texting with ticole.

first off, i’m alive. hand clap for that. (amen)

life happened. haven’t posted in over a month. but…you’ll still read this so…whatevs.

anywho, just a few minutes ago, i engaged in a lengthy text convo with a good friend of mine, met via Myspace at Cashawn’s house in DC ages ago….TICOLE.

ticole

i don’t know where this dialogue came from, but we tend to go back and forth like this for great lengths of time for no apparent reason. i re-read the convo today and laughed out loud several times. hopefully you find it as interesting and stupid as i do.

note: i am “sammy.”

Hey Sammie.

-Mmmhmm. What u doin?

-Thinkin bout u. When u gone tie me up and put summa dat sweet luvin on me agin?

-After Geraldine cut me loose! I aint no good time charlie! My mammy aint raise no two-timer. Waitcho turn Edwina!

-MMhmm…u aint say dat last night wen u had dat mayonaise spread all n mah crack…sho wont thankin bout dat ol floozy den!

-Nah woman, don’t be givin be da blues. I had me one a dem..change ‘o hearts. Ainna man posta do right by his main hoe?!!?

-Well don’t come scratchin round ma do afta u done got all licka’ed up talkin bout gettin dese good dun debbies!! I’m thru witchu sammie!

-Now Edwina, u and ah both no dat minute i come round with dose red knee-hi tube socks u like, pitchin woo atchu like i do, those hanes gon hit de flo.

-Hmph!  U bess gone and pitch woo to one of them otha skanks! I think I’m gone get back wit Ricky Lee.

-If u go shack up wit dat no count fool Ricky Lee Jones, I’m gonna git back ta hunchin wiff yo cuzin  Claudine. She alwuz knowed how ta luv a man real good. And her catfish and college greens is betta den yo’s is!!

-Now sammie dats a lie an u know it! Aint nobody in da great state of gawguh cookin betta greens than me and i guess you aint heard dat Claudine got dat nasty womyn’s disease. Ol loose self…serves both yall rite!!

-U seem ta think very highly of yoself eva since you did a week at dat ere fancy comunitee college, witcho books and yo MacIntosh compurtas, and learnin and what not. Just a year aga ya wuz sellin used socks ova on Peachtree. Uppity, no college-green cookin nigra!

-U sho aint one ta talk witcho 6th grade diploma sammie ray! My lil boy jimmy dee can read betta den u!

-SIXTH GRADE IS MO FARTHER THAN DEM NIGGERS ON THE MOTHERCOUTRY GIT TO GO!! Shooot, I’m prolly smarter den bout 625 a dem Afreecans put togetha. I gotz life sperience! HMPHF! Don’t be puttin dat lil proud woolly-headed boy a yours on no pedestal. he still shit in his pants…what de fuck do he know!?!

-Now sammie u can call me whateva nasty ol names you can think of but u aint fixin ta be talkin bout mah boy!

-Oh Nah! I’mma say what i wonts! Dat lil shit-pants sumbitch so smart, let him take up fo himself! Who de hell heard of a boy goin past 6th grade?!? Get that bastard out on the field! He can go tend ta Mista Jasper’s mules! Them is good white folks. Don’t spoil that boy with lies bout college…and being RICH…and being PRESIDENT…and all dat otha mess. Think womyn!

-He kin b anything he wonta b and that just happens ta b a manager at Hardees…and it shall, by and by lawd.

then it kinda died out. i don’t know why its so funny, but this time we dug deep and let it ride for a LONG time.

good times.

well, off to dinner with…um…someone from the past. laterz.

~chris.alexander

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the way i see it.

Raphael motherlovin Saadiq is a damn musical genius.

Now, with that out of the way, I can attempt to put into my words my excitement for the man’s newest project. I had the immense pleasure of listening to Raphael Saadiq’s “The Way I See It” today. I wasn’t on top of my game, scooping up the single months in advance, and following his progress up to the release date like years ago when “Ray Ray” dropped. But it didn’t matter; I instantly fell in love with the record on first listen. It was surely worth the wait.

Raphael has invited listeners to witness his love affair with the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s for over a decade, but rather than occasional fliration from albums past, he’s declared his undying devotion, forsaken ALL modern interests and influences and shacked up with the past. The result is a soul-filled collection of songs that will undoubtedly grip even the most skeptic listeners. With most albums, I do my initial listens while trying to tackle the endless demans of everyday life–the album serving as background music. This record demands that you sit the fuck down and get into Mr. Saadiq’s head. And I did just that. As I write this, I’m en route to Virginia, and I’ve had the album on repeat the entire ride. It’s that good.

