Skeletons in my closet

The silent running dialogue that I often have with myself.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Excuse Me While I Bleed!

Excuse me while I bleed.

History is so kind. History is a great spin-doctor. History, understandingly, looks at the end result and not the turmoil that proceeded.

History polishes.
History spit shines.
History glosses.

Everyday, history continues in around and amongst us. But why do we not recognize? Why do we not see our actions and/or inactions as the history that they will become? Butterfly effect…

How many people die at the hands of man? How many people die because of the inaction of man?

How many lives are changed by simple nominal acts? Ask yourself that question.

Rwanda…

Excuse me while I bleed!

Darfur

Excuse me while I bleed!

Niger

Excuse me while I bleed!

Brazil

SideNote:
Yes, even in a Mecca of lust, and excess, the majority of the population is gutter poor. Children live on the streets, form gangs to survive, not just to be cool, but to eat, not just to organize the sale of drugs, to live.

Excuse while I bleed!

Aids a world epidemic!
Famine all across Africa!
Haiti
Wars, warlords, terrorism, Patriot Act...
Pollution

We need to do something. We have to act. In some way we have got to do something.

Millions were raised for persons that were the victims of an act of nature. Good deed job well done.

Lets do more. We can’t just let people die. We can’t just let people suffer.

I cry!

I don’t cry in sorrow.
I am not helpless.
I cry for anger and rage.
I cry for my failure to recognize the history that I live.
I cry because so many are hopeless.

I cry and my tears blend with my blood as I bleed. Excuse me.

I wont get into the history of it all not today. I will not discuss the role of Europe and their destruction of the world.

I will not mention the evil motives; that invented racism, which invented disparity among races themselves.

White Mans burden, has been Brown mans Curse.

We have to do something! Give me something. Give me Ideas. I have some, but I want to hear from you! This blog shyte is worldwide. What can we do?

Yesterday Correction

The line is: "Your hair is so nappy, it looks like ants on salt meat."

Thursday, July 21, 2005

All GIRLS HAVE SUPER POWERS

All Little Girls have super powers!

Had to admit I loved reading a nice story by Gunner, not much of a techie so excuse me if I fail to post it all nice and smooth.

A simple link will have to do http://chasingbasquiat.blogspot.com/!

Now this forced me to relive several moments in my mind that easily support my theory that all little girls have super powers.

My sister was easily the favorite. She was never far from being perfect if she was not perfect in fact. She was always diligent, thoughtful, and attentive to whatever my moms and pops were about at the moment. SHE COULD DO NO WRONG!

SideNote: My sister and I had a great relationship until she turned into a girl around 12, and then we didn’t get along for our remaining high school years. She is a little older than I, and she was much more aware so to speak. She never hesitated to point out my errors and her triumphs. Fast forward to the now, we are really good friends again. Funny how life works. Sometimes you got to grow apart to grow together.

Now, back when we were kids two random cultural events coincided to eventually bring about my sisters necessity to use her super powers.
Carpooling &
The Dozens!

Now for those of you who do not know at a couple of points back in USA history we had these oil shortages; some company getting rich, why are we still driving gas guzzlers, moments. So people carpooled. In the somewhat rural south, everyone owns a car. It is the chief mode of transportation. We don’t have subways in my city, and mass transit busses are a joke. So everyone has a car. Well to save money, environment, and time, my family along with several other families formed car pools.

Now carpools are a jungle, true Darwinism at play. The strong survive. The strong make it to the front passenger seat. The strong get to choose the radio stations. The strong get to bring tapes they made at home and play them all the way home.

My sister was the strong. I was the heir to the throne. She won hers with civility, manners, and batting of eyelashes. I earned mine through backseat confrontations, wrestling and the dozens.

Now for those of you who don’t know dozens, dragging, fronting, driving, are all Ebonics for talking about someone. Not just “ya momma” jokes, these drives always contained enough truth to be far more damaging than just jokes. It wasn’t a good drive if at the end someone didn’t have his or her feelings hurt or a fight didn’t break out.

