MAN'S Writes

From the Estranged Dad at Summer League

2011-07-01T23:54:00.000-04:00

By the sweat on your orange jersey, I can tell that it's halftime already.

Sorry I'm late,but I picked up some overtime at work. I could use the extra money to pay your mom this child support. Plus your birthday's coming up and well...

Here. I brought you a Gatorade, the red one, just the kind you like.

Remember we'd go to the courts when you were nine and play ball? You didn't like to use your left hand on the lay-up but I see you've got that down now.

You told me "Paul" helped you with that.

I can see you're a little taller now. Uncle Brian is 6'4 so there's a chance you'll get pretty big. Michigan State, huh? I hear it gets cold there. You know I don't like to fly, but leave me a game ticket and I'll come see you.

Underneath the trees is a good spot to watch. It's cooler here and besides, your grandmother still hasn't forgiven me. You'll understand when you get married.

On second thought, I hope you never have to understand.

You jog up the court, handling the rock effortlessly. I recognize the gait as my own.

I think you have all of my good traits; pray that you've none of the bad.

Traces of a mustache have formed on your top lip. I wonder if you're into girls yet. Plenty of time for that. Stay focused on your books...and the ball.

A jumpshot rises, peaks, and tumbles through the net. A teammate slaps you five.

A tear forms in my eye.

Two minutes remain.

I hand the Gatorade to your coach as you run the lane on the fastbreak. "Tell him it's from his dad," I say.

I start back to my car with a chest full of regret. The disappointment you've suffered while rooting for me can only be known by Greg Oden fans.

I start my engine as the final horn sounds and drive away hoping that you saw me.

Nice game, son.

NFL's Slick Moves Fool No One

2011-05-02T22:37:00.000-04:00

The National Football League didn't mind the lockout being temporarily lifted because it allowed them to proceed with one of the league's marquee events, the NFL Draft.

Before the event concluded, they had their lawyers on the phone and a judge in Florida ruled the lockout be reinstated.

Pretty slick, but I see what you guys did there.

More to come...

Coaching From the Couch - NBA Playoffs 2011

2011-04-27T00:45:00.005-04:00

Notes on games up to April 25th:

OKC has to trade Russell Westbrook if he can't play Robin to KD's Batman. I don't know what that 30-shot performance was last night but it cost them the game. Durant drained a 3 to make it 98-96, then Russ shoots a triple off the dribble. Brick. KD pops another three, cutting the lead to two pts with seconds remaining before Westbrook fires up an airball for the loss. Remember last year during the Lakers/OKC series when people were saying Russ was "The Best PG in the League?" Yeah, me neither. Final point, KD had a chance to throw Westbrook under the Greyhound in the post-game presser but he deferred, saying that Russ's airball was a tough shot that had a chance to go in. That's why he's their unquestioned leader and don't you forget it, Russell.
Denver won that game despite George Karl checking out. Did anyone notice that they ran no offense in the second half? It was all pick and rolls with a big and either Ty Lawson or Ray Felton with some threes mixed in by J.R. Swish. They got lucky. That kind off ball can't win in the NBA, I don't care how good of individual athletes you have.
Along the same lines, why did Karl take J.R. out with just about 2 mins left? Right after the sub, OKC scored, cutting the lead to a comfortable margin. Smith was hitting from the outside and they still needed some offense to secure the lead. Unless Karl was thinking J.R. would shoot them out, allowing OKC to get possessions and regain the lead, that was a dumb move.
Does Gheorghe Muresan play for Memphis?
Lebron needs to let Dwayne Wade take the last shot when those situations present themselves. Kyra Sedgwick is a better Closer than King James.
By the way, how come the league didn't address when Lebron called Philadelphia's Spencer Hawes a "bi*ch ass n*gga" (at about 0:29) following a hard foul late in game 4? They fined Kobe for using a homosexual slur. I know why. David Stern doesn't want to address any race issues, period - but especially not when a black man directs a term generally meant to demean blacks toward a white man. That's just too confusing. Know what though? It's our fault that the word is generally accepted now. Many blacks use it in mixed company, creating a false sense of familiarity so there's not as much emotion involved as in the Kobe situation. Where's the NAACP on this? Thanks a lot black folks.
Everybody wrote Chris Paul off but now he's healthy and he's back. I mentioned earlier that while he sat out last year's playoffs people had the nerve to say Russell Westbrook was the L's best PG. That's crazy talk. Some players are made better by the talent around them but look at the best current point men(Derrick Rose, CP3); they don't really have stellar players in their supporting casts. Deron Williams faded this year with the trade and injuries so we'll see how he bounces back, but Chris Paul is setting the record straight.
Speaking of point guards, Derek Fisher needs to retire. That is all.
The Andre Iguodala Hate List: I hate his jumpshot, I hate that he never makes a game-winner, I hate his haircuts, I hate how he got so muscular it makes his hoop game look even more awkward, I hate how after watching his teammates make shots he jacks one up so it looks like he's doing something, I hate how he only talks with the bottom half of his mouth, I hate that he's paid like a marquee player but doesn't play like one.
The Spurs are done. Tim Duncan is old. I watched Greivis Vásquez and Darrell Arthur run P&R on two consecutive plays for two made Arthur jumpshots. It's more than 24 hrs later and not a single Spurs player has hedged the screen to defend the shot yet. It's over.
Looking at Derrick Rose's ample protection during games, you wouldn't think he'd suffer ankle sprains. Kobe on the other hand does. Rose wears hi-tops and ankle braces (I used to think he balled in ankle weights). Kobe's signature shoes look like track spikes. He's suffered two severe ankle/foot injuries this season. Nike needs to come correct.

*Shout out to Jerseychaser.com on the Lebron clip.

Is Your Higher Education Paying Off?

2011-04-19T17:56:00.000-04:00

Article first published as What's to Gain from Higher Education? on Technorati.

"Don't believe everything your earlobe captures, it's mostly backwards."

As a longtime advocate of higher education, I've seen the model for achieving individual success change so drastically that today, I'd probably advise young people to consider other options before deciding to attend college.

From the lips of almost everyone around me as a teenager - parents, teachers, counselors - I was told that in order to get the lifestyle I wanted, attending college was a no-brainer.

It's been 11 years since graduation. As much as it goes against what I believe, I'm beginning to think that Sonny was right: "The working man is a sucker."

If I could choose again, I'd be an athlete or entertainer, most likely a rapper.

Why not?
The average salaries of working people with a college education hardly come close to the money actors and ball players make in contracts and endorsements.

Furthermore, these people are provided all the opportunities I thought getting a degree would allow me.

Never mind the plush houses, expensive cars, and lavish vacations. Superficial things have never really turned me on. I'm talking about real opportunities to make important moves in business and education.

The golden ticket to convincing those above the glass ceiling to let you up is not how smart you are or how many degrees you have.

A proven track record is the key.

Folks with money and influence want to know what you have done before they decide to share the wealth.

Contrary to what many of us were told, graduating from college is not the best indicator that an individual has what it takes to become successful.

Think about it. Those of us who have degrees, for the most part, wasn't college easy? The hardest part was getting up to go to class. Once you figured out which professors to take and how to avoid that 8 a.m. lab, the rest was pie.

Going to college is the standard route. Most business pioneers tell stories of going the road less traveled and having to struggle a bit because they say it builds character.

Despite my education and work experience it's still difficult to command top dollar or get chances to show what I can do.

If I want to teach high school, they're going to ask me whether I have any advanced certification and do I meet "Highly Qualified" status. In order to be a professor at a community college I need a Master's degree.