Now, in order to enjoy this record, one must open their mind to the reception of GOOD music. Think back to before a vocorder and dozens of other creative vocal masks could hide a lack of talent. Go back before producers screamed all over their records. Try to remember the days when the singer’s voice didn’t get lost in or overpowered by flashy production. At times while listening, I thought I was listening to Curtis Mayfield, The Temptations, Stevie, or maybe even Al Green. Saadiq quotes Gladys Knight, Sam Cooke and The Stylistics among his influences and I must say I feel  each of them breath through his music. The Way I See It is the older, more mature, sober brother to Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black (last year’s soulful, pain-filled release from the British songstress, whose style Saadiq reportedly respects and admires).

The record has a rarely encountered level of cohesion that denotes intense inspiration and forethought. For example, one of many stand-out tracks, “Sure Hope You Mean It” clearly draws it’s old-school shuffling rhythms from The Tempations (“Beauty’s Only Skin Deep) and “It’s All Right” by the Impressions. “Let’s Take a Walk” features Saadiq cutting to the chase (“I need some sex/some sex with you”) over a dope ass, bluesy groove that’s part sped-up BB King joint, part Little Stevie Wonder groove. Other favorites: “100 Yard Dash,” “Oh Girl” and “Keep Marchin.” It’s a solid listen from beginning to end; a feel-good classic…instant vintage, if you will. And while his impressive, unique production and writing style have helped dozens of other artists achieve great commercial success (in addition to critical acclaim), this masterpiece will most likely not have the global impact that it should. Many brilliant works never do. Whatever the case, this retro journey through funk and soul deserves several listens and shall surely appeal to the most discriminating old-school head and the new school soul freak. Check him out in a city near you.

…that’s the way I see it.

you and i both know the deal…

last night on SNL’s Weekend Update, Seth Meyers commented on the OJ verdict:

“O.J. Simpson was found guilty on charges of armed robbery, assault, and kidnapping. But really murder.”

i laughed for a solid two minutes.

…and white people everywhere are smiling.

….You, of course, read my blog about my favoritest nigra on earth, Orenthal James “white girl slayer” Simpson. If not, I’ll look the other way as you click here. Well, it appears all the voodoo dolls, rain dancing, prayer, and virgin sacrifices have finally paid off.

OJ was just found guilty of twelve felonies. Twelve. The minimum sentence he faces is 23 years, thanks to the presence of weapons during his brave adventures. Now, add that with his likability factor (0) and multiply the effect of Johnny Cochran’s absence (-62) and it looks like the Caucasian Coochie Smasher is facing 34 life sentences.

Okay, maybe just one. But at any rate, he is definitely fucked. Think of it: every bearded, tattooed white supremacist on D-Block will finally get to split that chunky, murderous booty of his open, Nicole Brown style. Ole!

Before sending the jury away to deliberate, the judge alluded to the possibility of waiting days or weeks for a verdict. After all, a pretty well-known man’s life is in their hands. A wrong decision (in the public eye) and they would be forever linked to this trial as the fuckups who freed OJ. Again. It was reported that Mr. Simpson had that same stupid ass, infuriating cocky grin plastered on his chubby, 61 year old face as the jury received their instructions. Then, he strolled out of court cool as a fan, chatting confidently with reporters about his plans to spend the next few days at a friend’s house while the jury deliberated. Hell, he probably had some pretty young blond thang waiting for him in the back of his SUV.

Surely, his feelings were hurt when he was called back to court thirteen hours later. It took him longer than that to plan the heist of his dusty ass memorabilia last year. Upon re-entry, he mentioned being “apprehensive.”

Then…

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. And….Guilty.

Same for his dickface of a sidekick CJ Stewart.

When the verdict was read, he gave one of those “Aww, shucks” reactions.

Surprised, Orenthal? Did you really think Amerikkka would let that ass walk free? What you don’t realize is that they have been waiting to catch you the first time you ran a red light, littered, or looked hungrily at a nice, white woman.

And they got you. Signed, sealed, and delivered. For life, hopefully. Sentencing is in December. He’s 61. So, with the combined sentences he faces, he is pretty much done. In the mouth. He and CJ get to sit in a cell and blow each other for the next 40 or 50 years while they reflect on better days. He won’t even be seen as the cool, Teflon rebel from 13 years ago to his future cellmates, because at the core, even they probably know he should have become a monk or just quit life while he was ahead. But…the jig is up, sir. Party done.

Today, one of my coworkers jokingly tried to convince me that OJ should be freed.

“I’m about to print up some FREE THE JUICE shirts.”

(Sad face from me)

He then said I’m rejoicing in the misfortune of my people (….but not as eloquently.)

Wrong, sir.

