shadowboxing crackhead

7.08.02

To celebrate Monday, I spent the gift certificate my little brother got me
for my birthday at the 'wrecka stow' up the street.  I bought some
Brazilian: Salome de Bahia’s “Cabaret”, some African: “Retrospective on
Nigeria 70”, and some soul: “Tribe Vibes 3 – 33 original songs sampled by A
Tribe Called Quest”.

It is a blessing and a crime that I have a bar at the end of my block.  So a
chimichanga and a couple of big ass mango margaritas later, I decide to head
home.  I don’t believe in blaming liquor for the dumb things that you do
while drinking, but I’ll be damned if Jose Cuervo didn’t have at least a
little bit to do with me deciding to move my car one block closer to my
house, then locking my keys in the car.

All night I’d been trying to get a hold of my brother, and all night I
failed. Finally, after he got home and I adjusted from sitting on that hard
ass concrete to the comfort of the couch in the living room, he wants to go
and get something to eat. When I was sure that I was finished cussing him
out, we got in his car, and me, Roy Ayers, and everybody who loves the
sunshine went to White Castle to voluntarily destroy our bowels.

When I was a kid, we used to come up to Chicago to visit my grandparents
before they moved down to Mississippi to take their forty acres. The mule
had moved on to bigger and better things though. What I remember is I was
damn sure that somewhere between Springfield and that intersection of 87th
and Martin Luther king, we were going to hit a White Castle. When I would
visit Chicago on my own whenever I had money I’d buy a couple of sliders.
There was this lady that I saw all over the neighborhood, but mostly in the
White Castle parking lot. She lived out of a shopping cart, but I guess all
of the South Side was her living room.

This one particular day, I had enough change for two sliders. Figuring that
I’d get it to go so my clothes wouldn’t smell like I bathed in Crisco, I
headed back to my grandparents. I probably smelled her before I saw her,
hungry and soaked in ammonia. That’s what she smelled like. She looked at my
bag. I looked at my bag. The lyrics to “Mr. Wendell” ran through my head. So
I offered her my fries. I don’t know what kind of gratification I was
looking for, but whatever it was, she didn’t extend it. She snatched my
fries and went back to her urine soaked business and the unaccompanied
conversation that my generosity so rudely interrupted. Maybe it was because
the wind changed. Maybe it was just that I realized that she wouldn’t tell
me she appreciated the fact that I had just given her one third of my meal,
whatever it was, the stench of assisted living facility piss got so strong
that my nose started burning, so I turned up 87th ave and kept moving.

I hate to make light of other folks’ hardships, but last night, we pull into
the white castle parking lot (on the north side), and there he was, a
crackhead doing kung-fu. This poor sonovabith was wearing corduroys and a
winter jacket with his hood up in the middle of July in Chicago. And he was
shadow boxing himself and as soon as I walked out, there he was giving me
the same look that woman gave me when I gave up my fries 12 years ago.

“Damn,” I thought to myself.

I was watching him while I was inside and was thinking to myself “Times must
be getting tough in crackdom.” He looked like he knew what he was doing
though. His technique looked invincible. Or at least, it looked like he was
about as invincible as a tenth degree crack belt is capable of being. I
felt guilty, but a natural reaction was to not give him any money. There
are some people I give change too, others I don't. This guy could've
probably used my fries though because he was burning an awful lot of
carbohydrates on the air.

Then there was a female observer from the crackdom world studying his
ancient crackiestyle. From living in DC, I can say I’ve seen a lot of
crackheads in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pretty crackhead
before last night though, especially not one who was visually both
attractive and addicted at the same time. She had a stack of unopened DVDs
in her hand, "Five dollas, three for ten."

She was pretty though, and she smiled at me as she walked through the door
and I walked towards it. It made me feel kind of uncomfortable. I was still
shocked that she was even possible. I tried to smile back, but it probably
looked as awkward as it felt. I had to laugh though. I’m sure it’s true that
crackheads need love too, but damn. She was a crackhead. And because she was
a crackhead, she was also on a hustle. As I pushed through the double doors,
I heard her running crackie game on the cat behind the counter.

“Um....my purse just got stolen, I was wondering if....”

I was in the parking lot with my brother for a minute. and I told him:

"dog...we just saw a crackhead"

him:"so? look around man...there's probably at least two more in this
parking lot"

me:"yeah...but that one was practicing the mysteries of chessboxin"

and we both laughed and shit.

