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I suppose I better get back into the swing of things before my last entry is forwarded to Dr. Phil or worse, Juanita Bynum.

I’ve never been big on Halloween. When I was six, I dressed up like whatever the blue one’s name was from Tiny Toon Adventures. After that, the folk just bought candy and I cleaned up at school. I’ve never been a big candy eater and real life is scarier than any costume or horror film themed around Halloween (including the Saw series). But, keeping with the theme of the day, here is a list of all that is spooky.

1. Watching Star and Al have sex.

2. Being Tocarra’s personal assistant.

3. Pepa’s new nose.

4. The last season of Nip/Tuck.

5. Becoming Tom Cruise’s latest prop to push the heterosexual image. Hi, Katie.

6. Being Britney Spears’ son.

7. Being Britney Spears’ anything.

8. Mya’s career.

9. Informing J.Lo that her would be Oscar contender, Bordertown, is heading straight to video.

10. Kelly Rowland’s backbone.

11. The sick freak that had sex with a dead corpse.

12. The horror movie starring Omarion and Marques Houston.

13. Hip Hop Harry.

14. Being a part of Keyshia Cole’s family.

15. Being on Murder Inc’s roster.

16. Nicole Schwhatshername’s solo career.

17. Radio.

18. The idea of even more reality TV shows.

19. Fergie’s face before Adobe works its magic. (Sorry Fergie Ferg, but meth bitch slapped you something terrible)

20. The boy who started the fires in So.Cal.

21. T.I.’s fate.

22. B.G.’s rap career.

23. Suge Knight.

24. The workload of Flavor Flav’s dentist.

25. Jessica Alba’s film career.

26. A Giuliani administration.

27. Becoming Michael Jackson’s accountant.

28. Working as Lauren London’s acting coach.

29. The mind of George Bush.

30. Pissing off Monica.

31. Karrine Steffans’ gynecologist.

32. The Houston Texans’ record.

33. Riding shotgun with Brandy.

34. Beyonce’s speech coach.

35. Pimp C when he’s high.


“Thriller” may have scared me as a toddler, but the video for “Blood on the Dance Floor” is far scarier.

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Though I’ve done it in the past, I’ve shied away from divulging intricate details of my personal life. For one, you probably don’t care, and two, I’m pretty private, so I’m usually saying everything pretty vaguely anyway.

This, however, is something I don’t mind sharing.

The beautiful woman in the picture is my grandmother, who passed away on October 20. Or as my mother wrote on her calendar, went home to God. Every time I read that, it makes me sad. Not because God took her home, it’s just the way in which she was delivered.

She died painfully, and I don’t think I will ever get over the fact that I had to wear gloves the last time I held her hand. Why? Well, doctors still can’t exactly pinpoint what she had, but let me just say, my disdain for chemical plants has increased.

She died one day removed from what would have been six months to the day her husband and my grandfather died.

I intended to post on my accomplishment – graduating from Howard University – back in May, but my heart wasn’t in it given he died two weeks before I graduated. I left my graduation invitation in his casket, and I saw him two months prior, and I had an idea it was happening, but y’know, it’s different when it finally does. I knew he was proud of me. I guess that’s all that matters.

He died quietly, a luxury not afforded to his lovely bride. She couldn’t speak for months, for the most part, but I could look in her eyes and see nothing but despair and pain. It’s a sight I will never forget. I also won’t forget how she looked: Nothing like the funny, confident, beautiful woman I had come to know and love. Her casket had to be closed because of that.

I guess what bothers me even more is, like my grandfather, I wasn’t there to give a formal goodbye. Formalities are important to me. It may not be everyone’s thing, but I like to do things in my own way. I guess most people don’t get the opportunity to say goodbye the way they would like to, though.

Anyway, I was in D.C., enjoying then not enjoying my first homecoming as a Howard alumnus. She died that Saturday, and I hate that I didn’t get insurance on anything I booked, because I should have canceled everything and stayed home. I didn’t even have fun the day she died because of that news and other reasons.

Though I’m sure it doesn’t bother her that I was away, it bothers me because I had been trying to see her before she passed. I knew what was coming, but I wanted at least one more opportunity to hold her hand, look her in her eye, tell her that I loved her, and that she was [still] the most beautiful girl in the room.

Between that, and other things going on, I’ve had better days. I’ve purposely tried to not let any of that reflect on the blog. Being funny has always been a good way to cope for me; it’s how we were brought up. Most of the grandchildren even joked at the funeral between our tears. But, I wanted to take a break from that and use this space – my space – to share that my grandparents meant a lot to me, and between their deaths and my disappointments stemming from other events and people, I’m not feeling my best.