That stings when I know that rapper Jim Jones taught a class in the New York City schools during 2010 and fellow artist Bun B. has his own course at Rice University.

Their degrees in street knowledge are obviously more attractive than my explorations of Milton, Shakespeare and Tolstoy.

Probably the greatest example of how this alternative education trumps higher Ed. is the man who's song lyric inspired the opening line of this post, business mogul Shawn Carter, also known as the rapper Jay-Z.

Smart money says I will never own a minority share of an NBA team, never preside over a respected music label, and never give an address before the United Nations.

Jay-Z (a high school drop-out) has done all of these things.

My feelings around this shouldn't be considered jealousy or "hating" but quite the opposite.

I applaud their success. Many pro athletes and entertainers came from worse places with not as much of a support system as I had as a kid. Their chances of becoming "somebody" were much lower than my own. in some cases, finding stardom in their respective field was the only way out of a life of poverty.

We're in America where everybody loves the underdog. How much of a success story can a person really be if they didn't have to overcome any obstacles?

There is also a culture of celebrity worship where even the CEO of a Fortune 500 company can get a little excited by calling a top entertainer a business partner.

That means a lot of people who came from middle class families and can't sing or hit a home-run will have to make it the "hard" way.

To all members of the Class of 2011 who will graduate from high schools around the world in the coming weeks, I say choose wisely when figuring out your next move.

Four years of study at a top university may leave you in debt and wishing that you'd started gaining work experience and building your resume at 18.

Trading in that microscope for a microphone could be the best decision you'll ever make.

March Sadness: How to Fix the NCAA Tournament

2011-04-01T01:31:00.002-04:00

By now, college basketball fans have chosen sides on whether this year's trend of upsets is a result of parity in the game or just certain teams getting hot at the right time.

With the latest Goliath (#1 seeded Kansas) going down at the hands of something called Virginia Commonwealth University, the detractors will complain that a lack of marquee teams in the Final Four makes it unwatchable for the common NCAA hoops fan.

In addition, media pundits like ESPN's Skip Bayless still contend that VCU didn't even deserve an at-large bid to the dance because of their poor regular season finish (lost four of their last five contests).

An earlier jab at VCU was just a joke by this writer. Make no mistake, though considered a mid-major, VCU has earned their stripes, having done their "Dougie" at the Big Dance during past seasons.

A 2007 Rams outfit, led by future pro Eric Maynor, knocked off Duke in a first round tournament upset. As well, stalking the sidelines at the Richmond school has become a launch pad for coaches looking to obtain jobs at major level schools. A young Jeff Capel stewarded VCU before earning a job at Oklahoma, followed by former Florida assistant, Anthony Grant, who's now the top guy at Alabama.

After this performance, big-named schools will be standing on line for a chance to lure coach Shaka Smart away from VCU.

Anyone who's grown close to college basketball knows that reputation plays a big part in which teams get invited to the tournament. Some years when a big school doesn't quite have a glossy record, past performance is used as a factor to punch their ticket.

In most years, a school like Duke, Kentucky, even Gonzaga, with maybe 19 wins will fair better in the dance than a mid-major with no national tournament pedigree. Those aforementioned teams, who play in major conferences, are battle tested and that matters to the selection committee.

People like Skip Bayless have to realize and accept that VCU has arrived as one of the programs that gets this special treatment. Yes, they faltered late in the season, but they've proved on the floor that they belong.

Following the VCU/Kansas game, sports writer Jason Whitlock tweeted something to the effect that the basketball regular season is meaningless and that the college football BCS is a great idea.

Though largely impossible for this writer to agree with Whitlock, he was onto something with his statement about the regular season.

Here's a simple idea to clean up the selection process and make for a more balanced experience. Of course, no school "on the bubble" or diehard fan will ever be totally satisfied, but this would aid towards closing the gap:

Award automatic bids to the winners of the conference regular season. There are 32 Division 1 basketball conferences. Any team that wins its league has proven its worth over opponents within the conference. The Ivy League has no conference tournament, thus the league champ gets its only bid. The bigger conferences see league tournaments as money makers so cash has become king. It's not fair to penalize a school who got it done for five months, then loses in the league tournament, by keeping them out of the dance. Example: St. Mary's. The Gaels won a share of the WCC title for the first time in 14 years but lost the the league tournament final to Gonzaga and were left out of the NCAAs.

Award automatic bids to the winners of the conference tournament. The NCAA currently does this and it's a good idea. If a team strings together four or five wins and takes the championship, they might be able to carry that momentum into the Big Dance and go a few rounds deep. This also benefits teams who are strong traditionally, but fail to win the regular season maybe due to player injuries or being unable to gel early. Some teams don't hit their stride until after the New Year and it's more important to be playing your best ball later in the season. Example: Hampton. Sharing second place in the MEAC, the Pirates sailed to a league tournament title and the automatic birth, leaving the regular season champs, Bethune-Cookman, out to dry.

Again, with 32 conferences, inviting all the regular season champs gives the NCAA roughly half of the field. By awarding bids to the conference tournament winners, assuming there are no repeats, that equals 64. 2011 saw the addition of three teams, upping the total to 68 (they added a play-in game including a 65th participant in 2001). The remaining four slots would be picked by the current methods of RPI and strength of schedule, etc. This method would also be used if there are no repeat winners to fill all empty slots in the field of 68.

An immediate criticism to this idea is, "What about the power conferences like the Big East?" They have up to 11 teams worthy of getting into the tournament during any given season, such as this year.

The response: Either you want a true tournament of champions or you don't. True, this idea would certainly eliminate some teams with marquee names who might finish anywhere from 2nd through 10th in a tough league. On the flipside, gone would be the complaints of favoritism and the criticism of a largely arbitrary selection process that currently exists.

All of the favorite schools would not be included but the means by which teams were selected would make much more sense, adding some needed integrity to the process. Awarding bids to teams who had actually played their way in would save everyone the trouble of watching selection committee chair Gene Smith try to explain how Virginia Tech and Colorado missed the cut.

In the end, many players, coaches and fans would be upset by being left on the doorstep, but at least this way they could understand why.

The Untitled Novel, Ch. 3.

2011-03-22T02:22:00.001-04:00

Here are Ch. 1 and Ch. 2 if you missed them.

“Baby, is that you?”

“You know it,” I answered, “Unless you gave another dude a key.”

With that, Bree bounced into the hallway from the kitchen to greet me at the door. She hugged me tightly like we hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Because of our many break-ups, I think she felt like she was always close to losing me. She kissed me once on the lips and on the neck just below my ear.

Breana Stanford was the oldest of three children, the daughter of a physician and a dentist from Uniondale, Long Island. I’d dated some attractive women in my life, but Bree was the only one I’d considered beautiful. She was just over five feet-tall, pecan complexioned, and maintained her athletic body with five days-a-week at the fitness club. She’d recently added a blonde highlight to her auburn-colored tresses. She had on the outfit I loved her in most: a white tank top undershirt and grey cotton sweatpants.

Bree was a former collegiate cheerleader who moved to Harrington after graduation to work as a State Capitol staffer. I’d met her almost six years ago at a legislative rally up on Capitol Hill. At first glance, there couldn’t have been a more unlikely pairing, but at the core, Bree and I were almost the same person; kindred spirits. Our completion of the other could not have been cultivated solely in the time we’d known one another. It was as if we’d been king and queen, together ruling an African nation, centuries ago.

