him wonder. He knew his brother wasn't the type to be afraid of a new neighborhood, and if his girlfriend was there, she'd only lock the top lock, as always.

The sound of his keys hitting the coffee table was followed by what sounded like somebody tying a garbage bag in his bedroom. As he entered into the room, he found his girl fastening her bra, trying to quickly slide the straps over her arms, the cups onto her breasts. His brother was reaching for his pants, trying to conceal the bulge in his boxers...

Shivering, Jerrod said he found out they had been having sex together while they all lived in Detroit. When they tried to justify their actions were more like a goodbye, he said he turned out of the room, bolted toward the door and, picking up his keys off the coffee table, left his brother and the woman he planned to marry behind.

He never wanted to see them again.

I threw a cover over my boy last night while he slept on the futon in my front room and couldn't stop thinking about his situation. I've never been one to cheat on someone I was dating. Hell, when I'm involved, I try to avoid all circumstances where that could even happen. I could never think of sleeping with one of my brother's chicks (or maybe I should say chick since he's married?).

What makes a person cheat? And what makes them lie about it?

Don't know what you've got til...

2006-12-14T02:05:00.000-05:00

I wanna slam a spade down on a table.

I know that's not ordinary, but that's part of what I'm craving: sitting in my sister's house, gathered around the kitchen table, screaming at the kids to go to sleep, asking someone to add more vodka to my cup, jamming to the latest CD, putting my phone on the table so I can quickly "hey, I'm playin spades, holla!" whoever decides to call me at that unfateful moment.

Last time I was in Detroit, we were sitting around and my nephew put in the new Ludacris CD. I'll admit the CD is hot, but his version was suspect.

"... I feel like slapping somebody todayyyyyyyyyyyyyy..."

Huh?

In my best Pass-the-Grey-Poupon vernacular, I let him know: "Now I could swear in my car, he says 'Slappin a nigga...' " The laughter begins.

It's the one place I feel hasn't changed at home.

They may clown me for drinking vodka they can't pronounce (I recently found Stoli's citrus flavor), but we all have a good time.

I know there's a lot of people in blogdom who got degrees and hit the highway, so I'll turn and ask: what's the one thing you miss the most about home?

The Jah-Nuh-Tah Says...

2006-12-13T17:48:00.000-05:00

"You know what to do if you get mad at somebody? Get you a cup of ice, fill it up with water and let it get reeeeeeeeeeeeal cold.

"Then you pough it on they head!"

Do you remember?

2006-12-11T14:06:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you need a defining moment.

Sometimes, it comes in doses. Other times, it's more of a revelation. It's the time you can see yourself as something you've never seen before. The one time where you can finally say "this is what I want/want to be."

I've had several defining moments in my life that really made me understand who I was. Growing up, I was made fun of for being tall, overweight, having oily skin, not growing facial hair fast enough, even speaking too fast -- or not at all. Watching on Facebook as I reconnect with all the people I knew from elementary school on up, I've realized those things weer just a part of growing up. At that time, I thought those were my defining moments.

I don't think I could've even been more wrong.

I took a trip home when I was about 20 for a summer internship back home. While I was there for the summer, I tried to reconnect with the people I'd grown up with.

It didn't work.

Three years after graduation, my boys were living at home, chasing rap star dreams and working $6.50 an hour jobs. All of them.

They said I thought I was better than them.

I thought they weren't living up to their potential.

It's like the Tamia song, "Stranger In My House."

Or could it be
that the stranger is me
Have I changed so drastically?
Is it I want more for me
but you remain the same?

I cut them all off. How can you stand by and let somebody try to drag you back to a place you fought to get out of?

One of my friends got married just over a year ago. He's become a father to his wife's son, moved his "family" out of Detroit and into a more secure suburb. There's problems, he says, but it does nothing to negate the fact that he's loving his new life.

Maybe I was just an early bloomer...

BREAKING NEWS!!!

2006-12-07T00:00:00.000-05:00

I've decided that I'm not going to stop using the word "nigga."

It's a word I don't use too often, but in some cases, I deem in necessary.

With all that's being done by Michael Richards and Big Perm, er, Al Sharpton et al to end the use of the word, it's drawn me to my own personal thoughts on the situation.

I am not a bigot. I am a 25-year-old man who has come into his own in this day and age using terms in the vernacular brought forth upon me by my ancestors and my forefathers in Hip Hop.

The word nigga has never been a word that stung when it came out of my mouth. Now Nigger, Golddigger, Bitch, Hoe, Crackhead, Junkie - you get my drift - are meant and said maliciously.

Nigga evolved from a word that was meant to tear people down to their very core. It made them want to seek revenge against the person who'd chosen to spew the evil in their direction. It made them feel that someone was trying to make them feel inferior.

But a spin was put on that word to basically mock those who attempted to dominate us.

Nigga is the result.

I got an e-mail from one of my boys when I started the new gig. I'd divulged some news that made me feel important at my new employer.

His response: "That's my nigga!"

I felt like I'd made him proud, in some weird way.

There are people who hate to hear the word, or even threaten to disown you if you mention the word, and them, in the same sentence. That's their opinion. One I choose to respect.

It's the same thing with white people and not being able to call us niggas. Out of respect to black people, they refrain from using the word when they know it would come across as disrespectful. There are cases where whites are able to call their black friends niggas. But there's an understanding in place that allows this to happen.

I'm not ashamed that I've called people nigga before.

And I'll continue to do so.

As long as you and I both know it's all about love.

You've got to be killing me!

2006-12-06T02:08:00.000-05:00

Plane Forced to Land After Passenger Passes Gas

NASHVILLE, Tenn. (AP) - It is considered polite to light a match after passing gas. Not while on a plane.

An American Airlines flight was forced to make an emergency landing Monday morning after a passenger lit a match to disguise the scent of flatulence, authorities said.

The Dallas-bound flight was diverted to Nashville after several passengers reported smelling burning sulfur from the matches, said Lynne Lowrance, spokeswoman for the Nashville International Airport Authority. All 99 passengers and five crew members were taken off and screened while the plane was searched and luggage was screened.

The FBI questioned a passenger who admitted she struck the matches in an attempt to conceal a "body odor," Lowrance said. She had an unspecified medical condition, authorities said.

"It's humorous in a way but you feel sorry for the individual, as well," she said. "It's unusual that someone would go to those measures to cover it up."

The flight took off again, but the woman was not allowed back on the plane. The woman, who was not identified, was not charged in the incident.

12/05/06 21:07 EST

HEEEERRREEE WEEEEEE GOOOOOOO (Here we go again!)