I’ve been pretty quiet lately; very few people have been able to get in touch with me. I’m happy that they’re together again. If you’re wondering, I don’t really need any words of encouragement. I will be fine, but I believe people have a right to be sad sometimes.

There’s really no point to this entry other than using it as a medium to vent my grief and frustration. May they rest in peace, and may things get better for all who suffer — no matter what form the pain comes in.

By the way, if you enjoy the blog, partially thank her. She always said what was on her mind. I’m glad that’s one quality that was passed down.

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A little over a year and a half ago, I wrote a blog entry about me taking a weight training class. I had hoped that class would help me maintain my slim and sessy. No, my fingers don’t have a lisp, and yes, I realize sessy is not a word — but I like the way it sounds. Feel free to add it to your daily vocabulary.

Anyhow, that class didn’t work in my favor, mainly because the teacher hated me. Ok, so maybe punctuality wasn’t my strong suit for that class, but there was a ten minute grace period — although he conveniently had a clock that was fast and I always magically managed to arrive the second he decided it was time to lock the doors. Never mind mid-way that semester he decided to not enforce the rule. I don’t know why he didn’t like me. I suppose wearing that Beyonce tour shirt didn’t help. Well I wore a Prince one, too!

So, my goal to add one muscle (I had very low expectations at the time: I felt it was best to work my way to several muscles gradually) fell through.

I opted for running this year. It has helped with stress, given me the feeling that I’m taking better care of my health (I’ve given into that eat healthier mantra, too), and thanks to my brother, I felt somewhat less afraid of a possible arrest (he told me I run fast enough to outrun the po po’s).

Unlike Mo’Nique, I don’t adhere to the adage that skinny bitches are evil. Heart attacks, diabetes, and high cholesterol aren’t sessy. She’s cool, but hey, I’m not messing with her cookbook. I know a stroke on paper when I see it. Plus, I used to be fat, and yeah, I tend to get paranoid about becoming a Klump again.

So, to continue to fight off my paranoia (or let it consume me, take your pick), I’ve joined a gym. I started today. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, so today was the perfect today to kick off my goal to add three muscles. See: I’m already aiming higher.

Thanks to that weight training class, I already had an idea of what machines to not go near. One bad experience is all it takes. I did make the mistake on a few machines today. I stood there looking confused — like I see the visual on the machine, but it’s not connecting. I took it as a sign…that I’m sometimes too pitiful to ask for help. There’s always tomorrow.

I’m not shooting to be swole. No offense to my larger than life friends. I’m sure it looks good on you. I see Melly Mel won’t let it go even at the age of 109 (or probably 40-something, but same difference), so it’s obvious it’s great for some people. Not me, though. I like to be lean, only more toned, and a bit muscular. When someone asks me to lift something, I still want to say no, but I want to know inside that I could lift it if I really wanted to.

Wish me luck. Oh yeah, if you’re wondering if I’m going to flake, fret not because it ain’t happening. I already had to pay first and last month’s fees. I will get results since my bank account already has.

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When I was about five, I was at a daycare center called LaPetit Academy. Don’t let the name fool you: The location I went to was up the street, still in the hood, so bad ass kids ran amok. Some of them were haters too. Not everyone appreciated appreciate my dental game back then. At the time my head and the rest of my body hadn’t quite caught up with my two front teeth yet, so some kids trying to crack on me, told me that I looked like the cartoon character, Bucky O’Hare. Haters. I can’t repeat what I said to them…mostly because I can’t remember. I’m sure I flipped them off or repeated some words I heard from the folks standing out in front of my house. I’ve always had a mouth.

Anyway, ever since the Bucky O’Hare incident, I’ve always likened people to cartoon characters. Don’t ask why. I just do. So, while you may call me crazy, below is a set list of observations I’ve made over the years.













If you’re wondering, Ne-Yo is Leonardo, Mike Jones is Michaelangelo, and Tameka’s bitch is Raphael.

Right now either you’re laughing or you’re thinking I’m a bit of a loonboon. But, if you read this blog regularly, you probably have your suspicions about me anyway. So c’mon nah, tell me you can’t see a resemblance in some of these pictures.

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As you know, gay people are on the warpath in an attempt to interject the homosexual lifestyle into every facet of American society. The gays have been known to do this in the sneakiest of ways: introducing gay characters as normal, average people in various forms of media and entertainment instead of the emotionally disturbed, God-less, society-destroying forces of darkness common sense (in the way of bigotry) dictates gay people be depicted as.

