Should I Come With Wings?

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There comes a point in everyone’s life where they have to stop and ask themselves one very important question: Am I a bird?

This daunting question hit me harder than a backhand from an R&B pop locker over the holiday weekend.

On Sunday I spent the day with friends and eventually we made our way to some party at a hotel in Hollywood.

Now, I tend not to say where I’m living or anything else too private because I don’t need one of ya’ll sending my whereabouts to some celebrity who might use their last royalty check to off me.

Then again, Twitter has shown most celebrities only deal with “beef” in 140 characters or less so these days the worst one could do is start a trending topic on my ass.

Back on point, I’m at a party and for a good hour or so I was bored out of my mind.

The thing about LA is the nightlife typically sucks. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Here’s a break down of the typical night in an LA club.

First hour: Everyone is looking down at their phones texting and tweeting people standing two feet away from them.

Second hour: Everyone stands around trying to look important.

Third hour: After a few drinks, a couple of folks will get up and two-step and body roll.

At 1:45 a.m. the lights turn on and everyone is shown the exit door.

Yes, LA shuts down at 2:00 a.m.

I know, I know: “How dreadful.”

On top of that pretentious nonsense, DJs usually have the nerve to play some bullshit you can’t even sweat to.

I believe people will say I don’t know what I’m talking about then try to insert various club names and the choice celebrities who frequent them. Yeah, I’ve been to most of those spots already and surveyed the D-Listers who frequent them. My statement stands.

I don’t care who you’re with, how much money you have, and the like. If the music sucks, the night sucks. The end. That’s pretty much why I tend look at going out here as a social networking (the old fashion way, of course).

But damn, the jig is in me and if I’m going to live here for a while I need a release every now and then.

I am a southern boy so I tend to like my party music ign’t and jiggable.

Since folks in La La land tend to think that sort of sound comes with a virus you’re more liable to hear this:

…than you would Gucci Mane.

That means for a good hour or so on Sunday (like most nights), I was pretty much like this:

To make up for the non-dancing time I did what any person with a cell phone would do: I tweeted about my disappointment.

Y’know I loves Michael Jackson, but we can stop playing the same five songs in the club now.

I don’t want to sway and two step, dammit. I want to break it, pop it, twirk it.

Why won’t the DJ let me be great?! We don’t play “In Da Club” in ’09 you loser!!!!!!!

Feel the frustration?

Finally, this DJ claiming to be from the South (not until I see a birth certificate will I believe it) remembered where she was from and played some music I could lose my self-respect to.

So I got to drop it to the ground and throw up the Clarke for two seconds. Sad part is the DJ claims to be from the H. I bet she is lying.

That’s my happy tweet.

I tell my brother what happened (for the umpteenth time) and he goes, “Your bird ass.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve been called a bird.

Actually, I get called it at least twice a week. But after that night and the way I danced after I finally heard something I liked, I had to wonder whether or not it’s true.

Am I Toucan Sam? The NBC Peacock? Big Bird the Black Remix?

Tweety with a penis (I know he’s supposed to be a boy, but at the very least, shim takes hormones or something)?

As I wrote this blog, I turned to AIM to ask a smartass for their thoughts. They responded in true smartass fashion.

Smartass: U can’t help it

Smartass: U know where u grew up

Smartass: U aware of the bird ways but u aren’t one

Smartass: But at times it comes out.

It is concluded that I was not a bird, but birdish.

Others still say I’m Snuffaluffagus’ BFF.

If that is indeed the case, is it simply because I enjoy songs that have hard beats, simple yet catchy hooks, and the occasional instructional dance?

That’s not fair. I could be far worse.

Exhibit A. Her cakes should come with feathers, a biscuit, and a package of Cajun sparkle.

Alright folk, chime in. What makes a pigeon a pigeon and should people start throwing little pieces of bread at me or what?

I actually prefer cash, but you know. I mean it’s not like I’m dating a person with 77 kids or singing along to “LOL :)” — blah.

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