2006-12-04T04:37:00.000-05:00

I need to drop some serious L-Bs.

Hi, my name is Marlon, and I'm a cheapaholic. (standing ovation).

Now that we've got that out of the way...

I've been going to work in clothes I know I shouldn't be wearing. I feel like a pole dancer who keeps sticking her name on the schedule far longer than her body was built for the type of work. Just imagine her, sagging in every direction and being betrayed by gravity at every turn. When she steps up to the pole, lifts her legs over her head and...

Gets stuck.

I tried on my favorite pair of pants and shirt a few weeks ago, and the outfit broke apart like that scene in "White Chicks" where Marlon Wayans was trying on the woman's outfit for a party.

Here a rip, there a rip.

I've cut out major nonsense from my diet for two weeks. Then, I'll do the Master Cleanser for two weeks to help my body begin the cleansing process. All while instituting two miles of running a day into my regimen (anybody wanna get me some running shoes for Xmas?)

I figure saying this will make me stick to it. Depression in Florida wore me thin, but the 35 lbs I gained while in my low point kicked me while I was down. Now, it's time to get my life back, and give somebody these lbs in the process.

No, I'm not going all Oprah on you all and dragging a radio flyer filled with fat around my townhouse.

It's not gonna be the obsession that I started another blog about last year. It's not gonna be mishandled like the last time.

I'm going to stick to it.

It'll require me eating mainly fruits and veggies, and not sneaking in random stuff while at work. It'll also require me to drink lots of teas and maybe even some chicken broth (this guy I know here says it coated filled him up while he was nursing a sore throat back after a tonsilectomy).

We'll see. In the meantime, wish me luck. That is ALL I need. Not "what you need to do is..." Not "what I did was..." Definitely not "this is going about it all wrong..."

The Jah-Nuh-Tah's Corner (Pt. 1)

2006-12-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

She makes her rounds in the newsroom, broom and trash can in tow, talking to the dozens of people she's come to know for the years she's been a part of the "family." She shares an anecdote from her life with those who speak back. Occasionally, she'll tell you who's getting on her nerves.

In my case, she told somebody she had "another one" to get used to.

The first day, I noticed her from afar. She's 67 year old, all of 5 foot 4 inches tall, with a swagger that would make you think she was the publisher. Her Jherri Curl, a dry - yet, still shiny - contrast to those made popular in the 80s, swayed to the side every time she turned down another aisle to collect trash from her regulars. "I told Harold he wasn't gonna work me TA-NITE-TAH," she speaks as those around her laugh with glee.

When she gets to me, I feel her presence. She doesn't speak to the new guy. It's not my time. It'll come, they tell me. Then it won't quit. Instead, I sit closer to the keyboard to avoid the stray juices that could possibly ruin my cream sweatervest.

"How you doin?"
"OOOH, I'm faaaan," she says, sticking her hand near my thigh to retrieve the receptacle.

I'm not one to not have people ignore me, so this is the first of many I decide will have to be won over.

Last week, she taught me how to handle the news aide, just in case she got out of hand.

"Get you a cup of waughta and throw it on her head," she said, much to the girl's chagrin.

This week, we had a breakthrough.

"Boy? What's yo name?"
"Marlon."
"How was I supposed to know. You ain't neva toooooooooold me."

Twenty minutes later, she was back.

"Mah-lon," she said AT me, matter of factly.
"Yes Ms. G?"
"I got it right."

And with that, she grabbed the next trash can, beginning her seventh conversation of the evening.

You've got me... SPEECHLESS!

2006-11-27T22:23:00.000-05:00

I'm at a loss for words.

I've been going over this in my head for weeks, pondering my big return to the stage, which was supposed to mark the metamorphosis of Mar-Mar (fuggitabout dat MiMi chick). I'm supposed to be as whitty, comical, thought provoking, yet eloquent and sensual as my words were the first time we met.

At one point, I could say 1 plus 2 equals me and you, and there'd be 10 comments before my slow computer could refresh the page to show me how it looked. Ahh, when I was popular.

It's not coming out like that, hence the lack of posts.

So I'm doing the extreme makeover. That's the reason for the new look. Hell, you may even get a new name (eventually) and some guest visitors from my year and a half of blogdom.

But it's still in the thinking stages.

I figure I'd rather think it through that to give you something as trashy as Jay's latest CD.
"YOU HEAR ME!"

I wanna know how he did it!

2006-11-20T20:10:00.000-05:00

Poor OJ.

Tried to set the record straight about his wife's murder, but Rupert Murdoch wouldn't let him.

The families of Ron Goldman and Nicole Brown Simpson are the losers in this book being indefinitely shelved.

Today, they announced the OJ book, and subsequent interview, will no longer happen. Millions of people could've predicted this - including Ms. "Call me now for your free readin" Cleo - but I, for one, wanted it to happen.

And, from the looks of it, so did OJ.

The thing that strikes me as odd is that all last week, this Judith Regan lady has been saying she sees this book as OJ's admission of guilt.

Let's recap: Ron and Nicole are offed. OJ goes on ride in Al's Bronco. OJ goes to jail for more than a year. Johnnie says "If the glove don't fit." OJ gets off. The families want blood, but settle for money in civil settlement. They haven't seen a dime.

If you know the law, then you know OJ can't be retried for the crimes because he's already been let off the hook.

Let him "hypothetically" tell us how it happened. Then, let the police open up their handy dandy notebooks and retrace what he says and look at it alongside the actual evidence they picked up at the scene. Then, let's all know OJ did it.

Then, let the families get paid.

In the civil court, the judgment was for the moneys made by OJ, minus his NFL pension, to be garnished until some $30+ million was paid out for anguish and whatnot.

Now, they'll never see a dime.

MARLON SAYS: If I were daddy Goldman, I would've been on TV like "I'd like to know what he's going to say. I bet the whole world is waiting for this book." In my mind, I would've been thinking about all the books that were gonna be sold because this fool decided he wanted to make a quick buck. Then I would've been thinking about the injunction I would've been readying to make sure that money never touched his account.

Then I would've put on my shiny new sailor's cap (paid for by OJ), packed up the Louis Vuitton suitcases (a gift from OJ), piled the family into the Rolls Royce (another gift from the Juice) and spent two weeks traveling abroad my brand new Yacht (you guessed it -from OJ) named (what else?) the SS Orenthal.

Here's another take on why the book would've been perfect...

Did you really think I could stay away???