Of course, crusaders like the late Jerry Falwell would not stand for this, calling out the gay agenda even in it’s mildest forms of presentation. Like the sinister gay crusader, Tinky Winky of the Telebubbies. Falwell called out that purse wearing ferry for what he was. Very few people cared, but that doesn’t matter. He spoke his mind freely, no matter how ridiculous he sounded.

Though Falwell has passed on (and likely now shares an apartment with Bert and Ernie), his legacy of pointless debates over whether or not characters popular among children should ever reflect the diverse nation we live in lives on. Now we have individuals like Robert Knight who fight the good fight. This time the dreaded gay menace that advocates tolerance is the Harry Potter series character, Dumbeldore.

As you see in the video, Knight criticizes Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling for outing Dumbeldore, saying her revelation makes it hard for parents not comfortable discussing gay people with their children. Like Santa, it’s best to let your children live in fantasy. Santa is real, gay people aren’t.

Knight tells Dan Abram: “The game plan is to interject homosexuality into kids books, school curricula, every possible part of the conversation.”

The horror. That’s scarier than the witchcraft themes in the book.

So why shouldn’t kids know about homos? Well, like Knight says, sexually confused boys will look at this and say, “Hey, I should try it!,” where they will end up getting STDs and all sorts of emotional problems. Like Knight says: “This is not a happy lifestyle.”

Straight people don’t get diseases, and it’s obvious heterosexuality is an automatic guarantee for happiness. Just look at the incredibly low divorce rates in this country.

And so much for the word gay meaning happy. Maybe all this time they meant temporary happiness stemming from drug abuse.

If you’re going after Harry Potter, why not go on and get all the other gay characters out there soiling the minds of children. Like Big Bird, Bert and Ernie, Smithers, and Droopy.

Now that I think about it, Scooby Doo and Shaggy always seemed to be a bit too close for comfort. Maybe between Fred and Barney, we should change the name of the Flintstones to Stoneage Mountain.

Stop the madness.

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Ladies. Fashion sense. Leave it home.

I may not work for E! or the Style network, but I know wrong when I see it. This is partially the reason why I have an issue with 80s fashion returning: some people seem to get besides themselves.

Kelly’s been digging through Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation era-closet. That or the 80s decided to throw up on her. Whatever the case, somewhere Eartha Kitt is smiling.

Wait. Let me think of one nice thing to say before I continue: If anyone has the body to wear an all spandex cat suit, it’s Kelly Rowland. Meow late night trips to Popeyes with sister (in Christ, and possibly Mathew Knowles) Beyonce survivor. Meow.

Good. We’ve gotten that out of the way.

Check out all the people taking pictures. I guess I would be snapping pictures, too, if I went to a concert and discovered Catwoman got a record deal.

Obviously hungry…or possibly having a heart attack.

Looks like someone checked the latest Soundscan figures for Ms. Kelly before they hit the stage. That’s what happens when you make videos that look like malt liquor commercials.

Her boots remind of Mardi Gras.

She may look the fool, but if she’s happy, so be it.

So how many women are ready to take a dip in this time machine?

Ok, let me stop pretending now.

In other Kelly Rowland news:

Here she is in London promoting the release of the Sims 2 video game. She can promote a game, but not her album. This is why she’s about one flop away from opening for LeToya Luckett.

C’mon nah, Kelly. You can do better.

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Is it tacky to beg for help? If so, it doesn’t really matter: I have no shame.

I’m extremely thankful to every person that has added me to their blog roll, linked one of my entries on their pages, or on their own initiative, passed my blog around to people they know. The positive feedback actually means a lot.

Still, like most attention whores who want their voices to reach as many people as possible, I’m hoping to get more notice for my little online space.

So, with that being said, if you could please, just take my link, send it around, I’d greatly appreciate it.

I don’t want to end up on the hoe stroll. That whole hustling thing doesn’t sound all too appealing – y’know, with the fear of being caught and locked up and all. I’m not T.I., so I won’t have the luxury of having protection in prison.

And I really don’t want to be like the neighborhood crack head or possible schizophrenic, Major, who I always see having an intense argument with himself whenever I ride by. That or he’s asking everyone at the corner store to buy him a beer, then proceeds to curse people out if they decline.

Anyway, help the cause, please! I’ve included sad images as motivation tactic.


Wait, what about this?

Remember when Ashanti tried to dance? What could be sadder than that? Probably Ashanti’s first expression after getting the first week sales of her next album, but you see where I’m going with this.