I loved coming home to Bree although I didn’t know how living together would work out at first. I was a celebrated bachelor for years, so long that my friends had started calling me the “Black George Clooney,” because of the way I flaunted my single status.

“I’ll never get married,” I bragged on more than one occasion.

But being with Bree had altered my actions and my thinking. I hadn’t slept with another woman in over a year. This was an eternity for me. I never considered myself a player or a ladies’ man, but I knew what most women needed – and was able to give it to them.

“Did you bring home those corn flakes like I asked you?”

“Damn it!”

I could usually give Bree what she needed, but with Weedie Bryant on my mind, I forgot to get the corn flakes. Those were the special ingredient in her fried chicken that she made every Monday night.

“I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“Aw, Winston! Well I guess it’s sandwiches for dinner,” she said.

“I’m really sorry. I got a lot on my plate right now. I found out one of my old clients is in trouble and Talbot is all over my ass at school. I just gotta relax.”

“Well…maybe I can help you with that,” Bree said coyly.

I recognized the look in her eye as she danced seductively over to the taupe, microfiber loveseat where I was sitting. I say seductively, but for a woman of just under thirty years-old, Bree didn’t look old enough to legally drink. Her attempt at acting sexy was almost cute.

“You look like you want to get in some trouble,” I said.

“You’re a teacher right? Are you gonna give me detention?” she flirted.

“That depends on how bad you can be.”

“Oh I can be super bad, if that’s what you want, Mr. Winston.”

I stood up and gave her a long, deep kiss. Bree reached down and stroked my growing erection through my khakis. I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom, where we made love twice before she passed out. I laid there awake for over an hour replaying the love we’d just made, then trying to figure out how I could locate Weedie. I didn’t have many connections in York, but there were a few friends I’d made during my time in the life.

I closed my eyes tightly and tried to go to sleep, since I had to be to work in less than five hours – and I couldn’t afford to be late.

“It is seven thirty-five Mr. Winston,” a voice called out from behind me. I knew the voice. It sounded like faux authority. Like a child masquerading as an adult on the telephone.

“Yes? Well, thank you,” I said, “With you here, I feel good about my decision not to wear a watch?”

Ignoring my insubordination, he continued, his face forming the textbook definition of a “shit-eating grin.”

“I am in a lightened mood because today is my birthday, so as a courtesy to you, we will consider this a verbal warning and take no further action.”

I mumbled, “Thank you,” as I walked away. My left brain was angry with myself for not making it to work by my 7:30 start time, thus giving him another opportunity to get on my case. My right brain was thinking about shattering his jaw and storming out of the building.

Principal Earl Talbot III was my archenemy. He was The Joker to my Batman, Celtics to my Lakers, and the Marlo Stanfield to my Jimmy McNulty.

Not only did Talbot resent me for personal reasons (I knocked him out at a school dance when we were teens and I slept with his high school sweetheart and former fiancé weeks before their wedding, which was subsequently “called off”) but he also hated that I had made it into the professional ranks. He always assumed that this was one arena where he would best me – my street credibility would be useless against his starched shirts and advanced academic degrees. So the surprise was imaginable when I showed up as a teacher in the school where he was now the principal.

I guess in a way, it was cruel irony for both of us.

The fact is Talbot and I had been on a collision course for the past few years. I truly felt like he and I were the superhero and the antithesis; the universe could not exist in its proper order until one of us destroyed the other. The stage was set for our ultimate battle and Clinton High was ground zero.

Talbot knew things about my past, but none of it was a secret. He hated that I was striving despite my history. I was troubled in my teens and twenties before doing an about face and eventually graduating from Bridgeton University. What Talbot feared most was that I had something on him as well. I was just waiting until the right time to play my trump card. But once things were set in motion, I would have two choices: report my knowledge to the cops, or kill Talbot myself.

I was leaning toward number two.

As the late bell rang, the stragglers from my third period class filed into the room and took a seat in desks situated in their customary circle. My class was different on many levels, starting with the teacher, but not limited to the strange desk arrangement.

Contemporary Social Problems is what my class was called in the school district’s course catalog. It was a one credit elective that could be taken as an English class with special permission. For some students it was a class they took to fulfill graduations requirements. For others it was therapy, confession, and it was home.

We spent much of the period discussing gun laws in the U.S. Many of the kids couldn’t wrap their young brains around how the Vice President could get away with shooting his friend in the face during a hunting trip.

“He shot his boy in da face, and da nigga apologized to him,” said a student named Jzon Black, sending the other kids into an uproar.

I assigned them homework. I wanted them to make a list of everyone they knew who had been affected by gun violence, just to see how many peoples’ lives had been touched. I did this several years ago for a workshop I was leading. Back then my number was twenty-two but I hadn’t gotten up the courage to update it yet.

“Remember, if I don’t get your homework, it’s going to make you ineligible for the field trip, so I want to see everybody’s tomorrow. Okay, class dismissed. Hey Jzon, let me speak with you a real quick.”

The skinny manchild shuffled up to my desk, pulling his oversized jeans up from below his hips.

“What’s up, Mr. Winston?”

“You used to live in York, right?” I recalled from his student file.

“Yeah, I stayed out there with my grandmom for my ninth grade year.”

“What are some of the sets up there?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t be put off by my forwardness.

“I ain’t in no gang, Mr. Winston,” Jzon said almost on cue.

“Yes, I know,” I assured him. “A boy I know fell in with some guys in York and I’m worried about him.”

“Oh, ok. Well, I know about The Up Top Boyz, the Paper Chaserz, and yeah, GSP. GSP used to mob real heavy when I was up there! That’s about it though.”

“Thanks Jzon.”

“That’s cool, Mr. Winston. You know I got you,” he said, slapping me five and exiting the classroom.

GSP, or the George Street Posse, was known for drug dealing, car stealing, and generally tearing shit up, throughout the ‘90’s. I wasn’t certain they were still around until Jzon confirmed my thoughts. He put me on the right path, but now the legwork was mine alone.

Finding Weedie didn’t seem like such an arduous task now. I just had to make sure I was ready to get my hands dirty after years of trying to scrub them clean.

Random NBA Player Post #3 - Howard Eisley

2011-03-03T01:50:00.001-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to Howard Eisley. Howard was one of my favorite point "gods" during his 12 seasons in the L. He played for several teams, shown here with the Timberwolves, who drafted him in 1994 with the 30th overall pick after a solid career at Boston College. I really remember him as one of the only brothas besides Karl Malone on the Utah Jazz. He backed up John Stockton at the 1. Howard is an assistant coach for some team in the NBA. I saw him on the bench a few weeks ago. Salute Howard!

How to Solve America's Problems with the Internet

2011-02-11T20:43:00.001-05:00

In America, if you want access to things that can be considered harmful, you must first achieve a minimum age or obtain a license.

Think about it. Owning a gun, driving a car, purchasing alcohol or tobacco, and joining the Armed Forces all require that you pass a significant birthday or become licensed before you can be accepted into the qualified realms.

What's so significant about these prerequisites is that they establish competency. The local D.M.V. needs to know that you're competent before taking the road behind the wheel of 2000-lb. automobile.

If we want to solve some of the problems that have been created by misuse of the Internet, I propose that legislation be created to limit some Americans' access to the Web.

Creating a system where only those who qualify are permitted to use the Internet will clean up many of the criminal and outright stupid acts being perpetrated by our citizens.

Most recently, Congressman Chris Lee resigned from his post after shirtless pics of himself were discovered on the 'Net. The married Representative from New York was sexting a woman whom he met on Craigslist. Lee said that he was a single lobbyist (both lies) in trying to hook up with the lady.