Now when it comes to driving, I was good. I could take a lot of punishment and wait. Cause all it would take is one zinger.

One “Your so nappy it look like ants on salt meat!”

One “Your breath smell like ass pops”

SideNote: Man that was hard to pull some of them out, anybody remember any good ones

If you got one in, it would cause so much laughter that your opponent feared to come back, and usually countered with a f*ck you.

Well, as it happened one day my sister, occupying her lofty front seat perch decided she would interact with the dregs in the back. I was in my usual role being challenged by some upstart, defending my flank, fretting all attempts to overtake me. My lovely sister interjected at the most inopportune moment. She sides against me! She tries to drive her own brother.

“Well at least he took a bath last night unlike some people I know!” She chimed in excessive exuberance.

SideNote: For some reason her exact statement fails me upon recollection. I am not sure if that was the exact quality of the comment. Whatever it was I do remember that the drive was weak, but it was enough. It was a superior party trampling over a peon. All of the climbing and fighting I had done would be lost by her one statement.

I could hear the low murmur of laughter as it built its strength and courage to project itself. I watched as my subjects whom I lorded over with a righteous hand suffered in holding back their laughter. My sister had betrayed me, et tu Brutus, et tu…..

I had but one moment. I had but one chance to save my kingdom. I had to strike.

“Well, So…” I started off unsure. What were my chances of success, could I do it?

“Well, so…even after you bathe you still have black rings on your butt” It was the dagger for which I searched. I cut to the meat of her soul.

SideNote:
For those of you who don’t know, some women have a slight discoloration right underneath the buttock. Under each cheek. I say some because I don’t want to say all. Light skin women have it also. I even think the few other ethnic groups I have dealt with have some version of this booty patch. It is caused by friction, and other natural phenomenon, I am sure the answer guys on “Myth Busters” have some theories.

At any rate, she opened herself up and I got her. I got her good. She shrunk down in her thrown almost as if she knew her reign was over. I smiled with victory. Eagerly awaiting my throne. I was king of the car now…the queen is dead.

We pull in my driveway. My sister scuttles out, and heads straight in. I laugh and enjoy the cheers from my adoring public. I promise them more tomorrow, but know I must leave them. I enter through the back door; we were latch key kids after all. As I turn the corner next to the refrigerator, I hear the swoosh. I turn just in time to see my sister swinging a broom handle towards my head. Her stance was perfect, she was the mighty Kacy, it was a Sosa, Bonds, and McGuire, home run all rolled into one.

I tried to duck. To late. CRACK!!!! I am hurt and dizzy all at once. The true queen had risen to take back her thrown in the private halls of the Castle. She stood over me as I lay there with her fist balled, and lip snarled.

She proclaimed, ”You will never talk about me like that again!”

I wiped the blood and tears from my eyes. She had hurt me, but I was not wounded. I would survive, and vengeance was mine. She recoils realizing that I am not staying down. I jumped up, as she retreated. She runs for the inner fortress (her room), I am right behind her. Yards turn to feet, feet turn to inches, inches later I have her in my grasp. I spin her around, she really still looks angry. I pull back and “KaPow” punch my sister in the stomach. She falls to the ground in tears, crawling to her room. I stand over her happy to have my revenge.

Then she says, “Ima tell daddy on you!”

I fall to my knees, still bloody, still dizzy. I fear the reprisal.

My dad gets home at 6:30pm.

I hide in my room.

My dad places his keys on the kitchen table.

I hide in my room.

My sister runs to report my act of aggression.

I hide and try to make my small head wound worse. Damn my mother for her EMS like training at healing wounds.

My dad voice rumbles as he calls me.

I hide in my room.

The door opens to my room. DANG! Don’t he see this head wound. Don’t he see this blood. Don’t he see she started it first. Don’t he see her standing in the door with a menacing look of glee.

SideNote:
My dad almost broke my spirit with that beating. I ran into belt straps, I jumped into open handed slaps, I even think I dived into a fist in the chest.

Well let’s give you a little dénouement.

She kept the front seat. She remained the queen.

I never hit a girl again in my life. Not even “Baby Momma”!!!