2006-11-16T22:35:00.000-05:00

OK, so I'm sitting in my pod at working thinking of a way to distract myself while listening to the scanner for the next "shortness of breath" or the sound of the timid dispatcher to say "2-8, 10-4," when I realize the best way to do that is to talk to myself.

What better way to do that than blogging?

I've missed blogging for several reasons. The main one is because blogging keeps me sane when the people in my life can't.

Right now, they can't.

For the next week, I'm shutting off my cellular phone just to get my head cleared up. It'll be a great thing.

In the meantime, look for me here. And stick around.

Ya boy is back!

Out with the old...

2006-09-24T04:14:00.000-04:00

When one door closes, another opens.

And so is the case with the blog...

525,600 minutes...

2006-09-22T12:42:00.000-04:00

I hate moving.

I hate packing boxes, throwing out old things I would've kept longer, making room for that big spatula, putting a bunch of newspaper around the old glass Iced Tea pitcher, you name it.

Next week will mark my 16th move since I graduated high school. There were internships and bad roommates and more internships, and finally the job in St. Petersburg, and now the new gig in a place to be named after I pack up the moving truck next week.

While I enjoy the adventure that comes with the move, the moving itself takes its toll on me quickly. People expect life to be the same when you're going through things, but it's not. Seeing the empty apartment at the beginning or the end of the road for me signifies loneliness and abandonment.

We first moved in with Grandma when Mike and I were about 3. We didn't know it at the time, but our mom had decided to rent the house she'd shared with her sister because the mortgage and subsequent bills became unbearable (or at least that's what I was told). No big deal, we're going to stay at Grandma's, says my young brain.

But moving quickly became this thief in the night event where it didn't feel like a step up. When we left grandma's, it was because she and mom had a fight. We ended up at Aunt Marge's. We left there when Aunt Marge was at work, heading for uncle Bill's. We left Uncle Bill's in the middle of the day while he was out, ending up at Jan and Holly's. We left Holly and Jan's after my mom and Jan (Holly's mom) had a disagreement, and ended up at Jean's. We left Jean's after one of Jean's kids and my sister had a knock down, drag out in the middle of Gratiot, ending up at Miguel's. We left Miguel's when we got our house.

It didn't end there.

We left the house at 15220 Promenade after finding the house on Haverhill, but something happened where we ended up in court about the house. Mom called me and Mike while he was in Ocala for our 19th birthday (I was on the first of 9 internships) and told us she was selling that house on Haverhill, and it was to be processed by the end of June. That left six weeks.

One thing always remained the same in the moves: There was never a chance for closure.

When my mom moved out of the house I'd spent most of my life in, I was given two days to pack up as much as I could and bring it back to Florida with me. My sister took possession of my furniture and has my Journalist of the Year award in her curio cabinet. A year ago, while scavenging for things I wanted to bring to Florida with me, I found my high school yearbooks.

Most of my life has been lived like a packrat. I've only kept enough with me so that, in a moment's notice, I could pack up the car and bounce. This time, I'll have to rent a truck to move the bed, Big Red and my table, among other things.

This time, for once, I finally get closure.

I'll be sitting in my front room next Saturday, thinking about the good times, making sure I patched up all the holes from picture frames and covered scratches from the headboard.

This time, the new beginning won't be built off a truncated past boxed up too soon to savor.

I can't take this living... wait, yes I can!

2006-09-13T20:33:00.000-04:00

I came home Monday and turned on the TV. There were three hourlong shows in TiVo with my name on 'em, so I heated up the leftover chicken, grabbed the hot sauce and a bottle of water, and headed over to Big Red (my futon). I sat there and watched TV for hours.

The phone rang. Not just any ring. Special ringers. The ones you assign somebody when they're more than "part of the crowd." I heard maybe four specialty ringers and the regular one about four times. Each time, I let the phone sit where it had been - in the bedroom on the nightstand, charging for the next day's conversations.

Something about Monday was different.

I thought it might've been the significance to the day - Sept. 11.

But it wasn't.

Maybe I'm depressed, I thought.

The smile on my face told me otherwise.

Then I realized I was having the time of my life being with the most interesting person I know.

A year ago, I wrote on this blog about taking time out to enjoy who YOU are as a person. You know, the ins and outs, what makes you special. I spent Monday not reflecting on anything in particular, but just relaxing and enjoying the time I had with my boy.

One day not too long from here, I envision kids, a wife, an animal (but no cats) and the steady grind of a job where I'm in charge of some people. It sounds like a chore when you think about it.

So for now, I enjoy these times I get to myself.

We all know they won't last forever.

Is this weird?

This is me...

2006-09-10T21:49:00.000-04:00

Everyday people get clowned for things they do or don't do. Me? I'm clowned for the same things. But I listen to this whenever I feel the need to free my mind. It's by my favorite singer. You know who that is. When I listen to the song, I feel as if she's talking to me. It's like we're having a conversation, but by the end of the song, it's like she's telling me something.

She's telling me to forget about the people who don't add to the empire I'm trying to build. She's telling me not to change who I am for anything. They have to take me as I am - or not.

It's up to them. And I'm satisfied with either result.

Mary J. Blige - Take Me As I Am

"I'm just a human..."

2006-09-03T21:44:00.000-04:00

I'm a man.

Sure, we're supposed to be the superior of the sexes, but that doesn't mean there aren't things that get under our skin.

Money is one of them.

I was having a conversation with a female friend the other day and we were making plans to hang out.

"I mean, what about going to Landry's?" she says, mentioning one of the better seafood restaurants in the bay area.

"With my life in such an uncertain position, I can't see spending $100 for the two of us to go to Landry's," I replied. "Let's do Red Lobster. Then, if before I leave my money looks right, we'll go to Landry's."

"I'll pay," she shoots back.

Red flag.

Basically, it's a shot to my manhood. If I invite you somewhere, then we're going to be doing this on my debit card/credit card/Ben Franklins/...you get the drift. Maybe I'm alone in this line of thinking. Maybe I'm one of the last guys on earth who believe chivalry is alive and kicking.

But that'd be like seeing a guy take his girl to the movies, open all her doors along the way, but having her pay for her ticket and concessions.

Men have been trained to be the dominant sex. That means we're supposed to be a woman's superhero -- open doors, fight off bullies, kill spiders and pay for meals.

Unless there's already something set up that says otherwise.

I was talking to my friend Eric one day in New York last year about why he feels the need to pay when he invites somebody out.

"I just wouldn't feel right," he said.

That's how it goes for me, too. If I INVITED you to my house, you'd expect me to supply some food or entertainment, right?

Right.

Any other situation, letting her pay would've been fine. If we were the type to go dutch, it'd be fine. But we're not. I will never pick a place where I'd have to tell a girl how much she can or cannot have.