Go 25 seconds into the video. I think that’s the saddest thing I’ve seen all day. Ok, that was mean. She actually looks happy. But did it make you laugh? That has to count for something, right?

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It’s been four years since the release of In The Zone, and between that time not only has Britney Spears become a shell of her former self, her path towards becoming a paler Janet or would be sequel to Madonna has seemingly hit a dead end.

Now known more for being a staple of the paparazzi, a fast food junkie, an irresponsible driver, and an even more irresponsible mother, it’s hard to remember Britney Spears the entertainer: the carefully choreographed, perfectly produced, one woman tour de force that used her Lolita-inspired sexual tease on America to ascend up the pop cultural hierarchy.

Britney Spears hasn’t helped on that front – failing miserably at every attempt to duplicate past successes. This includes the much talked about performance at this year’s VMAs, where an unenthused, out of shape Spears walked across the stage for four minutes — appearing almost as confused as the rest of us who watched on in disbelief. Then there’s the video for the ridiculously catchy first single from her new album, Blackout, “Gimmie More,” in which Britney forgoes exuding the enticing sensuality she’s become known for – and which the song practically begs her to deliver – in favor of looking like a jilted stripper past her prime.

From all of this you would expect the album to be as sloppy, uninspired, and all over the place as the artist behind it. Thankfully, that’s not the case. Blackout is by far one of the best pop albums to come out in a long time — and arguably the best album of Britney’s career.

In many ways, Blackout comes across as this decade’s answer to Madonna’s Erotica (or as close as anyone has gotten thus far), and with the production of Timbaland protégé, Danja, who helms five of the albums tracks, the album plays off the theme of FutureSexLoveSounds a lot more cohesively than ex-boyfriend Justin Timberlake’s own offering.

On the dance friendly and sexually charged Blackout, Britney sounds confident, secure, and in control – a stark contrast to the Britney we’ve come to see spotlighted every single day in tabloids and gossip blogs. Much of that has to do with her team of hit writers and producers, including Danja, Bloodshy & Avant, The Neptunes, The Clutch, Keri Hilson, Sean Garrett, T-Pain, among others who all assist in guising her flaws.

Don’t forget to give Britney some credit, however. Never known for her vocal strength, she has mastered the art of getting by on sexual coos and whispers over slick production versus any display of vocal gymnastics.

Furthermore, in a world of pop music where it’s easy to be hear today and gone tomorrow, it says a lot that despite all of her troubles and despite not having a hit in years, producers still flock to Britney.

Tracks like “Get Naked (I Got A Plan)” and “Freakshow,” with their erotic overtones and dance-inducing production value, push the envelop even further than Britney did on In The Zone.

The infectious “Radar” and the sing-a-long friendly, “Hot As Ice,” offer Britney’s label two obvious choices to push her back to her status as a mainstay on pop radio.

“Toy Soldier,” produced by the Swedish production team of Bloodshy & Avant, is as strange as it is wonderful. The song is futuristic pop at its finest.

As you would expect, there are some allusions to her current troubles. They include the Pharrell penned and produced, “Why Should I Be Sad?” The song could easily be called, “Dear Kevin.” And there’s the second single, “Piece Of Me,” where the defiant self-professed ‘bad media karma’ Britney is unapologetic to every single one of her criticizers. “Piece of Me” is catchy enough to where you almost want to forget that she’s responsible for many of her own troubles.

Speculation over whether or not Britney can still deliver musically can now end. She may need judge-ordered parenting classes to teach her the fundamentals of child rearing, but she’s still adept at being a pop artist and who can churn out good songs.

Blackout, finely crafted with its sonic sound, top notch production, and label-approved tracklisting, serves as the perfect album to re-launch Britney into the world of pop music. Or at the very least, it issues naysayer’s a moment of silence, and extends an olive branch to her faithful followers still hoping Britney snaps back to her old self any day now.

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I love my people, but sometimes I have to stop and ask, “Why black people, why?” And before anyone even goes there, you know these people are black. Look, I hate to admit some of our mistakes, too, but we know our own when we see it. I can already hear someone yelling, “Aye! You see my Louie trash bags? Don’t hate!” across the street in my head.

I’m guessing these can be purchased at various flea markets and gas stations that also sell General Tso’s and weave.

How much do you want to bet this person has a car in his or her mama’s name, a plasma TV, a pit bull named King, and enough Gucci to set up shop? While I’m at it, I wouldn’t be surprised if this bag is in some city’s newly revamped Section 8.

I want to sue them for stupidity, then ask which toilet paper did they go with: Goach or Versachee?