I’m simply pointing out the stupidity of another human. And just because we both:

1. Had ancestors in Africa, and

2. Avoid blackwomanvagina,

doesn’t mean I am to excuse this fool. Wrong is wrong. Guilty is guilty, whether black, white, gay, straight, fine, hideous, or Ashanti–a fool is a fool. The same group crying out for America to cut OJ some slack are the same jerks who pity Michael Vick, support and root for Rapist Robert Kelly, think Mariah Carey still makes good music, and actually supported Al Sharpton’s presidential bid. Losers.

(climbs down from soapbox)

exhale.

i’m not some crazed negro-hating dude (as someone “jokingly” called me earlier), but i have grown tired of those who feel obligated to support the brother just because he is a brother. same for those who are voting for Obama JUST because he’s black (and NOT because his opponent is on social security and the next in line can probably name more hockey teams than she could former presidents). we throw stones at white serial killers (because…you know…we don’t do that) who sit on Oprah’s couch, but we watch Rapist Robert Kelly piss on kids then go buy his CD’s “because he makes good music.” where’s the logic?

wrong is wrong is wrong.

so….in closing…(cue superhero music) I call on my competent, brilliant, self-respecting readers to proudly punch the next person to speak out in defense of OJ, Mike Vick, or R. Kelly (or…Mariah Carey) in the top of their head. and repeat these words, “fuck.you.in.the.mouth.” don’t get mad, though. it’s a lost cause. it is an unfortunate truth that you can’t fix stupid, but, goddammit, you can shut it the fuck up for a few minutes.

thank you and goodnight.

~chris.alexander

next time you decide to stare at a crazy person…

…be cautious. She just may stare back.

Today, while journeying on the 4 train deep into the jungle of Brooklyn (drowning the world out with Jazmine Sullivan in my ears) a girl gets up from in front of me and moves down to my right. I noticed all heads turn toward the end of the subway car.

I removed my headphones.

“….so I figured I would move down here so you could get a closer look.”

Oh hell.

Apparently, homegirl did not enjoy the attention and judgemental glances from the Celie lookalike across from her.

“…I’m sayin! Do we know eachuva!? Did we grow up togeva!? Why you starin at me like dat, son?”

Note: Here in New York, even girls commonly refer to one another as “son”. I’ve even seen hood dudes greet hood dudettes with, “Yo, son…” I just find that interesting. Anywho…

“You like what you see, dontchu!? Damn!! Even after I did mah nine hours on wall street I can still get attention from raggedy broads like you.”

…And….silence from the other, dumbfounded girl who was probably commenting (to herself, of course) on how crazy this broad looked (muffintop, anyone?). I sensed that they were silently in the midst of a “most inappropriately-sized shirt” competition unbeknownst to me. It was safe to say the mute chick looked just as crazy as Motormouth Maybelle across the way, but, sadly for her, wasn’t as confrontational.

Mind you I was on the 4 train heading to Crown Heights, so of course these weren’t regular ass clashing black girls. These were two Brooklyn BajanJamaicaTriniHatian girls. So…at any moment either of them could have pulled out a shank made from a sharpened curry chicken bone and nobody would have blinked twice.

Mute chick tried to give off the “Girl, I’m SO unaffected by you” vibe, but failed. She began to glisten with sweat. Kept opening her mouth to speak but would always wave her hand as if to say, “You ain’t even worth it.”

But she remained silent. But now with a stupid ass grin that said, “I’m a little nervous and don’t know what to do.”

Motormouth kept talking: “I mean…I NEVA got dat kinda attention from a female. What you want from me?!” and so on. And so on and so on.

She kept talking about how surprised she was by the attention even after the Celie lookalike got up and exited the train.

“Hey miss….”

A woman looks up at her.

“Did you see that!?!? I NEVA got that kinda attention from a woman befo. Oh mah god! Even after a nine hour shift! ”

Then…a guy she was riding with said, “it wasn’t even really that deep. Shut the fuck up.”

And she did.

“I’m sayin, it was rude….Dass all.”

And that was the end of that.

colored boy fool of the day.

the world knows my feelings on colored girls and their hair choices…..

literally 15 minutes ago on Court Street in Brooklyn:

1. homegirl was about the same color as the brother to her right.

2. she had the longest eye lashes ever in life.

3. from the side, you can see at least 2-3 inches of her natural black hair in front of the wig.

ahh yes. THIS is the amazing black woman that my coworker attempted to convince me i’m missing out on. makes perfect sense, now.

that’s somebody’s dad.

yesterday on the way home from work, I saw a forty-something man “crankin dat soulja boy” on the train platform as a group of colorfully dressed “cool kids” laughed. the man wore a pair of “Grant Hills”, made by Fila after Grant’s success with the 1996 Olympic Dream Team. in 2008.

the same pair I outgrew in the sixth grade. In 1996. i don’t think he was homeless. just stupid.

Anyway, it made me sad.

For him.

The end.