But if it comes to a point where we do things a bit too big, I'll surely invite her to scrub a pot or two with me.

Things that make you go hmmm...

2006-09-01T18:13:00.000-04:00

What does it mean when you're grown and feel like you're being forced to do something you just don't feel is right?

The guy who surrendered today to authorities knows exactly what it is. He's possibly facing jailtime for not wanting to participate in a war many of us feel wasn't rightfully sought.

I feel for him. It also makes me glad to know I wouldn't pass the physical needed to gain access to the military. Thank God for all the junk I eat, right? And thinking about how some of these folks come back from overseas tripping on some other stuff, I'm glad I haven't been put in that position.

What say you? Would you have just put your lifeo n the line for a cause you didn't believe in?

There's a reason for a season...

2006-08-08T14:53:00.000-04:00

But is there a reason to go to church?

I know, I know. I'm going to hell for this one. But I seriously can't come up with a reason for going to a building some guy takes a mortgage out on, listening to his rants about the Bible and God, giving him 10-percent of my hard earned scraps and going home.

Isn't that what Bobby Jones is for?

Tell me: Why do you go? Why don't you go? What about the church needs to change before you start going?

Back in da day...

2006-08-03T00:01:00.000-04:00

1) How old were you?
THEN: 15
NOW: 25

2) Where did you work?
THEN: Babysitting for my sister. But you can't really call it a job when the relatives don't pay you.
NOW: The jury's out on that one...

3) Where did you live?
THEN: 5911 Haverhill, where Mike made every room a closet (seriously, I think I became a fat boy because he hung his clothes on the home gym).
NOW: St. Pete, Florida - where people come to die

4) How was your hairstyle?
THEN: hairstyle? I'm a guy
NOW: See above

5) Did you wear contacts?
THEN: I got accused of it because of the eye color.
NOW: I'm the only member of the family with perfect vision.

6) Did you wear glasses?
THEN: Hell naw!
NOW: Glasses won't ever hold me down!

8) Which of your pets were still alive?
THEN: Oscar! He was like the oldest fish ever!
NOW: Pet? Unless...

9) Who was your boyfriend/girlfriend?
THEN: I was dating by bus...
NOW: hmmm...

10) Who was your celebrity crush?
THEN: Maia Campbell
NOW: Mary J. Walker... lol

11) How many piercings did you have?
THEN: one
NOW: none

12) How many tattoos did you have?
THEN: The Cancun trip wasn't until '99...
NOW: ...and I knew not to come home with any. I'm waiting for the right occasion.

13) What was your favorite band/singer?
THEN: Mary J. Blige
NOW: Same

14) Had you smoked a cigarette?
THEN: once
NOW: not any more

15) Had you gotten drunk?
THEN: Once when I grabbed the cup off the table when the adults weren't looking...
NOW: Should've never found out what a hand grenade was...

16) What kind of car did you drive?
THEN: None.
NOW: Inga Impala, da baddest chick!

17) Looking back, are you where you thought you would be in 2006?
Not even close.

Gotta go, Gotta leave...

2006-07-28T10:55:00.000-04:00

You ever felt like the life was being forced out of you by someone - or something - that you just don't want to give up?

The first car I bought when I first got to FAMU was a '93 Grand Am. This was my dawg! We went on trips to Wal-Mart, Jacksonville, Nashville, spring breaks... you name it.

But people always told me my car wasn't right for me.

The car was a mid-size vehicle. I'm 6'8.

It was fine until a little fender bender messed up the front end. Then I was forced to roll through the streets with a car that looked like a T-Rex kicked it in the face.

But we worked things out.

This time won't be the same.

You remember the kid in your neighborhood who all the neighbors adored? They always say such good things about him - even tell you to emulate him. Sometimes that kid gets on your nerves. But he's so down to earth, and you don't know how to hate him.

That's how I feel.

But it's like when I go home, I'm greeted by an abusive parent I'll never be able to make happy. So I do my best and struggle like hell to keep "dad" from getting even more angry with me. Maybe when I go off, he'll appreciate what I did and miss my contributions. But I don't wanna leave! I love my home, and the parents and my room and my siblings.

I'm not a business man, I'm a business, MAN!

2006-07-24T01:51:00.000-04:00

So I took a look at the new BeNonSay video, Deja Vu, another little sound she's come up with featuring Jay-Z.

This is an ad for the House of Dereon, right? That's why there's so much haute couteur and old homes and "all about Beyonce" panning, right?

Bottom line: The video reeks.

Obviously, I ain't the only one who feels that way.

More than 2,100 people had signed when I found it. No. 2132 is hilarious...

Baby I swear it... stinks!

Nights like this...

2006-07-16T00:58:00.000-04:00

You ever get that feeling where nothing really matters because you're so content?

That's how Saturday night went for me.

I was feelin good after not eating anything from the previous night and enjoying the "doctored up" version of the "elixir" used for the Master Cleanse.

Then Cami dropped by.

Then we went to a party.

Then I drank a beer.

And had a Jell-O shot.

Then I realized I wasn't supposed to be doing any of the above. I'd warned myself when I first heard Dirk was having a party.

"Don't eat or drink NOTHIN!... Take your blue cup and act like you brought your own liquor..."

It didn't work. Things slip your mind when you're on a natural high.

I wish I could forever freeze Saturday night in time.

Sometimes, I look at her and forget about everything else...

Damn. Even at 6'1, she looks like a midget compared to me... lol

Please chime in!

2006-07-12T10:46:00.000-04:00

OK, so here's the situation:

My boy Craig was dating this girl, and planned on meeting her at a party one December. When she showed up, she she wasn't alone. She introduced everybody to "the guys" and her "boyfriend" Darren. Craig was pissed.

This was right before the 21st Century.

Now, she's getting married to the dude. And Craig's still affected by it.

Why is he being affected? Is it because there's still feelings for the girl? Is it because the whole situation is a big ball of unfinished business? Should he be affected?

Another friend says "Craig needs to give that one up. She's not stable anyway. Besides, they only 'kicked it' for a few months."

What say you?

We at it AGAIN!

2006-07-06T23:36:00.000-04:00

OK, so the blog will be taking a short hiatus while I'm in the midst of this thing I'm callin "Get Ya Body Right '06."

All the updates will be up and running on my OTHER BLOG.

Hit me up wit some encouragement. Lord only knows I'll be needing it. Wish me luck!

Objects in mirror may be closer...

2006-07-05T20:54:00.000-04:00

It's a struggle when everything you want is right outside the door, but the key you've been given doesn't wanna work right.