How could this have been avoided?

My idea is that everyone who wants to use the Internet needs to earn a government issued password. A clearance, so to speak. Plus, you'd have to be at least 15 years-old to surf the Web.

People my age never had the Internet until our senior year of high school and we came out okay.

To get this Internet license, individuals would go into a state office and take a test. Your answers would fall along a scale that would let the administrators know your tendencies for using the 'Net.

Potential pedophile? Fail. Unfaithful to your spouse in the past? Fail. Theft and drug addiction? Fail!

If there were safeguards such as these in place, it would keep perverts from using the web to find kiddie p0rn and solicit sex from teenagers. Better yet, those under 15 wouldn't even be allowed online get victimized by those types.

Relationships would be a little safer because those who scored in the "Cheater" range of the scale would be denied, thus limiting their opportunities to surf the social networks for potential hook-ups.

Thieves and drug addicts couldn't get a license, which would decrease the credit card schemes and Internet-based identity theft.

Probably most importantly, any individuals that fit the description of a "Hacker" would be denied immediately, keeping more of our passwords and preferences secure.

Yes, passing this legislation would decrease the amount of people who have access to the Internet by thousands...millions maybe. Equally, it would bring down sex crimes against kids and the number of people who lose their spouses to the side-pieces they met on Facebook.

If less people can use the web, then so be it. Like it used to say on my middle school bus pass, riding the bus "is a privilege, not a right." The same goes for using the Internet.

People are losing their jobs, their families, and their minds because of an obsession with being online.

Life of the Black Bourgeoisie

2011-01-26T16:01:00.000-05:00

I wrote this a couple of years ago for Stuff Educated Black People Like. I don't even know if they ever used it or whether the site still exists. Any way it's about a cultural celebration sometimes held in African-American communities. Give it a read.

Cotillions (Debutante Balls)

If there’s one thing that EBP like, it’s the feeling that they have finally “made it.” The second thing they like is making sure OTHER people know they’ve made it. One way that EBP do this is through the tradition of having cotillions or depending on where you are from, they may be referred to as debutante balls.

A cotillion is a pageant-like event that serves as an official “coming out” into society. Usually reserved for the teenage daughter of an EBP, the cotillion is ripe with expensive gowns and other examples of what EBP can do once he/she gets some money. Usually sponsored by an African-American sorority (Delta Sigma Theta, Alpha Kappa Alpha), the cotillion is one of the premier social events of the year within the EBP community.

The way it works is the daughter of an important EBP (usually a doctor, lawyer, some other high profile person) sends in an application. The application usually carries a fee (this is to weed out any UEBP who can’t afford it). Next, the young lady and her mother begin shopping for an expensive gown. In the meantime, the family will solicit other EBP whom they know to be sponsors, who for anywhere from $10-$200, can get their name, picture, or business card printed inside of the event’s annual program. Getting sponsors is a very important part of the process, because regardless of what anybody says, the girl who raises the most money usually wins. Finally, the young lady will select a male escort, definitely the son of another EBP, to accompany her to the cotillion. Now it’s showtime!

The cotillion itself may begin with several speakers, and then the young ladies and gentlemen might perform some kind of choreographed dance routine, such as the waltz. This shows that even the children of EBP have class. Next, is the talent portion, where the young ladies will showcase one of their skills. This is an opportunity to show the other EBP in the room that they can afford dancing, singing, or violin lessons for their little princesses.

Finally, the judges get together to choose the winner. Competition is everything amongst EBP, so this is very important. Never mind how their daughter will feel, but should she win, they will be able to brag about this to their EBP friends for an entire year. In all, who knows how much fun a cotillion is?

The most important thing for the EBP is to be there.

Pretty Girl Purgatory: Working in the Mall

2011-01-07T13:01:00.001-05:00

"The Trap" is a euphemism made popular by rappers such as T.I. and Young Jeezy that describes the life and actual places associated with the urban drug trade.

Along these same lines, young, pretty girls with ambition have for many years fallen victim to their own version of this "Trap."

Instead of fiends and crack vials, their den of sin consists of teenagers eager for hook-ups, smoothie stands, and the stale stench of nail glue.

This place can signal the start of a career as a working woman, or for some, it is Pretty Girl Purgatory. Both fame and misfortune can be had once a young lady begins her employment at the local shopping mall.

At the onset, working in the mall is a teen queen's dream. She has access to all the trappings of a young girl's existence: her first taste of independent income, a place to hang out with unsupervised time to see boys, and half-off at The Limited.

Whether it was the Piercing Pagoda, Claire's, or Finish Line, the mall was a collection of some of the finest PYT's in the area. Looking back, the shady store manager knew what was up.

There must have been a checklist for the local spot where young adults could cop the flyest gear. This list included: An edgy store name like, "Too Hype Fashion," a hip-hop track that played on a loop throughout the day, an occasional in-store appearance by the "hot" rapper of the moment, and last but certainly not least, five or six lightskinned associates to help you find your back-to-school clothes.

This was the formula to keeping a successful store in most urban shopping malls. The businesses were definitely on to something. Young men spent countless hours window shopping between trips to Orange Julius or Boardwalk Fries, with hopes of bagging a chick who worked at the mall. A smile and some casual conversation could mean nice chunks of commission if a girl played her cards right.

If by chance a guy got lucky, having a girlfriend who worked at the mall meant one thing: Jordans for the whole crew!

Like Nas cautioned on "Black Girl Lost," many of our best and brightest have fallen victim to the interworkings of mall culture. What starts out as merely exchanging cash for coin at the arcade can lead to a turn arranging the "Fall Collection" at Lerners for the woman with her eyes on the prize.

Those, however, with less drive and focus can end up giving directions to the bathroom and wrapping birthday gifts at the customer service stand.

One telling example can do nothing but caution girls who are eager to walk this path.

In the early '90s, a young lady who took a local shopping mall by storm. A cute face, thin waist, long nails and a Spanish swag were her weapons of choice. She greeted all the top customers at the door, from athletes to average Joes, with hopes of selling a pair of jeans or maybe an Easter suit.

As the years went by, so did the names of the establishments; first it was Attivo, then Chess King, then Styles West. The clothes got brighter, then bigger, but the same couldn't be said for her future.

A girl with so much sales potential went from paid to played. She was last seen a few weeks ago in a different mall. Gone were her looks and ambition.

She was sitting in the Christmas Court, wearing a sad-ass Santa hat, helping kids get their wishes on.

So how do we move this conversation forward and stop future young ladies from getting mired in Pretty Girl Purgatory?

A suggestion is for them to view the mall as a means to and end. As is the case with most youthful ventures, working in the mall is a hustle. Get your money and GET OUT.

The Untitled Novel, Chapter 2

2011-01-01T22:25:00.001-05:00

Here's the next chapter of my novel in progress. Read the first chapter if you haven't already.

I called Bree on the way over and told her that I needed to check on an old student first, but I’d be home before too late.

“They gotta have a place for you in heaven, babe,” she told me.

Bree Stanford was my girlfriend, on and off, for the past five years. She was a good woman. We had been living together in an apartment since March. She worried about my safety, but understood how serious I was about helping these kids.

As I pulled up to the corner of 19^th and Sherwood, I thought that maybe Bree deserved to be with a better, safer guy.

The Parrot was a dive located in the industrial part of the city. Plants that had either closed or downsized years ago surrounded the small bar with the blue siding, red neon sign, and three concrete steps out front. What The Parrot lacked in décor it made up for in personality.