I understood then that girls have super powers. My sister had a mind trap on my dad stronger than the force field by Jean Grey, or Sue Richards. She was the tempest of Storm. She could control the actions of us mere mortals.

My daughter has that same super power on me.

More on that later.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Where we all begin

I read a post yesterday that was sad and funny at the same time.

I wont put a link or even name its whereabouts because, like racism thoughts of this nature should fall into the dark abyss of a time long forgotten.

The topic in a nut shell was “Can men and women be friends?”.

This article, to paraphrase, suggests that women and men cannot be friends. Men are only ever out for one thing, from the beginning, ASS!

After some investigating I discovered that a man wrote this drivel. Some brother decided that he was going to lay the tell all end all on what we think and how we act.

First let me just say that the thought of men being dogs is so unoriginal and clichéd it is past giving it recognition.

B. Men are different at different points in their lives. (uh, just like everyone else)

III. If you women really think that it is always about your sex, well let me just tell you as good as pussy is… Okay pussy is good. But it serves as all mans beginning and never the end.

SideNote: Ha, that was funny but true. Holler if you get it!

Back to the point. I have friends that are girls. I have worked with them, chilled, and had drinks with them. I have even dated their friends, cousins, aunts, and sisters. I have never had some diabolical underhanded plan to conquer or subdue all these women. With all the shyte I have to think about and do doing the day, I can’t possible be that occupied with sleeping with every attractive woman I meet. Oh, and let me add that most of these women are attractive, very.

So women still believe that their pussies define US.
WAKE UP!!!!! Please.

Women are imbued with so much natural power, strength, and intelligence, I laugh when I hear someone degrade themselves by saying all men want is pussy. That is exactly how I view it. You are degrading yourself. You suggest that what god gave you, that which makes you woman, is the sole thing of interest some lame ass dude happened upon. And the only reason this same lame ass dude left happens to coincide with you giving up the ass.

If you got issues with that little thing, don’t give it away.

In my life experience I learned that not wanting pussy usually brought it to your doorstep, in droves. Of course all these women believed that pussy was the solution to everyman’s problems. They figured that once this nigga get a taste of this here, he goin want me for his ol lady.

Sorry I am a little more complicated than that. Oh, but thanks for the piece of pussy. Holler!!!

Oh, but women don’t chase men.

SideNote: Not only did the blog suggest that men only want pussy, it later suggest that women do not chase men, that’s why women can be friends with men. The more I think about the dude that wrote this foolishness had to either be a chic masquerading, or a 18 year boy who had just gotten his first piece of that Juicy.

I have to suggest that women chase men and relationships just has hard if not harder than men chase pussy.

I hate to say it but women have only wanted me for what I have to offer:
Friendship
Laughter
Charm
Sex
Intellect
Wisdom
And the list goes on and on…….

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Points on being Pointless

Anyway, I am trying to get back on a regular schedule for writing. My life has been so about me lately, that I haven’t had a chance to peek above the ongoing fray.

Right now I am trying to understand the point of doing pointless things. It appears that pointless things only serve to frustrate, alienate, and further exacerbate a tense situation.

My ex-wife, more properly my “BABY MOMMA”, has always been my only source of drama in my life.

Before Her (BH), I was drama free.
During Her (DH), I was drama.
Post Her (PH), I am drama free except for the portions she manages to inject into my life.

Let me try to give you an example.

My wife looks upset or uneasy.

BH: ”Well I am out, headed to Hooters, or the club, be back.”

DH: “WHAT THE F*CK IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!! I AM OUT!!!!

PH: (also new wife) Well, I was going out, but you are not telling me
something. Get dressed and let’s go get a meal and some drinks and
talk about whatever?

My job is giving me the blues

BH: “Well I am out, taking a sick day. Headed to Hooters, or the club,
holler.”

DH: “MAN FUCK THIS SHIT, I AM OUT! BASTARD ASS MUTHER
F*CKERS

PH: “Well, I have other offers on the table, and this job seems to not
fit with my career goals, so…I am offering my two week notice.