I've been pondering this phrase for the last four days since my trip to Chicago ended (I'll post the pics that I DO have later...). How do you function when everything seems out of reach? Do you go along like everything's fine? Do you push until you get the door open? Do you bang your head into the door until you get somewhere? What?

Me? I cried.

Not tears. I moped for the first day I was back in town, wondering with a "woe is me" attitude about the life that's about to really begin for me. I look at the achievements around me, and wonder when the pie will be passed to me. "Damnit," I say, "I want my piece!"

Maybe it's not my time. Maybe things are working just as they should? Maybe I'm bitching myself out for no reason?

It's all too tiring. And I've become sick of talking.

You know your plate's full when you look at the phone like "please don't ring, OK?" or when you throw on your gym shoes and just wanna run til you can't run no mo' (for me, that's about 3.5 miles).

I'm usually the one with the smiley face.
I'm the one with the jovial salutation and the quick wit.
This week, I'm running with my head down.
But I'm doing it at a snail's pace.

And it makes people wonder.

My problem is I'm acting like everybody else.
But nobody seems to ask them "what's the matter?"

So it all falls on me.

I hate "how's everything goin?"
I hate his sister "how are you?"
And I hate their baby cousin "how are you feeling?"

I hate people walking around me like I've got a gun in my pocket.
Like at any moment, I could shoot.
Don't like people who notice the behavior change.
Then they do things to agitate it further.

I just wanna be fine.
Some of the best moments of my life are happening.
I'm just down because they're on the other side of the door.

And when I stop crying, I'll get up off the front step.
Then, somebody will lets me in.
And I'll smile again.

Contributions can be made...

2006-06-27T10:30:00.000-04:00

Warren Buffett just pledged to donate about $37 Billion to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. He's looking for a place where his hard earned (ok, not so hard) money will be put to great use.

I have a better idea.

The letter would start short and sweet.

Dear (Philanthropist's name here):

I've got debt. Not just any debt. Credit card and student loan debt. But I made it through. Got my degree and everything. With your help, this debt can be erased in no time.

I understand people giving out scholarships to those who are in need of them. I believe the children are our future, just as much as Whitney knew that hit would score her, well, a hit.

Remember the kid from Omaha who you pledged $20,000 a year to help put through college? He has a scholarship from his school, which will pay for everything. I doubt he needs your money on top of that. Why not give it to a deserving recent grad who amassed the debt while struggling through school? We'll call it, say, a posthumous scholarship. Still tax-deductable, but this time, it helps a former student who now knows the pitfalls of those damned $500 starting balance credit cards you get in exchange for a free t-shirt, a sub sandwich, free sweet tea, etc.

It's hard out here for a recent grad, who's paying student loans and four credit cards on a monthly basis. Not to mention their family thinks this whole "got a job after getting a degree" thing means they're raking it in.

Not hardly.

With your help, that graduate can begin a life of debt freedom, which can help him push back the temptations to sell things - sex, a few bags of weed - on the side. For the rich man's equivalent of pennies a day, you can help this young adult in no time.

Thanks for caring.

The Broke Recent Grad Foundation

We're still barely getting by, and many of us wish we still had your support. Now you (family members) want reparations out of us like we were slave owners. That's not how it went down. We slaved for the knowledge and the piece of paper you're trying to keep on your own mantles.

"I've got a degree, a new job, a nice car... but a 500 beacon score."

Sound like the life?

Not hardly.

Sorry, I wasn't alive in the 50s...

2006-06-23T00:50:00.000-04:00

But I still know what it's like to be called a nigger.

Just saying the word has my teeth hurting. You know the feeling - like you just bit down into a scoop of cookie dough ice cream, forgetting that all your front teeth were sensitive to cool things.

I was sitting in line at Checker's after I left the gym (I REALLY needed that shake!) when I thought twice and decided to leave. I put my car in reverse, looking at the four cars in front of me that were going to take forever to get through.

The guy behind me wasn't moving.

"What's the problem bro," he asks about two minutes later.

"I'm trying to back out," I say, somewhat annoyed that he doesn't realize there are white lights shining in his face.

"You're just gonna have to wait and pull through as they get their stuff."

"Huh?"

Pissed off, I had other things in mind. If I was gonna lose precious time, he was, too. He was the only person behind me, which is why I thought backing up would be easy. Basically, we had a mexican standoff.

"Just move up with the other cars, buddy. Are you some kinda idiot or something?" he says, immediately annoyed when he saw my car refuse to budge.

"Why can't you just back up?" I ask, still trying to keep it professional. I'm starting to think about my job now - and the article it'd make if I got out and went wild on ol boy.

"Are you as stupid as you are colored?"

"What?"

"What the fuck's your problem man?" he said, getting out of his car.

"Seriously man, you don't wanna bring your redneck ass up here," I say, unclicking the buckle to the seatbelt, grabbing on the door.

"What's going on?" I hear through the phone. I forgot for a minute that I was on the phone with Greg.

"He just called me a nigger!" Now, I'm livid.

It seems like forever (probably about 10 minutes went by), before he decided to go and back up to let me out. While I'm pulling past, he gets one more in.

"You fuckin porch monkey nigger!"

"But you backed up, you fuckin red neck bastard."

He threatened something about a 40 caliber, which I didn't flinch on. I'm from Detroit. And that makes me know he wasn't doing shyt in front of witnesses.

I pulled off, still talking on the phone, in a weird state because of what had just transpired.

For the last day I've walked around with this weird taste in my mouth. I don't know if it's hate, disdain for not getting out of the car and doing what was expected (I'm 6'8, so the thing to do would've been walking up, ripping him out of his car through the window and beating the shit out of him), or what.

I just know I didn't like that.

My mother told stories of girls spitting on her when she was in high school. She also told stories of how she walked around with her best friends - two sticks and a brick - waiting for the next person to give her a reason.

It's like the Cedric the Entertainer "I wish a nigga would be sitting in my chair!"

The redneck was sitting in my chair.

And I don't know if I did enough to get him up out of it.

Just Let Your Sooooooooul Glow babaaaay!

2006-06-20T14:46:00.000-04:00

Feelin oh, so silky smoove!

This story comes directly to you from Taurus Girl (some things are changed to protect the innocent):

My supervisor is the type who always has to make a point that he's in touch with the plight of black people.

He incessantly argues about the wrongdoing of Republicans and the
disaster of Hurricane Katrina, especially since he'll never let us
forget his wife is a Louisiana native.