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I haven’t touched on T.I.P. Gate, because I’ve been conflicted about it. On one hand, I want T.I. out so I can still see him in concert in two weeks. Then again, when I think about the preceding events that led to his arrest, I can’t help but think his common sense goes as far as his height, so my sympathy quickly wanes. I feel sorry for him, but I’m torn over whether or not I should feel sorrier that he’s in this predicament, or the fact that he allowed this to happen.

You’re a convicted felon who is still on probation, you know the law, so why are you channeling G.I. Joe in your closet? Are you trying to cash in on the bounty on Osama’s head? Are you heading to Iraq? Has someone in Tehran pissed you off? Even if you are just a gun collector, don’t you think it’s best to let go of that one hobby if it can lead to you losing everything?

Of course, some members of the hip hop community aren’t posing any of these questions to T.I. They are more concerned about the bodyguard that snitched.

Yesterday, David Banner released a song called “B.A.N. (The Love Song)” aka “Free T.I.” in which calls out all snitches, particularly T.I.’s bodyguard that cooperated in the sting that led to T.I’s arrest, and Michael Vick’s friends that testified against him over bankrolling the Scooby Doo vs. Droopy dogfight operation.

In the song, Banner warns: “You ain’t have to run to the feds, we don’t do it like that. … But I got a remedy for these snitches at the crib, you can never come home, I know where you live.”

David’s never been known for subtly.

“For the most part on the song, I’m saying we gotta take responsibility in our own community,” Banner said.

And how do we do that?

“Tip was feeding this man’s family. We don’t do it like that, dog. We don’t talk to them boys. However it went down, we sit down [and do the jail time,] where I’m from. Dude, you don’t tell it. You hope the people you holding down is man enough to hold your people down. [The bodyguard] wasn’t a convicted felon, my dude. He could have held [Tip] down. We gotta start making the environment in our neighborhoods not conducive to snitching. How I’m doing this song, I’mma make it uncomfortable for snitches.”

We take responsibility of our communities by turning a blind eye to all the activities that destroy it. That makes sense. I understand the notion of not snitching when your life or the lives of people around you are in danger, because people like David Banner encourage it. Way to make difference, David.

I also get the code, and that’s how many dudes on the street think: That you should never snitch, even if that means the smaller person goes in over the one at the top, but yawn all the same. Especially when this logic is coming from rich people who don’t have to deal with any of that anymore if they choose not to.

Banner admitted that he does not know the specifics of the case but supports his friend regardless.


Of course, David’s not the only rapper to use his ass as a speaking tool. Wyclef called T.I. a prophet, likening him to Malcolm X.

I watched him on ‘Hip-Hop vs. America,’ and I saw the way he was talking just like Malcolm X. The conversation started getting deeper and deeper. And I think he has influence. When he speaks, it moves a whole generation.”

Any day now I expect word that the spirit of Malcolm X came back to bitch slap some sense into Wyclef.

Free has much better excuses.


T.I. is a little dude, and he’s skinny as hell. He needs a gun. The silencers absorb shock so he doesn’t get knocked over. Duh.”


“When you wear a pink shirt you are a target. And it triggers a bull like response in shooters and they just go crazy.”

These are obvious jokes, but I’ll go with these over Banner’s comments any day. By the way, who dipped T.I’s elbow in ash?

In the new issue of Complex, T.I. was asked about his thoughts on the current state of hip hop.

When I saw Tupac talking that “Thug Life” shit, getting locked up for shooting police, and getting shot and living, that’s when I was like, Damn, them niggas is really about that shit. Now you’re just let down. This ain’t this guy that he was on this record. And nobody seems to have a problem with it. It’s a lot of fake shit in it. I like to consider myself an intelligent person, and this shit is not something of intelligence anymore. It’s getting real young and stupid, and that ain’t me.

And when asked about the incident with Ludacris’ manager, Chaka Zulu, he said:

I got a great life and wonderful children, and I do intend to be here to guide them for the rest of their lives, and that’s what’s most important to me. Maybe when I was 18 or 19 runnin’ the streets and shootin’ pistols, but I’m not gonna blow that for one of these cats who don’t happen to live by the same principles as me.

Yes, he was set up. Yes, the bodyguard snitched. Still, in the end, he knew where his career was going, he knew every decision he made affected his life and the lives of his children.

People can create all the songs they want to help keep the stop snitching movement alive. But that’s only going to lead to more people not letting go of a mentality that keeps them locked up — be it in their minds or behind a cell.

Ideally, I’d like him out, though I’m not going to forget that it’s his own fault he’s there in the first place.

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