Grace Goulas was the bartender and part-owner of the bar. She was a slight, gray-haired woman with a robust laugh, whose size belied her strength. Grace worked seven days a week. “Until they start showing reruns of Dynasty everyday, I’ll be here,” she answered when I asked why she worked so much. “Plus, y’all are my family.”

It’s not like she needed the money. Grace was from a long line of Greek merchants that came to Pennsylvania from New York City in the early 1960’s. That explained why you could find a gyro stand on almost every corner in the hood. But gyros and feta weren’t all they were selling.

The Greeks had a pizza shop around the corner that was a front for illegal gambling and drugs. Downstairs they served sodas and hoagies by day but on the second floor, they hosted high stakes poker games at night.

They had the Mayor’s protection too. When developers bought up the block about ten years, ago, Christos Pizza & Subs was the only building left standing.

“Now there’s and old face,” Grace howled as she poured a Dewar’s on the rocks.

“Hey there, Gracie! How’s my favorite girl?” I asked.

“Favorite girl,” Grace questioned, “Not from what I hear. Where’s that foxy little girlfriend of yours? Heard y’all were shackin’ up now.”

“How in the hell did you hear that, Grace? I haven’t been in here in like 8 months,” I said in surprise.

“Yeah, you always stop comin’ around when you and her get serious.”

“You know me too well,” I relented.

“So what’s brings ya in here ta’ night?” Grace said with a smile.

I started in about the note on my window and didn’t even have to finish the story. Grace poured a shot of Hennessey, my drink of choice, and made a vodka and cranberry.

“Table in the corner,” she said with a tilt of her head.

Stephonia Scott was a thin, coffee-without-cream colored woman. She had large breasts and a flat nose. Steph, as she preferred, was of average looks, in my opinion, though we had slept together once in a moment of our weakness. She had large hands and feet for a woman and could curse and drink with any man I knew. That it was she who needed my help was not a good thing.

It never was.

“Well it took you long enough, ni**a,” Stephonia greeted me in her usual candor. Usually quite stylish, she looked like she had dressed in a hurry, wearing a lavender topcoat over a greenish blouse. She wore gray sweatpants with white canvas sneakers and pulled nervously on a Newport.

“Happy to see you too, Miss Lady,” I fired back. “What’s up?”

“Weedie gone missin’,” she said, fighting back tears.

I sat down her drink and gulped my cognac.

“What do you mean missing,” I asked, “I thought he was away in a placement?”

Anton Brady was Steph’s sixteen year-old son. “Weedie,” was the nickname he picked up when his mother caught him smoking one of her marijuana cigarettes with some neighborhood boys at the tender age of nine. Trying to do the right thing, Steph called the police with the hopes of teaching her son a lesson. The cops, in turn, charged her with corruption of a minor and filed a report with CYS.

That’s how I entered Stephonia and Weedie’s lives.

The job of Caseworker for the Department of Children & Youth Services was a stop along my road to redemption, and the case of Anton Brady was my first act of penance. I had helped them through some hard times and had often gone beyond my required duties to see that this single mother and young boy would be taken care of. I had been a father, mentor, and protector to Anton – a confidant, lover and provider to his mom. Steph was always careful not to abuse our relationship, but knew I’d come to her aid if she really needed me.

“He been at a group home in York since November,” she started, “he was doin’ good. Good grades, passed all his pee tests and shit. Then he started actin’ funny.”

“What ‘chu mean, funny,” I said.

“Well it’s some York boys in the house. He was actin’ like dem, you know, talkin’ like ‘em, wearin’ his pants all down off his a*s. Silly sh*t like dat,” Stephonia scoffed.

“Still a follower,” I said, “but that don’t sound so bad.”

“I told him if he wanna act all stupid then he ain’t have to come home on his next home pass,” she said. “So when dey was dropping kids off in York, he jumped off the van and ran away. Been gone three days and they cain’t find him,” Steph cried, finally breaking down.

I sat down beside her, rubbing her back supportively.

“Listen,” I said, “you know Weedie can’t stand being away from his mom. He’s just doing this to prove a point. He don’t know his way around the “Hill,” let alone, York. He’ll come callin’ and cryin’ for his mommy in a few. Just try to relax.”

“But you don’t know him no more, Laney. Since you ain’t been around like that he got wild; Cussin’, disrespectful and all that. I just don’t know,” she trailed off.

“I’ll make some calls,” I assured her, “trust me, we’ll find your son.”

“I always could count on you, baby.”

I was pretty certain that Weedie hadn’t gone far. But I didn’t have a clue where he was or whom he had fallen in with. A piece of me still loved the boy, and I was determined to find him.

Random NBA Player Post

2010-12-22T22:06:00.000-05:00

Willie Burton played for a couple teams in his 8 year career and is most known for throwing up a 50 point game in 1993.

A crying shame - By Tom Lutz (LA Times, 12/15/10)

2010-12-19T23:54:00.000-05:00

We've seen Rep. John A. Boehner (R- Ohio) cry twice recently in public. On election night, addressing supporters, he was overcome with emotion while describing his up-by-the-bootstraps pursuit of the American dream. Then on Sunday, during a "60 Minutes" interview with Lesley Stahl, Boehner's tears began to flow as he worried aloud about today's schoolchildren.

So what can the tears tell us about our new House speaker?

One of our fondest cultural myths — one of baffling durability, like the idea that Republicans are fiscally conservative — is that crying is a sign of sincerity or authentic feeling. No matter what we may know of crocodile tears, we continue to read weeping as a sign of true, pure emotion. All the research suggests something else entirely.

Crying is often the sign of excruciatingly mixed emotion. Take the mother who cries at her daughter's wedding: She may be happy about the marriage and flooded with positive emotions — feelings of role fulfillment, of accomplishment, of pride, of happiness for her daughter. At the same time, she feels a sense of loss: A part of her life is over; she is losing not only a daughter but a purpose, a role.

Even our moments of extreme grief are complicated. The stages of grief do not follow each other in a neat therapeutic procession; instead, they are often a jumble. Loss is complicated by rage, by denial, by guilt. We weep and we wail, and we do so not because we know, without a doubt, exactly what we are feeling. We cry, in fact, because we don't.

Boehner's tears aren't hard to read. After analyzing hundreds of psychological experiments and sociological studies of weeping, hundreds of accounts of crying in different cultures and different historical periods, thousands of tearful moments in film and fiction and art, I have come to see that, like the mother of the bride, many of us weep because we are overwhelmed by contradictions.

Oliver North cried at the Iran-Contra hearings whenever he talked about how much he loved his country. His patriotism was real, but it was complicated by the fact that he was lying to Congress. His part in an illegal operation meant that he was subverting the very Constitution he spent his life defending. These moments when real honesty is coupled with bad faith, especially when it is personal — when the speaker who is at once telling the truth and a lie is, like North, talking about himself — these are the moments that call forth tears.

On "60 Minutes," Boehner told Stahl that he couldn't visit schools anymore; that he got too upset, worrying about whether today's schoolchildren will have the same opportunities that he and his generation had. As he spoke, he started to weep. Why?

He does, I believe, worry about the children, and yet his entire political philosophy is devoted to limiting the federal government's ability to help them. He has voted against providing health insurance for children (many times), against student aid, against unemployment benefits, against equal pay, against food safety, against money for teachers, against raising the minimum wage, against tobacco education, mine safety, alternative energy, pollution control, whistle-blower protection, science and technology research. If he were making his decisions based on what government programs might help today's schoolchildren reach their dreams, like the Kennedy- and Johnson-era programs that helped him, his voting record would be very different. It is a deep enough contradiction to make him weep for the future.