Well, last night he decided to break out in song, a hip-hop medley if you will, to show just how "down" he was.

So I'm listening to the police scanner and I hear the editors' usual banter: "...oh yeah, well Bush is just... well, Rumsfield is a.... and the Braves are having a good season this year, blah, blah blah."

Shit I could care less about when I hear the funniest shit I've ever heard come out of a white man's mouth in a while:

"Harry(another editor), is trying to catch me riding dirty,"
he says.

I bust out laughing.

"Yeah," he says, seeing that he made a connection with the lone black metro reporter. "He's trying to catch me riding dirty!"
I jerk my head around, laughing, to watch this satire with my own eyes.

Dee, the pale 41-year-old cop reporter who repeatedly wears low cut tops to show her once-silicone filled, now sagging breasts, is clueless.

Harry, who eerily looks like "George", the father off Mr. Belvedere, is baffled.

"Taurus Girl's the only one who knows what I'm talking about!," the editor exclaims with the triumph of a middle-schooler who just spelled "photosynthesis."

He had just spoken to me in my native tongue of Chamillionaire!
Astounding!

"Yes, I know exactly what you're talking about," I say to him,
giving him the nod and a wink to reassure him that he has once again
validated his "hood card."

"You're alright with me," I think while hoisting a package of
Mentos in the air. "You're going to be just fine."

Outro: "'Doo doo doo doo, doo-doo, do-Wah!'
It doesn't matter what comes, fresh goes better in life, and Mentos is fresh and full of life. Nothing gets to you, staying fresh staying cool, with Mentos, fresh and full of life. Fresh goes better, Mentos freshness, fresh goes better with Mentos, fresh and full of life! Mentos, the freshmaker!

She's an idiot, but I love her for it!

That's my water! YAH MEAN!

2006-06-13T10:06:00.000-04:00

The intern and I were out scavenging for out storm supplies last night when we came across something we didn't expect to see: The water aisle was empty.

Almost.

There were 24-pack containers of, gasp, Aquafina.

I mean, who buys that? That stuff has this metal taste to it that I can't stand. The intern can't, either. So we walk through the aisle and find a few other water connoiseurs looking for "other than Aquafina" and come across a pallet filled with juices and Zephyrhills water. If you live in Florida, you surely know Zephyrhills is the cheap stuff, and the good stuff. So we ask the man working at Wallyworld if he could cut open the pallet and hand off a 24-pack, just so we wouldn't have to partake in the metal stuff. He says no, and shuffles his feet on to the back of the store.

"Hold this," I tell Robbyn as I give her half of my keys, then I disappear to the other side of the pallet. It's stacked about 8 feet high, so I'm able to be out of sight for the nonsense I'm about to pull.

Two minutes later, as she sees I've yet to return, the ventures to the other side of the pallet, to find her roommie daggering the plastic sheeting surrounding the pallet with a jagged Chevy key to get to a case of Zephyrhills. When I'm done, we walk away from the pallet. It looks like somebody was playing Jinga, but on a larger scale.

All I know is I got my water. To bad the storm played out like a beeyatch. It's 10 a.m., and we're still waiting for the "big one."

I have no legs...

2006-06-06T12:33:00.000-04:00

Dearest Blog,

Times have been really hectic. For one, I've been on two trips since we last spoke. The first was to Detroit to see the family. It's something I do once or twice every year, so I tried to make the most of it. I got to see some special people, then I got a ticket, then I got pulled over three more times, but only got one ticket. The rental car had bad tags, I was told.

I didn't get to see my best friends, and my mother almost lost my respect, but all was good.

Then I came back and started on the grind. Got the tip of a lifetime (OK, the tip of the month). Headed to south to report on said tip. Got involved in an interview gang bang. Writing down what four people are saying simultaneously is not good. Almost made me wanna plop down money on a recorder.

Almost.

Then I have a roommate for the summer. It's sort of hard to not impose my rules on her - especially when I only follow them part time myself. She's old school, so I let it slide. Had I never met her, she'd be walking around afraid to touch anything.

Then I'm back in the gym. And I'm volunteering. Let's not forget about dating. And I'll be out of town a few more times this month.

Bloggers and friends, how I miss thee. You're there for me when others don't have the time - when I always make the time for them. So I'll be managing my time, and telling you more of the weird stories that have been happening to me. Like the guy in the DMV who took my Local/State section of the paper out of my hand because he wanted to read the main story. Yeah, at first I was gonna give him an ugly look, but I realized that would've been turning a cheek. MLK I'm not. I grabbed my paper back and told him to purchase one. This one's already got an owner.

"SO you can read the whole paper at the same time?" he spits.

"Nope, but I'm bipolar, so I may read half this story, then half of another. Plus, this shit comes out of my paycheck every week. Go steal somebody else's hard work. And why are you here to get a license and you reek of beer?"

With that, he left me alone.

God & stuff...

2006-05-24T01:17:00.000-04:00

My boy Tom and I were having a conversation at lunch one day that ended up on the whole Da Vinci Code situation.

Do I want to see the movie? No. And I honestly don't see what allt he fuss is about.

I used to want to be religious. You know the type - the one who goes to church on Wednesday for Bible Study, Saturday for Choir rehearsal, Sunday for the general service. The whole works. Then I realized we live in a world too radical for what the church tries to preach.

A lot of the faithfuls are sinning anyway.

The church queen who never misses a beat with the tamborine on Sunday, but was in the club wit strobe lights and a tight tank top hugging his body the night before. That's not allowed, the church says.

Sister Beulah in the front row, swaying to "Wade in the Water," even though the choir just got done with something from Kirk Franklin. The 72-year-old prides herself on raising her six children - by five different daddies.

Pastor Williams and his wife, Millie, who always get you jumpin out of your seat when they step up to speak. And they always get u hype when it's time for the offering. Then they wave to you in your Hyundai as they slide out of the church parking lot in the new Lincoln Town Car.

I believe in God as the high being and his being responsible for all of earth's things. I pray sometimes, too. But I don't go faithfully like many people because I'd feel bad not believing everything that's said to me in his "House."

I was watching the Simpsons last weekend and Lisa was thrown into jail for not believing God was the answer to everything. She wanted creation to be as it had been, not as God said. The town of Springfield and it's many occupants didn't like that. Eventually, she won her battle.

The church forces upon you a linear line of thinking that I, for one, refuse to follow. And the Da Vinci Code is trying really hard to throw a few dents into that line.

It's why the church is denouncing it. It's why people are scrambling to see it.

It's why I won't be seeing it. My line's never been linear.