I couldn’t even laugh at Crackolyn though. Seeing her broke my heart man,
and I don’t even know her. It’s kinda like that feeling you get when you
see someone who is blind and think to yourself, “Man, I couldn’t even
imagine being blind.” And I don’t really think it was because she was
pretty or that she smiled at me. I can't explain it. If I would have
watched my man rock the tae bo any longer, I probably would have been upset
by his ready-for-winter ass too.

~C

CD of the moment: King Britt presents Obafunke

Letters to Celebrities #3

Dearest Nelly,



I’m having a tough time figuring out if your whole persona is another MTV /

media / record company produced image or if you are really that country.



“It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes”



Nelly, if you take a moment to look at the type of issues that are plaguing

the black community these days, pregnancy and sexual diseases, including

AIDS, among black teens is getting out of control.  This is your ‘target

audience’.  I say that lightly because we know around 80% of the people that

buy hip-hop (not sure if you’re included in that or not) are not black.  So

you have a certain responsibility to maintain whether you like it or not.



I was at my family reunion a couple weekends ago and during the “talent

show” portion of the weekend, this cute little 5 year old girl said she

wanted to dance as her talent, so we found her a radio and turned it to the

black station and your song was on.  Don’t you know this little thing was

shaking her ass and rubbing her little barely raised nipples like she was a

little video hoe.  It didn’t help that her mom raised her hand in the air

and said “THAT’S MY CUT!!!” (she was the one with the stretched out Winnie

the Pooh tattoo, wearing dark sunglasses, inside)  Luckily my aunt was near

the radio and cut her short before she took your lyrics to heart.



All I’m trying to say is that if you look at the current status of radio,

community cohesiveness, major label record company business decisions,

Michael Jackson, the obvious stratification of black people into a

marketable product rather than anything having to resemble talent, you will

see that you are a pawn of Clive Davis, Russel Simmons and LA Reidesque

proportions and you and the St. Lunatics should really consider your motives

and reprioritize if you want to have any sort of future career.



Just look at DMX….  *** crickets ***  He will inevitable release an album

this year and it won’t go fool’s gold.  Once you aren’t the ‘now’ thing

anymore, you will be brushed under the table stuck on your knees fighting

for space under some conference table to suck some executive dick.  You

don’t want to go that route, so you need to release a rock album.  Just

completely flip the script on ‘em.  Cater to your ‘majority’ audience, sell

millions and hope the record company doesn’t pull a TLC on you.



Trust me,



-c

what am I?

Work is up in that ass for the past two weeks, but lots has been going on.
My H.S. class reunion happenned two weeks ago, lots of good stories from
that weekend, company picnic, and a 60 hour work week made for an
interesting week. Too many stories to get into quickly, so I decided to
take this opportunity to give a response to a reader I've been meaning to
give for a long time...

"Okay, so I'm listening to my new Raphael Saddiq (sp?) CD "Instant Vintage".
He has a duet with D'Angelo entitle "You Should Be Here". Basically, each
one of them is singing the chick they're digging who isn't giving them
enough attention. There's a line in the hook that goes, "I've got more than
just some good dick and some money."

What!

What do you mean? "More than good dick and some money?! Good dick and
money sounds like nirvana to me. These boys are too sensitive for their own
damn good.

I mean, Curt, really. Do you feel that you are more than some good dick and
some money? Would you actually complain about that?"

Well, I'll let the satisfied customers from my past speak about the good
dick part, but I sure as hell don't have any money. But yes, I feel that I
am more than some good dick and money. Don't forget, I'm a sensitive MF
anyway. And to just want me for my dick and my money would make me feel
sorta shallow and lowly. The problem is, intelligent brothas want a woman
that can meet is on their level mentally, socially, etc... I'm sure there
is lots of good pussy out there, but who has all the other stuff that comes
with it.

If we have those expectations of you, then we would prefer to be with
someone that has the same expectations of us knowhumsayin? If I'm with
someone that doesn't expect me to do anything but fuck her and give her
money, then what is it that would make me make any sort of committment to
you? I could fuck anyone and give her money, but there is nothing tangible
in doing that. So for big ballers like D'Angelo, etc..., they're probably
sick and tired of these ladies that just want the dick and a new coach bag.
After a while that shit gets boring.

I have a mind, I have a heart, I have feelings, I cry, I care, I show my
emotions, I am smart, I am talented. I am more than just dick and money.

(there..................... that should get me some ass.)

-c

CD of the moment: Peace Orchestra - "Reset"