"Making sure that these kids have a shot at the American dream, like I did, is important," he told Stahl through his tears. Yet he and his Republican colleagues are working hard to make sure that they can't; that the middle class he once aspired to becomes smaller rather than bigger. His college received federal grants and federal student aid while he was there, and it continues to do so, including from the stimulus bill he voted against.

The America that gave Boehner a shot at his dream had a minimum wage that, adjusted for inflation, topped $10 an hour. In 2006, he voted against letting the minimum rise from $5.15 to its current $7.25. It took Boehner seven years to finish college while working minimum-wage jobs; how long would it have taken if the minimum wage had purchased as little as it does today?

Boehner put himself through school, he said on election night, unsuccessfully trying to stem the flow of tears, "working every rotten job there was." He mopped floors, waited tables and tended bar. One could feel both his horror at once having done that sort of work and his exuberance at having left it behind to become the golfing, jet-setting, deeply tanned man weeping before the cameras.

Would he agree with this assessment? Does he know that, despite his assertions to the contrary, cutting taxes for the rich won't do anything to produce those jobs he keeps promising? Does he feel conflicted knowing that his golf bill (reported at $83,000 last year) is six or seven times the take-home pay of someone working 40 hours a week at minimum wage, and several times the median income in many of our communities?

I suspect he does, and that when he thinks about the America of his youth, he knows it will never return if his party gets its way in Washington. It is all too much. He weeps.

Tom Lutz is a professor at UC Riverside, editor of the Los Angeles Review of Books and the author of "Crying: The Natural and Cultural History of Tears."

via Los Angeles Times

Random NBA Player Post

2010-12-14T00:27:00.000-05:00

Terry Cummings, shown here with the Milwaukee Bucks.

On Haynesworth

2010-12-08T14:29:00.004-05:00

Many minds, from NFL insiders to armchair GMs, have an opinion on this Albert Haynesworth thing. Here's mine.

Despite any acclaim Haynesworth has earned in the league with his play, my highlight reel for him contains two clips. The first is him stomping on Andre Gurode's face during a game in 2006. The second, which happened a few weeks ago, is Big Al laying down on the job while Michael Vick dances around the other ten Redskins.

Is it fair to reduce his entire body of work? No. But good or bad, this is how we as sports fans remember players. We generalize a few significant plays over the span of a career. The Shot. The Run. The Drive. More often than not, the specific moments we associate with players are pretty close to the legacies they leave. The one major exception is Malice in The Palace. Ron Ron has a championship ring now, and is a pretty good guy on and off the floor, but some observers will never move on from that incident.

Trying to keep this in perspective, I admit that I don't follow Haynesworth closely. I know he got a huge contract when he left Tennessee to come to Washington. Other than that, what I know about him is bad.

Let's get this out of the way: Mike Shanahan has spent a lot, maybe too much time this season dealing with Haynesworth. He singled him out from the start. First it was a conditioning issue, followed by Albert's alleged refusal to play in a 3-4 defensive scheme. I don't know what the core issue is but Shanahan made it a project to send Albert some type of message that never transmitted. When Albert didn't submit, he gave him a surprise benching followed by a season ending suspension.

It appears that there are two camps on this issue - Pro Shanahan and Pro Haynesworth. I don't think it's that cut and dry. What's troubling to me is that many of the viewpoints I've encountered from the online community, largely of fellow African Americans, side blindly with Haynesworth thus, relieving him of any responsibility in how this situation progressed.

To hold Coach Shanahan completely responsible in this soap opera without acknowledging possible actions that Haynesworth could have taken to change the course is a grave error in thinking. To limit this issue solely to race is just stupidity.

I like examples so let's look at one. You and your friend work at the same job. You are close to a model employee but your boy isn't. The boss has an almost open dislike for your friend, one that goes beyond professional and can be argued that it's more personal bias. You both discuss how the boss has it in for your friend, and can probably get another employee to admit hearing the boss talk negatively about him to other workers. Over several months, your friend gets consumed with his own disdain for the boss and shows up to work late 3 days out of 5, is unprepared for meetings, and is consistently behind on his production. You arrive at work one day and find out your boy got fired.

Is that justified?

Reports say Haynesworth came to the facility hung over, complained of being sick, refused to practice, and said he would not play in the 3-4 scheme. This sounds like violations of the staff code of conduct and insubordination - grounds to get terminated from ANY job. You and I would be fired for this, so why can't Haynesworth be suspended? A change in the defensive scheme is no excuse. Some quarterbacks play for multiple offensive coordinators in a career. They can't refuse the new plays just because it's foreign to what they're used to. If they did, there is another QB waiting to take those snaps.

A coach was unhappy with a player's work ethic and attitude and this became a pissing contest between the two. Spoiled Athlete vs the Curmudgeon Coach. Albert forgot Shanahan had the Big Joker. After a while, he may have been "out to get" Albert. But Haynesworth didn't see the writing on the wall?

I've seen some "slave" rhetoric used to describe this situation in regards to whether Haynesworth should have toed the line just because of his large salary. We really need to chill with that. Being told to do something you don't want to do doesn't make you a slave. To apply a slave connotation to those who kowtow excludes all the slaves who fought back, escaped and forged pathways for our freedom. That's disrespectful to my ancestors to even consider the thought.

Ask yourself whether Haynesworth could have handled this situation any better. I'm not saying turn the other cheek. I'm saying, "Do your job." If his plan was to spit in the face of authority he played himself, and at the same time, left his teammates out to dry. Redskins fans: Y'all couldn't have used another lineman out there to chase down QBs and tackle running backs? D'Angelo Hall could have used one. Albert has been called out by one teammate who knows the whole deal. It's life, man. Sometimes the boss gets after you, but I'm not surrendering my paycheck for anybody. People who are riding for Albert are leaving out the issue of personal accountability.

We will never get the whole story of what both sides did, but I refuse to believe that if Haynesworth would have just been a professional about it all, it would have exposed what Shanahan was doing and this conversation would be void. If the story did break, it would have been Haynesworth telling it and more people would be willing to listen. Instead, he allowed himself to become a victim of the machine, where the athlete, not the organization, is to blame. What's worse, he fell into one of the most hurtful African American stereotypes: The lazy black man.

Finally, to any individual of color who feels as if those who refuse to champion Haynesworth's cause are "selling out," I question that individual's ability to succeed in this world, as well as their perception of reality. When your daughter comes home from school and says that her white teacher doesn't like her, what will you do? Are you going to tell her to stop doing her homework? Maybe she should refuse to study for tests as a sign of silent protest. Hopefully you tell her to "boss up." Provide her with the necessary skills to succeed in a world that won't always smile on her, and might discriminate against her because of her skin color.

On Haynesworth, ignoring Shanahan's petty punitive measures and honoring his contract would not make him a sell out. It would make him a man.

NBA's Nash, Parker Passing on Marriage

2010-11-18T00:01:00.002-05:00

Article first published as NBA's Nash, Parker Passing on Marriage on Technorati.

Point guards are responsible for passing the ball to other teammates so that they can score. In less than a week, two of the National Basketball Association’s leading point guards are passing on marriage.

Announced Wednesday via Twitter, Eva Longoria, star of ABC’s Desperate Housewives, said that the game is over for her and husband Tony Parker, of the San Antonio Spurs. Longoria tweeted:

“It is with great sadness that after 7 years together, Tony and I have decided to divorce. We love each other deeply and pray for each other’s happiness.”