Just pray on it

2006-05-20T20:15:00.000-04:00

Mike and I were sitting in the IHOP on Friday. It was 1 p.m.

Yeah, a late birthday breakfast.

We're sitting there talking about random stuff from the last few weeks, the lives we lead, old times, etc., when Tyrone the waiter shows up. We order our food and, after nearly 30 minutes waiting in an almost bare restaurant, we start to get our food. Mike didn't have silverware for his coffee. They brought some.

The stuff was dirty.

"I dunno why you didn't ask me for no hot water," he says, bringing our settings out in a plastic tea kettle filled with piping hot water. "When I go out to eat, I always ask for hot water."

Mike and I look at each other sideways, wondering how this bama just turned the whole "unclean silverware" issue around on us. Is it my fault y'all don't clean ya stuff?

Then he brings the food.

You know how you ask the people at the restaurant if they like what you're ordering? Mike shoulda took his own advice that time. "What's this like," Mike said. "Yeah man, a lot of people've been getting that," Tyrone said, flipping his mid-shoulder length dreads as he wandered off toward the kitchen to put our order in.

When it came back, it wasn't anything to be excited about. Mike's waffle looked like it was oozing oil. Not the "they used to much lard" oil. The "damn, we bout to be rich" oil.

I ordered pancakes. Can't go wrong with those, right?

At IHOP in Pinellas Park, you can go wrong on just about anything.

"Can I get these wiped off? I dunno what's on them," I say to him, motioning to the syrup containers, which looked like they were dunked in their corresponding flavors.

"It's syrup," he says, giving me the "duh" face.

"I know that, but I don't know about the bacteria or whatever is in all that," I say, pointing to the syrup that leaked all over the containers.

He brings them back a short time later.

"You know what you do to get rid of bacteria? You pray," he says, placing the syrup containers back on the table.

Mike and I exchanged the "WTF" face once more, but decided to eat our food and get the hell on. They weren't gonna ruin birthday fest.

How about the containers looked like he took them over to the other side of the building, set them down, then came right back?

If life hands you lemons...

2006-05-16T20:36:00.000-04:00

... cut them up, act like they're limes, and pull out the Tequila.

Mike will be here in two days. I'm nervous.

What if he turns snob and doesn't like the garage apartment? I mean, I learned how to appreciate my place for the things it has (hard wood floors, a great view of the neighborhood, a washer/dryer right downstairs). Mike may not like it for its premitive nature (no central heat/air).

And we all know it gets rough in Florida.

This is the latest milestone in our lives, so of course we're celebrating it together. And with the ball in my court, I have to show him a good time.

Right.

Right?

Hmmm...

Ugh!

The last time I hung out with Mike before he became a married man, I sat outside some chick's house because she was funding something he'd planned to do. Basically, that meant i was waiting for him to finish "thanking" her, clean up and get the hell outta there. I've been on this whole no sex kick for about three months too long and now it seems like I'm about to burst. Seriously might grab the first chick I see at 12:01 on the great birthday and leave her with a nasty gimp-like walk.

And tell Mike she was "thanking" me for running into her.

Besides, who needs excuses on your 25th birthday?

If you're a mom, throw ya hands up!

2006-05-13T21:09:00.000-04:00

I wrote this last year for my college publication, then revised it for Mother's Day for the publication I was working for at the time. It was rerun in a few places this year. So I figured I'd throw it back up here, too.

Thanking Mom for doing it all, and doing it well
By Marlon A. Walker

I called my mother in Detroit at 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning in June 2003, not thinking that a call that early would frighten her.

"Happy Father's Day," I told her, listening as she moved around on the other end to start her daily routine of coffee with the morning paper.

It was my way of paying tribute to the special woman in my life.

Her response was classic: "You mean to tell me you scared me for that?" she said, trying to get her heart to stop racing.

I was at Florida A&M University, sitting in a dorm room. I was living there as a counselor, chaperoning several high school-age boys for a summer program.

It was the first real money I was making after I'd lost my good-paying job at The Home Depot. No matter what the bills were looking like, my mother was making sure they were all handled.

My parents separated shortly after my twin brother, Michael, and I were born. She raised her three children on her own. When my father died in 1992, my mother was forced to take on a role she never thought she'd have to: being a mother as well as a father.

When Mike wanted to know about girls, my mother took on the father role and told him. She also made it her duty as a mother to tell him which ones to stay away from.

When I joined the high school football team, my "father" would accompany me to the practices, but my "mother" would appear before the end, cursing a coach for making me play through a nosebleed.

When I decided to try tennis, it was "Dad" who got out there with me on the court to work on my backhand. "Mom," on the other hand, would make sure I wasn't overdoing it by hitting the courts too much.

Women are doing things every day that make you wonder why they are still not seen as equals in such areas as sports, the workplace and even church. My mother taught me early on that women shouldn't be looked at as the weaker sex. She fixed cars and computers, and helped us move and build things. She also cooked meals, cleaned the house, gave hugs and offered encouragement.

She is the reason I have so much admiration for women today.

Looking at the example I had in front of me until I moved from her house and into a FAMU dorm, I see strength, courage under trying times and the ability to not take nonsense from "superior" beings.

In anybody else, those qualities are all turn-ons. Beyonce' Knowles of Destiny's Child fame sang a song on her solo debut about the man she wants in her life for the long haul. She paid tribute to the man who shaped her image of men in general.
She said that she wanted her husband to be like the man who reared her.

And I want my wife to be similar to the woman who raised me.

During our June 15, 2003, conversation, I took about five minutes to tell my mother all the things that others might have missed out on by living in a single-parent household - things I didn't miss at all. Then I thanked her for being a mother-father and making sure I didn't go without anything while under her care - and beyond.

"Just my way of saying I love you," I told her, forcing back any emotion.

"I love you, too, baby. Can I go back to sleep now?"

I'M BACK BITCHES!

2006-05-12T13:12:00.000-04:00

OK, so I've worked nearly 60 hours as of this moment. But I'm a soldier, so I'm handlin mines.

Plus, Mike and I gotta have some loot to use for the birthday celebration, right?

Anyway, here's a little something to keep you busy. Let's see who knows me the best (even if you don't know so much about me, take the test):

What you know about that?

Imagine T.I. sayin it. It makes it better. Enjoy!

It's our anniversary...

2006-05-08T01:21:00.000-04:00

OK, so it was yesterday, but I digress.

On May 7, 2005, I took it upon myself to tell the world how I think. How I respond. How I look. How I feel. How I live. How I...

You get the point.

The best thing to happen to me in the last year was getting a job. And graduating (even though my dean deprived me of the whole "walking" thing).