Yeah, I have read a lot of women’s post concerning being a single parent baby mother, yadda yadda yadda. I have never felt the same as most baby mothers, even though we share the same distinction as single parents. I can’t even relate to the lives yall profess to live. I have been talking care of my daughter for most of my adult life. She is 11, I am 32. Why, How am I different? I am not; I just act different.

Case in point.

My “Baby Momma” decides last week to start raising all kinda hell with me. She calls me out of the blue; says “I want to pick up Chelsea from Camp!”

Cool, Its Thursday, she will be by my mother’s house after camp.

Oh, its on, I get days off. I get some me time. Oops, almost forgot about wifey. I get some WE time.

Weekend comes and goes I don’t get a call, which is strange.

SideNote: My daughter calls me everyday when she is not with me. She calls to tell me hello, what she is watching on TV, to inquire about my activities, and to tell me when she is bored.

I call “Baby Momma”, and get the ole phone disconnect. I try the cell, and I get voice mail. Okay, its getting late, maybe she will drop baby girl off. I call again until well past 9o’clock. No answer.

Phone rings at 10:10. Its baby girl, telling me to come pick her up. I tell her politely to put “Baby Momma” on the phone.

ME (PH mode):“Say uh, “Baby Momma”, I cant just pick up, go, leave, and return at a whim, it is far to late for baby girl to be out, and I am getting ready to lay it down myself.(Mondays are my hardest days)”

“Baby Momma”: Well, I been meaning to tell you this anyway. I want baby girl to live with me now.”

My jaw hit the floor. My heart raced wildly. Damn, damn, damn, what to do? Baby girl was already over there, so I better be cool.

ME (Slowly switching to DH mode): Well, we will sit down and discuss this. Its late now, and Baby girl needs her sleep. Meet me at your mom’s house.

“Baby Momma”: Well, I have pretty much decided. You knew that the living arrangements weren’t permanent. So she needs me now, she is becoming a little lady, and she needs her mother.

ME (slowly switching to DH mode): Well, look let’s talk; I can give ya more time, Maybe Friday through Monday. But lets not discuss this tonight. It’s late and I don’t want Baby Girl up to late, she has camp in the morning.

“Baby Momma”: Nah, I have pretty much made up my mind, this is how it is going to be.

ME (Switched to full blown DH mode) What the *$%##$@$%, you %#@#%, cant just come up and decide that this is what you want to do. Are you out of your %^#$# mind………………..

I went on and on and on. Back in fourth, Ya boy had a melt down.

SideNote:
My Baby Momma, is 29. She now has 2 other little girls, from different fathers. She is currently living with some dude. Not judging her for judging sacks, just trying to determine the best mode for my daughter. Besides, I have lived with her before. I was married to her before. I know what she is capable of. I feel akin to every person who innocently entered something only to realize that there was an entrance and no exit. Now you are trapped, in a bizarre, tortured, fractured mind state. I am not going to say my BABY MOMMA is crazy. I will give you a diagnosis. Paranoid psychosis, psychasthenia, schizophrenia, with delusion tendencies.
Plus she is an habitual liar.

Sorry, not trying to make her sound bad. But she has been bad for me, and my daughter. No doubt about that statement. I meant this as an objective overview of a situation/problem. It is not meant to be a one-sided onslaught. I still have anger about this whole issue.

I managed to convince her to bring me baby girl because of camp, and a previously arranged slumber/birthday party.

Then "Baby Momma" has nerve enough to tell my daughter to ask me if it was okay to attend her birthday celebration, scheduled at my house.

Of course I said it was okay. Never seem like you are the unreasonable one in your child’s eye.

And she came!!!!! Acting as if nothing was wrong.

SideNote:
Even my Mom said she had Brass Balls
.

So why, why I ask you, why create this drama? Why foul my mood? Why send this fractured tenable relationship into a tailspin.

For jollies, for a baby sitter, (the basic reason most family and friends feel caused this latest episode), out of Spite, or because you are crazy!

I am trying to understand the point of doing pointless things.
Pray for me! My battle has not ended.