According to TMZ, Longoria filed divorce paperwork in Los Angeles County Superior Court and cited irreconcilable differences as the reason for the split. Reports say that Longoria found hundreds of text messages on Parker’s cell phone from a “mystery woman” who is supposedly married to a fellow Spurs player.
Parker and Longoria’s divorce may come as a surprise. The duo were one of the happier celebrity couples, often seen together at events, including the exhibition game in August between the USA and Parker’s native country, France.

This announcement comes on the heels of Phoenix Suns point guard, Steve Nash, releasing a statement that he and his wife of five years, Alejandra Amarilla, are calling it quits.

Going public last Saturday, Nash’s announcement came just one day after the birth of the couple’s son, Mateo. Together for almost 10 years, Nash and Amarilla have two other children, twin daughters Lola and Bella, born in 2004.

(Photos by Toby Canham/Getty Images and Christian Petersen/Getty Images)

Jive Turkey; Iverson Goes Abroad

2010-11-10T00:26:00.001-05:00

Below is video of the American basketball player formerly known as Allen Iverson being introduced to his new "hometown" crowd in Istanbul, Turkey. "Bubba Chuck" used to be a Sixer, a Nugget, a Piston, a Grizzly, a Sixer again, and now he's something called a Besiktas Cola! The look on A.I.'s face at 6:10 can best be described as indifferent. He's on another continent, listening to a language he doesn't understand, and staring out at fans to whom he has no real connection. We already know what happens when Allen hasn't bought all the way in to a situation. I don't know what to expect from this except that it's going to end - and probably badly. Maybe ESPN will show some highlights (lowlights) every now and then, but I'm going to tell myself that the ball player who did this no longer exists. That's the only way I can accept this strange and sad turn of events. It wasn't supposed to end this way. A player like him only comes around every so often and when he finishes his career, it's supposed to end at the pinnacle, not in oblivion. The man who crossed over Michael Jordan is now a modern-day Michael Ray Richardson. I didn't see this being his finale and I know Allen didn't either.

Here is the video.

This is how I feel about the situation.

Every Hero Needs His Theme Music...

2010-10-29T03:34:00.000-04:00

Nuthin But A Hero - Tabi Bonney (official music video)

FAST in the SLOW LANE..."Life at a higher speed"

2010-10-27T13:50:00.001-04:00

Remember:

Check out Fast in the Slow Lane. It's another site I started to cover different types of subjects and include opinions from other writers.

Thank you.

100th Post The Untitled Novel, Chapter 1

2010-10-26T16:00:00.001-04:00

For my 100th post at MANSwrites, I'm going to share something I'm working on. I think the goal of most writers is to, at some point, climb Mt. Everest. By that I mean, conquer a big project such as writing a book. Here's something I've been sitting with for almost a year. I have a lot left to do, but maybe this will motivate me to get back to my story. Without further delay, please read Chapter 1 of my Untitled Novel.

“F*ck you, you fat bitch!”

I hate Mondays, I thought to myself, entering the hall near my classroom. In two years, I still hadn’t figured out how to open my door while holding my lunch, newspaper, and coffee mug. I always had to sit my coffee on the floor. I fumbled around the ring until I found the silver key with “210” scribbled on it. I stuck it in the lock, jiggled the knob, and opened the door.

“Your mom’s a fat bitch!”

“Bitch, I’ll slap the sh*t outta you.”

“Yeah right, ho. F*ck you!”

I should have intervened at the first “F*ck you,” but these kids had to learn how to settle this kind of drama on their own. Still, most of them were at best a work in progress. I raised my face toward the ceiling, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. With my lunch and newspaper still in hand, I headed down the hallway to help the two young combatants.

“Whoa, whoa, what seems to be the problem?”

“You hear him down here callin’ me out my name, don’t you, Mr. Winston?”

Within these kids there existed a dichotomy. When it came to one another, Clinton had some of the most hateful, rude, and insensitive students west of Philly. But if they had any respect for you, they didn’t hesitate to show it.

“Yes I do. What’s good with that, Calvin?”

I allowed myself to use the vernacular of the students sometimes. It distracted them and it made me feel younger than my thirty-five years.

“She told Mr. Talbot I took a sausage off her breakfast tray. Now I got after-school detention.”

“Well…did you take the sausage,” I asked.

“Yeah! Wit his greedy ass!”

“Chill, Tysheima,” I cautioned, “I got it.” A small crowd of kids was starting to gather now.

“Well, Calvin.”

“Yeah, I took it.”

“So why all the threats and name-calling, if you did it,” I asked him.

“Cause she shouldn’t have snitched,” Calvin sputtered.

I told Calvin that he should be glad Mr. Talbot only issued him detention and not a day of out-of-school suspension because technically, he stole something; even if it was only a Little Smokie. I asked both parties if everything was cool. I warned them that the next time I heard language like that, they’d both be written up for suspension by me. They nodded their understanding.

“Besides, Calvin, she would have whipped your ass anyway.”

That drew snickers and jeers from the small crowd of teenagers. My choice of words would be considered unprofessional by some, but a little humor helped diffuse these kinds of tense situations.

Glancing at the wall clock, it was now 8:33. Damn! First period started in 12 minutes and after that mediation, I wouldn’t have enough time to read my paper and drink my coffee. “MY COFFEE,” I said loud enough to startle Mrs. Campbell, who was exiting the staircase. I hustled back to my classroom to find my “Teachers Need Hugs Too” mug kicked over on the floor, my dark roast seeping out onto the tile.

I hate Mondays.

William Jefferson Clinton High School was situated in the uptown section of Harrisburg. It was a beautiful neighborhood in the past. Single family homes with spacious backyards overlooked a wooded area with a man-made pond that the residents called, Concrete Lake.

What had been a largely white, Jewish neighborhood, the last 15 years had seen many black families, often buying their first homes, migrate into the area. As this trend occurred, so did “white flight,” which changed the complexion of the neighborhood, the politics, and the student body of the nearby school.

In 2001, the school formerly known as City High was renamed for a U.S. president who was as much revered for his economic policies as he was for having an intern fellate him inside the White House. Thought to be a gesture of respect and renewal, I look at the renaming of the school as the beginning of the problems that would befall my alma mater, the school where I now work, affectionately known as “The Clint.”

“We don’t get paid for overtime Señor Winston,” a sweet voice called through the door, soothing me out of my trance. I’d been staring out of that window for at least 20 minutes.

“I know Miss Garcia. Somebody’s got to do the work though,” I responded with a smile. “I’ll try not to stay too much longer.”

“Okay, you have a good evening,” she said, her smile brightening my dimly lit classroom.

Déliz Garcia, the Basic Spanish teacher, was in her mid twenties. She had the figure of a dancer or a runner, with beautiful olive skin, full lips, and raven colored hair. We began teaching at the same time, her right out of college – I, after a few other career stops. There was an attraction between us, but neither one had acted on it. We usually kept our conversations to how bad our third period classes were or why the photocopier always needed toner. Though she was hardly inside my room, the sugary scent of her fragrance lingered in the air, telling me I needed to call my girlfriend.

I decided to call her when I got to the car. I packed up my things and headed for the exit. When I got to the parking lot, I almost walked past the white Oldsmobile because the envelope stuffed under the wiper made me question whether that was my vehicle. My name was on the front of the envelope. I tore it open and found an unsigned note scribbled in pencil. It read:

Meet me at The Tavern @ 6 p.m. U know my table. Very important. We need ur help!