What in the last year has happened to you that has been the most life shattering?

I'd love to hear a little more about you guys. Respond sort of as a birthday gift to the blog. We'd appreciate it.

I'll be back in a week. I'm working 63 hours this week, which will be no small feat in itself to accomplish. It's why I'm turning off my phone. If it's an emergency, I can be reached via e-mail...

Looks can be deceiving

2006-05-05T11:46:00.000-04:00

"Do you play basketball?" No, I don't.

I actually can barely dribble the damn ball.

But I can tell you what happened in story form.

I'm 6'8, a little over 300, but I took the road less traveled by a person of my stature. I chose a field where being a nerd is all the rave. I'm a journalist.

What's the one thing people assume about you that is to left field that it's hilarious to you?

Something different...

2006-05-04T04:00:00.000-04:00

This was hilarious. A friend sent it to me, and I HAD to share it with everybody. It's fun to think back all those years ago (for me, it was 1999).

I'm tagging Eric, Terrance, KLC, Greg (let's see how much u remember), Soraya, and My So Wise Sista.

YOUR FIRST YEAR OF COLLEGE......What do ya'll remember?

Where did you live?
Paddyfote (WHAT!)

Who was/were your roommate(s)?
Andrew Tillman. My friends knew him as Spanky...

Do you still talk to them?
I get e-mails every once in a while. He's in the navy in Guam, if I remember correctly.

Ever get in trouble in the dorms?
I got fines for not taking trash down on time. Once, my RA caught a girl in the room...

Something you remember about when you first lived on campus?
Playing spades until the wee hours of the morning and the most infamous panty raid. Folks were breakin bones and gettin arrested.

Your campus phone number or other number
915-4540 (why do I remember that?)

First party attended?
It was at the Garden. About 100 freshmen walked up there together.

First Bar you got wasted at?
I didn't drink til fall 2000.

Favorite Pizza Place?
Hungry Howie's had a $3.99 menu. But those chumps acted like they couldn't come to a complete stop in our part of town. Funny how they always got robbed at FSU.

Favorite place to go out to eat?
Applebees. I felt so grown.

Did you go to the library?
They only had like 15 computers my freshman year.

What was your Favorite Floor you'd always be on?
The second floor tryin to get some "privacy" wit a date.

Club, Athletics, Frat or Sororities, you joined?
The Famuan, The Michigan Club, NAACP, Homecoming Fashion show.

Where did you buy your books?
The bookstore and from other people.

Who made the best wings?
WINGZONE!

Ever attend a sporting event?
HELL YEAH!

Ever attend a concert or comedic performance?
I can't remember who was there Freshman year. I know I remember Trick Daddy and Trina, because they were just gettin hot (and surprisingly, just falling off, too).

Have you ever spent the night on campus not in your dorm hall?
Hell, I worked for the best school newspaper to come out twice a week (at the time). We slept up there many nights.

Favorite night to go out on, and where did you go?
Friday night, it seems like something was always poppin.

Where did you get coffee?
Coffee stunts your growth.

Favorite part of Halloween?
How me and some of my boys dressed as "sleepy negros" for out first class that day.

Go see a play or been in one?
We were required to see a few for classes. Then it was in the same building as the J-school. When in Rome...

Did you ever have a job at school?
The Famuan, Cinnabon, Arby's, Home Depot, New York Times, freelance work (NYT, AJC, Black Issues in Higher Education, Black Voices Quarterly)

What do you hate about your college?
The long ass lines. And the fact that I'm still waiting for my corrected degree to show up.

What did you love most about it?
I loved the fact that we were a black college marching on the Capitol whenever we felt the need. I loved that when you say FAMU in the area, people respect you THAT much more.

Ever leave to go on a road trip, where?
My favorite road trip would be the time Kelly, Sharon and I went to Fernandina Beach looking at a place for me to stay on my first internship. I still hear Kelly's screech when the gecko ran over her arm.

Where would you believe is the best location to live in?
You could live at Palmetto, if it were in the location of Polkinghorne Village (FAMU's version of Cabrini Green).

Graduated or still attending?
Graduated !!!!!!!!!!!!
Year of graduation?
2005!

Will you go back?
I've been back a few times. I'm only a hop, skip and a jump away.

How many parking tickets have you gotten there?
Who remembers those things? Somewhere aroudn 40. I remember paying for all of them in 2004 ($1,600)

Finally, ever gotten arrested?
Almost on the night of the panty raid during Spring 2000. But we rolled up in the RA's room at the last possible minute.

my place...

2006-05-04T03:44:00.000-04:00

I've been on a roll wit the digital camera, and decided to take a shot of the crib.

Don't you think the landlords should think about a paint job? Besides that, it's perfect.

Random as hell...

2006-05-02T16:30:00.000-04:00

I never wanna see my brother naked again. The last time was when we were kids. We share everything, but not EVERYTHING (I don't wanna know whether mines is bigger than his, though I'm 6'8, so I can only guess... lol).

Take a look through my eyes...

2006-04-30T13:41:00.000-04:00

I haven't had a haircut since before Miami. At that point, it had been two weeks. It's amazing what a stocking cap can do. I'll be there Tuesday.

The last week I worked 40 hours was sometime in... February. I was getting adjusted to the reporting side of the job and I guess since I didn't ask, they didn't, either. Soon my days became filled with a few extra hours, then a few extra shifts. One week, I logged 19 hours of OT (in addition to the ones I don't usually put down).

My bank account thanks me. I paid for a trip to Miami, a new digital camera, several nice outfits, an upcoming trip to Detroit for the holiday (and an SUV for a rental to mark my being 25!), a new table and chairs in the crib and several nice dinners.

I've paid off my credit cards and I'm currently in the process of paying off some more things. At the rate I'm going, I'll be out of debt by December.

The downside to all this was that I gained back the 23 lbs I'd lost. Me and the gym because estranged (I mean, who goes before working a 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. shift?) and my trainer started calling me.

Friends, and this is the hardest part, don't know what's going on with me.

"Are you on the stuff?"

"Where have you been for the last three weeks?"

"I haven't seen you in so long that I forgot what you look like."

"Marrrrrrrrrrrrlooooooooooon!"

It's nice to know that some people care.

Even the blog hasn't been getting it's 5-day-a-week hit like it was used to.

I said I'd get a maid. Then after one full night's sleep, I said I'd do it myself. Then I never got a full night's rest again. Where is her damn card?

But I can't worry about the past. I'm headed to the gym right now. And I can see the floors in the apartment.

And all my friends will be getting phone calls this week.