This meant trouble, because I knew who left the note. First, I recognized the chicken scratch penmanship. Also, only one person called me by the nickname, “Laney.”

College Band Covers Antoine Dodson

2010-10-22T22:33:00.000-04:00

I saw this over at SportsbyBrooks.

Apparently Antoine Dodson has gone mainstream. Western Michigan University's marching band covered the "Bed Intruder Song," made famous by Antoine Dodson's TV interview, then popularized on the 'net. Here's a clip of the band playing it at the Notre Dame football game. The original song is below it. I posted about Antoine back when it happened because it was some of the funniest stuff I'd seen in a while. Who knew?

Dwight Howard and Slim Chin: Fast Don't Lie

2010-10-20T22:11:00.000-04:00

Play it again, Sam.

I NEED ANSWERS, Pt.1

2010-10-18T17:05:00.001-04:00

1. How come you're "cool" for liking artists such as Santogold all of a sudden and what am I missing?

2. Why does all the music that's not hip-hop sound like techno now?

and furthermore,

3. Where have all the true R&B artists gone?

4. What's up with all this pseudo-lesbianism? I mean, you say you're straight, but you constantly talk about about how sexually attracted you are to women, although you have a boyfriend...

5. Why do celebrities beef on Twitter?

6. Why do people on Twitter retweet EVERYTHING @myfabolouslife says?

7. Why did G-Whiz have on that clear sweatsuit in the "Now That We Found Love" video?

8. Why do white people love Reggae music and anything related to the Caribbean?

9. Why do women who avoided getting pregnant as teens, graduate from college, get a good job, then get knocked up, becoming a single mom anyway?

10. Why can't people just accept others for who they are?

11. Why is it so hard to make money doing what you love to do?

12. Why do grown people get mad at Soulja Boy's style of music, when we're not even his target audience?

13. Really, when are the skinny jeans going out of style?

14. Why do young black people try so hard to be different?

15. Why won't Cam'ron rap like he gives a damn anymore?

16. Why did Ma$e really quit hip-hop?

17. Are any non-Arab people afraid when you see an Arab on your flight?

18. If a man is in a boy-girl-boy threesome, is he gay?

19. Why did Michael Jordan make that statement about scoring 100 points in a game? We know you're the best, man. Chill.

20. When a white person asks, "What's your favorite kind of music," why do I feel like I'm being stereotypical when I answer, "Hip-Hop?"

21. If people tell you, "College will be the best four years of your life," what's that say about your first four years of marriage, or the first four years your child is alive?

22. What are the chances there will be another black president in the next, say, 50 years?

23. In football, how come "Intentional Grounding" is a penalty and a loss of down, but the quarterback can "spike" the ball to stop the clock?

24. Why are women allowed on the Real Housewives and Basketball Wives, but they aren't even married?

25. How fair is it that a person who never eats pork, might get cancer and die anyway?

UNDER PRESSURE - Trailer

2010-10-14T20:24:00.000-04:00

Here's the trailer for first time director, Hakim Zahir's short film, Under Pressure. If you are in or around Harrisburg, the premiere is October 23 at the Midtown Cinema. Showings are at 11:45 AM and 12:45 PM. Please come out to support Hakim and the cast.

A Memoir: Pt. 3, The Conclusion

2010-10-13T18:41:00.000-04:00

This the 3rd and final part of my boy David's, "A Memoir." He was in the graveyard talking to his deceased friend. I know people have read parts 1 & 2, so I hope you are enjoying it. Please comment on the post or email me at manswrites@gmail.com. I'll pass the feedback on to the author. Enjoy.

“How did you know I was here,” I asked.

“Man, I know everything about you.”

“But why,” I asked.

“Because you are me, 20 years ago.” Rage filled my heart as I swung and struck his face. “I deserved that,” he said, “I deserve everything I get. But I refuse to let you make the same mistakes I did. I refuse for you to turn out old bitter and lonely.”

I had never heard a compassionate male voice in my life. As much as I wanted to leave, his words crippled me, making me the same as the zombies I was used to watching.

“I never thought that you would get the courage to step to me. I knew that there was going to be a consequence for all my actions, and I believe in karma, but I never would have thought that it would be from you.” The man who I hated was the one in front of me talking. “I have learned from you over the last 8 years. I listened as every night you, would pace the floor until your mother would go to sleep. I watched you as you taught your brother his ABC’s. I watched you deal with the death of your best friend. And through it all, you held your head high. So, I ask again, can we start over?”

I stood up and began to stare into the face of the man who I directed all of my anger towards for the last 8 years fell into his arms and realized that he was right, we were the same. We both had been searching for someone to love us, as we deserved to be loved. I looked up and said, “I’m sorry for hitting you, Con.”

He looked down with tears in his eyes and replied, “You don’t know what happened do you? I watched you sitting over on the steps of that abandoned building across from the play ground all day. Your mother told me that you told her boyfriend if he bought drugs from me again you would kill him. She also told me how she kicked you out, and how she wished she could fix things. I knew that you hated me so I couldn’t come to you and talk to you, so I decided to do the next best thing. I told everyone on the block that if anything happened to you as the night began to fall that that person would pay with his or her life. Every deal and every transaction, I did that night with you in my eyesight. I watched as you slammed your bag down and began to walk over to me. As you got closer I could see the rage in your eyes but I had to let you get it off of your chest. As I was making my last transaction, I felt you punch me, as I heard a loud boom. I turned to see you running and the gunman fall to the ground. You see, if you would have never hit me I would be dead.” As he wiped the blood from his mouth onto his white t- shirt, I was amazed. “You are a protector, David. You always were. Your mother, brother, best friend and now me, and I thank you for it.” Afterwards there was a deep silence. “Your mother told me you would be here and I had to find you. If you don’t want to start over I understand, but I need the new start more than you do”.

Although the man formally called Con died one year later from AIDS, we shared the best year of my young life. He gave me the love I needed to continue on towards doing right. Although I wish he were still here, I know that I still have some of the Conman with me. Now, when I walk beside the park where I confronted my anger and fears, I think about the night my life was changed. It changed because love is a powerful tool that can save lives; without it, you are powerless in a world where power isn’t given, its earned.

I earned the power from my two best friends that night. Although I still sit on the steps, listening to the same cough beneath me nightly, I know that this nightmare won’t last forever, and everything happens for a reason.

MAN'S Writes

From the Estranged Dad at Summer League

NFL's Slick Moves Fool No One

Coaching From the Couch - NBA Playoffs 2011

Is Your Higher Education Paying Off?

March Sadness: How to Fix the NCAA Tournament

The Untitled Novel, Ch. 3.

Random NBA Player Post #3 - Howard Eisley

How to Solve America's Problems with the Internet

Life of the Black Bourgeoisie

Pretty Girl Purgatory: Working in the Mall

The Untitled Novel, Chapter 2

Random NBA Player Post

A crying shame - By Tom Lutz (LA Times, 12/15/10)

Random NBA Player Post

On Haynesworth

NBA's Nash, Parker Passing on Marriage

Jive Turkey; Iverson Goes Abroad

Every Hero Needs His Theme Music...

FAST in the SLOW LANE..."Life at a higher speed"

*100th Post* The Untitled Novel, Chapter 1

College Band Covers Antoine Dodson

Dwight Howard and Slim Chin: Fast Don't Lie

I NEED ANSWERS, Pt.1

UNDER PRESSURE - Trailer

A Memoir: Pt. 3, The Conclusion

100th Post The Untitled Novel, Chapter 1